..4 -7-, V . ^ .^:^ -<. 3 ^ / l(DBi£iBT Bwmm New Vork Puh"^ by ITT Pearson,. NT60 Cliff' Sc. ^^u^nSc /^//z-^^^-^ THE v\^ORKS OP R T BURNS; COxNTAINING HIS LIFE; BT JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ. t THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF DR. CURillE'S EDITION; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, BY HIMSELF, GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, AND OTHERS ; ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY, INCLUDING THE POETRY OP BURNS, BY DR. CURRIE; » BURNS'S SONGS, FnO.M JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL MUSEU3L" AND "THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIES ; SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF THE OTHER POETS, FROM THE BEST COLLECTIONP, WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. Poar.nN'n, in one work, the truest exhibition or the man anb the poet, and thb rni-LEST edition of his poetry and prose writings hitherto published. HARTFORD: PUBLIStlED BY JUDD, LOOMIS,. & CO. AND SOLD BY THE PniNCIPAI- BOOK.SEM.ERS IN >THE UNITED STATES, 1837. il«t HUTCHESON. 25jQP«S NOTICE J TO '^,, THE PRESENT EDITION. ^. In the Dedication of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap. tain Graham Moore, the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and ** men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the « performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approba- " tion could be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper. To such *' an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- " pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme *' thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations, « joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and of " other friends of the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist." These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour, while others have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeamishness in favour of persons of established reputation, who might be chary of a tick- lish and impracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast v/th the facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the ma^er-spirits of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kin<^ed, if not a superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him h'^^ge . They have all voluntarily written of him ; and their recorded rpinions evmce no feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only hwsour, but write as if honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it, as a decisive test of the evil days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. It is true. Dr. CuiTie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr. Murdoch and of IMr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma- terials. They form truly the very backbone of tlie poet's life, as edited by 1 ( ii ) Dr. Currie. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and however largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- men of all degrees, of that literary talent, which had only been inferred, hypothetically, from the nature of her elementary institutions. We have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours, as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of redacteur. — He was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei- ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled under such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in- justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and moral character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features, unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru- lence of party strife. The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals of the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, who each of them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon the publications of Cromek, who in his " Reliques," and " Select Scottish Songs," brought to light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- ted and kept alive the general feeling, which was not gratified in its full extent \intil nearly thirty years after the publication of Dr. Currie' s work. It was viiA until 1827 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the person of Ivir. John Lockhart, the son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, and (ra- ther a discordiJit title). Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in that year publisind a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part of that excellent rej^rtory knovra by the title of Constables Miscellany. It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting them, after an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. It certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the champion of the Bard who sung, " A man's a man Iot a' that :" and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upon him. But the lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove prejudices and soften asperities ; to say nothing of that independence of mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred spirit Mr ( "i ) Lockhart, It will farther be observed, besides having compiled his work un- der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical manner than the preceding biographers. He judged for himself; he took neither facts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and where doubtful, extricated the facts in the most judicious and careful man ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet did, always thinks and speaks for himself. These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, w^e have preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this. edi- tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which Burns was the author. Tiie reader will find here all that is contained in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns The following general heads will show tiic nature and extent of the present work. 1. The Life by Lockhart. 2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 3. Essay (by Dr. Currie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of Burns. 4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 200 in number, and many of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and others. The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public. Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with the original picture by Masmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they wiU of course be like- wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. New York, Sept 11, 1832. CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. OF THE LIFE. Page Chap. I. — The Poet's Eirtli, 1 759— Circumstances and peculiar Character of his Father and Motlier — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of his jyiental Improvenient^Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, ^ ^^„„ i-->'nii Chap. II — From 1/ to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as Labourers, at stated Wages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This period not marked by much Islcntal Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro* gress in Love and Poetry — At School it Kirkoswald's— Bad Company — At Ir. vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes tlierc r\Jember ot' a Batchelor's Club, ..«-.~-,~.~w^ ix— xiz Chap. Ill — Tlie Brothers, Rol)ert nnd Gilbert, beciime tenants oi" Wossgiel— Their incessant labour and moderate li.ibits — The liirni cold and unfertile — Not Prosperous — The Muse anti-c;ilvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with heresy-, Ciirious account of tliese disputes — Jiarly poems pron]j)ted by them — Origin of, and remarks uj)on die Poet's prin. cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies — The alternative, ^ , , , ^..„.^,^^^„„.. xx — xxxi» Chap. IV. — The Poet gives up Jlossgiel to his Brotlier Gilbert — Intends for Ja- maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit- One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 1786 — It brings him extended repu- tation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- stances, Guaging first hiiited to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, „ ,.- xxxv — Ixii' Chap. V. — The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic — is lighted up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a tvhile ca- ressed by the fashionable — What happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent imiversally admitted, as not the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried oft' their feet by it, while the philosophers hardly keep their.'-- — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields much money to the Poet — Hesolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusion, ^ „,,.^~ Ixiv — Ixxi Chap. VI — Makes three several pilgrunages in C'aledo;na— Lands from the first of these, after an absence of six months, amongst Ws friends in die " Auld Clay Biggin"— Finds honour in his own country— Fails in widi many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar witli the great, but never secures one effective patron— Anecdotes and Sketches— Lingers in Edinburgh amidst die fleshpots, winter 1787-8— Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for.MX weeks— Is enrolled in the Excise— Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop not to desert him— Growls over his publisher, but after settUng with him leaves Edinburgh with £500— Steps towards a more regular life, , Ixii— Ixxvl Chap. VII Marries — Announcements, (apologetical,) of die event — Remarks — Becomes (1708) Farmer at Elliesland, on the Nilh, in a romantic vicinity, six vi CONTENTS. Page miles from Dumfries — The ]\Iuse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shews cause against success in farming — The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to tlie ultra convivial life — Leaves Klliesland (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, Ixxxii-^xe Chap- VIII — Is more beset in town than country — His early biographers, (Dr. Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head— It is not correct to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual discharge of his official duties— lie is shown to have been the affectionate and be- loved husband, altliough passing follies im])uted ; and the constant and most as- siduous instructor of his chil(lren--lmpulscs of the French Revolution— Symp. toms of fraternizing— The ;ittention of his official superiors is called to them — Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this pe- riod— .(Jives Ills v/holc soul to song making— Preference in that for his native 'Ijalect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, xci cix C'liAV. IX — The Poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — Syni])toms of premature old age— -These not diminished by narrow circumstances ---Chagrin from neglect, and dciith of a Daughter— -The Poet misses public pa. tronagc : and even Uie fair fruits of his own genius— the appropriation of which is debated for the casuists who yielded to liiiii merely the shell— His magnani- mity when death is at h;ind ; his i;iter\iews, conversations, and addresses as a ^ dying niaii— -Dies, 21st July 17!to— Pii';Hr funeral, at which many attend, and amongst the rot the t'uture Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the Poet, living— His family muniiiccntly provided for by the public —Analysis of ch:;r3Ctcr— His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon hiin and his writings by Scott, Campbell, IJyron, and others, < cx...cxxxiT Verses on the death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, ■.■.- » cxxxv ('Wactcr of Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, _-.,___..^ cxxxvii Prcfr.cc to the First Edition cf Eurns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, -,,-.-„.«,.,_ clxiii Dedication to liie Caledonian Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, rr-rr,-n,.,,..... Ux? ya CONTENTS OF THE POEMS. A Bard's Epitaph, Address to a Haggis, to a Lady, to a Louse, to a Mouse,-. to Colonel de Peyster, - to Edinburgh, — '. to General Demourier, to J. Svme,. to Mr. Mitchell, to Mr. William Tytler, to Robert Graham, Esq to the Deil,, to the Owl, - to the Shade of Thomson, to the Scotch Representatives,-,- to the Toothache,- to the Unco Guid, A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, . A Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King), A Grace before Dinner,- Answer to a Tax Surveyor, - A Prayer in Prospect of Death,- in Anguish, — A Sketch, A Winter Night, A Vision,. Death and Dr. Hombook,- Despondency, an Ode, v~. a Hymn, ,~-. Page. 55 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, on William Creech, on Peg Nicolson, Tam Samson, on the Year 1788, — ~™, Epistle to a Voung Friend, . to Captain Riddel,. to Davie, a Brother Poet (1), . to Davie, a Brother Poet (2), . to Gavin Hamilton, 4 15 41 18 75 72 .36, 78 38, 78 82 29 69 9 52 78 to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,- to J. Rankin with Poems, to Mr. -Macadam, — — ~— ., to Terraughty, . to the Reverend Mr. M'Math, . to W. S. Ochiltree, -, Epitaph on a Friend, 39 81 30 59 .- 79 45, 45, 79 47 81 — 81 79 46 on a Noisy Polemic, - on a Ruling Elder, on Gavin Hamilton, - on R. Aitken, . on the Poet's Father, . on Wee Johnny, . Extempore Effusions in the Court of Session, on Falsehood,— to a Friend, . to Mr. Syme, Refusal to Dine, - when at Carlisle, . Halloween, Holy Fair, ~ Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,— «» Inscription, Altar of Independence,-. Lament of Queen Mary, , Lament for .Tames Earl of Glencaim,-. for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, Lines left at a Friend's House, - -. „. .,..,. left at Carron, left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, left at Taymouth Inn, on a Posthumous Child, „. on a Wounded Hare, — on Bruar Water, , ,,— — on Captain Grose, on Miss Cruikshanks,- on Religion,— on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, - ■ -, - on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, on the Death of J. Macleod, ■ on the Fall of Fyers, ■ - on the Highlands, —___„,„„„— ——.w™ on William Smellie,. to a Mountain Daisy, to an Offended Friend, . to an Old Sweetheart with his Poems, . to a Young Lady with Books, - to Miss L. with Beattie's Poems, — ,.. to Robert Graham, Esq. , -. — .-„ to Ruin, . to Sir John Whitefoord, - fagt- 52 40 37 68 4S 5S 59 54 57 56 5K 78 7S 58 57 5» 76 71 58 74 63 75 39 75 39 58 Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, , Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph,- New- Year's Day, a Sketch, Ode on a Miserly rh^aroMor on my Early Days, , , on Pastoral Poetry, on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, to rihprry, iir ■ ■ Poor Maillie's Elegy, . Scotch Drink,— 35 ^t — 71 — 49 ~, 61 — 70 _ 61 — 77 ^ 16 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, Stanzas on Death, ———,————„ Strathallan's Lament, -..,.-.- Tam o' Shanter, Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, The Auld Farmer's New-^ ear's Salutation to his Mare Maggie, ,-.— . Brigs o' Ayr, - . .„ Calf, — ™— — Cotter's Saturday Night, ,., ., Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, ~ First Psalm,- First Six Verses of 90th Psalm, Henpecked Husband, Jolly Beggars, - Kirk's Alarm,- Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, Newspaper, Ordination, .—-.——— — — ~— . Twa Dogs, . -..„ Twa Herds,.,. ■ Whistle, Vision, . ■. — Vowels, a Tale, Winter, a Dirge,- Essay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Cuiiie), . 3 72 37 69 52 25 28 10 14 3S IS 37 58 68 62 65 31 70 13 I 67 59 SO 81 55 84-91 CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. Aadrew and his Cutty Gun,. Annie Lawrie, As I went out in a May Morning, Auld Rob Morris, ~ Robin Gray, ...» Aye waukiii' O, A waukrife Minny, ; Awa Whigs Awa,' ~-,w™ Beds of Sweet Roses, Bess the Gaukie.- Page. — H8 _ 173 187 170 157 15(; M.> 184 Bessy Bell and Mary Grav, Bide ye Vet (2 sets), Blink o'er the Burn Sweet Heltv Blue Bonnets over the Border,^ Bonnie Barbara Allan, . Dundee, Mary Hay,, Came ye o'er frae France, . Carle an' the Kinj cnme,„-. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,, Ca' the Ewes to the Knov/es, ... Charlie is my Darling Clout the Cau'dron,™ Cockpen,. Come under my Plaidic,, Comin' tliro" the Rye, Corn Rigs are Bonnie, Crail Town (tram Coram Dago), Croralet's Lilt, — . . .... Pinna think Bonnie Lassie,, Ponald Coupar, ~. Pown the Burn Davie,, Dumbarton's Drums,, Pusty Miller,. Ettilck Banks, Fair Annie of Lochroyan, . Fairly Shot of Her, . False Love and hae ye Played Me This Farewell to Ayrshire,. Fare ye weel liny Auld Wife, For Lack o' Gold Slu's left n: For the Sake o' Somebody, Fye gar rub her o'er wi' btra Gala Water,, Get up and Bar the Door O, .>-,. Go to Berwick Johnie, Gude Yill Comes and Cude Vill Goes,. Mame never cam' He, Haud awa frae mc DoiisM, Hap and row tlie Keetie o't, Here's a Health to them that's awa,. Hey ca" through,, Highlan.' Laddie, Hooly anc. Fairlie,. Hughie Graliu.ii,, I had a Horse ard 1 had nae mair. I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet, -„~ I'll never leave Ye, ^.,, ,, . „ I loo'd nae a Laddie but ane, „.,.„ Jenny Dang the Weaver, _' „„ If ye 11 be my Dawtic and sit on mv'piaid. In the G^rl) of Old Gaul,., 1?0 ini 178 132 111 156 17S 1.51 157 1S2 157 129 146 152 105 145 158 1,56- 12(1 155 117 157 160 114 127 158 165 105 127 154 16.' 125 1-^5 170 159 1.55 155 186 162 IJO Jockey said to Jcnny,.,...^^ John Ilay's Bonnie Lassie, John o' Badenyon, ^ Johnny Cope, Johnny Faa, Johiir/y's Gray Breeks, . Jumpiu John, ~.. ....... Kate of Aberdeen,, Kathrme Ogie, . Page. - 188 - X15 - 144 „ 145 ™ 136 ^ 106 _ 159 Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, . Kelvin Grove, Kenmure's on and awa Willie, . Killycrankie (the Battle), ..~~. Killycrankie O (the Braes), «-,. Kind Robin loes me, .v.,.,„~... ~- 107 w- 165 ™ 159 -, 156 — 185 w- 147 ^ 160 Lady Mary Ann,.-, ■.~... — .. Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now, Las-sie lie near me,, Lewis Gordon, Little wat ye wha's comin', Lochaber lio more, Lochnagar, Logan Braes, (double set),. Logic o' Buehan,. Lord Ronald, my Son, Lo^v down in the Broom, . Macpherson's Rant, ..»».. Maggie Lauder, Mary's Dream,. l)ary Scot, the Flower o' Yarrow, Merry hae 1 been Teething a Heckle, Mill, Mill, O, My Auld Man,. M y Dearie, if thou Die, . My Jo Janet, . M y Love she's but a Lassie yet. My Love's in Germanic,. My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,. My Native Caledonia, — ~-..,..~..- My only Joe and Dearie O, My Wile's a Wanton Wee Thing,. My Wife has taen the Gee, ...... — Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, , O an' ye were Dead Gudeman,^., O can ye labour Lea Young Man,, Och hey Jolinnv Lad,, O dear Minny what sliall I do, . O merry may the Maid be, O on oc'hrio (the Widow of Gleiico), . Old King Coal,. Our Guidiiian cam' Hame at E'en, O'er the Muir amang the Heather, . O'er Bogie wi' my Love, ........ O Walv, W»ly up yon Bank,—......, Polwarth on the Grecn,.,..^^ Poveity parts Gude Company,. Ro.'liii C'asilc, Roj's Wile, Sae Mcrrv' as We hae been, . Sandy o'er the Lea, ~« .Saw ye Johnny Comin', ~_ Saw ye my Father, .,.,..«,., 173 146 165 164 119 16U 186 184 150 ~. 155 149 .... 164 115 121 112 124 164 123 165 ..„ 118 w. 125 w. 165 -.174 -. 1«2 ™ 167 w. 155 ~. 166 _ 166 170 167 139 161 160 185 119 168 161 150 163 128 185 168 105 170 lie 165 105 ^..^ 175 CONTENTS, feaw ye lue my Peggv, . She rose and let me in,. t-'teer her up and haud her gavm, Strephon and Lydia, Symon Brodie, . Tak' your Auld Cloak about you,-. Tam o' the Balloeli,, Tarry Woo,. The .\iild Man's Mare's floa4, The Auld Wife ayont the Five, -,- The Battle o' Sherra-muir, The Ranks o' the Tweed, ,„ The Beds o' Sweet Ro.ses, The Blrks of Invcnnav, - -„.~. The Blvthesome Bridal, — ™ ~~~~- The Bliithrie o't, , The Boatie rows, The Bob of Diimblane, ,.~„,„„~™-.,™~. The bonnie bnicl;et Lassie, The boniiie Lass o' Brajiksonic, The bonnie La.ss tliat made the Bed t.> me The Braes o' Balleadean, -—«- The brisk younj; Lad, „, . ~- The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes, ™- The Bush ab:)on Traquair, ™ The Campbells are eomin', The Carle he eain' o'er the Craft, , The Coallier's bonnie Lassie, — ™™_~-, — The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn,-,— ~- The Flowers of the Forest, ————«,«—« The Flowers of Edinburgh, The Foray, The Gaberlimzie Man,. The happy Marriage, -_ The Hishtand Qiiueii, , Tlie Jolly Beggar, ~ Tiio Lanimie, - The Landart Laird, The Lass of Peatie's Mill, . The Lass o' Liviston, The Last i ime I cam' o'er the Muir,-. Ths Lea-Rig,..-„ The Life and Age o' Man.A The Maid that tends the Goats, . The Maltman, The merry Men O, . The Miller o' Dee, The Minstrel (Donochthead), Tlie muekin' o' Geordie's Byre, . The Old Man's Song The I'oets, what Fools the'rc to Dcave us. The Poesie, . The Rock and the wee pickle Tow,_ The .Soutors o' Selkirk, The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, The Tuniimspike.. The weary Pund o' Tow, The wee, wee German Lairdie, The Wee Thing,. The Wee Wifiltie,. I lie White Cockade, The Widow, 'I'he Yellow-hair'd Laddie, '! he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, There's nae Luck about the House,-—— This is no Mine Ain House, Tibbie Fowler, . Tibbie Dunb.ir, To Dv.iiitoii Me,-. To tlie Ivve wi" Me, (2 sets), Todlin IJame, Tranent-Muir, - 'l'uHorh;^:)rum,. ' I'was within a Mile o' Edinburgh Town, . Tv/ecdsido {i sets),- llp and Warn a' Willie, Up iu the Mornin' early. Wandering Willie, Wa\ikui' o' the Fauld, We're a' Nid Noddin, Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, Willie was a Wanton \Vag, . Woo'd and M;uTied and a', It Page. lOO IIS m IH 17a 151 125 135 174 111 ^ 13* 138 184 107 159 187 180 171 )8l 181 181 18C lis 142 17* 148 13« - 175 ]¥» in 114 174 109 182 ISO 167 124 163 140 CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. Page. Aaieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu, ,,.,-,—.,.- 183 Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, 188 Afton Water, IKS 189 A Highland L,;d mv Love was born,~- 189 Amang the Trees where humming Bees, 189 A Man's a Man fr a' that, l;)0 Anna, 100 A red red Rose. ~— „ 191 A Rose Hud bv niy early Walk, — .„ 191 A Southland Jennie, -„ ™-^ 1!)I Auld Lan" Svne,— .^— — — . ., -, ., -, ., . . ,, . 191 Auld Rob Morris, ,.. <- 191' Bessy and her Spinnin^-Whcel, .., .^-.— . ]£)•-' Behold the hour the Boat arrives, — „ 193 Beware of Bonnie .Vnn, ., -,.-. 192 Beyond thee. Dearie, lij.i BIythe hae I been on von Hill,-—™—™ 1!).) Blythe was She, '. 1 95 Bonnie Bell, 19'1 Wee Thing, VH Druce at Bannoekburn, 19.5 Caledonia— (their Groves o" Sweet Myrtle), — 195 Can'st thou leave me thus, Katy, 1—^ 195 Reply, 106 Ca' the Ewes, — . .. — 195 Chloris,. Clarinda,-. Come let me take Thee to my Breast, - Contenicil wi' Little, --. L'ountry Lassie, — Jraigieoum-v.'ood,-. Dainty Davie,-,. Dcluileil Sw.-jin, Does h:iM;;hty (!aul,- Dovjn the Biiru Uavie, , Duncan Gray, n^van Banks, Fair Eliza,-,— ~-~-.«—— Fairest Maid on De\on Hanks Fate gave the Word, I'cir tlie Sake o' Somebody, ,„ Fotlorn my Love, From thee Eliza,. Ga!a-\Va!or,- Gloomy Decembc-, . ce:i grow the Ra^hes O, — Guiltv.ifc count the Lawin',-. Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, Hand.some Nell, . Her flowing Locks, Here's a health to Ane 1 loe dear, _. Pag*. 197 197 197 197 19S 193 198 198 199 199 199 199 90O 200 200 'iOO 201 201 201 201 „ 2'.)2 - 202 to Them that'* awa, . 203 202 203 504 204 CONTENTS. Here"* » Bottle and an Honett Friend, , Highland Harry, — Highland Mary, Page. „ 204 „ 203 „ 203 ^ 204 ^ 204 205 „ 206 205 2115 . 205 . 206 206 <~ 207 206 Raving Winds around her blowinf;,«. « <.«.< How Cruel are the ParenU, — How lang and dreary Is the Night, — I am a Son of Mars, ~~ ~ Jamie come try me, — ; I dream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,. rU aye ca' in by yon Town. — _~~ I'm o'er Voung to Marry yet. It is nae Jean tny bonnie Face, — Jockey's U'en the Parting Kiss, John Anderson my jo, John Barleycorn, ■ - Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks,-^ -~— 208 Lay thy Loof in mine Lass,_~ — -~ -"» Let not a Woman e'er complam, ™~- ^"J Logan Braes, ~— ~- ^UJ Lo^g, long the Night 209 Lord Gregory, _ —— _~~~~ ^y» Lord Daer, ~-_~— ^lu 210 210 211 211 211 _~ 212 -^ 212 212 212 213 213 _^ 215 214 211 Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, . Scroggum,- She's Fair and She's Fause, ~— - She says she Loes me best of a'. Sic a Wife as Willie had,. Macpherson's Farewell,- Mana's Dwelling, Steer her up and haud her gaun, Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigiebum-wood, Tarn Glen, The Auld Man, „__~_™~~_~~— ~~ The Banks o' Castle Gordon, o' Cree, — o' Devon,~~- o' Doon, — „-. o' Nith,- The Bard's Song Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion, . Mary Morison, ~ „„™ Meg o' the Mill. The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, The Big-bellied Bottle, The Birks o' Aberfeldie, The Blue-eyed Lassie, The bonnie Wee Thing,™- The Braes o' Ballochmyle, The Carle o' Kellvburn.Braes, . The Chevalier's Lament, The Day Returns, . The Death Song, My Bonnie Mary, My Heart's in the Highlands, ■ My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't, - My Nannie's awa,~- '••• "" ■•■ My Nannie O, — •' ' My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, ~ My Spouse Nancy, My Wife's a winsome Wee Thing, Musing on the Roaring Ocean, — Naebody, Nancy, — Now Banks and Braes are clad in Green, — Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green, — Now westliu Winds and slaughtering Guns, O' a' the alrts the Wind can blaw,- O ay my Wife she dang me, O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,- O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, — • O gin my Love were yon Red Rose, O leave Novclles ye Mauchlin Belles, ~ O let me in this ae Night, — -~~ O Love will venture in, _~ O May, thy Mom, On a Bank of Flowers, — On Cessnock Bjink, On the Seas and far away, Open the Door to me O, O Philly happy be that day, O stay sweet warbling Woodlark, O wat ye Wha's in yon Town, — O were I on Parn.issus Hill, O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,~ O wha is She that Loes me, Out over the Forth,. ■■•■ Pecey Alison, Phillis the Fair, __- ~-~ Powers Celestial whose protection, Puirtith Cauld, ~ The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,. The Election, The Gallant Weaver, The Gardener, 214 214 . 215 214 . 215 • 215 216 216 216 217 217 217 218 , 218 219 , 218 . 219 . 219 . 220 220 '. 220 £21 " 216 . 216 . 216 The Gloomy Night is g.itherin' fast, . The Heather was bloomin", . The Highland Lassie O, . The Lad that's far awa, . The Lass o' Ballochmyle. The Lass that made the Bed to me,- The Lazy Mist,. The Lea-Rig, ~ The Lovely Laiis o' Inverness, The Lover's Salutation, ~ The Riggs o' Barley, The Soldier's Return, ~. The stown Glance o' Kindness,. The Toast, rage. -.M3 The Tocher for Me, The Woodlark, —. ~™ The Young Highland Rover, ~ ~. There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame, There's a Youth in this City, ~- .-• There's News Lasses There was once a Day, This is no mine ain Lassie, — Thou has left me ever Jamie, Tibbie I hae seen the Day, — To Mary in Heaven, . True-hearted was He, -• Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, . Wandering Willie,- . 222 . 222 222 What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man, _ Wha is that at my Bower Door, When Guildford 6ood, ,„ Where are the Joys I hae met in the Morning, _ Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad, . Willie brew'd a Petk o' Maut, Will Ye go to the Indies my Mary,- Wilt thou be my Dearie, — — M5 _ Jt3 -, ns _ 223 .,- 224 _ 224 -. «4 — its _ 225 _ 225 _ 226 — 22S — 225 _ 236 „ S26 _ 226 _ in „ 227 _, 228 „ 2SS — 228 — 828 ~. 229 _ 829 „ 230 „ 230 830 _ 231 231 __ 232 232 . 238 23S .235 233 . 23» 234 234 _ 235 _ 235 _ 255 - 237 - 236 - 238 _ 237 -237 236 237 237 238 2.18 239 240 239 •240 240 240 240 241 24 L 242 242 242 243 242 Raotin' Roarin' WilliCi <<< " Yon Wild Mossy Mountains, Young Jockey was the blythest Lad, Voung Peggy, " '■—■ . 245 . 245 . 243 CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 1783. 1784. Page. Love Letters, at 20, in good English, but unavail- ing, ~ .247-9 To Mr. Murdoch— state of the Poet and his Opi- nions, , „ , , 2-19 Extracts from the Scrap-boolc, .w, ..-,.™. 250-2 1786. To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburph— first pub- lishing. . . .-,„„.,..,„„..,„„„.„„„ 2.')2 To Mr. Maewhinnie, Ayr— same topic, i!52 To Mr. James Smith, 'Mauchline— route for Ja- maica, ™~~ — <...„„,.™.„..,..„^„„„„„„ „ 253 To Mr. David Brice — same — about to become Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to commit, ™~~,—„..„.,.„^.^ ..^^^ 255 To Mr. Aitlten, Ayr — .Authorship— Excist — a fu- To Mrs. Dunlop— first Letter— her order for Co- pies— his early devotion to her anoestor, .Sir W. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory — hurry — going abroad— sends Soi-gs, ,„J „ 'Jjj From Dr. Blacklock. to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — with just estimate of the Poet's merits — which puts an end to the West India scheme, and brings him to Edinburgh, „.~„ 255 From Sir John Whitefoord — compliment.iry,~ 256 From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview with Dr. Blacklock — good advice, 25(5 To Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline — from Edinburfih ^the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Banyan— favours of the Edinburgh public, 256 To Dr. Mackenzie, MauehUne — with the Lmes on 1787. To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and humourously apologetical, 257 To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and farther incidents at Edinburgh, - . 25S To the Earl of Eglinton— a thankful Letter, 258 To Mrs. Dunlop— treats of Dr. Moore and his Writings — critical remarks on his own — and upon himself at the height of popular favour,— 259 To Dr. Moore — introductory— the Poet's views of himself, ■ ,., , ■ .,,. . ,. . , . 259 From Dr. Moore— thinks the Poet not of the ir- rilabite genus — admires his love of Country and independent spirit, not less than his Poetical Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the Mountain Daisy, 260 To Dr. Moore^-general character of Miss Williams' Poems, , 260 To Mr. John Ballantine — printing at Edinburgh, and getting his phiz done, 261 Prom Dr. Moore — with his View of Society— and other Works,-—— „„ 261 To the Earl of Glencairn— with Lines for his Pic- ture, _-„w— _~— . ,„, 261 To the E^rl of Buchan— as to Pilgrimages in Cale- POff.. Pi'oceedings as to the Tombstone of Fcrgusson, 202-3 To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow — the Poet clings to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still the Old .Man with his deads, 264 To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — the Bard — his situation and views, „-,__„.„.»„ — 261 To the same, -. -, 265 To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary triti- To tlie R.OV. Dr. Hugh Blair— leave taking. 265 Trom Dr. Bl.iir — who notices his own claims for first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — • gives the Poet, at parting, a certificate of cha- raour, with much good advice, both wordly and To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during the first Pilgriui.iijc, , , 266 From D.-. Moore— ^sparing use herc.ifier of the Piova-.cial Dialect rcc-ommcn. led— more valu,-.- b!o hints also given, .-„> 267 To ?ilr. Will ;nn Ki.ol! — !he Pock's Itinerary in From ?vli. John Ihitchesoii, J.iiiiaica — Poems exoclknt — but bc'.tcr in the English style — Scot- tish now becoming obsolete — ihssuades from the West In.lics — " llyjre is no cnoniragemcnt for a man of lenniing and genius tiicre," _„~~~-. 268 ToMr. \V. Ni.-cll — on arriving at liome — morali- zes over the S'.-cuc.s and Companions of his re- cent elevation — gloomily as to the future, 268 To G;ivin Haniilion — occurrences of the second Pilrcriinage .-. 269 To Mr. Walker, liiair-in-Atholo — the same — the Duke'i lairiily,...- , S70 To Mr. Gili)crt i'.uns— further adventures, -~ 270 From Mr.np.iinsay ol() liteity.c — with Inscriptions — Tale of Owen Cameron— hnits for a Poetical f.'omposition on the grand sc.de and other t.TSte- ful and int::rc^t!n'5 maiter. 271-2 From Mr. Waltitv, \:liole-Huiise — (larticulars of the Poet's visit ih^it — female contrivances to From Mr. A. M. an admiring Friend returned from abroad — with tnbut.iry Verses, £73 From Mr. Ramsay to Iho Re-. William Young — introductory of the iP.;et, „ 274 From the same to Dr. i.iacklock — with thanks for the Poet's .-.cquaiiitance a:'..! Songs— Anecdotes, 274 From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old Tutor, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he had helped to euUiv;-te, — 275 From Mr. R. , from Gordon-Castle — incidents of the Poet's visit there, 27S Froin the Rev. John .skinner — prefers the Natural ti) the Classical Poet — his own Poesy— contri- butes to the Song-making cnterprize, 276 From .Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach — Gaelic airs — the Poet's Northern Tour, iJl To Mr. D.ilrympleof Or.mgcfield- Rhymes, 278 Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81 To Miss M ail Essay on the complimentary style, -~ : : — 2Sl To Mr. Robert Ainslie — friendship S8l To Mr. John Ballantine — with Song, Ve Banks and Braes o' Bunnie i)oon, > „ »w >»■»»<» UX kii CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Page. To Pr. Moore, from the Poet— Sketch of his From Mr. Gilbert Burns, a niniiing Commentarv on tlie forcgoinp, . 28G-90 From Mr. Miiriloeh, as to tlio Poel's early Tui- Frnm Professor Dugnlcl Siewart — his ."ikeiuhes of From Mr. Gilbert Duriis, giving history of ori;;!ii of the pri.ieiiwl I'ocms, — 1, SD5-7 From the same. In eontitiii.ition — ami Essay on El'2-5 LETTERS, 173r;, To Mrs. DKn!op, from Edinburgh— ."jfcocd visit- To the s,".mc — repellinj» in!;!nu.''.tion as to irreli- To a Lady — upon the use of sarea':r!i imputed to him agaiiut her, ,w—~~~.-~- ~~ 3G4 To Mr. Robert CIcnhorn— oris?i;i o:' ll-.e Ciiova- From tlie same, in answer — a:iJ v.iih Farming To Mr. James Smith, Avoiificlcl — marriage prc- To Mrs. Dinilo!) — Farming — reasons for .-ir.d in- .structions in the Kxcise — tart expressions, — ,™ 305 From the Hev. .lohn Skinner, with " Channing Nancy," by a liuehan Ploiiglnnnn, and other Song>i — his own I„"tin poetry, „ 306 To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at liis coi"S to the Continent, ^ „~.,~, -—^ 506 To Mrs. Diinlcp — Drvden's Virgil— likes tho Gcorgies — disaupointed in the jEneid, often an imitation of I'lomcv — Dryden, Pope's niaster, in genius .and h.armony of'lanfjnage, 507 To Mr. Robert Aiiislie— a dull Letter may be a To Mrs. Dunloj) — inequality of enni'.itions, .'507 To the same— (irst from Eli'island— Iiis marriage, 308 To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-mi'k Cheese— a slice of it good for indigestion of r.ll kinds, 303 To Mr. Robert Ainsli" — friendship — the Poet's suspicious temperament— his purpose to leave the light trooDs of Fancy for i ho squadrons of heavy-armed Thousht— Marri.i^ir, J, 5CD To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauohline— tiie Poet's new house, , „„ _, „„ 3r9 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a serioi;s Letter, 510 To Mr. George Loekhavt, C!as.i;ow — admiration of certain Female beautic.J,—,,^. -w— 311 To Mrs. Dunlorv— a luck-peimy — Friar's Carso Hermitage and other Line", ~ ^~,~~.— 511 To the same— his answers t-) her, not Echct-s — Alarriage Anecdotes — account of liis Wife — Lct- To tlie same— gossip of a Dinner-party— Life and Age of Man— religious impressions, 31. To Robert Graham, Esq. wuh iirst poetical Ad- To Mr. Bcugo, Engr.iver — estimate of the Poet's new neighbours — matters poetical, 314 To Miss Chalmers— complimentary to her — and explanatory of his marri-ige — present state and prospects — Songs, ,..., .315 To Mrs. Dunlop — twins — criticisms — verses, 516 To Mr. Peter Hill — cpinions of the Poetry of To Mrs. Dunlop— the Major's present, 517 To — ajiologetical for the bloody and tyrannical House of Stewart, ...■■.. ,. „ 518 To Mr. James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgli — with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- To Dr. Blacklock — with Poetic.-d Pieces and Songs — his MaiTiage and other movements, 319 To Mrs. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poet's csti- m.ite of worldly concerns, as against the func- tions of the immorud smd — Auld Lang Syne — &nd other Songs, 520 '^0 a youDg Lady, encloting a Ballad upon hcr,~ 52(1 1789 Pagf To Sir John Wliitefoord— thanks for his voluntary defcnec of the Poet, ■ - . 321 From Mr. Gilbert Burns — New. Year's wishes, — 321 To Mf;. Dunlop — thesame — approves of set times of Devotion — glowing sentiments of a Life be- yond the Grave, ~~^ ~~ .^. ^ 321 From (he Rev. P. C':irfrae — of Mylne and his To Dr. Moore — pf:ctical purposes — workllv s'ate of the Poi t and his Frienris, , ■' 322 'Jo Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice aiul encourage. To Cishon Geddcs — " What am 1 ?— AVliere I am ? — and for what am I destined ?" 324 To Mrs. Dunlop — contrast of higi'. and low — Myli'c's Poems,—-™ ,-~™ 324 Froia William Burns, the Poet's Brother — his out- To tho Rev. P. Carfiae — Xlylne's Poems, ._,. 526 lo Dr. Moore— the Eard's sufierings from the Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, _™,~ 326 7'o Va: Peter Ui!I— culo;;y orfru;;a!ity— order for To i^.irs. 'DiiDlop— SkelJi of Fox, 5VS To Mr. CiiJMiinjihau; — iS'iisions of Friendship, — 328 From Ur. Grefr^irv — iroi) br.und criticism ~~ 32S To ?.lr. Jp.iiic; H.imilton, Gl.is'tow — contolatic;!), 329 To Mr. William Creccli— .Toothache, 3^9 To Mr. M'Aulcy of Dumijarlon— clcsciplive of the Poet's feclinps and condition, ~ ~ .'530 To Mr. Uohert Ainslie— tliC same tojiio, ,— 5 From Dr. Moore — advice — to preserve and polish his lays, .n.ud to .ibaiiUon tho Scottish stanza and To .Mrs. Dunlop — low spirits — religious feelings,— 331 Fro".n Miss J. Littler — v.ith a poetical tributc,.-~~, 5o- Frcm Mr. Cunningisara — reminiscences cf Fcrgus- so:i,~~~-~— ~v— ,. ..—...... ,,„^.>..— ,„— ..--.,~.. 3S3 To MV. (?unninginm, in answer, ™ „~_ 533 To Mr. Dunlop — ciomcstic m;ittors — Poetical Tri- bute from Miss L a Fi:luvc .State— /^i>!nei;, 534 From Dr. Blacklock — a friendly JLetter in Rhyme, 534 To Dr. BhicklocU — a suitable answer,-....- 33S To Capt;iin Riddel— the night of the Whistle, — 535 To the same — the Scrnp-book, -...- ..-. 33.> To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the v.ord " Exciseman," 535 To Robert Graham, Esq..-.Captai;i Grose and lo- To Mrs. Dunlop — "under the miseiies of a diseas. cd nervous system," ~. • — — -™— ~ 337 To Sir John Sinclair — the Library of Dunscore,™ 53S Fmra C.iptain Uiildcl U> Sir Joiin— on tame siib. — 338 1730. To Gilbert Rums— the Players— Verses for them, 339 From William Burns — at 5.'ewvastle— wants inlor- matiun and fr.ifcrnal instructions, ,— — . 339 To Mrs. Dunlop — the Poet Falconer — Ballads, — S'JO From Mr. Cunningham— friendly notices, 341 From Mr. Peter Hill — " a poor raneally (Jauger." — Bor()U;.ih Reform— Books — Note, with secrets To Mr. VvillianiKicoll — Isst illness and death of Peg Nicolson— m;'.iter3 thc.itrical — etcle»iastical squabbling — ^Exciseman's duty, —. — — y.-, 342 To Mr. Cunningham^^n Leflcr wrilinq — exist- ence — and I lie course of the Poci's reading — Deism — Scc)ilie;sin, — ,. — ww— — ~— .»„™— 343 To Mr. Peter Hil!—a large order— existence, ^ 34.1 From William Inuiis, at Lcndun— his advenlures —hears the C'a//' preach at Co3 From the Rev. Principal Baird — Michp.el Bruo?,_ 353 To Principal Baird— offering every aid tor pub- lishiui; Bruce's Works, ., — .,. 354 To the Rev. Archibald Allison — his Essays on To Dr. Moore — Sonijs and Ealla^ls — Zcleuco — iiri. To Mr. Cunnin;^ham — Song, " There'll never be peace till Jarriie i;omc hain:'," ,,,, ^,. S5G To Mr. Dalwll, Factor to Lord Glencairn— the Poei's grief for his Lordshij) — iiis wish to attend From Dr. Moore — criticises Tarn o' Shanter, and other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on iie- leueo — advises him to bo more chary of giving Copies— and to use the inodcrn English, >»„^ 3.>G To Mrs. Dunlop— a domestic occurrence — excUi- sive advantafft'S of hum'jlc life, „-„,-„. „. 357 To Mr. Cunnincham — in beh.-.lf cf a perrecutcd Schoolmaster, ,. . ,.„ 355 From the Earl of Biichan— srowninj of ThonKon's Bust at Ednam, , >.>...„...„ ^^.^..^ 5.5S To the same — in answer,^,^w~. „„^™.,„„ 553 To Mr. Thomas Sloan, Manchester — disappoint, ment — perscvci'ance recommended — The" Poct'« From the Earl of Buchan — suggests Harvest-home for a theme to the Muse, _^-«.^~..^_™™..w™™ 359 To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the death of her Brother, Lord Glencair:i,~~-„„.. 3S0 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a Mind disoassd, — .,-,^v»- .j60 From Sir John Whitcfoord— Lament for Lord From A. F. Tytler, Esq.— the Whisii;— llieTa- To Miss Davies — sentimental — wiih some hints as to a Radical Reform, ., .^.,..„..,„^^,, 5G.' To Mi-s. Dunlop— with the Death-Song— High- To Captain Grose— lauds Professor Dugald Stew. To the same — Witch Stories of KirU-Allowav, . 5E3 To Mrs. Dunlop — animadversions of the Board — malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness, ."--"1 To Mr. W. Smellic— introductory of .Mrs. Riildel, SG-l To Mr. W. NicoU— admiration of, and gratitude for sage advice, ^.,.^...,.^., .,,,,,, . ,, 3C,5 To Mr. Cunningham — the Poet's Arms, 3ii5 To Mr. Clarke- invit;ition to come to tlie Country, oGti To Mrs. Dunlop — a Pbtonic attiiohnicnt and a Ball.td — Religion indispcnsible to make Man better and happier, — ,-., 3C7 To Mr. CunninglKim— nocturnal ravines 5 i? To Mrs. Iiunlop—diftercnce in Farming for one's self and F.anning for another, „. ."6S To the same— a Family ijrfliction— condolence, — 569 To the same — shortness and uncertamty of Life— • Rights of Woman. - ■■ - , ,, --....,,. 5S3 To Robert Graham, Esq.— jusiitics himself against the charge of disaftvcLion to the British Const!. I To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet's utll'ro^ed lu'jits— .■il- | PagU luslotis to her suggcstloas tot hli oflldat promo. To Mis5 B. of York — moralizes over the chance. medleys of human intercourse, ,,.., 371 To Patrick MiUer, Esq. of Dalswinton- an honest To John Francis Erskine of Mar, Esq. — the Poetfs independence of sentiment, and particularly his opinions .is to Reform eloquently justified, _ 372-3 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — Schoolcraft caught by contact, , ■ ■■ 373-4 To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, ~™ 374 To Lady Glencairn -graticude to her Family — from an independent Exciseman, 374-5 To Miss Chalmers— a curious analysis which shewi " a Wight nearly as miserable as a Poet," .,.,. 375 To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, . ,„,,„ ^^ 575^ LETTERS, 179i, 1795, 1796. To the Earl of Buchan— with " Bruce's Address," 376 To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals,- 376 To a Lady — the same, „.. -■■-.-■ 376 To Mr. . the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- tion and literary leisure, , 378-7 To Mt«. Riddel— Theatricals ,',nd lobster-coated puppies, < 377 To tha same — ginhorse routine of Excise business, ,"577 To the same— eifects of a cool rpfppHop, .,.,,. 377 To the same — :-. sijice of caprice, 378 ■I'o the same — firm yptivtnpjlinf'nf^, 578 To John Syme, Esa. — praises of I\!r. A. — Song on Mrs. Oswald. ~~>I....,„.,„ .,„.„„„.,„„.„.. 57s To Miss in defence of his reputation — re- claims his f.i3.~~~~~~~ -, ,.., ■ ..., 37S-9 To Mr CunnitifT^iana— a Mind Diseased- Religion necRssary to Man, ^..^.^.^.^^.^^ ^ 379 To a Laiiy— iVnm the Shades, ., .,,,,. 380 "Vo tiie j:iii of Gleaaum— the Poet's gratitude to his late Evoi'ier, „.^. ~.-v„ 380 To Dr. Anderson—his Work, the Lives of the To Mrs. Riddel— solitary confinement goo >.lr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for the Museum, ,..,,.„.,,... ,, Jgl To >!r. Miller of D.-iIswinton— declines to be a re- (.'•ilar conlribulor to the Poet's Corner of the Mi-rniii? Chronic!?, — ,^ „,. „..„_ 381 To Mr. (;;i.vin Hamilton— the Poet recommends a particular regimen to him,~~>~„ . — .'82 To .\Ir. Samuel Clarke — penitence after excess, ^ 382 To Mr. Alex.ander Findlater— Supervisor— " So nnic!) far schemes," ,^ 383 To the E.lilorsof t:ic Morning Chronicle— its in- li^'".Oi\'!;'i;CC, ^rrjirj r n.- r r n i .1 . r.i . . . . j j r -- -| ■ - - 5S3 To Mr. \V. I.>'unb3r— New- Year wishes, 383 To Miss Fontcnelle — with a Prologue for her be- 1 o Mrs. Dunlop— cares of the Married Life — Dum- fries Theatricals — Cowpcr's Task — the Pact's Scrap-book, ^ 384-5 To Mr. Heron of Heron— Political Ballads — Dreams of Excise promotion, ...... 335 To the Right Hon. W. Pitt— in behalf of the Scots Distillers, -„.,., 386 To the Magistrates of Dumfiies — Free School E- ducation, ., .„ 337 To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's Work— ;ieting Supervisor— New Year wishes — Dr. Moore, „„_ 387-8 To Mrs. Riddel— Anacharsis— the Muses still pre. sent, 38S To Mrs. Dunlop— in affliction, 388 To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-day loyalty, 388 To Mr. James Johnson — the Museum — a consum- ing illness hanijs over the Poet,- ,-.„ 389 To Mr. Cunnin/;ham— from tlie Brow, .Sea-bath- ing Quarters — sad picture, , 589 To Mrs. Burns — from the Urow— strengthened— but total decay of appptitn, ■ ... stB To Mx3. Dunlopi— » Usi farewell, -.1- ,,_, 339 %w CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON. Page. Prom Mr. Tnomson— soUcitinf; the Poet's aid to the Select Melodies. 391 The Poet'* answer — frankly embarking in the Fiom Mr. Thomson — views of conducting the Work — and with 1 1 Songs for Nevi Verses, 592 Prom the Poet— with the " l,ca Rig"—" My Nan- nie O" — " Will ye go to the Indies my Mary," 593 Prom the Poet — with " My Wife's a wanton wee thing" — " O saw ye bonnie Lesley," 393 From the Poet— with " Ye Banks and Braes ;ind Streams around the Castle o" Montgomery," 50i Prom Mr. Thomson — criticisms and corrections,™ o9i From the Poet — admits some corrections, " but cannot alter bnnnie Lesley" — additional Verse for the " Lea Rig," 395 From the Poet- with " Auld Rob Morris" and " Duncan Gray," 595 From the Poet— with " Poortith Caiild" and •• Galla Water,", 395 From Mr. Thomson— laudatory for favours re- ceived—details the plan of his Work— P. S. from the Honourable A. Erskine — a brother Poet and contributor, 39G From the Poet — ajiproves of the details — offers matter anecdotic— the Song " Lord Gregory" — English and Scots scis of it, 396-7 From the Poet— with " Wandering Willie," ~~— 397 From the Poet—" Open the Door to me 0,"„- ."97 From the Poet — " True-hearted was he," _~ 59? From Mr. i homson — with complete list of Songs, and farther details of the Work, 397-8 From the Poet — with " The .Soldier's return"— " Meg o' the Mill," 398 From the Poet — Song making his hobby— offers Taluabic hints for enriching and improving the Work,~, 398-9 From Mr. Thomson — in answer, . oO'J Prom the Poet— farther hints and critical remarks , — sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit Tunc, " Bonnie Dundee," ,- .199 From the Poet — with " The last time I e;inie o'er the moor," . . 400 From Mr. Thomson — excuses his taste as ayainst the Poet's, „ „_„ 400 From the Poet — dogmatically set against altering, WO 'ihePoetto Mr. Thomson — Kraser the llauibov Player — Tunc .vid Song, " The Quaker's Wile" — " Blythc hae 1 been on yon Hill," lO'-l The same — mad ambition — ''Logan Braes" — Frag- ment from WiUierspoon's Collection — " O gin tnv lo\e were yon Red Rose." , 401 Mr Thomson — in answer — a change of Partners in the Work, 401 The Poet to Mr. Thomson — Tune aixl Air of " Bonnie Jean" — the Poet's Heroines, 402 The tame — a remittance acknowledged—" Flow- ers of the Forest" — the Authoress — Pinkerton's Ancient Ballads — prophecies, ~ 402 Mr. Thomson to the Poet — Airs waiting the Mu The Poet to Mr. Thomson — Tune, ' Robin A- dair"- " Phillis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail in Alwrdecn," . 403 From Mr. Thomson — grateful for the Poet's " v.i- lued Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the bum Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 Prom the Poet — Tunc " Robin Adair" again — ■ •codt " Had I a Cave" to it — Gaelic origin of the Tunc, ~, „ ...,.... „ , 104 Paffe. From the Poet— with New Song to " Allan Wa- From the same — with Song " WhisHe and I'll come to you, my Lad," and " Phillis the Fair," to the " Muckin' o' Geordie's byre," — .., ~ 404 From the same — " Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot at tlie Muses, 405 From the same — " Dainty Davie" — four lines of Song nnd four of Chorus, ....>. 405 From Mr. 'Ihomson — profuse acknowledgments for many favours, . -. — 405 From the Poet— Peter Pindar—" Scots wha hae vvi' Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the cause of truth and liberty as he did that day,"~ 404 From the same— with Song " Behold the hour the Boat arrives," to the HigtiUind .Air " Oran gaoil," 406 From Mr. Thomson — " Bruce's .\ddress" — the Air " Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie tatie" — verbal criticisms, ™, 406 From the Poet — additional Verses to " Dainty Davie" — " Through the wood. Laddie" — " Cow- deii-knowei" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's form of .Soiigrnaking— " Gill Morrice" — " High- land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon" — " Fee him Fathei" — " There's nae luck about the House" — the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa. ther"' — " ■) odlin hame" — sends "Auld Lang Syne" — farther notices of other Songs and Bal- From the Poet — rejects the verbal criticism on the Ode, " liruce's Address," ~-,-. ,.,.-,.- «. 408 From Mr. Thomson — Strictures on the Poet's no- tices of the above Songs — again nibbling at the Ode, 409 From the Poet—" The O^e pleases me so much I cannot niter it" — sends Song " Where are the Joys I hae met in the mornin'," . 409 From the Poet — sci;ds " Deluded Swain" and " Raving Winds around her blowing" — .Mrs ard Songs, to adopt or rejeet — differences of From ihe same — " Thine am I my KaitlUul Fair" — lo the " Quaker's Wife," which is just the Gaelic .Air " Liggeram cosh," -~ ~~. 410 Fr. ni Kn. Thomson — in .inswer.™ „ 410 From the Poet — Song to " My Jo Ja et," 410 From Mr. Thomson— proposed conference — Re- marks on Drawings and Songs, 410 From the Poit — same subjects — Plejel — a detmu — wher bv hiinlerancc ot IheWork — ^oiig " I'he Banks nf tree," ~-,™ „ 411 From llie same-" The auspicious period preg- nant with the happiness ot Millions" — Inscrip- tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss Graham of Fii'itrj-, , 411 From Mr. Thom.-on - in :i»»»rfr, . 4ji From the Poet — with Song " On the Seas and far From Mr. Thomson— criticises that Songseverely, 412 From the Poet — withdrawing it — " making a Song is like bejjetling a Son" — sends " Ca' the yewes to the kiowcs,*" - ■ 412 From Ihe same— Irish Air— sends Song to it " Sa; flaxen weie her ringlets" — Poet's lastc in Music like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me ill this ae night'— Epigram, 412 From Mr. 'J homson — profuse of acknowledg- ments, „__„___ 413 From the sarr.e — I'etA Pindar's task completed — Rilsun's Collection— dressing up of Old Soogs, 413 CONTENTS. Page. fiom the Poet—" Craigie-bum Wood" and the heroine — Recipe for Song making— Song " Saw ye tny Phely"— " The Posie"— " Donochthead" not the Poet's — " Whistle o'er the lave o't" his — so is " Blythe was she" — sends Song " How lang and dreary is the night" — " Let not Wo- man e'er complain" — " Sleep'st thou" — East Indian Air — Song " The Auld Man," 414 From Mr. Thomson— in acknowledgment, and with farther commissions, 415 From the Poet— thanks for Ritson — Song of Chlo- ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" — " Lassie wi' the llntwhite locks" — " Maria's dwelling"—" Banks and Draes o' bonnie Doon" — Recipe to make a Scots Tune — humble re- quest for a Copy of the Work to give to a fe- male friend, . — ~ ■ 416-17 From Mr. Thomson— in answer — criticisms — sends three Copies, and as welcome to 20 as to a pinch of snuff, 417 From the Poet — Duet completed — sends Songs " O Philly happy be that day" — " Contented wi' little"—" Canst thou leave me thus my Katy" — Remarks on Songs and the Stock and From Mr. Thomson — modest acknowledgments — Pictures for the Work, 419 From the Poet — with Song " Nannie's awa"— Pic- From the same — originality a coy feature in composition — sends " A man's a man for a' that — which shows that Song making is not confined to love and wine — new set of " Crai- gie-burn Wood," 419 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, 419 From the Poet — with, " O let me in this ae Night," and Answer, ,. ,. 420 From the same — abuse of sweet Ecclefechan — air, " We'll gang nae mair to yon Town," is worthy of verses, „... ..^ 420 From Mr< Thornton— in aBswer,„>.„>,> ,„.. „ 420 Page. From the Poet— with four Songs, " The Wood- lark"— " Long, long the Night'—" Their groves o' sweet Myriles" — " 'Twas na her bonnie blue Een was my ruin, — 430 From Mr. Thomson — acknowledgments — pictures for the work, ...„„ 420-1 From the Poet— with two Songs, " How cruel are the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds, " Your Tailor could not be more punctual,"-.-. 481 From the same — acknowledgment of a present,.^- 421 From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallet's Bal- lad of " William and Margaret," „ 421 From the Poet — with four Songs and Verses, " O Whistle and I'll come to ye, my Lad" — " O this is no my ain Lassie" — " Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green" — " O bonnie was yon rosy Brier," — Inscription on his Poems present- ed to a young Lady, 422 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ~~_ 422 From the Poet — with English Song, " Forlorn, From the same— with Song, " Last May a bra' Wooer cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Frag- ment, -_ . . 423 From Mr. Thomson — in answer, 423 From the sami' — after an awful pause, 423 From the Poet — acknowledges a Present to Mrs. B — sends Song, " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch- er," . — . 424 From Mr. Thomson — in answer,. From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the Muse, 424 From Mr. Thomson — in answer, 424 From the Poet — with Song, them that's awa." Here's a health to From the same— announces his purpose to revise all his Songs ....-—-. 425 From the same — at Sea-bathing— depressed and in extremity, 425 From Mr. Thomson— with a Remittance, 4S5 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, CHAPTER I. Contents The Poet's Slrih, IT &9~ Circumstances and peculiar Character of kis Father and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were, of his Mental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at IG. *' My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, And soberly he brought me up in decency and order." RobeJIT Burns was bom on the 25th of January 1759, in a clay-buiIt cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr, and in the im- mediate vicinity of the Ku-k of Alloway, and the " Auld Brig o' Doon." About a week afterwards, part of the frail dweUing, which his father had constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a neighbouring hovel. The father, William Burnes or Burness, (for so he spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re- moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments. The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited, in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances- tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil- liam Bunies settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no- tion that he himself had been out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but though Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a mere fiction, and such it was. Gilbert found among his father's papers a certificate of the minister of his native parish, testifying that " the bearer, William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to suppose that when any obscure northern stranger fixed himself in those days in the Low Country, such rumours werfj likely enough to be circu- lated concerning him. ii LIFE OF ROBERT BlTRNS. William Burnes laboured for some years in the neighbourhood of Edin- burgh as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time when Robert was born, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm ; but resided on a few acres of land, which he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he had originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. He married Agnes Brown in December 1757, and the poet was their first-born. Wil- liam Burnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently entitled to respect. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish parish school, and profited largely both by that and by his own experience in the world. " I have met with few," (said the poet, after he had him- .self seen a good deal of mankind), " who understood men, their manners, and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the form of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and from which it appears that he had adopted more of the Arminian than of the Calvinistic doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con- sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affectionate re- verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours that will never fade, " the saint, the father, and the husband," of The Cottars Saturday Night. Agnes Brown, the wife of this good man, is described as " a very sagaci- ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- ner;" and it seems that, in features, and, as he grew up, in general address, the poet resembled her more than his father. She had an inexhaustible store of ballads and traditionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant imagination by this means, while her husband paid more attention to " the weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboured hard for the support of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as her children. But though their honesty and diligence merited better things, their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in his letter to Dr. Moore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth of William Burnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; who, when his garde- ner expressed a wish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and confessed at the same time his inability to meet the charges of stocking it, at once advanced ,€100 towards the removal of the difficulty. Burnes ac- cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr) at Whitsuntide 1766, when his eldest son was between six and seven years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrip- tion ; and Mr. Ferguson dying, and his aftairs falling into the hands of a YiBxsh factor, (who afterwards sat for his picture in the Tiva Dogs), Burnes was glad to give up his bargain at the end of six years. He then removed about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton. But here, after a short interval of prosperity, some unfor- tunate misunderstanding took place as to the conditions of the lease ; the LIFE OF ROBERT BtTRNS. iii dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after three years of suspense, the result involved Burnes in ruin. The worthy man lived to know of this de- cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. He died of consumption on the 13th February 1784. Severe labour, and hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- table structure and temperament of body and of mind. In the midst of the harassing struggles which found this termination, William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may be. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway Miln, about a mile from the house in v/hich he was born ; but Campbell, the teacher, being in the course of a few months removed to another situation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John Murdoch to supply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, and Gilbert his next brother,'Avere the aptest and the favourite pupils of this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the part Avhich he had in the early education of our poet. He became the frequent in- mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of the virtues of William Burnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his humble abode. " He was (saysMurdocli) a tender and affectionate father ; he took plea- sure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents do, to the perform.ance of duties to v/hich they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. " He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were labourers under him. 1 think I never saw him. angry but twice : the one time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he was desired ; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendos and double e?ifend>es." " In this mean cottage, of which I my- self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger por- tion of content than in any palace in Europe. T/ie Cottar's Saturday Night will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there." The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing ; they committed psalms and nymns to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he tells us) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. " As soon," says he, " as they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words ; and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by far their seniors, The books most commonly used in the school were the Spelling Booh. the New Testament, the Bible, Masons Coliectifin of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's English Grammar." — ." Gilbert always appeard to me to possess a more lively imagination, and to be more oi>' the wit, than Robert. I at- !v LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tempted to teach tliem a little church-music. Here they were left far be- hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark- ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, 3Iir(k, with thee I mean to live; and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys, had been asked which uf them was the most likely to court the INTuses, he would never have guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind." J "At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means ( a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, ! a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 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 was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- I lives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed ^ — much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet k often takes an ef- fort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 77ie Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! I particular- ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear — " For though on dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave—" 1 met with these pieces in Masons English Collection, one of my school- books. The two first, books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were, The Life of Han- nibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my reins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest." Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country. " There being no school near us," says Gilbert Burns, " and our little ser- vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arith- metic in the winter evenings by candle light — and in this way my two elder sisters received all the education they ever received." Gilbert tells an anec- dote which must not be omitted here, since it furnishes an early instance of the liveliness of his brotlier's imagination. Murdoch, bcingon a visit to the family, read aloud one evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- nicas — the circle listened w^tli the deepest interest until he came to Act ^ Bc. 5, where Lavinia is »' itroduced <' with her hands cut off, and her LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. f tongue cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an agony of distress, that their friend would read no more. " If ye will not hear the play out," said William Burnes, " it need not be left with you." — " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good' young man interfered, saying he liked to see so much sensibility, and left T/ie School for Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert was nine years of age. ''• Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepei's, and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmons Geogra- phical 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 Derhams Physico and Astro-Theology, and Bays Wisdom of God hi 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 Stackhouscs History of the Bible. From this Robert col- lected a competent knowledge of ancient history; for no hook was so vc luminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches." A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted him. When Burns was about tliirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, for the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two fees ; or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- bour of the farm ! " We lived very poorly," says the poet. " I was a dex- terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to nie 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. ]\Iy indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." Gilbert Burn^'gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail — " To the'buffetings of misfortune," says he, <' we could only oppose hard labour and' the most rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For several ye^rs butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and difficulties, was very great. To think of our father growing old (for he >vas vl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. now above fifty), broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of tlie deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull headach, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in the night-time." The year after this, Burns was able to gain three weeks of respite, ono before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus strain- ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in the town of Ayr, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the English grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He laboured enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- night with a dictionary and a Telemaqiie, of which he made such use at his .eisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert) he was able to undCTStand any ordinary book of French prose. His pro- gress, whatever it reall}' amounted to, was looked on as something of a prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that Robert Burns must next attempt tlte rudhuents of the Latin tongue. He did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were of no sort of value. Burns"s Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's Rudiments can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done. The matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little French, and no Latin. He had read, hov/cver, and read well, ere his six- teenth year elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of liis own country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, Jus- tice's British Gardener's Directory^ Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, Hervey'a Meditations" (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this list Pamela, (the fitst novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- lumes of Peregrine Pickle, two of Count Fathom, and a single volume of " some English historian," containing the reigns of James L, and his son. The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, frordfei^gtation or fustian ; and I am convinced I owe to this practice muclmuBBKc-craft, He derived, during this period, considerable advantages^^m^e vicinity of Mount Oliphant to the town of Ayr— a place then, and still, distinguish- ed by the residence of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin- cial situations. To his friend, Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first instance, whatever attentions he received there from people older as well LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vii as higher than himself: some such persons appear to have taken a pleasure in lending him books, and surely no kindness could have been more useful to him than this. As for his coevals, he himself says, very justly, " It is not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense of the distance between them and their ragged playfellows. My young superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the chuterly appearance of my plough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was of- ten to me a sore affliction, — but I was soon called to more serious evils." — (Letter to Moore). The condition of the family during the last two years of their residence at INIount Oliphant, when the struggle which ended in their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely burden of sorrow, as well as toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, aj^|»hich would have broken altogether any mind wherein feelings like hi^^B existed, without strength like his to control them. The removal of tnWamily to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, took place when Burns was in his sixteenth year. He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first commit- ted the sin of RhjTne. You know our coimtry custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she. altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that dehcious passion, which, iu spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, oiif dearest blessing here below ! How slie 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 mj'^self why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- strings thrill like an ^^olian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick cut the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qua- lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempted jodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to 3uld make verses like printed ones, composed by men who itin ; but my girl sung a song, which "was said to be com- )untry laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom ind I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; lat he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. " Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been vay highest enjoy- ment." VnJ tIFE OP ROBERT BURNS, The earJieet of the poet's productions is the little bftUacli *' O once I loved a bonny lass. Burns himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ;" yet it contains here and there lines of which he need hardly have been ashamed at any period of his life : — " She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Daith decent and genteel, And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel." " Silly and puerile as it is,** said the poet, long afterwards, "I am al- ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS, Memorandum book, August 178 3. In his first episl^fciLapraik (1785) he says — 3 3^ '^Haist I ; as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rough ; Yet crooning to a body's sell Does weel eneugh." And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days," we have the following passage : — " I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young and blatCj And first could thrash the bam, Or haud a yokin' o' the pleugh. An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn — When first amang tlie yellow corn * A man I reckoned was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom Could rank my rig and lass- Still shearing and clearing The tither stookit raw, Wi' claivers and haivers Wearing the day awa — E'en then a wish, I mind its power, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast : That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some useful plan or book could make, Or sing a sang, at least : The rough bur-thistle spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, And spared the symbol dear." He is hardly to be envied who can contemplate \\ithoul,emotl8h, this exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. Jt^as a^jinst such scenes that this extraordinary being felt those first indcfinifeJ' stirrings of immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the magnifi- cent image of << the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, mound the walls of his cave," CHAPTER II, CoKMNTS. —i^om 11 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Sums work to their Father, as Labourers, at stated Wages — At Rural Wurk the Poet feared no Competitor — This period not marktd by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing- School — Progress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Irvine— 'Flaxdressing— Becomes there Mofk ■ ier of a BatcheloTs Club. " O enviable early days, When dancing tliougbtlcss pleasure's maze, To care and guilt unknown ! How ill exchanged lor riper times, To feel the follies or the crimes Of others — or my own !" As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quitted Mount Oliphant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugahty. Robert and Gilbert were employed by their father as regular labourers — he allow- ing them £7 of wages each per annum ; from which sum, however, the value of any home-made clothes received by the youths was exactly de- ducted. Robert Burns's person, inui*ed to daily toil, and continually expos- ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every cha- racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself, that he never feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion ; and Gilbert Bums, a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in the corn field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert saj's, that Ro- bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton. He was separated from his acquaintances of the town of Ayr, and proba- bly missed not only the stimulus of their conversation, but the kindness that had furnished him with his supply, such as it was, of books. But the main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of Ins own turbulent passions. " In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners 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 I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father was subject to strong pas- sions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me,*, which "I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my succeed^Dg !jfears. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for though 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 saw my father's situation entailed on iae perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of For- 4 ac LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tune, were the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of httle chicaning bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I couUl never squeeze myself into it; — the last I always hated — there was contamination in the very entrance ! Thus ahandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociahility, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondria- cism that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem surjjrising that 1 was generally a welcome guest where I vi- sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was un penchant j)0UT I' adorable moitie dii genre hnmain, ]\Iy heart was com- pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, some- times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute wimt at defiance ; 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 country lad seldom carries on a love adven- ture without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in- trepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa- sions, 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." In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother writes as follows : — " 1 wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that about this time he 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 on cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. lie had indeed that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during Robert's first month of attendance, that he permitted the rest of the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it. And thus the seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) were not marked by much literary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laid of certain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, arid died aivay ; but the agitations of his mind and body exceeded any thing of tlie kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particular jealousy of people >vho were richer than himself, or who had LIF£ OF ROBERT BURNS. ^ more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested M^ith a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions, which formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love." Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youth " without an aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sufficiently various moods of his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* that he wrote some stanzas which begin beautifully : " I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam ; Listening to the wild birds singing, By a fallen crystal stream. Straight the sky grew black and daring, Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave, Trees with aged arms were warring, O'er the swelling drumlie wave. Such was life's deceitful morning," &c. On comparing these verses with those on " Handsome Nell," the ad- vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two short years, must be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely overlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs but one Scotch word. It was about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad of much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over with delight, because of the faithfulness with which it recalled to him the circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood. I — " Rly father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, And carefully he brought me up in decency and order. And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er a farthing ; For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding. Then out into the world my course I did determine ; Tho'' to he rich was not viy •ccish, yet to he great rvas charming; My talents they were tint the rcorst, nor yet my education ; ^ Resolved was 1 at least to try to mend my situation. No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me ; So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to sustain me. To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early { For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to vander ; Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlasting slumber. No view, nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow ; I live to-day, ss well's I raay, regardless of to-morrow, ' &c. These are the only two of his very early productions in which we have nothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the charms of those rural beauties who followed each other in the dominion of " Beliques, p. 242. jtM LIFE OP ROBERT BQRNS his fancy — or shared the capricious throne between them ; and we may easily believe, that one who possessed, with his other quahfications, such powers of flattering, feared competitors as httle in the diversions of his evenings as in the toils of his day. The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style, the especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some- what difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay, very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win- dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon, or, if the Aveather be severe, (a circumstance which never prevents the journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn. This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com- monly wink at, if they do not openly apjn'ove, the observance ; and the consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per- sons not familiar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry may find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe- riod, — and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved, are, without exception, beautiful. They show how powerfully his boyish fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country, and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth and simplicity of nature breathe in every line — the images are always just, often originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg- ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of each successive ballad. The best of the songs written at this time is that begmning,— *' It was upon a Lamm:is night, W'hen corn rigs are bonnie. Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie. The time flew by wi' tentless heed, Till, 'tween the late and early, ^V'i' snia' persuasion she agreed To see nie thro' the barley." We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says he, *' which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. But I made a greater pro- gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time 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 this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I leas'nt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/ef/e, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set 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 gar- den one charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, like-— LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ;tm " Proserjiine, gathc!!ing flowers, Herself a fairer flower." " It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain- ing week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno- cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. My reading ivas enlarged v/itli the very important addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several of my school -follows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection of letters by the visits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon- dents 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 letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. Vive rnmonr, et rive la bagatelle, were my sole princi- ples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and ?Jackcnzie — Tristram Shandy and. The Man of Feeliiig — were my bosom favourites. 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 hand; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. Ivly passions, once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all Into quiet." Of the rhymes of those days, few, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their number ; The Death of Poor Mailie, 3Iailie's Elegy, and John Barleycorn; and one charming song, inspired by the Nymph of Kirkoswald's, whose at- tractions put an end to his trigonometry. " Now ■westlin winds, and slaughtering guns. Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather. ... —Peggy dear, the evening's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading green and yellow ; Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c» John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and extended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor 3Iailie deserve more atten- tion. The expiring animal's admonitions touching the education of the " poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, embedded upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand In the Ttra Dogs, and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his Death and Doctor Hornbook. It need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and became exceedingly attached to his person. Xiy LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " Thro' all the town she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi' kmdly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed : A friend mair faithlu' ne'er came nigh him, Than JVIailie dead." These little pieces are in a much broader dialect than any of their pre* uecessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch. Notwithstanding the luxurious tone of some of Burns's pieces produced in those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con- firms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that his short residence " away from liome" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable alteration on some of his habits; but in 1781-2 he spent six months at Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change. " As his numerous connexions," says Gilbert, " were governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from which he never deviated till his twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry. This was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock- ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probability of being mas- ter of for a great wliile. He and I had for several years taken land of our father, for the purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in the course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax- dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to the flax-raising." Burns, accordingly, went to a half-brother of his mo- ther's, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn- ing this new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but misfortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally caught fire during the carousal of a new-j^ear's-day's morning, and Robert " was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " I was obliged," says he, " to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle fillc whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months 1 was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed." The following letter, addressed by Burns to his fatlier, three days before the unfortunate fire took place, will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir- cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one >— "Honoured Sir, " I HAVE purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons, which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder; and, on the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very islow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xv mind, that I dare neither review'past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for- wards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myseLT, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. ' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' " It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, l6th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this Hfe. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem- bered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and, with wishing you a merry New-year's-day, I shall conclude. " I am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, " " Robert Burns." " P. S — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get more." [The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows :— " 15. Therefore are the}' before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his tem« pie ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. " 16. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light Oil them, nor any heat. " 17. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." *' This letter," says Dr. Currie, " written several years before the publi- cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Bums at this time pos- sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- ling a-week. Ho passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and his food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family. The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears, was nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup- ply. Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself pictures of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure in XVI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tlie world, shows how ardently he wished for honourable fame ; and his contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of a youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness." — Life, p. 102. Unhappily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol- lections of his virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which " his youth was heir to." Irvine is a small sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous spirits of a snmggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert, " of a freer nianncr of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose society prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had hitherto restrained him." One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at Irvine, seems to have been David Sillar, to whom the Epistle to Da- vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequently addressed. Sillar was at this time a poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer of local verses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life and conversation. Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine : — «< From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed 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 patronage, gave him a genteel education, with t; view of bettering his situation in hfe. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir- ed him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine ; and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man 1 ever saw who was a greater fool tluui myself, where women was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard- ed with horror. Here his fricuclsJiipdldme a mischief." Professor Walker, when preparing to write his Sketch oftlie Poet's life, was informed by an aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- cussing religious topics, particularly in those circles which usually gather in a Scotch churchyard alter service. 7'he senior added, that Bums com- monly took the high Calvinistic side in such debates; and concluded with a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in a great measure for tlie gradual adoption of " more liberid opinions." It was during the same period, tliat the poet was first initiated in the mysteries of free masonry, " which was," says his brother, " his first introduction to the life of a boon companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvli John Ranken, a very dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which' will be noticed in its place. " Rhyme," Burns says, " I had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) " but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly sound- ing lyre with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavern could keep him long from his proper vocation. But it was probably this accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a great measure finally deter- mined the Scottish character of Burns's poetry ; and indeed, but for the lasting sense of this obligation, and some natural sympathy with the personal misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the very high terms in which Burns always mentions his productions. Shortly before Burns wont to Irvine, he, his brother Gilbert, and some seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly filled is evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next they came prepared to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter thus proposed. Burns drew up the regulations, and evidently v.-as the principal person. He in- troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap- pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Of the sort of questions discussed, we may form some notion from the minute of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-writing. — Question foii Hal- loween, (Nov. II), 1780. — " Suppose a young man, bed a farmer, hut without any fortune, has it in his porver to marry either of two women, the 07ie a girl of large fortune, Imt neither handsome in perso7i, nor agreeable in con- versation, hut who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them a girl every ivay agreeable in 2^erso7i, conversation, and heluivi- ottr, hut without any fortune : xohich of them shall he choose ?" Burns, as may be guessed, took the imprudent side in this discussion. " On one solitary occasion," says he, " we resolved to meet at Tarbol- ton in July, on the race-night, and have a dance in honour of our society. Accordingly, we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that every brother will long remember it with delight." There can be no doubt that Burns would not have patronized this sober association so long, unless he had experienced at its assemblies the pleasure of a stimulated mind ; and as little, that to the habit of arranging his thoughts, and expressing them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, we ought to at- tribute much of that conversational skill w hicli, v/hcn he first mingled with the upper M'orld, was generally considered as tlie most remarkable of all Jiis personal accomplishments Burns's nssocintcs of the Bachelor's Club, must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other- wise such minds as his and (Gilbert's could not have j^ersisted in measuring themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display of the poet's own vigour and resources, at these club-meetings, and (more frequently than his brother approved) at the Free Mason Lodges of Irvine and Tarbolton, extended his rural reputation ; and, by degrees, prepared persons not immediately included in his own circle, for the extraordinary impression which his poetical efforts were ere long to create all over '' thQ Carrigk border." II xviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. David Sillar gives an account of the beginning of his own acquaintance with Burns, and introduction into this Bachelor's Club, which will always be read with much interest " Mr. Robert Burns was some time in the parish of Tarbolton prior to my acquaintance with him. His social disposition easily procured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while it set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindred at- tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his principles. He wore the only tied hair in the pai-ish ; and in the church, his plaid, which was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he \vTapped in a particular manner round his shoulders. These surmises, and his exterior, had such a magnetical influence on my curiosity, as made me particularly solicitous of his acquaintance. Whether my acquaintance with Gilbert was casual! or premeditated, I am not now certain. By him I was introduced, not only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time, I became a frequent, and I believe, not unwelcome visitant. After the commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we frequently met upon Sundays at church, when, between sermons, instead of going withi our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these* walks, I have frequently been struck with his facility in addressing the fair sex ; and many times, when I have been bashfully anxious how to express myself, he would have entered into conversation with them with the great- est ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversa- tion, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the few opportunities of a noontide walk that a country life allows her laborious sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the neigh- bourhood of Stair, a situation peculiarly adapted to the genius of a rural bard. Some book (generally one of those mentioned in his letter to Mr. Murdoch) he always carried and read, when not otherwise employed. It was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, in time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, I think Tristram Shandy, that his spoon falling out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a tone scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick !* Such was Burns, and such were his associates, when, in May 1781, I was admitted a member of the Bachelor's Club." The misfortunes of William Burnes thickened apace, as has already been seen, and were approaching their crisis at the time when Robert came home from his flax-dressing experiment at Irvine. The good old man died soon after ; and among other evils which he thus escaped, was an af- fliction that would, in his eyes, have been severe. The poet had not, as he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of " li- beral opinions" with whom he consorted in Irvine ; and he expressly attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after " he put his hand to plough again." He was compelled, according to the then all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birth of an illegi- timate child ; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such ex- hibitions, there can be no difference of opinion as to the culpable levity with which he describes the nature of his offence, and the still more re- prehensible bitterness with which, in his Epistle to Ranken, he inveighs against the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlx then a regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could never have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under the appellation of " Daddie Auld." The Poet's Welcome to an Illegitimate Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one pleasure to contemplate. There is a song in honour of the same occasion, or a similar one about the same period, The rantin Dog the Daddie ot, — which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited in his bosom. *' To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin," he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottar s Saturday Night, had not, we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother. But his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice ; and the fermenting bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself, escaped (as may be too often traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry, sarcasms against others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done him no wrong. It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro- poses to himself on this occasion : — " The mair they talk, Fm kend the letter ; E'en let them clash !" This is indeed a singular manifestation of *' the last infirmity of noble minds." CHAPTER II!. CoNTEKTs The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mougiel — Ttietr ineusanl labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — J^ot prosperous — The Mutt anti-calvinistical — The poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he- resy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them — Origin of and remarks upon the poet's principal pieces — Z,ove leads him far astray — A crisis— • The jail Otr the West Indies — The alternative. " The star that rules my luckless lot Has fated me the russet coat. And damn'd my fortune to tne groat ; But in reauit, Has bless*d me wi' a random sliol O' country wit." Thkee months before the death of William Burnes, Robert and Gilbert took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with the view of providing a shelter for their parents, in the storm which they had seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted of 119 acres, and the rent was £90. " It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole family, (says Gilbert), and was a joint concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine was £7 per annum each ; and during the whole time this family concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe- riod at Lochlea, Robert's expenses never, in any one year, exceeded his slender income." " I entered on this fanri," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come, go, I will be ttnse. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor- tunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dor/ to his vomit, and the sow tJiat teas washed to her wallottnng in the mire." ** At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming unse, he procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These farming memorandums are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a specimen may gratify the reader." — Specimens accordingly he gives ; as. " O why the deuce should I repine. And be an ill foreboder ? I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine,— . rU go and be » sodger," &c, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. jqd " O leave novells, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks — like Rob fllossgiel- Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel. They heat your veins, and fire your brains, And then ye're prey for Rob Mossgiel," &c. &c. The four years during which Burns resided on this cold and ungrateful farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his life. It was then that his genius developed its highest energies ; on the works produced in these years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest: it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights, aad in all but its darkest shadows ; and indeed from the commencement of this period, the history of the man may be traced, step by step, in his own immortal writings. Burns now began to know that nature had meant him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured in what he felt to bo his destined vocation. Gilbert continued for some time to be his chief, often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte- resting and delightful than this excellent mans account of the manner in which the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them was known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of M'hich he ibrmed one in Mauchline, on the Tarbolton model, immediately on his re- moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, which nmst not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergymen among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met Burns in company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by liim, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his power, of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to me by accident. On the occasiiin of ni}- second appearance in the pulpit, I came w^ith an assured and tranquil mind, and though a few persons of education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was affected with a tremor and embarrassment, whicli suddenly apprised me of the impression which my mind, unknown to itself, liad previously received," The Pro- fessor adds, that the person \\ ho had thus unconsciously been measuring the stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents and education, but " remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con • stitutional firmness." Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a theological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It may be guessed that from the time of his residence at Irvine, his stric- xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tures were too often delivered in no reverend vein. " Polemical divinity," says he to Dr. Moore, in 1787, " about this time, was putting the coun- try half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversation-parties on Sun- days, at funerals. Sec, used to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and in- discretion, that I raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which has not ceased to this hour." To understand Burns's situation at this time, at once patronized by a number of clergymen, and attended with " a hue-and-cry of heresy," we must remember his own words, " that j)olemical divinity was putting the country hall" mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu- tion of 1688, have pretty equally divided the Church of Scotland, it so happened that some of the most zealous and conspicuous leaders and par- tizans were thus opposed to each other, in constant ^^■arfarc, in this parti- cular district ; and their feuds being of course taken up among their con- gregations, and spleen and prejudice at work, even more furiously in the cottage than in t/ie ma7ise, he who, to the annoyance of the one set of belli- gerents, could talk like Burns, might count pretty surely, with whatever alloy his wit happened to be mingled, on the applause and countenance of the enemy. And it is needless to add, they were the less scrupulous sect of the two that enjoyed the co-operation, such as it was then, and far more important, as in the sequel it came to be, of our poet. William Barnes, as we have already seen, though a most exemplary and devout man, entertained opinions very different from those which common- ly obtained among the rigid Calvanists of his district. The worthy and pious old man himself, therefore, had not improbably infused into his son's mind its first prejudice against these persons. The jovial spirits with whom Burns associated at Irvme, and afterwards, were of course habitual deridcrs of the manners, as well as the tenets of the " Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John Knox." We have already observed the effect of the young poet's own first collision with the ruling powers of presbyterian discipline ; but it was in the very act of settling at Mossgiel that Burns formed the connexion, which, more than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to tlie matter now in question. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer (i. e. attorney) in Mauchline, a man, by every account, of engaging manners, open, kind, generous, and high-spirited, between whom and Robert Burns, a close and intimate friendship was ere long formed. Just about this tin)e it happened that Hamilton was at open feud with Mr. Auld, the minister of Mauchline, (the same who had already rebuked the poet), and the ruling ciders of the parish, in consequence of certain irregularities in his personal conduct and deportment, which, according to the usual strict notions ot kirk discipline, were considered as fairly demanding the vigorous interfer- ence of these authorities. The notice of this person, his own landlord, and, as it would seem, one of the principal inhabitants of the village of Maucli- line at the time, must, of course, have been very flattering to our polemical young farmer. He espoused Gavin Hamilton's quarrel warmly. Hamilton was naturally enough disposed to mix up his personal affair with the stand- ing controversies whereon Auld was at variance with a large and powerful body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr. Hamilton's ardent/;ro- ieffecikmc to be as vehemently interested in the church politics of Ayrshire, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxui as he could have been in politics of another order, had he happened to be a freeman of some open borough, and his patron a candidate lor the honour of representing it in St. Stephen's. Mr. Cromek has been severely criti- cised for some details of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's dissensions with his parish minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to limit the censure to the tone and spirit of the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Burns's po- etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a world of vexation and controversy forty years ago ; and the English reader to whom all such details are denied, will certainly never be able to compre- liend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa- lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- ed times that preceded the Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po- pular hatred,',- in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal hand in bringing a thousand of the Highland host into that region in 1677-8. The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re- gard with any thing rather than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty writer of Mauchline. A well-nursed prejudice of this kind M'as likely enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every trace of feuds, that were ■ still abundantly discernible, in the days when Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- ation of, — " Poet Burns, And his priest-skelping turns." It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the superabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems to have mingled much of the charity of the Christian temper. The whole exhibition was unlovely — the spectacle of such indecent violence among the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many men's minds — and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert Burns's principles, the effect must have been powerful as to him. Macgill and Dalrymple, the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par- ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity ; and the for- mer at length published an Essay, which was considered as demanding the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis- cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac- knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity of apologizing for them to his own congregation from the pulpit — which promise, however, he never performed. The gentry of the country took. 3ixiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. for the most part, the side of MacglU, who was a man of cold unpopular manners, but of unrcproached moral character, and possessed of some ac- complishments, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The bulk of the lower orders espoused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those who conducted tiic prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil- ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill — Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speaking, had the principal management of IMacgill's cause before the Presbytery, and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha- milton, and through him had about this time formed an acquaintance, which soon ripened into a warm friendsliip, with Burns. Burns, therefore, was from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perliaps the most cllective partizan, of the side on wliich Aiken had staked so much of his reputation. Macgill, Dalrymple, and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, ai-e the Neio Light pastors of his earliest satires. The prominent antagonists of these men, and chosen. cham- pions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, it Hiust now be admitted on all hands, presented, in manj'^ particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad a mark as ever tempted tlie shafts of a satirist. These men prided them- selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre- sentatives of the haughty Puritans, who chiefly conducted the overthrow of Popery in Scotland, and who ruled for a time, and would fain have con- tinued to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst that high-spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever in their mouths, these men Avere in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever v.ore cowl and cord — austere and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners — very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all outward appearance at least, ovenloAving with pharisaical self-conceit, as well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the vrorst of these gloomy passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- ment ; and that Burns has grossly overcharged his portraits of them, deep- ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding al- together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re- deemed the originals with'n the sympathies of many of the worthiest and best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour, charges of that heinous sort, which they fearlessly, and I fear justly, pre- ferred against their antagonists. N,o one ever accused them of signing the Articles, administering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church, whose fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least, disavowed. The law of Church-patronage was another subject on which controversy ran high and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- tion of things on this head being upheld by all the men of the New Light, and cor.dcmiied as equally at variance with the precepts of the gospel, and the rights of freemen, by not a icw of the other party, and, in particulai-, by certain conspicuous zealots in the immediate neighbourhood of Burns. While this warlare raged, there broke out an intestine discord within the LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. stxv camp of the faction which he loved not. Two of the foremost leaders of the Auld Light party quarrelled about a question of parish-boundarieg ; the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilmarnock, and there, in the open court, to which the announcement of the discussion had drawn a multitude of the country people, and Burns among the rest, the reverend divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, and abused each other coram populo, with a fiery virulence of personal in- vective, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where- in the laws of courtesy are enforced by tliose of a certain unwritten code. " The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, *' was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between tv.o reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis persona; in my HoIi/ Fair. 1 had a notion myself, that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause." This was T/ie Holy Tuilzie, or Ttca Herds. The two herds, or pastors, were Mr. Moodie, minister of Iliccartoun, and that favourite vic- tim of Burns's, John RusselJ, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards of Stirling " From this time," Burns says, " I began to be known in the country as a maker of rhymes Holy Willies Prayer next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, presents Holy Willies Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. Currie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of the poet who took such a judicious method of " leading the liberal mind to a rational view of the nature of prayer." — " This," says that bold com- mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and defended the opinions of Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, whose very essence is love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvation to none but a few of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disciples of Maho- met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who differ from them in certain tenets, m.ust, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, descend to the pit of perdition, man. woman, and child, without the possi- bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians of the present day, and such was Koly Willie's style of prayer. The hy- pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, v.ho was at the time a reputed Saint, were perceived by tlie discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose them he considered his dutj'. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited in that able production is precisely the same view which is given of him, in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- ed bawd is more acceptable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who has hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the wilderness, to perish without mercy— tliat the Saviour of the world lovea 6 xxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are hateful in his sight, but " he loves them because he loves them." Such are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet •who loves mankind, and who has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with horror. . . . The gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being, has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * This Reverend author may be considered as expressing in the above, and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments with which even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas- phemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis- ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go I'ar to make the reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native county, at the period when lie first appealed to the public ear : nor is it fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing more about their professional character and authority, were almost the only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when rather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first approaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- viduals to tlieir sect or party. About modes of faith, sei'ious and excellent men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints." It is amusing to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gains from being set in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of " Gaun Hamilton's deserts, .... He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; Yet has sae nwny taken' arts WV great and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa," &c. • The Rev. Hamilton Paul's Life of Burns, pp, 40, 41, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. jocvn Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as haring merited Willie's most fervent execration by his " glib-tongued" defence of the heterodox doctor of Ayr : " Lord ! visit them wha did employ him. And for thy people's sake destroy 'em." Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise of his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems," said he, " until Mr. Aitken read them into repute." Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The Ordination; The lurk's Alarm, &c. Sec. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Burns's previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had, some time before any of his philippics on the Auld Light Divines made their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Holy Fair itself dis- plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language and versification, as must have prepared them for witnessing, without won- der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that " among tlie earliest of his poems," was the Epistle to Davie, {i. e. Mr. David Sillar), and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease and grace in his very unnecessary trammels ; but young poets are careless beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must be literally taken, on the celebration of Jean, with which the epistle ter- minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanzas, which may have been added some time after the first draught. The gloomy cir- cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Burns ex- ercised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivial points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. be put ill their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed without any Tegular plun. When any thing made a strong impression on his mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in summer 1784', when in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin- cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was nmch pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- tles, and that the merit of these, and nmch other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of tlie expression — but here, there was a 8trai:i of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- ly seemed affected, but a[)peared to be the natural language of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that wei-e in store for him Vihen he should go a-begging. Ro- bert seemed very well pleased with m.y criticism, and he talked of sending it to some magazine ; but as tbis plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter following, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to me the Address to the Ddl. Tlic curious idea of such an address was sug- gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, tliough not published in the Kilmar- nock edition, was produced early in the year 1785, The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at- tached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale of a iaw medi- cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill jirinted, at the bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised, that " Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a mason-meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, one of those lloating ideas of apparitions, he men- tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home- These circumstances he related when he re- peated the verses to me next afternoon, as 1 was holding the plough, and he was letting the M'ater off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lap' raik was produced exactly on the . occasion described by the author. He says in that poem. On Fasten-eenwe had a rockin. I believe he has omit- ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the rock or distaff. 'I'his simple implement is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of goirtg a-rocking, or tuitk the rock. As the con- jiexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxk gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these roek'mgs at our house, when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — *' When 1 upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was the author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to his answer. The verses to the 3Iouse and Mountain Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough v.as 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 produced for the pur- pose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man icas made to 3fourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- tar's Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken from Ferguson's Farmers Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday after- noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat The Cottar s Saturday Night. I do not recollect to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through my soul." The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among the most popular of his brother's performances ; and thei*e may be a time for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may he mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely compelled to shut up shop as an ajiothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial pursuits. Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not effec- tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, wlien waxing cheer- ftil and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless the lucky hour in which the dominie of Tarbolton piovoked the castigation of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out doctors of physic by the hundred ; JMr. Wilson's was probably the only medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit of a considerable circuit of parishes; and his advice, to say the least of the matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem which drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the poet were old acquaintances, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma- son lodge. XM LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In Man vxu made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual Idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident, that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with which he through life contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, tlie con- trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those stanzas : — " See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile. Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil. And see his lordly fellow worm The poor petition spurn, I Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. If I'm design'd yon lordlinc's slave — • By Nature's laws design'd — Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am 1 subject to His cruelty and scorn, Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ?" " I had an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother woidd sing the simple old song of The Life and Age of 3Ian." In Man was made to Mour7i, Burns appears to have taken many hints from this ancient ballad, which begins thus : " Upon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie ; On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, With many a sigh and sob did say— Ah ! man is made to moan !"• The Cottar's Saturday Night is, perhaps, of all Burns's pieces, the one whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stapzas, it ap- pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform- ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he remained but a short while on the wing, and effort is too often perceptible ; here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of the conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no glare on the surface. It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and pe- nury, who shall affect to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen- sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the pieties of virgin love, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. • Cromek's Scottish Songs. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi The Cottars Saturday Night and the Holy Fair have been put in con- trast, and much marvel made that they should have sprung from the same source. " The annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfortunate Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in Avhich superstition, traffic, and amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the display of that strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous ; of that picturesque power of fency which enabled him to represent scenes, and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he had ne- cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no less than whatever was affect- ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the exquisite graphic truth of the poem to which the critic refers ? The ques- tion remains as it stood ; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what is " affectingly beautiful in rural life," make a part in the original which was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy," and " Fun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ? It would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival in which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above the tombs of their fathers. Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad with the inspiration of the moment, from whatever source derived, too far. It can hardly be doubted that the author of The Cottars Saturday Night had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as httle, that had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his Holy Fair is quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other hand, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself. The family prayers of the Saturday's night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys- tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they are — and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it is surely just that they should pay most attention to what he has delivered under the gravest sanction. The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion of The Holy Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and, indeed, expressly applauds Burns for having endeavoured to explode " a- buses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Hallotveen, a descrip- tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than tlie Holy Fair, ViA containing nothing that could offend the feelings of anybody, was pro- xxxli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. duced about the same period. Burns's art had now reached its climax j but it is time that we should revert more particularly to the jfersonal his- tory of the poet. He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could at the best furnish no more tluin tbe bare means of existence to so large a family ; and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only escaped in occasional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes of solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- ing his fortune in the Vv'est Indies, wliere, as is well known, the managers of the plantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's own rank and condition. His letters sliow, that on two or three different occasions, long before his poetrj^ had excited any attention, he had applied for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention of his acquaintances in the sea-part of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his native land ; and but for an accident, liis arrangements would certainly have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to inquire ; that they were many, his songs prove, for in those days he wrote no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Morison — Behind yon hills wliere Stitichar Jlows — On Cessnock hank there lives a lass — belong to this period ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell — the ob- ject of by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which he has accordingly immortalized in tlie noblest of his elegiacs. In introducing to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — . " Vrill ye go to tlie Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore ? — ^Vill ye go to the Indies, my Rlary, Across the Atlantic's roar ?" Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, 1 took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on — *' Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The Castel o' Montgomerie ; Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie." he adds, — " After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affec* lion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequester- ed spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell be- fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her ill- ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love," gives some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous inquirer into the details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking ceremonials, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxjclU and to impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook — they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, holding a Bible be- tween them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Cromek's story has recently been confirmed vcr}' strongly by the accidental discovery of a Bible presented by Burns to 3lary Cmnphdl, in the possession of her still surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is in- scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my name falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. 12. On the second volume, — " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oath." — St. Matth. chap, v., v. 33. And, on a blanic leaf of either, — " Ro- bert Burns, Mossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of this pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious attempts in poetry. \i\ the Epistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint- ed), the very earliest, according to Gilbert, of these attempts, the poet celebrates " his Davie and his Jean." This was Jean Armour, a young woman, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter of a respectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re- spected widow of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden charms in the best pieces which he produced at Mossgiel ; amongst others is the six Belles of Mauchline, at the head of whom she is placed. " In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles. The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a' ; Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : " Miss Millar is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw ; There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'." The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex- pected. Jean Armour found herself pregnant. Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state when he was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement of it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to fly the country at once ; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline, the confidant of his amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things I am fixed as fate — staying at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not do ! — the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good God bless you, and make you happy, up to the Avarmest weeping wish of parting friendship If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me God, in my hour of need." The lovers met accordingly ; and the result of the meeting was what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a written acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to the Scots law, was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irregular marriage having really taken place ; it being of course understood that the marriage was to be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could no longer be concealed from her familv. The disclosure was deferred to 7 ' mav LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. the last moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with . equal surprise and anger. Burns, confessing himself to be unequal to the maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban- don his farm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread, at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed on his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but the fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document. It was under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- came the mother of twins. — Burns's love and pride, the two most powerful feelings of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and this course seemed now to be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for the main- tenance of the children whom he was prevented from legitimating ; but the man who had in his desk the immortal poems to which we have been referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that presented it- self to his view was America or a jail CHAPTER IV. Contents.— . TVic Poet gives vp Mossgiel to his Brother (iilhat — IiitcniJs for Jamaica- Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to sitppli/ means of outfit — One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 1786 — It brings him lurtcnded n'pii/iiti:m, and £20 — Also manii very kind friends, but no patron — In these cireni)i:d'ince.^, (jnagiag fust hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Snyiwjs and doings in ths firft year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of enonviigcvent by Dr. SlacUock to publish at Edinburgh, tvherein the Poet sojourns. " He saw misfortune's cauld nor''-wcst, Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jUlet brak his heart at last, .111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast, •'An' owre the sea." I Iamaica was now his mark, for at. that time the United States were not looked to as the place of refuge they have since become. After some little time, and not a little trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one of his friends in the town of Irvine. Mone}' to pay for his passage, however, he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the few pounds requisite for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest poems that ever delighted mankind. His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, Mr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard an experiment which might perhaps better his circumstances ; and, if any tole- rable number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them worse than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- cess in the matter; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy out his performances for the press. He carried iiis MSS. piecemeal to the printer ; and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- gress, some of the best poems of the collection. The tale of the Twa Dogs, for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been written in the short interval between the publication being determined on and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. Moore is as follows : — " I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was only nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : I thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that mhospitable clime, and gone to the xxxvl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. world of spirits. I can truly say that, pauvre inconnu as I then was, 1 had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- rance of themselves To know myself, had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch- ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw olf six hundred copies, for which I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — My va- nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides, I pocketed nearly ,f 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for " Hungry ruin had mc in tlic wind." ** I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farev.cll of my i'ew friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloonnj night is yaiherbig fust, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a few details, gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters While the Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means of | remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular (judfjlng, it occurred to himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any | other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the i)ublication of the poems than one miglit suppose from his own narrative, in the hope that these gentlemen might at length succeed in their efibrts in his behalf The poems were received with favour, even with rapture, in the county of Ayr, and ere long over the adjoining counties. " Old and young," thus speaks Robert Heron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were alike delighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in Gal- loway, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even plough- boys and maid-servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earned the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, if they might but procure the Works of Burns." — The poet soon found that his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a I lively interest in his personal fortunes was excited among sonie of the gen- " Gilbert Bums mentions, that a single indiyidual, Mr. ■yVIUiam ParV«r merchant in KUtn«rno«k, subscribed for S5 copies< LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii try of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it was pretty sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among others, the celebarted Professor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh, and his ac- complished lady, then resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to notice him with much polite and friendly attention. Dr. Hugh Blair, who then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened to be paj'ing Mr. Stewart a visit, and on reading The Holy Fair, at once pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and Mrs. Stewart, her- self a poetess, flattered him perhaps still more highly by her warm com- mendations. But, above all, his little volume happened to attract the no- tice of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune, enthusiastically attached to her countrj^ and interested in whatever ap- peared to concern the honour of Scotland. This excellent woman, while slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden- tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume at T/ie Cottar's Suturdai/ Niffht. " She read it over,'' says Gilbert, " with the greatci-t pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re- pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her m onted inward harmony and satisfaction." Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to Mossgiel, dis- tant sixteen miles from her residence, v/ith a very kind letter to Burns, re- questing him to supply her, if he could, with half-a-dozen copies of the book, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns was from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this very interesting letter : — " Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. *' I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to con- ceive 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 celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his (Joxmtry. '• Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" " The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hanmhtd ; the next was The History of Sir William Wallace: lor several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days 1 remember in particular being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines occur — " Syne to the Leglan wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a safe retreat." • See Prose Compositions, xxxviil • LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my ime of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood, with as much devout cnthsiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits." Shortly afterwards commenced a personal acquaintance with this ami- able and intelligent lady, who seems to have filled in some degree the place of Sage Mentor to the poet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend him to the utmost of her power. His letters to Mrs. Dunlop form a very largo proportion of all his subsequent correspondence, and, addressed as they were to a person, whose sex, age, rank, and benevolence, inspired at once profound respect and a graceful confidence, will ever remain the most pleasing of all the materials of our poet's biography. At the residences of these new acquaintances. Burns was introduced into society of a class which he had not before approached ; and of the manner in which he stood the trial, Mr. Stewart thus writes to Dr. Currie : — <' His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth ; but without any thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him ; and listened, with apparent attention and deference, on subjects u'here his want of education deprived him of the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his tem- per, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his man- ner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and origi- nality of his language, when he spoke in company, moi'e particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. At this time, Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed a plan for going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, liowever, without lamenting that his want of jiatronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed, at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or gauger in his own country," The provincial applause of his publication, and the consequent notice of his superiors, however flattering such things must have been, were far from administering any essential relief to the urgent necessities of Burns's situa- tion. Very shortly after his first visit to Catrine, where he met with tlie young and amiable Basil Lord Daer, whose condescension and kindness on the occasion he celebrates in some well-known verses, we find the poet writing to his friend, Mr. Aiken of Ayr, in the following sad strain :■ — " I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within respect- ing the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the un- certainty of getting soon into business, the consequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides, I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes LIFE OF ROE CRT BURNS. xxxix 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 society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated crin^inid iiiiclcrthc ]::;nc!s of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all tL?se reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that cim be laid in the scale against it." Pie proceeds to say, that he claims no right to conipkun. " The v/orlcl has in general been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was for some time past fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, M'hile, all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, liowever I might pos- sess a warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- ties, there Avas something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and youthful compeers were striking off, with eager hope and earnest intent, on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " standing idle :n the market-place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You see. Sir, that if to know one's errors, were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; but, according to the revei'cnd Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it." In the midst of all the distresses of this period of suspense, Burns found time, as he tells Mr. Aiken, for some " vagaries of the muse ;" and one or two of these may desei've to be noticed here, as throwing light on his per- sonal demeanour during this first summer of his fame. The poems appear- ed in July, and one of the first persons of superior condition (Gilbert, in- deed, says the first) who courted his acquaintance in consequence of having read them, was Mrs. Stewart of Stair, a beautiful and accomplished lady. Burns presented her on this occasion with some MSS. songs ; and among the rset, with one in which her own charms were celebrated in that warm strain of compliment which our poet seems to have all along considered the most proper to be used whenever this fair lady was to be addressed in rhyme. " Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in tliy praise : My Rlary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, M'here wild in the woodlands the pritnroses blow ; There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me." It was in the spring of the same year, that he happened, in the course of an evening ramble on the banks of the Ayr, to meet with a young and lovely unmarried lady, of the family of Alexander of Ballamyle, of whom, it was said, her personal charms corresponded with the character of her mind. The incident gave rise to a poem, of which an account will be found in the following letter to Miss Alexander, the object of his inspira- tion : — I -. j^J LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, <' Madam, 3Iossgiel, ISth Nov. 1786. " Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name- less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can pro- duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. " The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say. Ma- dam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn-twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its weUare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Yillany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. " What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. " The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps it bi|t poorly answers what might be expected from such a scene. " I have the honour to be," &c. " 'Twas even — the dwey fields were green, On every blade the peails hang ;" The Zephyr wanton'd round the beam. And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; In every glen tlie mavis sang. All nature listening seemed the while, Except where green- wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward strayed, My heart rejoiced in nature's joy. When musinjj in a lonely glade, A maiden tair 1 chanc'd to spy ; Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like nature's vernal smile, • HftDg, Scotticism for hung. ;LIFE of ROBERT BURNS, xli Perfection •whispered passing by, Behold the lass o' IiaUochniyle !• Fair is the morn in flowery I\Iay, And sweet is night in autumn mild ; When roving through the garden gay, Or wandering in the lonely wild t' But woman, nature's darling child ! There all her charms she does compile: Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. O had she been a country maid. And I the hap]jy country swain, Though sheltered in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain. Through weary winter's wind and rain. With joy, with rapture, I would toil, And nightly to my bosom strain The bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. Then pride might climb the slippery steep. Where fame and honours lofty shine ; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine : Give me the cot below the pine. To tend the flocks or till the soil, And every day have joys divine. With the bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. The autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Burns, who Iiad already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi- dered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be lost altogether, unless he made up his mind, and secured his passage to the West Indies. The Kilmarnock edition of his poems was, however, nearly exhausted ; and his friends encouraged him to produce another at the same place, with the view of equipping himself the better for the ne- cessities of his voyage. But the printer at Kilmarnock would not under- take the new impression unless Burns advanced the price of the paper re- quired for it ; and with this demand the poet had no means of complying. Mr, Ballantyne, the chief magistrate of Ayr, (the same gentleman to whom the poem on the Twa Brigs of Ayr was afterwards inscribed), offered to furnish the money ; and probably this kind offer would have been accepted. But, ere this matter could be arranged, the prospects of the poet were, in a very unexpected manner, altered and improved. Burns went to pay a parting visit to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, a gentleman from whom, and his accomplished family, he had previously received many kind attentions. After taking farewell of this benevolent circle,^^ the poet proceeded, as the night was setting in, " to convey his chest," as he says, " so far on the road to Greenock, where he was to em- bark in a iew days for America." And it was under these circumstances that he composed the song already referred to, v/hich he meant as his fare- well dirge to his native land, and which ends thus : — " Farewell, old Coila's hiUs and dales. Her heathy moors and winding vales. The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past unhappy loves. " Variation. The lily's hue and rose's dye Bespoke the lass o' BaUochmyle. 8 xlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these — my love with those — Tne bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell, the bonny banks of Ayr." Dr. Laurie had given Burns much good counsel, and what comfort he could, at parting ; but prudently said nothing of an effort which he had previously made in his behalf. He had sent a copy of the poems, with a sketch of the author's history, to his friend Dr. Thomas Blacklock of Edin- burgh, with a request that he would introduce both to the notice of those persons whose opinions were at the time most listened to in regard to lite- rary productions in Scotland, in the hope that, by their intervention, Burns might yet be rescued from the necessity of expatriating himself Dr. Blacklock's answer reached Dr. Laurie a day or two after Burns had made his visit, and composed his dirge ; and it was not yet too late. Laurie forwarded it immediately to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, who carried it to Burns, It is as follows : — " I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a tes- . timony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertain- ments of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finish- ed that pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen of Nature's force or beneficence exerted under numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and hu- mour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. Jt was my wish to have expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom- plish that agreeable intention. " Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name in- serted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done or not, I never could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per- formances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more nume- rous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give it a more universal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been published in ray memory." We have already seen with what surprise and delight Burns read this generous letter. Although he had ere this conversed with more than one person of established literary reputation, and received from them atten- tions, for which he was ever after grateful, — the despondency of his spirit appears to have remained as dark as ever, up to the very hour when his land- lord produced Dr. Blacklock's letter. — " There was never," Heron says, •' perhaps, one among all mankind whom you might more truly have called an angel upoa earth than Dr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xliii as a child, yet endowed with manly sagacity and penetration. His heart was a perpetual spring of benignity. His feelings were all tremblingly alive to the sense of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the virtuous. Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness." This was not the man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage with feeble praise, and in order to shift off the trouble of future patronage, to bid the poet relinquish poetry and mind his plough. — " Dr. Blacklock," says Burns himself, " belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir." CHAPTER V. Contents The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition of that Liiy, Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and fur a while caressed by the fashionable — Whet happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour utider the varying and very trying circumstatices — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all farmer experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universaJfy admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields much money to the Poet — Pesolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusion. " Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers ; From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'is, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I slielter in thy honour'd shade." BuKNS found several of his okl Ayrshire acquaintances estabhshed in Edinburgh, and, I suppose, felt himself constrained to give himself up for a brief space to their society. He printed, however, without delay, a prospectus of a second edition of his poems, and being introduced by Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield to the Earl of Glencairn, that amiable nobleman easily persuaded Creech, then the chief bookseller in Edinburgh, to undertake the publication. The Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean ot the Faculty of Advocates, the most agreeable of companions, and the most benignant of wits, took him also, as the poet expresses it, " under his wing." The kind Blacklock received him with all the warmth of paternal affection, and introduced him to Dr. Blair, and other eminent literati; his subscription lists were soon filled ; Lord Glencairn made interest with the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the most distinguished members of the northern aristocracy), to accept the dedication of the forth- coming edition, and to subscribe individually for copies. Several noblemen, especially of the west of Scotland, came forward with subscription-moneys considerably beyond the usual rate. In so small a capital, where every body knows every body, that which becomes a favourite topic in one leading circle of society, soon excites an universal interest ; and before Burns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to his earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — " For ni}^ own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bun- yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among the wonderful events in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge.** LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlv It 18 but a melancholy business to trace among the records of literary history, the manner in which most great original geniuses have been greet- ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters of taste ; coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies of professional criti- cism flowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : Rut the reception of Burns was worthy of The Man uf Feeling. Mr. Henry Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal taste. After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi- tion of the poems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin- burgh periodical of that period : — " I hope I shall not be thought to assume too much, if I endeavour to place him in a ]n"gher point of view, to call ibr a verdict of his country on tlie merits of his works, and to claim for him those honours which their excellence appears to deserve. In men- tioning the circumstance of his humble station, I mean not to rest his pre- tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con- sidered in relation to the lowness of his birth, and the little opportunity of improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed, must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab- stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to me fully entitled to command our feelings, and to obtain our applause." After quoting various passages, in some of which his readers " must discover a high tone of feeling, and power, and energy of expres- sion, particularly and strongly ch.aracteristic of the mind and the voice of a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the scenery of nature," and " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered condition, had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent appeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from tlie obscurity in which it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori- ty, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."* The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to. Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh \vhen he thus wrote to one of his early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes ' the same lettf r with an ominous prayer lor " better health and more spi- rits."! — Two or three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja- nuary 14, 1787). I went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W. Grand Master Charteris, and all the (irand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were {>re.sent in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so- emnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Caledonia and Caledonia's bard, Brother Burns,' which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunderstruck ; and trembling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, one of the • The Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786. t Letter to Mr. BaUnntyne of Ayr, December 13, 1786 ; Reliques, p. 12. Xlvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Grand Officers salil, so loud that I could hoar, with a most comforting ac- cent, * very well indeed,' which set me soniotliing to rights again." — And a few weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associates who was meditating a visit to I'dinburgh. " l>y all accovnits, it will be a difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke a week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told that — " Cards to invite, fly bj' ihounands each night ;" and if you had one, there would also, I suppose, be ' bribes for your old secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. QiKProida penmia pri- mum est — Virtus post iiuinmos, is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem- ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosophers in Edinburgh have taught 3'ou better sense." In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis- per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried always a sufficient memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself; and of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that ot selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's house, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above It. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten- sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes- sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre- quent among the upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked by a thoughtful gravity Avliich shaded at times into sternness. In his large dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided. It was full of mind ; and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday costume of a flirmer, and that of the company with which he now associ- ated. His black hair, -without powder, at a time when it was^very gene- rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. * Upon the whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea- port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con- jectured him to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of affecta- tion, nor could a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviour LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlvii ot conversation, that he had been for some months the favourite of all the fashionable circles of a metropolis. In conversation he was powerful. His conceptions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and on all subjects were as remote as possible from common places. Tliough somewhat autho- ritative, it was in a way which gave little offence, and was readily imputed to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and softening asser- tion, vvhicli are important characteristics of polished manners. After break- fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublished pieces, and he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a des- cription of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than the poem itself. I paid particular attention to his recitation, which was plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, but witliout any eloquence or art. He did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the sentiment by the variations of his voice. He was standing, during the time, with his face towards the i\ indow, to which, and not to his auditors, he di- rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the language of liis composition might have borrowed from the language of his countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal performers on the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the song. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company with him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each had been invited cliiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet, the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to make him the central figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest propor- tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was expected." * To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom is always readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : — " As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the world to know him ; but I had very little acquaintance with any lite- rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that tune a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se- veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele- brated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked, and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Bums's manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbxiry's, re- presenting a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath, — " Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew. The big drops, minghng with the milk be drew, ".Morrison's Bums, vol. i. pp. Isxi, Izxii, X\Viii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptized in tears." " Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideaa which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a halt-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of The Justice of Peace. [ whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, v.hich, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, with very great pleasure. " His person was strong and robust ; liis manners rustic, not clownish ; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef- fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it conveys the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in perspective. I think his countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa- gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude- mati who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (1 say literally gloived) when he spoke with feeling or inte- rest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His convei'sation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver- sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite- rary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were extremely trifling. I remember on this occasion I mention, I thought Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that having tAventy times the abilities of Allan Kamsay and of Ferguson, he talked of them witli too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt- less, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the Laird. I do not speak in mahim partem, when I say, I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either the reality or the att'ectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al- ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly. I have lieard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of forty years since." — There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period highly favourable for his reception as a British, and especially as a Scottish poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed since the death of Thomson ;— . LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlix Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared :— Dr. Johnson had belied the rich promise of his early appearance, and confined him- self to prose ; and Cowper had hardly begun to be recognised as having any considerable pretensions to fill the long-vacant throne in England. At home— without derogation from the merits either of Douglas or the Min- strel, be it said— men must have gone buck at least three centuries to find a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which the generous criticism of Mackenzie at once admitted " the Ayrshire Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, unquestion- ably and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors, Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic- turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces- sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the Play; and m his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stran<^er, at least smce " Dunbar the Mackar." The Muses of Scotland had ne%er indeed been silent ; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen- der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment, faithful unages of the peculiar tenderness, and peculiar humour, of the na- tional fancy and character— precious representations, which Burns himself never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and vpith a scanty handful of exceptions, the best oi them, at least of the seri- ous kind, were very ancient. .Among the numberless effusions of the Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man- ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations haii passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of his countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain. The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," said Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge- nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine that they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic their antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construc- tions." And although I cannot well guess what the doctor considered as the irregular constructions of Milton, there can be no doubt of the general justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson were both men of hum- ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who themselves did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse, did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who was en- tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun- ters Tryste, than to have expressed the results of intimate knowledge and 'y"^P^'^'\y- His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Upper ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckenbooths ; and he could neither write English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- frajring a lamentable >vant of skill in the use of his instrumenta. It was re< 9 I LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. served for Bums to interpret the inmost soul of the Scottish peasant In all its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad- ing either his sentiments or his language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly mascuhne .genius. ^ This is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na- tive district is, in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The few poets * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were all men of hi^h condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, m o far as they have been produced, had nothing to do with the peculiar cha- racter and feelings of the men of the we?t. As Burns himself has said,— *« It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ap, &c. there is scarcely an old song or tune, which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of, those counties." The history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that of the kingdoms, has not yet been made the subject of any separate work at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the learned labours of Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob- scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre- dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the literature of the country was afiected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- j tronage it luitl, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec- { tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of Stuart, appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact, ■ that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re- moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union, appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se- parate literature of our own ; nay, ibr a time, to have all but extinguished the flame of iptellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be- lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of I their own ]irincc and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was i humbled; tlie unhappy insurrections of ]7ir> and 1745 revealed the full extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer- ciless advantage of the fallen. Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions, in the onlj- departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and a success which will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his- tory. Deprived of eveiy national honour and distinction Mhich it Avas pos- sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — sunk at last, as men thought, etfcctually into a province, willing to take law with passive submission, in letters as well as polity, from her powerful sister — the old kingdom revived suddenly from her stupor, and once more asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only to hear, but to applaud, and " wherewith all Europe rung from side to side," at the" moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na- tional pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope. » Such M Kennedy, Shaw, Montgomery, and, more lately, Hamilton of Gilbertfield. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. H It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of eminent men of letters, who, in their various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere with their reception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them, it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. They were men, generally speaking, of very social habits ; living together in a small capital ; nay, almost all of llien?, ai o " about one street, maintaining friendly intercourse continually ; not a few of them considerably addicted to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume, convivial. Burns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles ; but it was the extraordinary resources he displayed in conversation, the strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the splen- dour of his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings were stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these practised masters of the arts of talk. There were several of them who probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no very ready respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot- tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with Burns's gigantic understanding ; and every one of them whose impressions on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus- ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polished scho- lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer- tain they all felt sufficiently when they were actually in his presence. It is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald Stewart, in which he dcscriijcs himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essay on Taste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the general principles of the association oi ideas. Burns would probably have been more satisfied with himself in these learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con- versation to the very feelings which formed the noblest inspirations of his poetry. His sensibility was as tremblingly exquisite, as his sense was masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro- fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them in reality with something of the same feeling which may be supposed to attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious specimen of morbid ana- tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret blush that overspread his haughty countenance M-hen such suggestions oc- cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines o( a diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgli. " April 9, 1787 — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a great many characters which are new to one bred up in tlie shades of life, as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr, Palgravc, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in general, but with me, making my remarks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination, lii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. with his or licr oWn remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acute- ncss and penetration. The workl are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while to make any observation on wliat passes around them, except where that observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap- able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing part of that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from thp unavoidable imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my confidant. I will sketch every character that any w-ay strikes me, to the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old law phrase, tvithovt feud or favour. — Where I hit on any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity • and, begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se« curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " I know not how it is ; I find I can win liking — but not respect." " Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free st3'le of Dr. Currle) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and em- ployments had placed and kept him in a situation far below that in which the writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is equal in effect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord- ingly. Judge then of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose, •when to a man like Dr. Currle, writing with views so honourable, the so- cial condition of the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might DC discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost %vith- out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's weight."* It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currle, did not often find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e- merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what found its way into men's bosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance of the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded the works of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se- quence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only m his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful work : habemus reum et cotiftentein. " There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a • J\Ir. Wordsworth's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12, I LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Hil mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and futile distinc- tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire some- thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at tabic ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili- ties would scarcely have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and poverty ? The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder- pate, and myself/, that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. 1 never respect him with humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye measures the diiference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either ?" *« It is not easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of any one; but, in my opinion. Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and application can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; his vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is justly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the first, the very first rank in prost- ; even in poetry a bard of nature's mak- ing can only take the j)ass of inin. He has a heart, not of the very finest water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy and most respectable character."^ A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' D'Israeli, * says — " Once we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious sketches of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its shadowiness, from the warm shozzos of Burns, when he began a diary of his heart — a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of his emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to project such a regular task, b,ut quite impossible to get through it." This most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en- tire. Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ; however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf- ficiently the complexion of Burns's prevailing moods during his moments of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a mood (they recurred often enough) that he thus reproached " Nature, par- tial nature :" — *' Thou j^vest the ass his hide, the snail his shell ; The iavenom'd wasp victorious guards his cell : • D'Israeli on the Literary Character, vol. i. p. 136, liv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. liut, oh ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard. To thy poor fenceless nuKed child, the bard. . . In naked feeling and in aching pride, lie bears the unbroken blast Irom every side." No blast pierced this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde- scension. One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinburgh, has been handed down to us by Cromek — It was, " that between the men of rustic life and the polite world he observed little difference — that in the former, though unpolished by fashion aiul unenlightened by science, he had found much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined :md aeconipllshcd woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had iormed but a very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Ihuns's success, among the high-born ladies of lulinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately patricians," as he calls them, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met Avith a man, " whose conversation so completely carried her oif her feet," as Burns's. The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable fi)r her own conversa- tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here referred to. 15ut even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere the season was over, that some M'ho had caressed him the most zealously, no longer seonvnl to know him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. It is but too truo, that ere this season was over, Burns had fi)rmed con- nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap- probation by the eminent, hiuvati, in whose .society his dehrit had made so powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame, indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- lousy — how much to the mere caj)rice of human favour, we have scanty means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share; and it is also suf- ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such a genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means restricted his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to the confidence of his note-book ; but startled jjolite ears with the utterance of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day, at the table of Dr. Blair, and enthusiasticidly avowing his low opinion of all the rest in comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious flow of language ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishments • X>r. Robert Walkci. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, f^ for Rrhich Blair was honoured in a most accomplished society, or to the polished elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such aa escapade ; the conversation during the rest of the evening, " labouring un- der that compulsory effort vvliich was unavoidable, while the thoughts of all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns showed his good sense by making no effort to repair this blunder ; but years afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the f/enus irritabile of authors, orators, and wits. A specimen (which some will think worse, some bettex*) is thus recorded by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of- Edinburgh, the conversation turncil on the poetical merit and pathos of Gray's £!legi/, a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation of Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- ral than specific, Burns urged Jiim to bring forward the passages which he thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns borc^ Jill tliis for a good while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by the fastidious criticisms and wri'tclicd quibblings of his opponent, he roused himself, and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, 1 now perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and how true the remark afterwards made by Mr. Ramsay is, that in the game of society he did not know when to play on or off. While the second edition of his Poems was passing through the press. Burns was favoured with many critical sug- gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- ing over with him, or hearing him recite (which he delighted at all times in doing) his Holy Fair, stopped him at the stanza— Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation, For Russel sjicl-Is the holy door Wi' tidings o' Salvation — Nay, saitl the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the wit of this verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another strange specimen of want of tact, when' he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to acknowledge the obligation in a note. But to pass from these trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con- ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either clergymen or professors) must have been in the presence of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, having forced his way among them frgm the plough-tail at a gipgle stride, raani- Ivi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, h6 was exactly Avhere he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- tice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under- standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the bon mots of the most celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble — nay to tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this without indicating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro- fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of do- ing in tlicir own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and, — last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently tlian their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. The lawyers of Edinburgh, in wliose wider circles Burns figured at his outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, I take it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed^by wit. But being, in those days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men as ever enjoj^ed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What their haughtiness, as a body, v.as, may be guessed, when we know that in- ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any man from the bar. In one remarkable instance, about this very time, a man of very extraordinary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept more persons of eminent qualifications in the background, for a season, than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so long remembered and so bitterly resented. It might, perhaps, have been well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine- bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those whose brains and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in those tavern scenes of audacious hilarity, which then soothed, as a matter " Mr. Jolin Wild, sqn of a Tobacconist in the High Street, Edinburgh. He came to be Professor of Civil law in that University ; but, in the end, was also a,n instance of uniiappv genius. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ivn of course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe. The tavern- life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was then in full vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly fami- liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the early period, as conveying any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have expressed, amusingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found her name celebrated in the Kihnarnock edition, saying, " that Robert Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regardless, as, to the best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in all his life." And in addition to Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such solicitations and al- lurements to excessive convivial enjoyinent, as hardly any other person could have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns well ; and himself mingled largely in some of the scenes to v/hich he adverts in the following strong language : — " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly tui'n, and passionately embrace the enchantress. The hiichs of Edinburgh accom- phshed, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It Mould be idle now to attempt passing over tliese things in silence ; but it could serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this ivinter. Burns con- tinued to lodge with John Richmond, indeed, to share his bed ; and we have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the poet, for the statement, that while he did so, " he kept good hours." He removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William NicoU, one of the teachers of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoil was a man of quick parts and considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's : from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ- ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, the man imited an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoll's letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to the poet, except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, I suspect, very far from being an unfavourable specimen of the society to which Heron thus alludes : — '* He (the poet) suffered himself to be sur- rounded by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they had been in company with Burns, and had seen Burns as loose and as foolish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance and moderation ; but he was already almost too much captivated with their wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to their more sober charms." Heron adds — *' He now also began to contract some- 10 Iviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed to be, among his favourite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, the cock of the company, he could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and which sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with one or two anecdotes alread}' cited from Walker and Cromek. Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for them, than can be alleged in regard ro almost any other great man's imper- fections. We have seen, how, even in liis earliest days, the strong thirst of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rudest rhymes he sung, '•' to be great is charming ;" and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation M'as the first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that ^vliich appear- ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. Wliat wonder that he should delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be received with triumphant applause — where there Mcre no claims to rival his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes to convey regret ? But these, assuredly, were not the only feelings that influenced Burns : In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, we have the best evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, though his jealous pride might huluce him to record his suspicions in lan- guage rather too strong tlian too v.eak, it i.3 quite impossible to read what he wrote without believing tliat a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- mosphere of joy and hope. On the l.'Jth of .January 1787, we find him thus addressing his kind patroness, ?ilrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know myself and the world too well, i Cio not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite obsc)\ation, Vvith all my imperfections of awkward rusticity, and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble, when I tell you I tremble for the conse- quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at least ^* Heron, p. 28. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lix at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of truth. ... I mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you v/ill bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same time, to Dr. IMoore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those even v.-lio are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition v/as, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic imnates of the hamlet, while ever- changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- stood. 1 am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted Arith the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and maimers, in a diiferent phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I do not deny ; but I see, witli frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, April the 23cl, 17S7, we have the I'ollowing passage in a letter also to Dr. Moore : — " I leave lulinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles." One word more on the subject which introduced these quotations : — Mr. Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself. But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, show and marvel of the season as he was, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- ing shared with him all that they possessed on his first arrival in the metro- polis, faithfully" and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede ;" and, moreover, per- haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis- tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course of conduct which he actually pursued. The second edition of Burns's poems was published early in March, by Creech ; there were no less than 1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession of a considerable sum of ready money ; and the first impulse of his mind was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own poetry made it equal, on that score, to any other. — " The appellation of a Scottish Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. bard is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex- alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish stor}', are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor- dinary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top of Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, I\Ir. Alexander Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to liberal opinions, tlwt Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the Whig-liverjf), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots. The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had ever done in company." " lie was," adds the professor, '' passionately fond of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad- miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth M-hich they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in Edinburgh. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which had not been pi*eviously printed ; but, with the exception of the Address to Edinburgh, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important additions were. Death and Doctor Hornuooh, The BrUjH of Ayr, The Ordi- nation, and the Address to the unco Quid, in this edition also, When Guild- ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. The evening before he quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation. Plowever the meter- like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- tract notice, I knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, ivill not sur- prise me in my quarters." It ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first firuits pf Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto ^ * Letter to Mrs, Dunlop, Edinburgh, 22d March 1787. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 1x1 neglected remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the Canongate churchyard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address to Edinburgh, — so graphic and comprehensive, — as the proper record of the feehngs engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- ness shown to him, in his long visit, and under which feehngs he was now about to quit it for a time. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. EoiNA ! Scotia^s darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers. Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingermg hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade liis labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their hame. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer's sky, ^weet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fait Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : I see the sire of love oh high, And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching hi^h the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms. And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar. Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought and pitying tears. I view that noble, stately dome. Where Scotia's kings of other years, Famed heroes, had their royal home. Alas ! how changed the tunes to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ; Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! The' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : E'en / who sing in rustic lore. Haply viy sires have left their shed, And faced griin dangei's loudest roar. Bold following where your fathers led ! EniNA ! Scotitfs darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the Hng'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. CHAPTER VI. CoNTHNTB Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first of them, after an absence of six moyiths, amongst his friends in the " AulJ Clay Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and ii familiar with the great, hut never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the Jleslq." ts, winter ) 7S7-8 — Upset in a hackney coach^ which produces a bruised Umli, and mournful musings for six iccehs — Is enrolled in the Fx- cise — Another crisis, in which the Poet Jinds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop not to desert hi7n — Grotcls over his publisher, but after settling xeith him leaves JEdinhurgh with ;£500 — Steps towards a more regular life. " Rainaay and famous Ferp;uson, (iied l''ortJi and Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tune Thro' Scothind rings, While Irvine, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, JS'aebody sings." On the 6th of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with Mr. Robert Ainshe, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire — Among otlier changes " v/hich Meeting time procurcth," this amiable gen- tleman, wliose youthful gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now chiefly known as the author of some J.Ianuals of Devotion. — They had formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer. This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and Burns and his friend performed their tour on horseback ; the former being mounted on a favourite mare, whom he had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head on the "-i'-id of July 1()37, when the attempt was made to introduce a Scottish Liti/rf/i/ into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous terms, in a letter to his friend Nicoll while on the road, and which will be found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " My auld ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as touch and birnie as a vera devil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a kirk, and lipper-Iaipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a j'auld poutherin girran for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the lightest," «S:c. &c. Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's family, and visited successively Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Fleurs, and the ruins of Roxburgh Castle, near which a holly bush still marks the spot on LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixlii which James II. of Scotland was killed by the bursting of a cannon. Jedburgh — ^where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- thedral (abbey) ;" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), with the appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ; Melrose, " that far-famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes of Yarrow. Having spent three weeks in this district, of which it has been justly said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its song," Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkworth, Morpeth, New- castle, Hexham, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr. Miller's property, and was so much pleased Avith the soil, and the terms on which the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to return again in the course of the summer. The poet visited, in the course of his tour. Sir James Hall of Dunglas, author of the well-known Essaij on Gothic Architecture, &c. ; Sir Alexander and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, &c. ; and, as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — " Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- cularly the sister. " Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmakcr. " Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with jNIr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on botli sides of the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a hoUy bush growing where .lames the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden jilanted by the reli- gious, rooted out and destroyed by ii Hottentot, a maitre d hotel of the Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, su- perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- cence of farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Tcviot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. " Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . return to Jedburgh. Walkfed up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to IMr. Potts, writer, and to \\W LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Mr. Somcrvllle, the dergj man of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. • • ) « Jedburgh, Saturdin/. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- sations. «' Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club— all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from £30 to £50 value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, JNIr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my English tour. " Tuesday. Dine Avith Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . . Sleep at Mr, Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, L3th May. In this he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence the name of Creeclis Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- nery he had visited. " Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw." Burns returned to Mauchline on the'Sth of July. It is pleasing to imagine the delight with which lie must have been received by the family after the absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the Sheriff's officers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- ready tlian any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld clay biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed the ground- work of his character ; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance of condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had given him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than wag LIPE OF ROBERT BURNS. kv ever counterbalanced by the exquisite capacity for enjoyment with which he was also endowed. There are few of his letters in which more of the dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the following extract : — *' I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene- rous ; but the stateliness of the patricians of Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance and friendship I have, or think I have, in life — I have felt along the lines, and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune." Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society, were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this affectionate young woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the preceding summer ; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children. Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- ture establishment ; and was very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them par- takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together, in so humble and quiet a circle as that of IMossgiel. His appetite for wan- dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- ceeded on another short toiy, by way of Stirling, to Invcrary, and so back again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchline. Of this second excur- sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in another, he gives an account of Jenny Geddes running a race afiei- dinner with a Highlander's pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters *' I have as yet," says he, " fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farrh soon." In the course of this tour. Burns visited the mother and sisters of his friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the CatUc 11 ixii LUPE OP ROBERT BURNS. of Gloom, IS grandly situated in & gorge of the Oclillls, cbmrnatidlng kn extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland. The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The Cauldron Linn and Rumbling Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one of the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but the respectfulness of admiration. How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Wild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden "and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. And England triumphant display her proud rose ; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys. Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. At Hai-viestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to '.vhom one of the most interesting se- ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, having been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing the neglected palace at Stirling, he wds imprudent enough to write some verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning family on the window of his inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and even danger — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his works hitherto published in Britain, we present them to our readers as a literary curiosity. Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd. And laws for Scotia well ordain'd ; But now unroof 'd their palace stands ; Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills the throne ; — An idiot race, to honour lost, Who know them best, despise them naost The young ladies of Harvieston were, according to Dr. Carrie, surprised with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on Devon water; and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, ■hewing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- fd anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. hril This Is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for granted that Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a company of young hidies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, his companion teased liim with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; *' Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" — " Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " I would not look! look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : — " Notwithstanding the various reports I heard during the preceding win- ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the effect of his nov/ comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- ])liments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution." In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Mr. Ramsay (a friend of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His host was among the last of those old Scottish Laliuists who began with Bu- chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and tliese particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was deeply read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, and proposed the Gentle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write Scottish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exhausted that field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says Mr. R. " to have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never Avitnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, thaii with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I should have made little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always know Ixvlli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. when to play off and when to play on. When I asked hhii whether the Edinburgh literati had mended his poems by their criticisms — * Sir,* said he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who spin their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet's jacobitism procured him a hearty welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as her toast after dinner, Hooki nncos, away strangers!— a shepherd's cry when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray- ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the cuttystool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith of Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- trian. " August 25tli, 1787 — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for . a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality of humour promises me much entertainment. — L'mlUhgoiv A fertile im- proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- vated like a garden." It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated the wealth of nations on the principles of a, political economist ; or that with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safely taken for a guide as the inductions of the political economist : — From scenes like these old Scolia'x grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breatli of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of God !" And ceric.1, in fair nrtue's hcav'nly road, The cottage leaves the ywfacc far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ; O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Vk blest with healthy and peace, and sweet content J LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. hat And, O I niity Heav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er CJ-oxvm and coroncli be rent, A virtuous popi/lacc may rise the while, And stand a wall of lire around their much-loved Isle. Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation — the old Royal Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruiu — sweetly situated by the brink of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen of Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool of repentance, in the old Komish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- ters " At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- terested. I fancy to myself that 1 see my gallant countrymen coming over the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the battle of Bannockburn. At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " dcscrwed m rhyme." This al- ludes to tlie " verses written v/ith a pencil over the mantle-piece of the parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely English heroics — " Poetic ardours in my besom swell, Lone wandering by tiie hermit's mossy cell ; The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, And look througii nature with creative lire .... Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And Disappointment, in tnese lonely bounds, Find balm to sootlie her bitter rankling wounds ; Here lieart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, And injured Worth forget ar.d pardon man." Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — " Druids' temple, three cir- cles of stones, the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- ing, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- east — say prayers on it." His notes on Punkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows : — " Dunkeld — Breakfast Avith Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays ; a short, stout-built, High- land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow. — Friday — ride up Tummel river to Blair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. — Blair — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker SatUT' day — visit the scenes round 131air — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." LIFE OF ROBERT BURiNS. Mr. Walker, who, as ^v^i Inive seen, formed Burru's acquaintance in Edinburgh through Blacklock, was at this period tutor iu the family of Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the seat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar- rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, begged I would in the interval be his guide througli the grounds. It was already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view of their beauties, which the moonlight aflbrdcd us, seemed exactly suiied to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- ver saw those fcelingo so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the lieathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and volu])tuous enthusiasm of imagination. It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- get a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young family attracted much of his admiration ; he di'ank their healths as holiest men and bonnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, and with M-hich he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. Asa specimen of his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I will mention a remark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for liim, on account of his vigorous talents, although they Avere clouded at times by coarseness of manners; " in short," he added, " his mind is like his body, he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul." — INIuch 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 retui'n he could make, to write some des- criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of JBruar, and in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, M'ith the verses enclosed." * At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman to whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important • Extract of a letter from Mr, "Walker to Mr. Cunnicgham, dated Perth, 2^th October, ,797. LIFb OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxi occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did not remain a day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who .was then Treasurer of the Navy, and had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was but little addicted to literature ; still, had such an introduction taken place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- tish music), Badenoch, Sec. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical bed in which, tradition says. King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to Fochabers, taking CuUoden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- day/, Came over CuUoden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — ^break- fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, perhaps owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung two Gaelic songs — beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, mild- est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! Brodie House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — Friday, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Bro- die tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting, is still haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Elgin — vene- rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, and affable — gay and kind. — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- sible — God bless them."*-^ — Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On rexnembering this soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin lu's friend ; and the Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ- ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the • Extract ftona Jowwl. Ixxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coast of the Murray Frith. The abridgment of Burns's visit at Gordon Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment, but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons of such influence, might have begot a permanent intimacy, and on their parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider. Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively Nairn, Forres, .-Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James Burness, writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him into the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native district, never to revisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare- well of his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof of their lowly home could be descried ; and the, old man appears to have ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire kindred, and after that he seems to have maintained the same sort of cor- respondence. He now formed a personal acquaintance with these good people, and in a letter to his brother Gilbert, we find him describing them in terms which show the lively interest he took in all their concerns. * " The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses ?" He arrived once more in Auld Reekie, on the 16 th of September, having travelled about six hun- dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance with his own country, and visited some of its most classical scenery — ob- served something of Highland manners, which must have been as interest- ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among the sturdy Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe- riod avowed. Of the few poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch Ness, he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets — " Among the heathy hills and rugged woods. The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods," &c. When at Sir William Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song — " Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben," &c. And the verses On Scaring some Wildfowl on Loch Turit, — " W^j, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. were composed while under the same roof. These last, except perhaps Bruar Water, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- derings of the summer. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find many traces of the delight with which he had contemplated nature in these alpine regions. * Qencral CeRcspondence. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, Ixxlil The poet once more visited his family at Mossgiel, and Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, ere the winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of that gentleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but decided to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland. It was not, however, un- til he had for the third time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 1788, that a bargain was actually concluded. More than half of the intervening months were spent in Edinburgh, where Burns found, or fancied that his presence was necessary for the satisfactory completion of his affairs with the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough that one great object was the society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor -was he without the amusement of a little romance to fill up what vacant hours they left him. He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful widow — the same to whom he addressed- the song, " Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c. and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome sentiment, than could be produced from all his vv'ritings besides. At this time the publication called JoJiusons Museum of Scottish Song was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though Green groiv the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the first volume, pubhshed in 1787, many of the old ballads included in that volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared in March 1788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have been already mentioned. * and three far better than them, viz. Theniel Menzies bonny Mary ; that grand lyric, " Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destiny, Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree ;" both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland visit ; and, lastly, Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. Burns had been from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- portunities and appliances than he could have commanded previously ; and it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns composed very few pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his songs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very likely to agree. Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence- forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in which • " Clarinda," and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon." 12 Ixxiv. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. he was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was present, on the 31st of December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occiision an ode, part of which Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth- ing rhapsody — far, far diflerent indeed from the Chevalier's Lament, which the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of the eftbrt, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be- tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach. '♦ Here I am," he writes, " mider the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid liorrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliance to gua- rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got half way through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get an 8vo. Bible ir> sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the cl!;^':;ncc of his craft." -j- — In another letter, which opens gaily- enough, we find him reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood. " I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see any m here in my path that meagre, squiilid, i'amine-faccd spectre, Poverty, attended as he always is by iron-fisted 0])pressicn, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily withstood his bufTetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is / DARE. My worst enemy is moi-meme. There are just two creatures that I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the; desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." \ — One more specimen may be sufficient. || " These have been six horrible weeks. Anguish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- mission ; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but all the while nourished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if he had not, the fond dieam that the admiration of his country would ere long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and con- finement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side of his prospects ; and the letters which we have quoted may teach those who envy the powers and the fame of genius, to pause for a moment over " General Correspondence, No. 46. + Reliques, p. 43. + Ibid. p. 44. Jl Cknwal Correspoudeocc, No. 43. ^...^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. IxxV the annals of literature, and think what superior capabilities of misery have been, in the great majority of cases, interv.oven with the possession of those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unmingled gratification. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. While still under the hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence from Mauchline that his intimacy witii Jean Armour had once more exposed her to the reproaches of her family. The fatlier sternly and at once turned her out of doors ; and Burns, unable to walk across his room, had to write to his friends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for her whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Airs. Dunlop, written on hearing of tliis new misfortune, he says, " ^ I wish I were dead, hut I'm 110 like to die.' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marcliing regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- riously, though, life at present presents me witli but a melancholy path But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on."' * It seems to have been now that Burns at last screwed up his courage to solicit the active interference in his behalf of the Earl of Glencairn. The letter is a brief one. Burns could ill endure this novel attitude, and he rushed at once to his request. " I wish.," says he, *' to get into the excise. I am told 3'our Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my pov/er to save the little tie of home, that sheltered an aged motlicr, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of The Great who have lionouvcd me v,ith their countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita- tion ; and tremble nearly as much at tlie thought of the cold promise as of the cold denial." f It would be liard to think that this letter was coldly or negligently received ; on the contrary, we knov/ that Burns's gratitude to Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's influence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,") happening to hear Burns, while his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, without dropping any hint of his intention, and communicated the state of the poet's case to Air. Graham of Fintray, one of the commissioners of excise, who had met Burns at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Airs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing to do. I wanted un but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hangmg on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends." % • Reljques, p. 48. f General Correspondence, Is'o, 40, J Reliques, p. W* Ixxvl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con- finement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he also abuses very heartily in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however, when they were at last made up, must have given the impatient author a very agreeable surprise ; for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn, we find him expressing his hopes that the 'gross profits of his book might amount to " better than X200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr. Creech, he found himself in possession of A'oOO, if not of £600. Mr. Ni- coll, the most intimate friend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex- cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — " He certainly told me that he received £600 for the first Edinburgh edition, and £100 afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product of Creech's edition at £300, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- ters, at £400 only. NicoU hints, in the letter already referred to, that Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not Avish to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probable, the expense of printing the subscription edition, sjiould, moreover, be de- ducted from the £700 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be reason fi)r thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than £100 for the copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it at the end of his Memoir, " nearly £900 in all by his poems?" This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele- vated his spirits greatly, and given him for the time a new stock of confi- dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resort, to be made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing £180 or £200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my- self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. Moore, " for it was mere selfishness on my part. I was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that the throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, might help to smooth matters at the grand recho7img." * • General Conespondence,._ No. cc. CHAPTER VII. /-74fl7"^ 'f^r^T"""?'"''' fapolopeticalj, ofthe event -Remarks-Becomes W U *r f f "'«^'"'^' «" f'>e ^'tf>, in a romantic vicinity, six mi/es from Dumfries— The Muse wakeful as ever, xvhde the Poet maintains a varied and e.xten^ve Uterarv corre- epondence with all and sundr^j— Remarks upon the correspondence— Sketch of his person and hahjts at this period by a brother poet, who shows cause agaimt success in farnvng- The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer-The notice of the squirearchy, and the /?lmf/f'"'""^ *''*"'"'*' '^"''""' uniformly to the ultra convivial life— Leaves Ellitiland (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries. «■"««'«* *' To make a happy fireside clime For weans and wife — That's the tnie pathos and sublime Of human life," Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- giel, and went through the ceremony of a Justice-of- Peace marriage with Jean Armour, m the writing-chambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He \T "atT^^'^ ^^^^ country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain witli Mr. Miller as to the farm of Elliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly liave been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet • they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive terms, of nineteen years each,_in all seventy-six years ; the rent for the hrst three years and crops £30 ; during the remainder of the period klO per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan- tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant was to receive £300 ftom tiic proprietor, for the erection of suitable build- ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 1788, but the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify himself for holding his excise commission by six weeks' attendance on the business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Curric mentions this as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, was continually rid- nig between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on the road, "sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions lie had lormed. What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie • — " I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms, among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding con- IxxvHi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. trivance. ~. • . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation re- specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I have taken is vastly for mv happiness." * To all his IViends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfaction in regard to his marriage. " Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- lop, "is just. lam indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and still much-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled her to jmrchase a shelter ; and there is no sporting with a fellovz-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off Lo the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good v.ife, though she should ne- ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger ; my preservative from the first, is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and her attachment to me ; my antidote against the last, is my long and deep- rooted affection for her. In housewife matters, of aptness to learn, and • activity to execute, she is eminently mistress, and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and sisters in their dairy, and other rural business You are right, that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would seldom have been of the number." f Some months later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not, perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing a young lady), — " but," he continues, " I have no cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, 1 am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affec- tation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country. Mrs. Burns believes as firmly as her creed, that I am k pi its hel esprit ct leplus honmte homme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever, in her life, except the Scri))tures and the Psalms of David in Metre, spent five minutes together on cither prose or verse — I nmst except also a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads of the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest woodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel at Elliesland, \ and only occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, that he wrote the beautiful song : II " Of a' the .airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best ; There wildwoods grow, and rivers row, and niony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean. O blaw, ye wcstlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees, Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, bring hame the laden bees. And biing t'lie lassie back to me, that's aye sae neat and clean;; Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean." • Reliques, p. 6.1. + See General Correspondence, No. 63 ; and Reliques, p. 60. X B«Uque8, p. 76. II Ibid. p. 273. LIFE OF ROBERT BURJ^S. kxlx One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- ly marked witli his haughtiness of character. " I have escaped," says he, " the fantastic caprice, the apish affectation, witli all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements which are sometimes to be found among fe- males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry."* " A discerning reader," says Mr. Walker, " will perceive that the let- ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- ing on an unwelcome step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments to justify the deed, and lessen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f I confess I am not able to discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev. Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise," says he, " has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with Jean when in the blaze of his fame. . . Tlie praise is misplaced. We do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what the law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, and it is trul}'^ ludicrous to hear him, aware as he must have been, of the in- dissoluble power of the obligation, though every document was destroyed, talking of himself as a bachelor." J There is no justice in these remarks. It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar- riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriage having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only not assuming, but rejecting the character of Burns's wife ; and had she, un- der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu- ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but that of her own father, it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the world could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful wliether she had ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- clared the marriage of 1788. Burns did no more than justice as well as honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could have compelled him to perform. To return to our story. Burns complains sadly of his solitary condition, when living in the only hovel that he found extant on his farm. '• I am," says he, (September 9th) " busy Vvith my harvest, but for all that most pleasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- bow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose tlie}' only know in graces, &c., and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaid- ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, they have as much idea of a rhino- ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September i6th) he says, " This hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle cdat, and bind every day after • General Correspondence, No. 55. + iMorrison, vol. i. p. Ixxxvii. $ Paul's Life of Bums, p. 45. Ixxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. my reapers." His house, however, did not take much time in building ; nor had he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his wife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and few housekeepers start witli a larger provision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs. Burns had lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup- pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro- thers and sisters from Mossgiel. From that quarter also Burns brought a whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and of the south of Scotland, partook, at the same table, of the same fare with their master and mistress. Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six miles above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the house of Dalswinton, of those noble woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa- trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in which he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare shingle of the precipice all but overliangs the stream. Burns had his favou- rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- lent. For he was one of these that enjoy nature most in the more serious and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be easy to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom of winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a gloamin' shot at the muses." The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period of his life was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for the first time under a roof of his own — with his wife and children about him — and in spite of oc- casional lapses into the melancholy Avhich had haunted his youth, looking forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, '• I hae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ; I'll tak cuckold frac nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody ; 1 hae a penny to spend — there — tlianks to naebody ; I hae naething to lend — I'll borrow frae naebody." In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A. Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, nay the morning of life- health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — his geniuj had been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription, more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder, therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense of importance and independence." Burns, in his letters of the year 1 789, makes many apologies for doing but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied much of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained on his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. On • Poetical Ikventory to Mr. Aiken, February 1786. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.' Ixjpti the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- farmers, but by the neighbourhig gentry of all classes ; and now, too, for the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own house by curi- ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene- rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more time than he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; for in addition to some pieces which we have akeady had occasion to notice, he contributed to this year's Museum, The Thames flows proudly to the Sea ; The lazy mist hangs, ^-c. ; The day returns, my bosom burns ; Tarn Glen, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go feteh to me a pint of wine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which, however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); John Anderson, in part also a rifacciamento ; the best of all his Bacchanalian pieces, Willie brewed a peck o maut, written in celebration of a festive meet- ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. NicoU of the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To if/ary in Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands admitted, composed by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek has thought fit to dress up the story v.-ith circumstances which did not oc- cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person vvho could appeal to personal recollec- tion on this occasion, and whose recollections of all circumstances con- nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being remai'kably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- saic edition of the history. * According to her, Burns spent that day, though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa- rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return to the fireside. • On being again and again requested to do so, he always promised compliance — but still remained v.here he was, striding up and down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and prevailed on him to come in. He immediately on entering the house, called for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, Avith all the ease of one copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses — , " Thou lingering star with lessening ray, , That lovest to greet the early morn, Again tlioii nsher'st in the day J\Iy I\Iary from my soul was torn. O Rlary, dear departed shade. Where is thy place of blissful rest ; See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?" &c. The Mothers Lameiit for her Son, and Inscription in an Hermitage in Nithsdak, were also written this year. From the time when Burns settled himself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity liad engaged him. The • I owe these particulars to ]\Ir. M'Diarmid, tlic able editor of the Dumfries Courier, and brother of the lamented autiior of " Lives of British Statesmen." 13 Ixxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. letters that passed between li5m and his brother Gilbert, are among the most precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knowledge of and confidence in each other, no one can doubt ; and the plain manly affectionate language in wliich they both write, is truly honourable to them, and tt- ♦he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert, January 1st, 1789, " I have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look at our family vicissitudes, ' through the dark postern of time long elapsed,' I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of seasons is to us ; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will turn out well." It was on the same new-year's-day that Burns himself addressed to Mrs. Dunlop a letter, part of which is here transcribed. It is dated Elliesland, New-year-day morning, 1789, and certainly cannot be read too often : — " This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came under the apostle James's description! — the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy- ment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day, — the first Sunday of May, — a breezy, blue-skyed moon sometime about the begin- ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ; these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. " I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ' The Vision of Mirza ;' a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the 5ih day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and oifered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- pression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- ding-birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with par- ticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow- ing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the yEolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe be- yond death and the grave." LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxlii Few, it is to be hoped, can read such things as these without delight ; none, surely, that taste the elevated pleasure they are calculated to in- spire, can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burns's history, with- out being afflicted. The " golden days" of EUiesland, as Dr. Currie justly calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming speculations once more failed ; and lie himself seems to have been aware that such was likely to be the case ere he had given the business many months' trial ; for, ere the autumn of 1788 was over, he applied to his patron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, for actual employment as an exciseman, and was accordingly ap- pointed to do duty, in that capacity, in the district where his lands were situated. His income, as a revenue officer, was at first only £35 ; it by and by rose to iaO ; and sometimes was £70. These pounds were hardly earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very often from the farm, whicli needed his utmost attention, and exposed him, which was still worse, to imiumorabJc temptations of the kind he was least likely to resist. I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu- lars of this part of I'urns's history, derived from a source which every lover of Scotland and Scottish poetry must be prepared to hear mentioned with respect. It happened that at the time when our poet went to Niths- dale, the lather of Mr. Allan Cunningham was steward on the estate of Dalswinton : he was, as all who have read the writings of his sons will readily believe, a man of remarkable talents and attainments : he Avas a wise and good man ; a devout admirer of Burns's genius ; and one of those sober neighbours who in vain strove, by advice and warning, to arrest the poet in the downhill path, towards which a thousand seductions were per- petually drawing ]nni. Mr. Allan Cunningham was, of course, almost a child when he first saw Burns ; but, in what he has to say on this subject, we may be sure we arc hearing the substance of his benevolent and saga- cious father's observations and reflections. His own boyish recollections of the poet's personal appearance and demeanour will, however, be read with interest. " I was very young," says Allan Cunningham, " when I first saw Burns. He came to see my father ; and their conversation turned partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste and skill. Burns had just come to Kithsdale ; and I think he appeared a shade more swarthy than he does in Nasmyth's picture, and at least ten years older than he really was at the time. His face was deeply marked by thought, and the habitual expression intensely melancholy. liis frame was very muscular and well proportioned, though he had a short neck, and something of a ploughman's stoop : he was strong, and proud of his strength. I saw him one evening match himself with a number of masons ; and out of five-and-twcnty practised hands, the most vigorous young men in the parish, there was only one that could lift the same weight as Burns. He had a very manly face, and a very melancholy look ; but on the coming of those he esteemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. 1 onCe heard him read 7'am o S/ia/ifei: I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice Ibllowed all the undulations of the sense, and expressed as well as his ge- nius had done, the pathos and humour, the horrible and the awful, of that wonderful performance. As a man feels, so will he write ; and in propor- tion as he sympathizes with his author, so will he read him with grace and efTect. Ixxxlv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " I said that Burns and my father conversed about poetry and farming. The poet had newly taken possession of his farm of ElHesland, — the masons were busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him, and a little of its money in his pocket, — in short, he had found a resting- place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his farm, and particularly about the beauty of the situation. ' Yes,' my father said, ' the walks on the river bank are fine, and you will see from your win- . dows some miles of the Nith ; but you will also see several farms of fine rich holm, * any one of which you might have had. You have made a poet's choice, rather than a farmer's.' If Burns had much of a farmer's skill, he had little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with EUies- land, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, ' how could he miss but fail, when his servants ate the bread as fust as it was baked ? I don't , mean figuratively, I mean literally. Consider a little. At that time close economy was necessary to have enabled a man to clear twenty pounds a- year by Elliesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques- tion : he neither ploughed, nor sov/ed,' iior reaped, at least like a hard- working farmer ; and then he had a bevy ot servants from Ayrshire. The lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the iads sat by the fireside, and ate it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would 8oon reach to twenty pounds a-year.' " " The truth of the case," says Mr. Cunningham, in another letter with which he has favoured me, " the truth is, that if Robert Burns liked his farm, it was more for the beauty of the situation than for the labours which it demanded. He was too wayward to attend to the stated duties of a husbandman, and too impatient to wait till the ground returned in gain the cultivation he bestowed upon it. The condition of a farmer, a Nithsdale one, I mean, was then very humble. His one-story liouse had a covering of straw, and a cla)'- floor; the furniture was from the hands of a country carpenter ; and, between the roof and floor, there seldom intervened a smoother ceiling than of rough rods and grassy turf — while a huge lang-settle of black oak for himself, and a carved arm-chair for his wife, were the only matters out of keeping with the homely looks of his residence. He took all his meals in his own kitchen, and presided regularly among his children and domestics. He performed family worship every evening — except dur- ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty vras perhaps limited to Saturday night. A few religious books, two or three favourite poets, the history of his country, and his Bible, aided him in forming the minds and manners of the famil}'. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care of her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools. " The picture out of doors was less interesting. The ground from which the farmer sought support, was generally in a very moderate state of culti- vation. The implements with which he tilled his land were primitive and clumsy, and his own knowledge of the management of crops exceedingly limited. He plodded on in the regular slothful routine of his ancestors ; he rooted out no bushes, he dug up no stones ; he drained not, neither did he enclose ; and weeds obtained their full share of the dung and the lime, which he bestowed more like a medicine than a meal on his soil. His plough was the rude old Scotch one ; his harroMs had as often teeth of • Holm is flat, rich meadow land, intervening between a stresna and the general elevation pf the adjoining country. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. IxxxV wood as of Iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wheeled, or were, more properly speaking, tumbler-carts, so called to distinguish them from trail- carts, both of which were in common use. On these rude carriages his manure v/as taken to the field, and his crop brought home. The farmer himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments. His poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred of innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast-work of old maxims and rustic sav/s, v/hich he interpreted as oracles delivered against improve- ment. V\'ith ground in such condition, with tools so unfit, and with know- ledge so imperfect, ha sometimes succeeded in v/ringing a few hundred pounds Scots from the farm he occupied. Such was generally the state of agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own skill v,-as equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- tunate. An important change soon took place, by which he was not fated to profit ; lie had jiot the foresight to see its approach, nor, probably, the fjrtitude to await its coming. " In the year 1790, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, and ten, and fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and his house, differed little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He would have tliought his dauglUer wedded in her degree, had she married a joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a " portioner" of the soil mingled together, equals in appearance and impor- tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to agriculture ; the army and navy consumed Irjrgely ; corn rose in demand ; the price augmented ; more land was called into cultivation ; and, as leases expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- ed the rents ; and the farmer v/as soon borne on the v/ings of sudden wealth above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even began to exchange the hanks of yarn with which it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He laid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a thing unfashionable, and became a kind of rustic gentleman, who rode a blood horse, and galloped home on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and to the terror of every modest pedestrian. When a change like this took place, and a farmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase the land he rented — which many were, and many did — the same, or a still more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elliesland ; and Burns, had he stuck by his lease and his plough, would, in all human possibility, have found the independence which he sought, and sought in vain, from the coldness and parsimony of mankind." Mr. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland in these terms : — " During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said that Burns conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as a man, and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kirk on Sunday, though he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinism of that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading club ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes- tivity, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. But the failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which he was compelled to support an increasing family and an expensive station in life, preyed on his spirits ; and, during these fits of despair, he was will- Ixxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. W too often to become the companion of the thoughtless and the gross. I am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also in the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and 1 am atraid they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had so much of the poet about them, and few poets so much of the man ;— the man was probably less pure^ than he ought to have been, but the poet was pure and bright to the last." , ,. , ,• The reader must be suificiently prepared to hear, that from the time when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the ploucrh, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of exce'.ling, or stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in lar ditterent pursuits. " I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally gau-er, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has recorded the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on the subject are uniformly bitter. " I have the same consolation, he tells Mr Ainslie, " which I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi- ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage- ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest chance of preferment.' " On one occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " 1 here is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- man • but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession : —which may perhaps remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quit- ting the learned and polished circles of London and Fans, tor his Swiss re- tirement : " I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that of my associates." , . 'Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along with him in the duties of the excise, could present. He was, moreover, wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own, by the reputation which he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of entertainment in conversation. From the castle to the cottage, every door flew open at his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man s board in the same trim that he sat down to it. The fin-mer, if Burns was seen passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jenny Geddes, until he could persuade the bard that the day was hot enougii to demand an extra-libation. ' If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the inmates were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as- sembled round the ingle ; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and " Be ours this night— who knows what connes to-morrow ?" was the language of every eye in the circle that welcomed him. The BUteliest gentry of the county, whenever they had especial merriment in LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvii view, called in the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals.* The famous song of The WJiistle of ivorth commemorates a scene of this kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc- curred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life among this jo- vial squirearchy. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, had met to deter- mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should possess the Whistle, which a common ancestor of them all had earned ages before, in a Bacchanalian contest of the same sort with a noble toper from Denmark ; and the poet was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate. " Then up rose the bard like a prophet in drink, Craigdarroch shall soar when creation shall sink ; But if thou would'st flourish immortal in rhyme, Come, one bottle more, and have at the sublime." Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe from temptations of this kind, even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- ty of his wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they ate and drank at his cost, and often went away to criticise him and his fare, as if they had done Burns and his black bowl \ great honour in con- descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such company and such liquor. We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he was half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti- tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to clwell. For example, the circumstances under which the verses on The wounded Hare were written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunningham, that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was in the cUstom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every evening, along the Nith, and by the march between his land and ours. The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one, and wounded her : she ran bleeding by Burns, who was pacing up and down by himself, not far from rae. He started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed, I'll war- rant he would have been as good as his word — though I was both young and strong." Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to Elliesland, was Captain Grose, the celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns briefly describes as " A fine fat fodgel wight — Of stature short, but genius bright ;" and who has painted his own portrait, both with pen and pencil, at full length, in his Olio. This gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set forth in the copy of verses — • These particulars are from a letter of David AlaccuUoch, Esand Burke lifted his powerful voice, was great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the retrospect, than had for generations afflicted ' Scotland, were the conse- quences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and fermented. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society v>-as for a time shaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams of the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi- valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loj'alty, and the generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than hated. The very name stained whatever it came near ; and men that liad known and loved each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it had been some loathsome pestilence. There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town of Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more violently in Edinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King George the Third and his m.inister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- dition, — and to be shunned accordingly. The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicioiis >vhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns 3s a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous period, a democrat. In that department, as then conducted, I am assured that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than that one syllabic should have been set down in writing on such a subject, unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the er.act teniiination of the inquiry was, will never, in all probabilit)'', be ascertained. Accord- ing to the tradition of the neighbourliood, Burns, inter alia, gave great of- fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the health of Vv'illiam Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- ciety rejected Avhat he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a greater and a better man, George Washington." I suppose the v/armest admirer of JMr. Pitt's talents and politics wotild hardly venture now-a-days to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the com.parative merits of these two great men. The name of Washington, at all events, when con- temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time when Burns, being a servant of ]Mr. Pitt's government, was guilty of this indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than reached the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, Ave have traces of another oc- currence of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at whose table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain ■■ - ■ made use xdlv Life of robert burn's. of to me, had I liad nobody's welfare to care for but my own, wc should certainly have come, according to tlie manner of tlie world, to the neces- sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine, lias already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of waiting on every gentleman who was pre- sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- ter all, was the obnoxious toast ? Muy our success in the present war be equal to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which can only be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy pe- riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinking, or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, or disapproving, of a particular measure of eovernment, into the test of a man's loyalty to his King ? Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm equally at command, was, we may easily believe, the most hated of human beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the administration of which he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, after these principles had been really developed by those that maintained them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to words; and though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792, before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet. At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of Man, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the wliole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the 27th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Solway Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewars, a brother exciseman, an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself on a similar errand to Ecclefechan, and Burns was left with some men un- der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. From LIFE OF ROBEIIT BURKS. ntv the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in my hands), it appears that Burns manifested considerable impatience while thus occupied, being left for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force whicli he knew to be inadequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of his comrades hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about his journey, the man answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them this well-known ditty : — " The de'il cam' fiddling thro' the town. And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' Auld Mahoun, ' We wish you luck o' tlie prize, man. Chorus ' We'll mak' our maut, and brew our drink, ' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; ' And mony thanks to the muckle black de'il, ' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. ' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, ' There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; ' But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', ' Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' " Lewars arrived shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to board her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers were greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, thought fit to purchase four carronades, by way of trophy. But his glee went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- vention, requesting that body to accept of them as a mark of his admiration and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to doubt, was the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of his jealous superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one knew and felt that we were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most absurd and presump- tuous breach of decorum. When he learned the impression that had been created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to his pa- tron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the following letter, dated December 179^ : " Sir, — I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- chell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father. You know what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- spected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist- ence. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot? and from the damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I beheve. Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deli- Xcvt LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. berate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, liung over my head. And I say that the allega- tion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution, on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutlv attached. You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you. Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- tronage, and me dependence. I would not, for my single self, call on your humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, 1 would disperse the tear that now swells in my eye ; I could brave misfortune ; I could face ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thour.and doors stand open.' But, good God ! the tender concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have ollowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as :m lioncst man, I know is my due. To these. Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overv/hclm me ; and which, with my latest breath, 1 will say I have not deserved !" On the "^d of January, (a week or tv.'o afterwards), we find him writing to Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — '' Mr. C. can be of little service to me at present ; at least, 1 sliould be shy of applying. I cannot probably be set- tled as a supervisor for several years. I- nmst wait the rotation of lists, &c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer my- self too much in the eye of my superiors. 1 have set henceforth a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics ; but to you I must breathe my senti- ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " " The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " has been torn away by some barbarous hand." — There can be little doubt that it was torn away by one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and from the most praise-worth motive. The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has been said above, in obscurity ; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, appears to have gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himself considered as tantamount to the destruction of aW hope of future promo- tion in liis profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one ot his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. F.ven Sir Walter Scott has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The political predilections," says he, " for they could hardly be termed princi- ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At his first ap- pearance, he felt, or affected, a propensity to Jacobitism. Indeed, a youth of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty years ago, could hardly escape this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of sound sense and sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and high achievement. The inadequacy of the means by which that prince attempted to regain the crown forfeited by his fathers, the strange and almost poetical adventures LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. jtcVU which he underwent,— the Scottish martial character, honoured in his vic- tories, and degraded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast ; for Burns him- self acknowledges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 240), that ' to tell the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.' The same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of poli- tical tenets, when the country was agitated by revolutionary principles. That the poet should have chosen the side on which high talents were most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- tions of society were always odious, should have listened with compla- cence to the voice of French philosophy, which denounced them as usur- pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Yet we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise department had tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they might have spared themselves the disgmce of rendering desperate the pos- sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is but too certain, that from the moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his life. We doubt not, that in that awftl period of national discord, he had done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- ment from countenancing an avowed par tizan of faction. But this partizan was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- est credit on that gentleman." In the general strain of sentimait in this passage, who can refuse to concur ? but I am bound to sa}"^, that after a careful examination of all the documents, printed and MS., to vhich I have had access, I have great doubts as to some of the principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- ment. I have before me, for example, a letter of Mr. Findlater, formerly Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's imme- diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that veiy respectable per- son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac- cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do I believe his promotion was tfereby affected, as has been stated. That, had he lived, would, I have every reason to think, have gone on in the usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended to this. What cause, tlierefoie, was there for depression of spirits on thi ; account ? or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne down by the pressure of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it would occasionally revive, and like an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." When the w^ar had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- ed in Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours ; but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi- ness, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the great- 15 XCTui UFE OF ROBERT BURNS. eat possible favourite with his brothers in arms. His commanding officer, Colonel De Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem- ber of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the Jast. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse His poor and honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and the poet, wherever he went, heai'd it echoing from house and hall. I wish this exquisite and useful song, with Scots wha fuie wi Wallace bled, — the So7tff of Death, and Does haughti} Gaul Invasion TJireat, — all lyrics which enforce a love of country, and a nartial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- warded only by the admii-ation and tears of his fellow peasants." Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. James Gray, at that time scboolm;.ster in Dumfries, and seeing much of Burns both as the teacher of his ch'ldren, and as a personal friend and as- sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person who gives any thing like an exact statement : and accoixling to him. Burns was admonished " that it was his busincsr- to act. not to think") — in whatever language tlie censure was clothed, tlie l-.xcise Board ilid nothing from which Burns had any cause to suppose that iiis hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- ed. Nay, if he had taken up sutli ;. notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. Findlater, who had him eoiistuntly unt'cr his eye, and who enjoyed all his confidence, and who enjoyed then, as \c still enjoys, the utmost confidence of the Board, must have known the fict to be so. .Such, I cannot help thinking, is the fair view of the case : at ail events, we know that Burns, the year before he died, was permitted -.o act as a Supervisor ; a thing not likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. On the whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted vith talents and necessarily with influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that passions have had time to cool, no sane mar will say became his situation : that Burns's subsequent conduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits of their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by illness and death. These Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub- ordinate officers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un- der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent, appears to be made out ; that they could have been justified in trying it to a farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xdx bf the couftti*}' itself, I mast say I think it is much more difficult to defend them. Mr, Pitt's ministry gaveDibdin a pension of £200 a-year for writ- ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such quarters as these, woukl have been at once safe and graceful. What the minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry I know not ; but Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " I can think of no verse," said the great Minister, when Burns was no more^-" I can think of no verr,e since Shakspcarc's, that lias so much the appearance of com- ing sweetly from nature." * Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every- body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business of those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that lie has some- what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- ready been mentioned, cnjoj^cd Burns's intimacy and confidence during his residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- lieves to be true. '• Burns (saya he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from liis aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- siderable share of his admiration : he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in their debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre- spond with them in any form whatever. Though limited to an income which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused i." .50 a- year offered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject this proposal. His independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- " I am assured that Mr. Pitt used these words at the table of the late Lord Liverpool, soon after Burns's death. How that event might come to be a natural topic of conversation at that table, will be seen in the sequel. ■f Mr. Gray removed from the sdiool of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. He tlien be- came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, and died a few years since in the East Indies, as officiating chanlAin to the Company in the presidency of Madras. C LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may have been his opinion of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not think it right to fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in accordance with what INIr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban- doning. * Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, and Mr. Miller the younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- tron's family. There is much humour in it : — THE FIVE CARLINES. 1. There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring them tidings hame, Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there. And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 2. There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, -j- a dame w' pride eneugh, And Marjorj o' the Monylochs, J a carline auld and teugh ; And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, | that dwelt near Solway-side, And whisky Jean that took her gill in Galloway sae wide ; |1 And black Joan frac Crichton Peel, % o' gipsy kith and kin,— t Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within. 3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day. And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae. But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a anc but tway. 4. The first he was a belted knight, ** bred o' a border clan, And he. wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him withstan'. And he wad do theii errands weel, and meikle he wad say, And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. &. The next came in a sodger youth, -f-f" and spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was ; He wadna hecht them courtlv gifts, nor meikle speech pretend. But he wad hecht an honest lieart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themsell. 7. Then out spak mim-mou'd ]\Ieg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride, And she wad send the sodger youth, whatever might betide ; For the auld guidman o' Lunnun J:^ court she didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ • This is stated on the authority of Major Miller. + Dumfries. ± Lachmaben. § Annan. || Kirkcudbflghb % Sanquhar. *• Sir J, Johnstone. f f Major Miller, tt George III. ti§ The Prince of Wales. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ci fl. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen, That she wad vote the border knight, though she should vote her lane ; For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet again. 9. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, a carline stoor and grim, The auld guidman, and the young guidman, for me may sink or swim ; For fools will freat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn ; But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink. Ye weel ken, kimmers a'» The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight. But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 11. Then slow raise IMarjory o' tlie Lochs, and wrinkled w^s her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; There's some great folks set light by me, — I set as light by them ; But I will sen' to I^unnun toun wham I like best at name. 12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can teU, God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. The above is far the best humoured of these productions. The election to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe contest, and at a very heavy expense. These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by ■ Burns's venom, when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, And pours his vengeance in the burning line ;" and represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as leading a choral shout that He for his heresies in cluirch and state, Might richly merit JMuir's and Palmer's fate But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of people, was sure to connect him more strongly with the passions, and, un- fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs. Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was guilty of such excess. This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to expatiate. " Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- gerated view of the failings of my brother's life at that period, which is cer- tainly to be regretted." — « I love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Gray, already more than once referred to, but I love the memory of Burns more, cii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth. The poet of The Cottars Saturday Night, Mho felt all the charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sun;::, is charged, (in Dr. Currie's Nar- rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- ed of his species. As 1 knew him during that period of his life emphati- cally called his evil daj's, I am enuhled to speak from my own ohservatiou. It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined with genius ; on that account, they w ere only the more dangerous, be- cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but I shall likewise claim that nothing may ioe said in malice even against him. It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 1 have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- lish poets, from Shakspeare to (ira}', or storing his mind with examples of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- torians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drunhenness / '"■ It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. He was of a social and convivial nature. He Avas courted by all classes of men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed for hours together, jicnetrating whatever it struck, like the Hre from hea- ven ; but even in the hour of tliouglitlcss gaity and merriment, I never loiew it tainted by indecency. It ^vas playful or caustic by turns, follow- ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, but never, within my observation, di-sgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suft'ering from the cHects of last night's intemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. IVom his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- lestial mien. Viliik- his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and i'ecling, and his vc)iee attuned to tlie very passion which he wished to communicate, it would hardly liave been possible to ccmceive an}' being more interesting and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the poets by heart. The jjrose authors he could quote cither in their own words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay in an}^ of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottars Saturday Night. The truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he cpuld not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situa- tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all times have listened to her voice } LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ciil " The men with whom he generally associated, were not of the lowest order. He numbered among his intimate friends, many of the most respec- table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. Several of those were at- tached to him by ties that the hand of calumny, busy as it was, could ne- ver snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in this country, and not a few females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, and they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue alone inspires." Part of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on subjects, as to which Mr. Findlater's statement must be considered as of not merely sufficient, but the very highest authority. " My connexion with Robert Burns," says that most respectable man, " commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con- tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro- vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country- men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of which, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a tetter from him to myself, in a case of only seeming inattention. — ' I know. Sir, and re- gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and oS the gentle- man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in aiy conduct as an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- crifice to the dark manreuvres of a smuggler.' — This of itself affords more than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he would have written in such a st3de to me, but from the impulse of a consci- ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, .'t was not till near the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disea-ic and accumulating infirmities. I will further avow, that 1 never saw hini!, which was very fre- quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of busiicss he was quite him- self, and capable of discharging the duties of his office ; nor was he ever known to drink by himsellj or seen to indulge in tlie use of liquor in a fore- noon. ... I have seen Burns in all his varicwis phases, in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and in the boson: of his family ; indeed, I believe I saw more of him than any other iiuliridual had occasion to see, after he became an Excise oHiccr, and I never beheld any thing like the gross enormities with which he is now charg^^d : That when set down in an evening with a few friends wliom he liiad, he was apt to prolong the social hour beyond the bounds winch prudence would dictate, is unques- • Mr. Findlater watched by Burns tbe night before he died. cW LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen othei<* wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which they know to be untrue. To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, they were, it is obvious, and that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- dered the nervous susceptibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No one knew better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- sons as were most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in' all his correspondence morq amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of \\'illiam Nicoll. . . " O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of Avhom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdonx which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, so be it ! ^' For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. &c. To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, might not such a Tu guoque be addressed ! The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements of Heron, Currie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregiously ex- aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole. Burns gave sa- tisfaction by his minner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- nue service ; he, noreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- cation of his childrer», and spent more hours in their private tuition than fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship left him, are often in the custom of so bestowing. — " lie was a kind and attentive father, and took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds of his children. Their -jducation was the grand object of his life, and he did not, like most parent:, think it sufficient to send them to public schoois ; he was their private instrictor, and even at that early age, bestowed great pains in training their minds to habits of thought and reflection, and in keeping them pure from ev°ry ibrm of vice. This he considered as a sa- cred duty, and never, to tlie period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili- gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he had read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in our language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in Ihe study of Latin. This boy attended the Grammar School of Dumfries, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, cv and soon attracted my notice by the strength of his talent, and the ardour of hi« ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right to advance him a form, and he began to read Caesar, and gave me transla- tions of that author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry, I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the au- thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this important branch of parental duty." * Lastly, althougli to all men's regret he wrote, after his removal to Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable length, { Tarn o Shunter), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of iMr. George Thomson, furnish undeniable proof that, in whatever Jils of dissipation he unhappily indulg- ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in question have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. Of his letters written at ElHcsland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo volumes have been already pi'inted by Currie and Cromek ; and it would be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than belongs to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great body of elaborate prose-writing. . We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to Johnson's Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a lively interest in that work ; and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherto unpublished, and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely, and most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Mr. Cromek saw among Johnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into the collection, in Burns's handwriting. His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- ed in September 1792 ; and Mr. (jray justly says, that whoever considers his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- fied, that from that time till the commencement of his last illness, not many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, tor the most part embellished with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, and criticisms, Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at the head of all our poet's performances : it is by none disputed that very many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed much more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and the taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions of that over-warm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- • Letter from the Rev. James Gray to Mr. Gilbert Burns. See his Edition, yoL L Ap- |i«ndix, No. v. 16 cvi L] F£ 1' R BE RT B U R N S. fusions. Burns knew that he ^vas now engaged on a work destined for the eye and ear of rcfincuicut ; ho laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- ing, " virginibus pucrisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap- py indeed for Jiis oun fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, of Scotland ; and, what i:; of far higher importance, the moral and national feelings of his countrymen. In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed in the first rank ol his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect- He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his oun novels, never ventured on more than a icw casual specimens of Scottish colloquy — following therem the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned only his own feelings ; but in writing to Mr. Thomson, lie had no occasion either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. '• These English songs," says he, " gravel me to death. 1 have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for namby- pamby. 1 may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There I am al- ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort of national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music 'of his native land from her peculiar idiom. The '•' genius loci" was never wor- shipped more fervently than by Burns. •' I am such an enthusiast," says he, " that in the course of mj^ several peregrinations through Scotland, 1 made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which e^ erj' song took itb rise, Locfuiber and the Braes of Bailendeit excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the bong, could be ascer- tained, 1 have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate u lyrical revolution for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, | '• a naivete, a pas- toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, whidi is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add, to every ge- nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness ot our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let me give you : — Whatever 5lr. Tleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- tional music preserve its native features, i hey are, 1 own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- city, perhaps, depends a great part of their efi'ect." § Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," says he, 7th April 1793, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- ments. \Vhat with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- • Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 111. f Ibid. p. 00. + Ibid. p. 38. S It may amuse the reader to hear, that iii spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native diiilect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of Waverley was sub- mitted, hesitated for some time about publishing it, on account of the Scots dialogue interwo- ven in the novel. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii making are now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fortification was *Uncle Tob3''s ; so Til e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race. (God grant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, cheerfully looking back on tlio honest folks with whom I have been hap- py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be ' Good night, and joy be Avi' you, a'.' " ' " Until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, — then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, — look out lor objecls in nature round me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have fram« cd. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary tire- side of my study, and there commit my efllisions to paper ; swinging at in- tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- variably my wdy. — What cursed egotism !" f In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later publi- cation, the reader will iind a Avorld of interesting details about the particu- lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- ten. ^I hey are all, or almost all, in iact, part and parcel of the poet's per- sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- nion of hiii own individual life. A new tiood of light has just been poured on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's history. The reader nmst be contented with a 'ic'w general memoranda ; " Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No, no. When- ever I want to be more than ordinary ///. sonc/ — to be in some degree equal to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- nation ? Tout ail coKtraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- ing a fine woman."' \. " I can assure you I was never more in <'arnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- sion which 1 deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, " ^V■llere love is liberty, and nature law." Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still I am a Tery poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of tlie beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my • Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 57. t Il'i'l- P- US* t Ibid. p. 174. cvHI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. soul ; and — whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains the purchase." * Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which begins, " Yestreen I had a nint o' wine, A place where boay saw na'." Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate of the performance. There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a raottOi and Scott has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances." " Had we never loved sae kindly. Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted." There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- witching songs. I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. " Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet's character as a husband, but without the slightest proof; and I might pass from the charge with that neglect M'hich it merits ; but I am happy to say that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou- sand anonymous calumnies." f Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn hold* the first place. We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. " Come, winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree — " " There is hardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure • Gorrespondencc with Mr. Thomson, p. 191. i* Letter in Gilbert Burns'» £dition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. LIFE OF noGEUT CQRMS. ck *^but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.' " — To the last, his best poetry was produced amidst scenes of solemn desolation. CHAPTER IX. CoNTEKTS. — The poet's mortal ftenod approaches — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminished b;/ narrow circumstances, bij cfiarfrin from neglect, and by the death of a Daughter — The poet misses piihlic patronage : and even the fair fruits of his own genius — the ajipripriatlun iftrhirh is ikhated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell — His niugniinimily when diiitli is at hand; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a di/in^ man — Dies, 2\st Jidg 1 7!)() — Public funeral, at which many at- tend, and amoni/sl the rest the future Pri-niicr of Jinglavd, ivho hail steadilij refused to ac- knowledge the poet, living — His fimili/ munificently provided for by the public — Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures ujion him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Hyron, and others. " I dread thee. Fate, relentless and severe. With all a poet's, husliand's, father's fear." We are drawinsj near tlie close of this ercat poet's mortal career ; and I would fain hope the details of the last chapter may liave jirepared the hu- mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, ])Mre and unde- based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelinc^s. For some years before Burns was lost to liis country, it is sufficiently plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suijposc, delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it? the tem- porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, to extract and circulate. A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once had occasion to refer to, liar, often told me, that he was seldom more grie- ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this time, to attend a county ball, he saw I'urns walking alone, on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad, — " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, iiisauld ane look'd better th:in niony ane's new; But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing, And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-bing. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS/ CJci «« were we young, as we anee hae been, We Bud hae been galloping doun on yon green, And linking it ower the lilywhite lea,— Atid verena my heart light I wad die." It was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es- cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend home with him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of some verses which he had recently composed. The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual term of human existence, might have done so much to* increase his fame as a poet, and to purify and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood had been a course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative M'erc sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those ominous symptoms of radical disorder hi tlie digestive system, the " palpi- tation and suffocation"' of which Gilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief On a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi- lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing cither of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! " The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suf+ier, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." " Letter to Miss Chalmers in 1793. cxil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Burns has tfaced his own character far better than any one else has done it since. — But with this lot what pleasures were not mingled ? — •' To you, Madam," he proceeds, " I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" It is common to say of those who over-indulge themselves in material stimulants, that they live fast ; what wonder that the career of the poet's thick-coming fancies should, in the immense majori4;y of cases, be rapid too? That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," as Mr. Wordsworth says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, " through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as false sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by his own hand — in words the import of which cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his views. It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and many accessary influences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — " One point must still be greatly dark, The moving whu they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark. How far perhaps they rue it. Then gently scan your brother man, StUI gentlier sister woman — Though they may gang a kennin' wrang; To step aside is human," could not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic force by any poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it were felt that, like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors ; and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed sown from above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering." In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his end, it is needless to conjecture. They had their share, unquestionably, along with other influences which it would be inhuman to characterise a« LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxiii there follies — such, for example, as that general depression of spirits which haunted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily on such a being as Burns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or even a casual expression of discouraging tendency from the persons on whose good-will all hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world- ly promotion depended, — or that partial exclusion from the species of so- ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn, and delight, which, from however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during some of the latter years of his life All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tempting to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let the following letter speak — It was written February 25, 1794, and addres- sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his family. — " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- tures of suspense, the stability and hai'dihood of the rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two months I have rrot been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were ab ori- gine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these ***** times — losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at tim^s could only be envied by a rep-robate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sen- timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul; those se?ises of t/ie mind, i£ I may he allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all-power- ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. " I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many; or at most as an uncer- tain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- iical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to 17 tidy LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point ot v'l^vr, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, ' These, as they change, Alciiighty Father, these Are but the varied Gotl — The rolling year Is full of Thee ;' and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming liymn. — These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights ; and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witness- ing, judging, and approving God." They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who have permitted themselves to believe that his only consolations were those of " the opiate guilt applies to griei'," will do well to pause over this noble letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under which he was destined to sink, had already beaten in the outworks ol'his constitution when these lines were penned. The reader has already had oc(;asion to observe, that Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually with pecuniary difficulties, tlian which nothing could have been more like- ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil ; and this among, and per- haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to have been of very trivial amount at the worst, which we also know he him- self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last consideration, however, M'as one which would have given slender relief to Burns. How he shrunk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- ready. The following extract from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated December 1793, will speak for itself: — " Sir, it is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to man, or woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's-eared little pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on ^Vou long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. . cxv Yfnc under, thii consciousness of your superiority in the rank of- man and gentleman of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against ; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. The question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out his beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently calcu- lated for popularity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very obvious question. The poet himself, in a letter to Mr. Carfrae, dated 1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as au}^ profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. Johnson for any pecu- niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- pears from a passage in Cromek's Reliques, that the poet asked a single copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour to himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his book I know nothing ; but the Correspondence of Burns with Mr. Thomson contains curious enough details concerning his connexionwith that gentle- man's more important undertaking. At the outset, September 1792, we find Mr. Thomson saying, " We will esteem your poetical assistance a particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we are resolved to save neither pains nor expense on the publication." To which Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your un- dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, Sec. would be downright pros- titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I s'hall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, Gude speed the work." The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, 1st July 1793, where he says, " 1 cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- turn for what you have done : as I shall be benefited by the publication, you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an end." To which letter (it inclosed £.b) Burns thus replies : — " I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. Hom^- ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity — on the least motion of it, 1 will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment com- mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- ment and independence of mind will, 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." — In November 1794, we find Mr. Thom- son writing to Burns, <' Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In May 1793, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of The Cottars Saturday Night, CKVi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. by Allan) ; " I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem and respect you, for the liberal and kind manner in which you have enter- ed into the spirit of my undertakinp^, which could not have been perfected without you. So I beg you would not make a fool of me again by speak- ing of obligation." In February 1796, we have Burns acknowledging a " handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. Lastly, on the 12th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week before Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- count, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Bo, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor- rors of a jail have put me half distcacted. — I do not ask this gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To which Mr. Thomson replies — " Ever since I received your melancholy let- ter by Mrs. Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner 1 could en- deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of your labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in the correspondence of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel called Nubilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared in 1816, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — " I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he ;rrotc for my collec- tion ; although there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the jjublic testi- mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the matter, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, that notwithstanding the united laboui's of all the men of genius who have enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious time consumed by me in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding with every amateur and poet by whose means i expected to make any va- luable additions to our national music and song ; — lor ihe exertion and mo- ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har- mony in Vienna; — and for tlie sums paid to engravers, printers, and others. On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un- questionable and well-known character, Aviio has printed the music for every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing I can say : In August 1809, he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at the very unwarrantable attack which has been made upon you by the author LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. c%v'd o? Nvhilia ; nothing could be more unjust than to say you had enriched yourself by Burns's labours ; for the whole concern, though it includes the labours of Haydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex- penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times beyond the reality ; the sale is greatly magnified, and the expenses are not in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the anonymous author- calls me, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written above fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un- published at his death ; I had the right and the power of retaining them till I should be ready to publish them ; but when I was informed that an edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters, and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold for the family's behoof to IMessrs. Cadell and Davies. And I have the sa- tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr, Cun- ninghame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- dered my sacrifice of the prior right of publisliing the songs, as no ungrate- ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- ingly, Mr. Gilbert Earns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' If ever I come to Edinburgh, 1 v.iil certainly call on a person whose handsome con- duct to m.y brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the harmony of the moral feelings.' Nothing is 'farther from my thoughts than to claim any merit for Vvhat I did. I never would have said a word on the subject, but for the harsh and groundless accusation which has been brought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which I have long suffered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- pearance^" This statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes the necessity of any addi- tional remarks, (writes Professor Vv'alkcr). When the public is satisfied; when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and, above all, when the delicate mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace vvith itself in contemplating his conduct, there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them. So far, Mr. Walker :- — Why Burns, who v.^as of opinion, when he wrote his letter to I\Jr. Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those of the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notions of independence had sustained no shock in the receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, should have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recompense from Thom- son, it is no easy matter to explain : nor do I profess to understand why Mr. Thomson took so little pains- to argue the matter in limine with, the poet, and convince him, that the time wiiich he himself considered as fairly en- titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book containing both songs and music. Tlicy order these things differently now : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns, lias long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much money annually for an annual handful of songs, as was ever naid to our bard for the whole body of his writings. cxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Of the increasing irritability of our poet's temperament, amidst those trou - bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex- ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em- ployment for a ]X)c't's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d melange of frctllilness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that Avisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." Towards the close of 1795 Burns was, as has been previously mention- ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr. Graham might elevate him yet farther. These hopes, however, were mingl- ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest child lingered through an illness of which every week promised to be the last ; and she was finally cut oif when the poet, who had watched her with anxious tenderness, M-as from home on professional business. This was a severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. " There had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 1 see a train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that 1 envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends ; while 1 — but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject." To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his supervisorship, and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- given him — goes on in this ominous tone — " What a transient business is life ! Very lately 1 was a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the few following extracts. " Slst January 1796. — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afflic- tion. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before my own door in the street. LIFE 01? ROBERT BURNS. cxix *' When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, Affliction purifies the visual ray, RcUgion hails the drear, the untried night. That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." But a few days after this, Burns was so exceedingly imprudent as to join a festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the morning. The weather was severe, and he, being much intoxicated, took no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its influence. It has been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It is certain, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted was violent ; con- finement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his friends, that health would return with summer, were destined to disap- pointment. " Ath June 1796.* — I am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- pable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma- tisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — * Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " " Ith July. — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you no more. — For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- den of care. *' The duco of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on £35 ?" He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the Board to grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poelc — if 1 die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddel, a beautiful and very accomplished woman, to whom many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow when Burns reached his bathing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his conveyance, the poet visited her on the oth July ; and she has, in a letter published b}' Dr. Curric,. thus described his appearance and conversation on that occasion : — " I M'as struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of death \fas impressed on his ieaturcs. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any • The birth-day of George III. cxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. commands for the other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no- thing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering marks of appro- bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writings would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation : that letters and verses written with unguarded and im- proper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve- nom to blast his fame. He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- mation on his side. 1 have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day I saw him again, and we parted to meet no more !" I do not know the exact date of the following letter to Mrs Burns : — " Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injus- tice to deny that it has eased my pains, and 1 think has strengthened me . but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow . porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you arc all well. My very best and kind- est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on SundaT. Your affectionate husband, 11. B." There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7th, in which the poet says, «' I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — God keep LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxi tay wife and children." On the 12th, he ^vrote the letter to Mr. George Thomson, above quoted, requesting £5 ; and, on the same day, he penned also the following — the last letter that he ever wrote — to his friend Mrs. Dunlop. " Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speed- ily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friend- ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did 1 use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !" I give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* — " Rousseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open air, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night or two before Burns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the minister of Ruthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympa- thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through the casement. Miss Craig (now Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light might be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the win- dow blinds. Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' Thank you, my dear, for your kind attention ; but, oh, let him shine ; he will not shine long for me.' " On the 18th, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came back to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of popular feeling in the town during the short space which intervened between his return and his death. — " Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of his fame — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a kind and askUful one), were eagerly caught up and reported from street to street, and from house to house." " His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unruffled, and his wit ne- ver forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. His differences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- • I take the opportunity of once more acknowledging my great obligations to this gentl«« man, who j#, I understand, connected hy his marriage with the family oi the poett IS cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. given ; they thought only of his genius — of the dehght his compositions had diffused — and tliey talked of him with the same awe as of some depart- ing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more." * " A tremour now pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the authority of the physician who attended him ; " his tongue was parched; and his mind sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, July 21st 1796, Robert Burns died. " I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning- ham ; " several elder people were with nie. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, Avith a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- per was heard. This was several days after his death." On the 25th of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of Dumfries were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he had anticipated) with military' honours. The chief persons of the town and neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a few tra- velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were lined by the Fencible Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque Ports, then quarted at Dumfries, whose commander. Lord Hawksbury, (af- terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. *' The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says Cunningham, " with the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him Avho had sung of their loves and joys and domes- tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- cession away. The scarlet and gold — the banners displayed — the mea- sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene ; and had no connexion with the poet. I looked on it then, and I consider it now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he Mas about to descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath to * In the London Magazine, 1824. Article, " Robert Burns and Lord Byron." + So Mr. Syme has informed Mr. M'Diarmid. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxiii part with his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first sho- velful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears of their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con- currence in the common superstition, that ' happy is the corpse which the rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet, in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains of labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his fa- ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the fa- mily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- ings, and public sympatliv was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem." Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the benefit of his family ; Mr. INIiiler of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'Murdo, becoming trustees for the application of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the lists, and not a few from l^ngland, especially London and Liverpool. Seven hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Cm'rie's Life and Edition of Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- fries, called Burns' Street. " Of the (fi)ur surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 1S20, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- don, (Mr. Burns still reniainsj in that establishment), Francis Wallace, the second, died in 1803 ; William NicoU, the third, went to Madras in 1811 ; and James Glencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in 1812, both as cadets in the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- able to themselves, and to the name which they bear. One of them, (James), as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. The great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suffered to live and die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by any ex- ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the page of Burns, and remember without a blush, that the author of such verses, the human being whose breast glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere bread for his children by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid' cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills ? The subscriptioil for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement of in- dignation did not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that Robert Burns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common gauger among the wilds of Kithsdale — and that, after he was so established, no interference from a higher quarter arrested that unworthy career : — these are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory of that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who then adminis- tered the public patronage of Scotland. In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two false ar- guments, the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other having no foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly set up, and arrogantly as well as ignorantly maintained. To the one, namel}', that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the Poet, because the Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was Burns." The otlier argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius. This is indeed a can- did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, then, found to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circumstances of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctrine acknowledged by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- selves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for sympathy, the usual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either encounter or live in constant apprehension of " The thousand ills that rise where money fails, Debts, tlireats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails ?" To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, not less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submitted to his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says he, writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, and place them over against that «««»^» account of yours, which has gag- ged my mouth these five or six months ! I can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of mak- ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty! thou half sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed b}'^ thee, the man of senti- ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashion- able and polite, must see, in suifering silence, his remark neglected, and LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxXv his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to complain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, though, in common with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. The man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and. fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire ; his consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and dies a ******* and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted Rii', hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations." * In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sought relief: and to other more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and it includes some names that can claim but a scanty share in the apology of Burns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Ad- dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, Prior, Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. The beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a like untimely grave. " In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," says Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed alwaj-s unen- tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca- sual temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom I once de- lighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness." • Letter to Mr, Feter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328, cxjcvi Life of Robert bur^s. Bums was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no mart a * shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open. •* His charities," says Mr, Gray, " were great heyond his means ;" and I have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- ings of the Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about with him." Of his religious principles, wc are bound to judge by what he has told himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the fervour of a poet. <• It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- ters, — " the dark suspicion, that innnortallly may be only too good news to be true;" and here, as on many points besides, how nmch dldhis method of thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more recently lost to us. '•' I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- dered " a hypocliondriacal disease" which occasionally visited and depres- sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, to place many pages which brcatb.e the ardour, nay the exultation of faith, and the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has warned us, it well befits us " At the balance to be itiute." Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally of levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of some men, to efface a name from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any step of inadvertency has i)een expiated by sorrow and retractation, but let fly their fulminatlons without mercy or prudence against slight offences or casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength to the enemies of truth. It nmst always be the condition of a great part of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument upon which the re- ligion of multitudes is necessarily foundexl." * In conclusion, let me adopt • Life of Sir Thomas Browne. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxvii • the beautiful sentiment of that illustrious moral poet of our own time, whose generous defence of Burns will be remembered while the lan- guage lasts ; — " I;et no mean hope your souls enslave-^ Be independent, generous, brave ; Your" Poet " such example gave, And such revere. But be admonished by liis grave. And think and fear." * It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- stances in many respects not unlike those of his hlstoi*y — the character of a man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- tion, a species of devout reverence, I mean when the grave had closed on him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, ih and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Byron, how broad the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could have equalled that which Burnss poetry, considered alongside of Burns's history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding? It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of mo.st men, to declaim against Burns's sensibility to the tangible cares and toils of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia- tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the great moral poet already quoted speaks in the following noble passage — and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a • Wordsworth's address to the sons of Burns, on visiting his grave in 1803. cxxviil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. spirit of pleasure wherever it can be found, — in the walks of nature, and in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the feHcities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer aspects of war ; nor does he slirink from the company of the pas- sion of love thougli immoderate — from convivial pleasure though intempe- rate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the hand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- minded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, Tam o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fre- quent as his opportunities. This reprol)ate sits down to his cups, while the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laugliter and jest thicken as the beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality — and, v/hile tliese various elements of humanity are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy- ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. " Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the il/s o' life victorious." " What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath- ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite skill the finer ties of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beings to practices productive of much unhappiness to themselves, and to those whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a salutary influence over the minds of those Mho are thus deplorably de- ceived." * That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and in the poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce far different effects. The universal popularity which his writings have all along enjoy- ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the Solway, and there is not a cottage-hut so poor and wretched as to be with- out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Books declined ? Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most of the country will • Wordsworth's Letter to Gr»y, p. 24, LIFE OF R0B£RT BURNS. cmax be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius and vh"tue would desire to hear them answered. On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had most powerful influence in reviving and strengthening the national feelings of his countrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the old minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined, that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that might lie smothered around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances of Scotland were, and had been, such as to starve the flame of patriotism ; the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ; and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be- gun to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the founder, and, alas ! in his own person as the martyr, of this reformation. That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the wealth of the nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all, the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear- ing itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with- out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, it had been purchased dearly. " The spring fire," Allan Cunningham says beautifully somewhere, " which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand song-birds ; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautiful things, only for that they were old and our own. It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began with a national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to make use of the dialect of his own country ; and how Moore, another most enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But a still more striking sign of the times is to be found in the style adopted by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen. In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some traits of a'^better kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it conveys is certainly a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce — Time out of mind the Soutlirons' mirthmakers— • the best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses- sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius, felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices of the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur amOng their own countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi- ment ; and on contrasting the state of things then with what is before us 19 CJOOC 'LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. how, it will cost no effort to appreciate the nature and consequences of the victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind to be surpassed. *' Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vit» to his dialect ;"— he gave it to more than his dialect. " He was," says a writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — " he was in many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him, but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest eminences, he had familiarly trodden from his childhood. All that world he felt could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro- vinces, and it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the ' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted to work ; but he has built monuments on all the high places, and they who follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * Dr. Currie says, that " i£ Jiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert, Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of Bums, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken /iction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but few of Burns's pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of ima- gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa- tisfy every reader of Halloween, the Jolly Beggars, and Tarn o Shantery {to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce s Address, Mac- pherson's Lament, &c.), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large- ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk, perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them- selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining, Tarjring, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings. Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air- drawn lines and technical slang-words, the elements and materials of poe- tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attempts that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely imaginative character. Fight who will about words and forms, " Burns's rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, I believe, the world at large are now-a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as BjTon's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that ever perplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert that that is poetry of the highest order, which exerts influence of the most powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind. Burns has been appreciated duly, and he has had the fortune to be prais- ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after him. To accu- " Blackwood's Magazine, February 1817. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxt mulate all that has been said of him, even by men like himseW, of the first order, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo- lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im- mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per- fect and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the materials in the world besides. " The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, fall short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any great work of fiction, may be partly traced to the cast of his genius, and partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe- rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What- ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion. There is always enough of interest in life to cherish the feelings of genius ; but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures, and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove- reign genius." * " Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in compiling and composing for musical collections. There is suificient evi- dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- ous task of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and twisting them into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo- lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste of his power and fancy in small and insignificant compositions, must neces- sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave or important task. Let no one suppose that we undervalue the songs of Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu- morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever displayed higher skill in marrying melody to immortal verse. But the writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and, above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition. To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject, which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce, while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English. The Scottish dialect would have rendered such a piece totally unfit for the stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha- racter of the gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of Burns. It would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which the manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded ; but this deficiency would have been more tlian supplied by a bard who could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of » • Specimens, vol. vU. 241. CJCXxii LIFE OP ROBERT BURNS. hero sustaining the desertion of friends, the persecution of cnertiies, and the utmost maHce of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, being partly laid in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite pathos, with which he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the inimitable tale ot Tarn d Shajiter, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com- bine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour- ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter- rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined with language and expression suited to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own &me, and to the honour of his country." The cantata of the Jolly Beggars, which was not printed at all until some time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of his works until within these few years, cannot be considered as it deserves, with- out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly- rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa- ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi- cal forms. Beggars Bush, and Beggars Opera, sink into tameness in the comparison ; and indeed, without profanity to the name of Shakspeare, it may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre- dominated over the outward shows of things — in which the sympathy- awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumphantly under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — That remarkable perform- ance, by the way, was an early production of the Mauchline period. I know nothing but the Tam o' Shunter tliat is calculated to convey so high an impression of what Burns might have done. As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, Mr. Campbell may not have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al- most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three-and-twenty to eight-and-thirty, M'ithout having thoroughly removed any pretext for au- guring unfavourably on that score, of what he niight have been expected lo produce in the more elaborate departments of his art, had his life been spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can- not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions, such as they were, of his later years. His generous spirit was open to the impression of every kind of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even what other peo- ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the general Burface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur* ^ and to hav^ be«n more iBtiiaidated than encouraged b/ the retrospect, LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxiil In most of the new departments in which he made 6ome trial of his strength, (such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the ?ieroic satire, &c.), he appears to have soon lost heart, and paused. There is indeed one magnificent exception in Tarn o Shanter — a piece which no one can under- stand without believing, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- tional tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly humour, and irresistible pathos of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- line M'it and sense of another Dryden. This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided But let us not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is Burns, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood ; which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene- rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness ;" * — a volume, in which, centuries hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest consolation of his exile — Already has Glory without end Scattered the clouds away ; and on that name attend The tears and praises of all time." -j- The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine- teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But a splendid mausoleum having been erected by public subscription on the most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so- lemnly transferred thither on the 8th June 1815; the original tombstone having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi- nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh The cut annexed to p. cxxxvi. exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the monument last mentioned. • See the Censura Litcraria of Sir Egerton Brydges, voL iL p. hb. •^ Loid Byaoa's Child Harold, Canto iv. 36. cxxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S MONUMENT IN DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. IN AETEKNUM HONOBEM ROBERTI BURNS POETABUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRINCIPIS CUJUS CAHMINA EXIMIA PATRIO SEBMONE SCBIFTA ANIMl MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUe INGENII QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA FACETIIS JUCUNDITATE LEPORE AFFLUENTIA OMNIBUS LITTEBARUM CULTORIBUS SATIS NOTA CrVES SUI NECNON PLEBIQUE OMNES MUSABUM AMANTISSIJU MEMOBIAMQUK VIRI ABTE POeXlCA TAM PBAECLABI FOVENTKS HOC MAUSOLEUM gUFEB BELIQUIAS POETAE MOBTALES EXTRUENDUM CUBAVEBE PBIMUM HUJUS AEDIFICn LAPIDEM GULIELMUS MILLER ABMIGEB REIPOBLICAE AJEICHITECTONICAE APUD 8C0T0S IN REGIONK AUSTBALI CUBIO MAXIMUS PBOVINCIALIS GEORGIO TEBTIO BEGNANTE GEOBGIO WALLIARUM PBINCIPK BUMMAM IMPERII PBO PATBE TENENTE JOSEPHO GASS ABMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PBAEFECTO THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ABCHITECTO P08UIT KONIS JUNHS ANNO LUCIS VMDCCCXV SALUTIS HUMANAE MJXJCCXV. ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. CXXXV The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a wide field for selection. — The elegiac verses by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpocd have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful life. ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But, ah ! what poet now shall tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! As green thy towering pines may grow. As clear thy streams may speed along. As bright thy summer suns may glow. As gaUy charm thy feathery throng ; But now, unheeded is the song. And dull and lifeless all around. For his wild harp lies all unstrung. And cold the hand that waked its sound. What though thy vigorous offspring rise, In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. And health in every feature dwell ? Yet who shall now their praises tell, In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, Since he no more the song shall swell To love, and liberty, and thee ? "With step-dame eye and frown severe His hapless youth why didst thou view ? For aU thy joys to him were dear. And all his vows to thee were due ; Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. In opening youth's delightful prime. Than when thy favouring ear he drew To listen to his chaunted rhyme. Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 'I'o him were all with rapture fraught ; He heard with joy the tempest rise That waked him to sublimer thought ; And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. Where wild-flowers pour'd their rathe per- And with sincere devotion brought To thee the summers earliest bloom. But ah ! no fond maternal smile His unprotected youth enjoy'd, His limbs inur'd to early toil. His days with early hardships tried { And more to mark the gloomy void, And bid him feel his misery. Before his infant eyes would glide Day-dreams of immortality. Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, Sunk with the evening sun to rest. And met at morn his earliest smile. Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile The powers of fancy came along. And sooth'd his lengthened hours of toil, 'V^''ith native wit and sprightly song. — Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, When vigorous health from labour springs, And bland contentment smooths the bed, And sleep his ready opiate brings; And hovering round on airy wings Float the light forms of young desire. That of unutterable things The soft and shadowy hope inspire. Now spells of mightier power prepare, Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. And Fame attract his vagrant glance; Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone. Till, lost in love's delirious trance, He scorns the joys his youth has known. Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, Expanding all the bloom of soul; And Mirth concentre all her rays. And point them from the sparkling bowl ; And let the careless moments roU In social pleasure unconfined. And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost springs of mind : cxxxvl ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.' And lead his steps those bowers among, Where elegance with splendour vies, Or Science bids her favour'd throng To more refined sensations rise : Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, And freed from each laborious strife, There let him learn tlie bliss to prize That waits the sons of polish'd life. Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high With every impulse of delight. Dash from his lips the cup of joy, And shroud the scene in shades of night ; And let Despair, with wizard light. Disclose tlie yawning gulf below, And pour incessant on his sight Her spectred Dls and shapes of woe : And show beneath a cheerless shed. With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, In silent grief where droops her head, The partner of his early joys ; And let his infants' tender criei His fond parental succour claim, And bid him hear in agonies A husband's and a father's name. 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds • His high reluctant spirit bends ; In bitterness of soul he bleeds. Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot laugh the welkin rends As genius thus degraded lies ; Till pitying Heaven the veil extends That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. — Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour tliy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But never more shall poet tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. That ever breathed the soothing strain. CHARACTER or BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS, MRS. RroDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.* Thk attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with the loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or of anticipating on the province of a biographer. Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I should have , continued wholly silent, had misrepi'esentation and calumny been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- nicate. It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, and considered, with reference to his poetical talents only : for the fact is, even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person- ally acquainted with him) w^s actually not \ns forte. Many others, per- haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I • MTi.'Rlddell knew the poet well ; she had every opportunity for obscr\'ation of what he said and ilid, a* well as of what waj said of him and done towards lum. Her beautifully written Rlo^, — friendly yet candid, ^was well received and generally circulated at the time. It has bcim inserted by Dr. Currle in his several •dilioni, M interesting fronn its elegance, and authoritative from the writer's accurate iDfoniuUba; we hari tbOtcfOK most readily gWen it a place hetc 20 cxxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo- quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant repar- tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the * vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments were perfectly correspon- dent to the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action, energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that polish, acquired only m the refinement of societies where in early life he could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist- ible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ- ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough exercises of Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea- tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated expressions of countenance were almost peculiar 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 superiori- ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason- ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of sa- tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for though nature had endowed liim with a portion of the most pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness of humour, that " unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the ca- price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit, (which is no unusual mat- ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon mot, from a dread of offending 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 too severely dealt with for being rather deficient in it. He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. " 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic," to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that " for every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ;" but much allowance will be made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis- tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper was indeed checked by almost habitual 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, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re- treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them- selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of decided enmity : for he possessed none of that negative insipidity of cha- CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxxxix racter, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent- ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, the temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledg- ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, where he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap- preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- guished. It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good hater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by their versatilit3^ He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his engagements of friendship. Much indeed has been said about his incon- stancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they originated less in a levity of sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as- cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avoioal was a reparation. His native 7?erfe never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable 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 ot flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tri- bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the powers of this extraordinary man had invariably 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 inte- rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and 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 and arranged them, speak sufficiently for themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in the ranks of society thmi that of » peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a Cxl CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. 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 station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony, Hig only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; * and our poet's eldest son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi- gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the loom, f That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla- tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him, might readily be convinced. I have indeed seldom observed him to be at a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan- guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be mas- ter of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vincit amor ; a sentence that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas- sic erudition extended little, if any, farther. The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea- sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen- sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he shewed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi- ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or 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 feelings he lias 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 Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? I will not however undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never was free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea- sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had con- tinued very stationary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due re- gard to the decorums of the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though there I cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit, are more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi- " The fate of this worthy man is noticed at p. 302, wliere will be found a deserved tribute to his memory, (for he, too, alas I is gone), from the pen of a friend. + The plan of breeding the poet's eldest son a manufacturer was given up. He has been placed in one of the public offices (the Stamp-Office) in London, where he continues to fill respectably a respectable situation. His striking likeness to the poet bas been often ie« Duuked* CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxli Ocrity. It is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un- bounded, 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 animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva- riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginarior which scorns the narrew limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved a source of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, Bur^.'^ made his own artless apology in language more impressive than all the argumentatory vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the " tutelary muse," who concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, with these lines : " I saw thy pulse's niadd'ning 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 have already transgressed beyond the bound's I haa proposed to my- self, on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and cha- racter : a literary critique I do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in these pages 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 the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang ai-ound his cottage, to that enviable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled. From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public prints, ever since the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri- vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhaust- ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest fame will be perma- nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it will be found he has merited by the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And where a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in- terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the tribunal which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — " Where they alike in trembling hope repose, — The bosom of his father and his God." Gray's Eleqy. Armandale, August 7, 1796. " Vide the Vision— Duan 2d, PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil, To the author of this, these and other celebrated names their countrymen are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. — Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were com- posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is tame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding liis nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine ele- gies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word (/enitcs, the author tells him once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his pubUshing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre below the worst jBpacter, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to^R genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his »ye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. cxHv PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. To his subscribers, the autlior returns his most sincere thanks : Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- tifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom- to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- lowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non- sense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condimned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. • .•n^K HAIKOaSJAO 5HT OT KOITAOIGHa Utb 45e.*t?y5 J?or?ofi sffj ^sw t«yTM'»R9fiT !)f?cf hnc n»m Ijsa* 'ic «^rfIlJfi<^f srfl jfjlTf •; a.'iJnV' 'moT 7 hh'-jjja HJ70'^ haiulfii 'to «a9n?i;a /? Vft.'fi fins ; 0'»nfjl"g }nf;njj;ijrii li.': liiriiJI im)V is Jl.u -'ii uoijq'Jiioci v£,M I mi. iSljUiilfiTg !?.o'ro'.v •.':.''/V N9Jg,S J|E^ J^-D: ^GENTLEMEN ,}nn-r:o3 oiJaiuiI boiovoj;) i^icni -auo? OB THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. ^y LonDS and Gentlemen, A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country's service — where shall he so properly look for patron- age as to the illustrious names of his Native Land ; those who bear the ho- nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? Tlie Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She whis- pered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that ho- nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do 1 present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours : I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the com- mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell Juc world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liber^M|n the last place, I come to prefer my warmest wishea to the Great Foi^Hf of Honoui*, the Monarch of the Universe, for your weliare and happiness. When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await your rctvurn : When harassed in courts or campi clxv! DEDICATION TO THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. >vith the jostlingg of bad men and bad mea?urcs, may the honest consci* ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and niay Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrin.k at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness iu the People, equally find an inexorable foe! I have tjji^-^^i^ur to be, With the sincerest gratitude, Your moet devoted humble servant, Edinburgh, ) anT MO ROBERT BURNS April 4, 1787. f .XXIHI VIAIKOQaJAD OJ zl noijidma izoil-ghl ozodir bnn ,9fnca 9r[l Ho huoiq ,h'ic?I ilaiJJooB A -noiJcq ml jIooI •^haqo'iq 02 od llnda oioflw- — ooivioa a'^ciJnuoD aid ni gnla -od odj mod od7/08odi ;hns:J. oviicH aidlo zsnifln zuohuidi'i odi oJ zn oga lo euiflbt) oiJoo*! odT 1 8-ro3aoanA thtli lo eonJilv oilJ Jiioilni bn/j ztuoa adJ ic — cdail!! bib Aii\il3i b-icd oiJodqoiq orl) zs t^m b[iu6\ \-tiauoO vm oifj gnia orn sbsd 3d8 .om lovo sliawrn ^niiiqani lod v/o'idj bnc ; dguolq (m ni .lioa oviJcn vm lo 39iLf2coIq Icim bnc zonooz Icwf odt t2Xo|. oih ,8ovoi -8id\w 0(13— .baiiqanx gds gij ,80ion- gaabiB ,bli'v ■^m bomuJ I ; ongnoi ovijen Xm \!d bna .cinobaliiD lo giloqoitoM jnoionn »:JrIJ oJ omoo oi ,ofn boioq ^oliiJoib 19x1 v9do v/oa I : noijooJo'iq baiiionoxl ixjo'{ lobrm 2gno2 \m tuo^ dDSoiqqs Jorr ob I ,33Dnboo^ luo'^ oJ boJdobni donm dgi/odT loTt 00^ dnfidj o) ^rroiinoibsb 'lo ol-^Ja Ifiuan sdi ni ^nomoIinoO bnr> ?.bioJ •od ladi f^ftimxjol bojuliisofq vd bo'{on:{ocd oa ?.i dJeq icdJ ; ziuo/i'A Jacq «iIj dli-w aaaiijhA aidJ inoaoiq I ob -loVi ,1i I0 bomfiflas ai xihti?.u-i Jaon : eiuoYBi oaodJlo nohGunijnoo s lo't ^jniilool ,TodiuA olivioa c'lo luoa Ir,ri9V nioD od) micfD oJ ornoD I .Jnobrtoqabrd mn bnc .dj>uoM oil) 0} bjtd zn^t I s».i. II9J 01 bac ; narn^(nlnuoD auoiiJauIIi \m ,uo^ ih'rn omen daiJJooS norrt Jfldj j-^^iJnuo') ^^m oJchjimgnoo oJ omoo 1 .ohiJ odj ni ^lolg I Jcih Lhow moil 3Kdi boa ; b^innhnnUto-jais zciui IfiJa aootod Jrtoionn laiHo booH odl ,noiJ3oJoiq Joaqxo ^crri 01I2/ .jiiiqa-oiWuq bun ,o^h jly/o n:i jO^amuo:? luo^ *3d2iw Jaonnfiw ^^m viioiq oJ omoo I ,90filq J?r.f odJ ^^jj^iodil hnB ,^IjIi39W 100^ 10I ,92iavin'J ash lo xbisnol/l oiLi ,-iijoiioH 'to ^^nio'i JnoiO adi oJ .^niqqcd bae oiiillow eJiiooval bnn Jnoions odJ ni .aoodowT odi noilnv^n ol rlJiol 05 uo^ a^tV'f/ bna ; ^lisq loo^ lo od lovo oiuacjl^l Nrcm .ziodidloidi tuox lo Jnom9anfna aqaxio lo *J-ix;oo ni baaajsixul xiariV/^ : muJoi •incj iLbwp >(ol» Ifiioo2 ^eot POETRY. imwn POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS: A TALE. 'TwAS in that' place o' Scotland's isle. That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, "\STien 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 mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, "Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Show'd him the gentleman and scholar : But tho' he was o' high degree. The fient a pride na pride had he ; But wad hae spent cm. hour caressin', Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie. Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. The tlther was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, "Wha for his fi-j^ud an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. After some dog in Highland sang,* Was made lang sync — Lord knows how laug. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his towzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy plack ; His gawcie tail, wi' upwaro'curl, Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurl. v.CuchuUln's dog In Ossian't Fingal. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; Wi' social noise whyles snuflf d and snowkit ; Whyles mice and mowdieworts they howkit ; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, An' wony'd ither in diversion ; Until wi' daflfin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression, About the lords o' the creation, C^SAR. I've often wonder'd honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you navs ; An' when the gentry's hfe I saw, What way poor bodies lived ava. Our Laird gets in his racked rents. His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : He rises when he lilies himsel' j His flunkies answer at the bell } He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; He draws a bonnie silken purse. As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling^ At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin', Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright waetrie. 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 painch in, I own its past ray comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fash't eneugk A cotter howkin in a i*heugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. Baring a quarry, and sic like. Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A sniytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg; to keep Them righf and tight in thack an' rape. 21 BURNS' WORKS. An' when tliey meet wi' lair disasters, Like lots o' health, or want of maaten, Ye maiit wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How hufiPd, and cufTd, and disrespeckit ! L— d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, As I wad by a stinking brock. I'tc notic'd on our Laird's court day An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, Haw they maun thole a factor's snash ; He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun stan', wi* aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches. LUATH. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; Tbo' constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, The view o't gi'es them little fright. Then chance an* fortune are sae guide;!. They're aye in less or mair provided ; An' tho* fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o* rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives. Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; The prattlin things are just their pride That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy ; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State aifairs : They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, They get the jovial, rantin' kirns. When rural life, o' every station. Unite in common recreation : Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's Care upo' the sarth. That merry day the year begins. They bar the door on frosty winds ; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin* mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will : The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. The young anes rantin' thro' the house,- My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae sud, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. Are riven out baith root and branch. Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himself the &ster In favours wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin'. For Britain's guid his saul indentin'— • Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : For Britain's guid ! — guid faith, I doubt it \ Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' sayin' aye or no's they bid him : At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft. To mak a tour, and tak a whirl. To learn bon ton and see the worl' There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails ! Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtles : Then bouses drumly German water. To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love gifts of Carnival signoras. For Jiritain's guid ! — for her destruction ! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction, LUAXH. Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gat« They waste sae mony a braw estate ! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last ! O would they stay aback frae courts,' An' please themselves wi' countra sports, It wad for every ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! For thae frank, rantin', ramblin* billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; Except for breakin' o' their timmer, Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me. Master Casar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The very thought o't need na fear them. POEMS. L — J, xasm, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges an' schools, That when nae real ills perplex them. They mak enow theraselves to vex them. An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them ; A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's riglit eneugh ; A country girl at her wheel. Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' cv'ndown want o' wark are curst. Thev 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' race=, Their gallopin' through public places. There's sic parade, sic ponip, 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 wh-ring, Neist day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ithcr, Thev're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, rhey sip the scandal potion pietty ; Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman ; But this is Gentry's life in common. By this the sun was out o' sight : An' darker gloaming brought the night ; The hum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kve stood rowtin' i' the loan : When up they gat an shook their lugs, Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ; And each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong; tirink, until he wink, That's sinkuig in despair ; An' liquor guid to Gre his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care ; There let him bouse, and deep carouec Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. SoUmion's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. Let other poets raise a fracas, 'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Sacchiu, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scots hear can mak us, In glass or jug. O Thou, my Muse.' guid auld Scotch Drink Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem. Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name. Let husky '\^Tieat the haughs adorn, And Aits set up their awnie horn, An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn. Perfume the plain, Lccze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain ! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wail 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 warac, 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' doited Lear ; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair ; At's weary toil ; Thou cvenirightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy silver weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; Yet humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts ; But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspir'd. When gaping they besiege the tents. Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! Or reekin' on a New-year morning In cog or bicker BURNS' WORKS. An' juit t WM drap ip'iitual bum in, An' gusty sucker ! When Vulcan gies liis'bellows breath, An' ploughinen gather wi' their graith, O rare ! to see the fizz an' freath I' the lugget caup ! Then Hvrnervin * comes on like death At ev'ry chaup. Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; The hrawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel'. Brings hard owrehi)), wl' sturdy wheel, The strong fnrehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weaiiies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight, Wue worth the name ! Nae howdie gets a social night. Or pluck frae thom. When neebours anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be. How easy can the harleij bree Cement the quarrel ; It'» aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste tlie barrel. Alake ! that d'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; But mony daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price, Wae worth that hrandi/, burning trash, Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunktn ha'^h, O' half his days ; An' Bends, beside, auld Scotland's c;ish To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! Ye chief, to you ray tale I tell. Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench. An* gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi* a glunch O' sour disdain, ' Out owre a glass o' ivhisktf punch Wi' honest men. O Whiskt^ ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bai'die's humble thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! • Bi»m«(^n— Bum-WMt'mii— the blacksmith- (tppropriata title. Thou comes- >they rattle i' their rankl At ither's a — ■ ! Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! Now colic grips, and barkin hoast, . iMay kill us a' ; For loyal Forbes' chartered boast Is ta'en awa' ! Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, Wha mak the Whisky Steils their prize ! Hand up thy han', Djil ! ance, twice, thrice ! There, seize the blinkers ! An' bake them up in brunstane pies Tor poor d — n'd drinkers. Fortune ! if tliou'Il but gic me still Hale bretks, a scone, an' M'hi^fit/ pill, An' rowth o' rhyme to lave at will, Tak a' the rest, An' dc;0't abuut as thy blind skill Directs thee best. TliE AUTIIOU S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYP:R» TO Til". SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THK • HOUSE OF COMMONS. Dearest of Distillation ! last and best—— How art thou lost ! Parody on Milton. Ye Irish Lords, \c Knights an' Squires, Wha repreaait our brughs an' shires, And doucely manage our aflairs In parliament, To you a simple Poets ])rayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce To see her sittin' on her a — Low i' the dust. An' screichin* out prosaic verse, An' like to brust ! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' ine's in great ai&iction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On Aquavita ; An' rouee them up to strong conviction An' move their pity. • This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786 ; for which Scotland aiu) the Author retUm their most grateful thanks, POEMS. Stav forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The h • est, .open, naked truth : Tell hi 1 o' mine and Scotland's drouth, His servants humble : The mi kle devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble ! Does my great man glunch an' gloon\ ! Speak '.••.t, ail' never fash your thumb : Let pos:.- an' pensions sink or soora Wi' them wha grant 'em If honest y they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gat :•. 'ring votes you were na slack ; Now star 'I as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er claw your lug, an fidge your back. An' hum an" haw ; But raise i our arm, an' tell your crack Before them a' Paint S. otland greeting owre her thrissle ; Her mutch < n stoup as toom's a whisslc ; An' d-mn'(i Kxcisemen in a bussle. Seizin' a steU, Triumphant rushin't like a mussel. Or lampit shell. Then on th. tither hand present her, A blackguard 'smuggler right behint her. An' cheek-for-ciiow, a chuffie Vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouji-. as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's s.'uid rising hot. To see his poor auld .vHther's pot 'j'bus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hi.'flmost groat By '^- 'lows knaves ? Alas ! I'm but a namele?'. wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sigl.r. ! But could I like Montgomeriei 6ght, Or gab \\ki Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad (iraw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honours, can ye see't, The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet. An gar them bear is, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. Ye winnd bear it ! Some o' you nicely ken the \a.v/i, To round the period an' pause, An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To raak harangues ; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; • Sir .\dam Ferguson. ;^n' that glib-gabbet Highland BaroC, The Laird o' Graham ;• An' anc, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, Dandas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; An' Livingitone, the bauld Sir Willie ; An' mony ithers. Whom auld Demosthenes or TuUy . Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang. This wliile she's been in canc'rous mood. Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pUskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her Whisky. An' L — d if ance they pit her till't. Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. An' durk an' pistol at her belt. She'll tak the Etreets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, r the first she meets ! For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her f«Vi An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed. An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' kar. To gec remead. Yon iU-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; But gic him't het, my hsarty cocks ! E'en CO we the caddie An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock's, I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnockij\ Nine times a week. If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition. Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung ; • The present Duke of Montrose (1800.) t A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Maueh. line, where he sometimes studies Politic! over B glai* of guid auld Scotch Drink. BURNS* WORKS. An' if the promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho* by the neck she should be strung, She'll DO desert. An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, May still your Mithcr's heart support ye : Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'Il snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. Before his face. God bless your Honours a' your days, Wi' soujis o' kail and biats o' claise, In spite o* a' the thievish kaes That haunt St Jumie'i ! Your humble poet sintjs an' jjrays While Hub his name is. Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam ; {Freedom and Wliishy gang thegither !) Tak aff your dram ! POSTSCRIPT. Let half-stai^'d slaves, in warmer skies See future wines, rii-h cltist'riiig rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But l>lithe and frisky. She eyes her freeborn martial boys. Tak aff their Whisky. What tho' their Phabus kinder warms. While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! "When ■v/retches range, in famish'd swarms. The scented groves. Or hounaed forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; They downa bide the sfmk o' pouther ; Their bauldest thought's a honk'rlng swither To Stan' or rin. Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwiher. To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman fiat his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's tlie foe, He bas nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; An' when he fa's. His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek. An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season ; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho* wbylw ye moistify youi leather, THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of soemin!; truth and trust Hill eraftv Observation; And secret hnoK wilh poison 'd crust, The (iirk of Defamation : A loavk thai liUf the );— AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; There'll be, it" that day come, I'll wad a boddlc. Some fewer wbigmaleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little meosei Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o* modern time ? There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat stream, * Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter. But twa-three v.-inters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'crflow the plains ; V/hen from the hills where springs the brawl* iug Coil, Or stately Lugai-'s mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. Or haunted Garpal f draws his feeble source. * A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. f The banks oi Garpal fVaUr is one of the few places \2 BURNS' WORKS. Arous'd by blust'nng winds and spotting thowcs. In mony a torrent down his siia-broo rowcs ; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, au' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate • And from Ohnhuck* down to the Hutlon Jity,-f Auld At/r is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never i-ise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies, A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-alluiiug cd luces. Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting rools fantastic, stony groves ; Windows and tlooi's, in nameless sculpture drest. With order, symnu'try, or tasto niiblest ; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshij)p'd on the bended knee. And still the second ilrend ccinmand be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any m:isoii, reptile, biitl, or beast ; Fit only for a duitcd i\Fniiki?:h race. Or frosty mil ids foisw6rn the dear embrace. Or cuilii of later timea, wha held the notion That sullcu gloom v/us sterling true devotion ; Fancies that our guid Drugh denies protection. And soon may triey e>;piie, uvdjicst with re- Burrectibn ! AULiD Br.:c. O ye, my dear-remeiuber'd ancient yealiiigs, Were ye but here lo share my wounded feelings ! Ye worthy Provines, aa' r.iony a slaiiie, Whain the paths o* righ.teousnessdid toil aye ; Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; Ye godly Cuuiicils wha hac blest this town ; Ye godly .Brethren of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the smiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 'Weie )e but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vex- ation. To see each melancholy alteration ; in the West of .Scotland, where tliose faney-scarinE; be- ings, known by the name of G/mists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. • The soursc of the river Ayr. t A small landing-place above the large key. And agonizing, cur.so the time and place When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! Nae langer Rcv'rend Men, their country's ' glory, In plain ■ braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house : But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herrymcnt and ruin of the country ; Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- bers, Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d d 7tew Sri(;s and Harbours ! NEMT BRIG. Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said enough, And ir-uckle raair than ye can mak to through, As for yotir Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Chrijy are a shot right kittle : But, under favour o' your langer beard. Abuse o' IWagistrates might weel be spared : To liken them to your auld warld squad, I must needs say comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Coimcil waddles down the street In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins. Or gather'd lib'ral views iu Bonds and Seisins. If haply Knowledge, on 'a random tramp. Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp. And would to Commou-,'?ense, for once betrayed them, Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly iu to aid them. What farther clishmaclaver might been said, '\^^lat bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to sl;ed. No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adowu the gljtt'ring stream they featly danced : Bright to the »moon their various dresses glanced : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had JiPLauchlin,* thairm-inspiring sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys they boro 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 uobkr fir'd. And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! • A well known performer of Scottish miuic on the violin. POEMS. ts No guess could tell what instrament appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable chief advanced in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; Then, crown'd with flo^'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : AJl-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding com; Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show. By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; Next foUow'd Courage with his martial stride. From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Worth iu equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a ha/el wreath. To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- ling wrath. THE ORDINATION. tor sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n— To please the Mob tliey hide the little giv'n. L Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge an' claw, An' pour your crecshie nations ; An* ye wha leather rax au' draw. Of a' denominations. Swith to the Laigh Kirk, aiie an' a', An' there tak up your stations ; Then afF to Seglie's in a rav.-, An' pour divine libations For joy this day. n. Curst Common- sense, that imp o' liel!. Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;« But O aft made ht-r yell. An' R sair inisca'd Hlm- ; Tliis day, M' takes the flail, An' he's the bov will blaud her ! * Alluding to a seofTing baJLid which was made on •he admission of the late Itevej-end and worthy Mr. L. to the Laigh Kirk, He'U clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her V/i' dirt this day. in. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; O' double verse come gie us four. An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For heresy is in her power. And gloriously she'll whang her Wi* pith this day. IV. Come let a proper text be read, An' touch it afi" wi' vigour. How graceless Ham * leugh at his Dad, Which made Canaan a niger ; Or Phineasf drove the murdering blade, Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah, ^ the Ecaulding jade, Was like a bluidy tiger r 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 ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin', Spare them nae day. VI. Now aidd Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owTC the dale Because thy pasture's scanty j For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, A a' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, No gi'eii by v.'ay o' dainty, But ilka day. VIL Nae mair by JBabel's streams we'll weep, To think upon Our Zion ; An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep, An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; Oh, rare ! to sec our elbucks wheep, An' a like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fiist this day. VIIL Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. Has shored the Kirk's tmdoin', * Genesis, ch. ix. vcr. 22. \ Numbers, ch. .ixv. ver. 8. j E.xcdus, ch.lv, ver. il!o< 14 BURNS' WORKS. At lately Fenwick, sair forfaim, Has proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin' ; An' like a Rodly elect bairn, He's wal'd us out a true anc, An' sound this dov Now R- IX. harangue nae niair, But steek your gab for ever ; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever ; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver ; Or to the Ntthertim repair, An' turn a carper weaver Aff hand this day. M- X. and you were just a mutch. We never had sic twa drones ; Auld Hornie did the Zaifjh Kirk watc'.i. Just like a winkin' baudrons : An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch. To fry them in his cauilrons : But now his honour maun detach, Vf'i a' his brimstone squadrons. Fast, fast, this day. xr. See, soc auld Orthodoxy's f.ies, She's swingein' thron2;h the city ; Hark how the nine-tail'd cat ihe plays ! I vow it's imco pretty : There, Learning, wi' his Greeki^li face, Grunts out some Latin ditty : An* Common-sense is gaun, she says, To -mak to Jamie lieatti'e Her plaint tins d.i\-. xn. 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 pcelin' onions ! Now there — they're packed aff to hell, An' banish'd our dominions. Henceforth this day. XHL O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae raair find quarter : M' , R > are the boys. That heresy can torture : They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, An* cowe her measure shorter By the head some day. XIV. Come bring the tither mutchkin in, An' here's for a conclusion. To every New Lipht * mother's son, From this time forth. Confusion : If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll li;j;Ut a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, We'll rin them afi" in fusion Like oil, some day. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. On Ills Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. " And they sliall go forth, aud grow up, like calves of the staJl.' Right Siti I your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh ; For iii'^fance ; thcr^-'s yoursel' just now, God knows, an unco Calf! An' should some Patron be so kind, A.s bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt iiac. Sir, but then we'll find, Ye' re still as great a Stirk. But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot. Forbid it, evrry heavenly Power, You e'er should be a Stol ! Thd', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your l)ut-anc|-ben adorns, The lil;e h;is l);'en tint you may wear A u()l;lo licat! of liiirns. And in your !»<];, most reverend James, 'i'o hear you roar and rowtc, Ft-.v men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank ainaug the mnvic. And when ye'je numbcr'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, i Wi* justice they may mark your head — ' Here lies a famous Bvllock /' ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince! O Cliief ofmany throned Power's, Tliat led th' eiiibiillled Seraphim tov/ar Milton^ O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, Aidd Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie. To s(taud pool- wretches . Hear me, auld Hanpie, for a wee. An' let poor damned bodies be; • New r.iff/it is a cant phrase in the West of Scot, land, ("(ir those lelijjious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. POEMS. 15 I'm sufe sma' pleasure it Can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel ! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; Far kend and noted is thy name ; An* the' 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' j Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', Tirling the kirks ; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, la lanely glens you like to stray ; Or where auld riiin'd castles gray, Nod to the moon, Ye firight the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! Wi' eerie drone ; Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night. The stars shot down wi' sklentin' 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 bristl'd hair stood like a stake. When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick— Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. On whistling wings. Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell bow wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muii's, 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 yellow treasure's ta'en By witching skill ; An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane As yell's the Bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse. On young Guidmen, 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. ■\Vhen thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float thejinglin' 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', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When Masons^ mystic word an' ffrip. In storms an' tempests raise you up. Some cock or cat your rage maun stop. Or, strange to tell ! The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell ! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. An' all the soul of love they shar'd. The raptur'd 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 rcestit gizz. Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke ? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o* house an' hall. While scabs and blotches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw. An' lowsed his ill tongucd wicked Scawl, Was warst ava ? But a' your doings to rehearse. Your wily snares an' fechtin' tierce, Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce, Down to this time. Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, lu prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin* A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin', To your black pit j Vide Milton, book ■¥!. It BURNS' WORKS. But, faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinltin', And clieat you yet. But, fare ye woel, auld Nichie-len! O wad yc tak a thought and men' ! Ye aihlins might — I diuna ken- — ■ Siill li;ie a stake — I'm wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake ! DEATH AND DYING WORDS ov I^OOR MAI LIE, THE AUtllOR'S ON'LY PET YOV/E. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. As Mailie, ail' her luniijs thc;.;!;'.-..--, Were ae day nihbHnc; on tic to'li-".'. Upon her elont slle coost a hitch. An' owio slie warsled in the ditch ;- There, gwanina:, dyitig:,-she did ],■, When Hut]/i(X^ hit cause doytin by. Wi' s;lovi'yin' oca, and lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : He saw her days wei'e r.eai'-hand ontied, But, wae's my heart 1 ha could na mend It ! He gaped wide, but naethiug spal: ! At length poor jMallie silence brak. ' O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my Master dear. ' Tell him, if e'er ajain he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them maiv Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or liair ! But ca' them out to park or hill. An' let them wander at their \vi;l : So may his flock inctcase, an' grow To scores o' lambs, an' paclts o' v.oo' ! ' Tell him, he was a ma-^ter kin', An' aye was guid to nie an' mine : An' now my dying charge I gie Inm, 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 feud themsel' ; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips" o' corn. ' An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets I To slink thro* slaps, an' reave an' steal, At stacks o' pease, or stocks o* kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For mony a year come thro* the sheers : So wives will gie them bits o' bread, , An' bairns greet for them when they're ,deaj. ' My poor toop-lamh, my son an' heir, bid him breed him up wi' care ! An' if he live to be a beast. To pit some havins in his breast ! An' warn him, what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowes at hanie ; , ;. An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes, ' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether stricg ■ O, may tlicu ne'er forgather m|> Wi' ony blastit moorland toop ; , Hut aye keep mind to moop an' mell AVi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! ' PlvH now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 1 lea'e my blessin' wi' yon baith ; An' when you think upo' your .mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anithfer." ' Now, honest Iliinliac, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale ; An' bid him burn this cursed tether. An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor ?rIaiUe tui'u'd her head, A.ud closed her ecu amausr the dead. ♦ A neebor herd-callan. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down youi; niise ; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; Poor Mailie's dead ! It's no the lo)Y An' jee ! the dooi g<-.ed to the wa' ; An' by my ing'--;-' .i«.di^h Hizzie braw. Come full in sight. Ys nw/- p-i doubt, I held my whisht Tta ii'"»"(.i lajs , conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Or tore, with noble afdour stung, Craigic, who died of his wounds after the actio;i. II Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the districr of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradi- tion says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of CoiUfield, where his burial-place is still shown. ^ Barskimming, the seat ot tl»e late Lord Justice Clerk. •• Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor Stewart. • Cobncl Fullarton, ' Hence Fullarton, the bravo and young ; Tiie sceptic s bays. ' To lower orders arc assign'd The humbler ranks of human-kind. 22 BURNS' WORKS. rhe rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, The Artisan ; All choose, as various they're inclin'd. The various man. ' When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some strongly reiu; Some teach to meliorate the plain, With tillage skill ; And some instruct the shepheid-train. Blithe o'er the hill. ' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, For humlile gains, And make his cottage scenes beguile His cares and pains. ' Some bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race. To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic Sard ; 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 caroU'd, chiming phrase. In uncouth rhymes, Fired at the simple, artless lays Of other times. ' I saw thee seek the sounding shore. Delighted with the dashing roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove thro' the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ' Or when the deep-green mantled earth W»rm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. ' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, I taw thee leave their ev'ning joys. And lonely stalk. To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. ' ' When yonthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th* adored iVame, I taught thcc how tci pour in song, To soothe thy flame. ' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way. Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. By Passion driven ; But yet the lir/ht that led astray Was lir;ht from heaven. ' I taught thv manners-painting strains. The loves, the ways of simple swains Till now, o'er all my wide domains Tliy fame extends ; And sonic, the pridi' of Coila's plains, Become thy friends. ' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Slienstoyie^s art ; Or pour, with Grcnj, 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 murniur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; And trust me, not Potosi's mine, Nor king's regard. Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, A rustic Bard. ' To give my counsels all in one. Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect ; And trust the Universal plan Will all protect. ' And wear thou this,'-—%hs solemn said, And bound the Holly round ray head ; The polish'd leaves, and berries red. Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ADDRESS TO THE UNCOGUID OR THB RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. My son, these maxims make a rule. And lump them aye thegither [ The Rigid Rigtiteoui is a fool, Tlve Rigid ffr%te anitbei j ,.. POEMS. S3 The cleanest com that ifet was dight May hae some py le* o' cafl" in ; Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' dafBn.— Solomon.— E.cdei. ch. vli. yer. 16. O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious an' 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 heapit 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 door For glaikit Folly's portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. III. Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, An' shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard. What maks the mighty differ ? Discount what scant occasion gave. That purity ye pride in. An* (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop. What ragings must his veins convulse. That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. Right on ye scud your sea-way ; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It maks an xmco lee-way. See social life and glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking. Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown Debauchery and drinking : O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences ; Or your more dreaded hell to state. Damnation of expenses ! VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces. Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inciinatipn — But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblios nae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennia wrong, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows e&ch chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mate^ We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. An honest man's the noblest work of God.— jPojm. Has auld K — seen the Deil ! Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? Or R ^ again grown weel To preach an' read ? ' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, * Tarn Sainton's dead ! K lang may grunt an* grane. An* sigh, an* sab, an' greet her lane. An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean. In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane. Tarn Samson's dead The brethren of the mystic level. May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead ! Death's gien the lodge an unco devel. 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 ? Tarn Samson*s dead ! He was the king o' a' the core. To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, • When this worthy old sportsman went out Itot muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- dent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil> lion, yide the Ordination, Stanza II. X Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For hiffl see abo tiu Or» dinatjon, Stanw IX. n BURNS' WORKS, Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, In time o* need ; But now he lags on death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp'd wi* crimson hail. And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, Tam Samson dead ! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, ■ Withouten dread ; Your mortal fae is now awa*, Tam Samson's dead • That waefu* mom be ever mourn'd, Saw him in shootin' gi-aith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed ! But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! Tam Samson's dead ! In Tain avid age his body batters ; In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns came down like waters, An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Tam Samson's dead ! Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, An' aye the tither shot he thumpit. Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi* deadly feide ; Now he proclaims wi* tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson's dead ! When at his heart he felt the dagger. He reel'd his v/onted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; .' L— d, five !* he cry'd, an' owre did stagger : Tam Samson's dead I Hk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; nk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Alarks out his head, Whare Bums has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead ! There low he lies, in lasting rest : Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed ; Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead ! Wlien August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave. Three volleys let his mem'ry crave O' pouther an' lead. Till Echo answer frae her cave, TanA Samson's dead ! Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! Is th' wish o' mony mac than me : He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man, want we : Tam Samson's dead ! THE EPITAPH. Tasi Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, Ye canting zealots, spare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'U mend or ye woa near him. PER CONTRA. Go, Fame; and canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o* Killie," Tell every social, honest billie, To f ease his grievin , For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg guUie, Tam Samson's JivitC HALLOWEEN, t [Tbb following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give soine account of the jirincipal charms and spells of that night, so big with propliecy to the pea- santry in the West of Scotland. The passion of pr)'. ing into futurity makes astriliing part of the history of human nature in its ri'de 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 a mong the more unenlightened in our own.] Ves ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. The simple i)lcasures of the lowiv train ; To me more dear, congenial to riiy heart. One native eharm, than all the gloss of art. Chldsmith. I. Upon that night, when fairies light, On Cassilis Downans \ dance. Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance ; Or for Cohan the route is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams ! » Kill'te is a phrase the country iblks sometirae.s us« for KilmarnocK. t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful midnight crr.mds: particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, axa said on that night to hold a grand anniversary. X Certain little romantic, locky, green hill^, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cai. suis. POEMS. 25 There, up the cove,* to stray an* rove Amang the rocks and streams, To sport that night II. Amang tte bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplia', clear, Where Bruce f ance rul'd the martial ranks An' shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' hand their Halloween Fn' blithe that night, III. The lasses fe'at, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when thd^r fine ; Their faces blithe, fn' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' M-arm, au' kin' : The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-balx, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, an' some wi' jia' ■. Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whyles fast at night. l\. 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 foil aff the drift. An' wander'd thro' the how-kail, An' pou't, for want o' better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow't that night. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; The vera wee things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste tliera ; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them To lie that night. • A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country siory for being a favourite haunt for fairies. fThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. t 1 he first ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first thev meet with ! Its being big or little, straight, or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shapo of the grand object of all their spells — the husband or wife. Jf any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition l.astly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary ap- gellation, the runts, are placed somewhere abo\e the ead of the door; and the Christian names of ihe peo- ple whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the rujtti, the names in ques- tian. VI. The lasses staw firae 'mang them a* To pou their stalks o' com ; * But Rab slips out, and jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn : He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud sklrl'd a' the lasses ; But her tap-pickh maist was lost, When kiuttlin' in the fause-house-| Wi' him that night, VII. The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nit$\ 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' jV::ip out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night. VIII. Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; But this is Jock, an' this is me. She says in to herscl' : He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, As they wad never mair part ; Till fuff ! he started up the lum, An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that night. IX. Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt. Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be conipar'd to Willie : Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. An' her ain fit it brunt it ; While Willie lap, and swoor hy jing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. X. Nell had the fause-house in her min', She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; In loving bleeze they sweetly join. Till white in ase they're sobbin' : Nell's heart was dancin' at the view. She whisper'd Rob to look for't : * They go to theljarnyard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain .it the top of the stalk, the parly in qutstion will cDme to the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the staok-builder, by means of old tim- ber, &e. makes a large .iparlmcnt in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the v/ind ; this he calls a fause-house. % Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as thev lay them in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly toge. ther, or start from beside one another, the course ani} issue of the courtship will be. ' 24 S6 BURNS' WORKS. Bob, itowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, Fu* cozie in the neuk for't, Unseea that night. XI. But Meiran 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 tlien, An' darklins graipit for the bauks, And in the blue clue* throws then, Right fear't that night; XII. An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, I wat she made nae jaiikia ; Till something held within the pat, Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! But whether 'twas the Dei! himsel', Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin' To spear that night. XIII. Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, " Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? I'll eat the apple f at the r/laxs, I gat frae uncle Johnii; :" She fufiTt her pipe wi' sic a luut. In wrath she was sae vap'rin', She Dotic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' th.it night. XIV. " Ye little skelpie-liuuner's face ! How daur ye try sic sportin', As seek the foul Thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune ': Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Great cause ye hae tci fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright. An' hv'd an' di'd dcleerct On sic a night. XV. " Ae hairst afore the Shcira-moor, I mind 't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm suie I was na past fyfteen : • Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these direct ions: Steal out, all alone, to the hiln, and, darkling, throw 'mu^ the iiut a elue of blue yarn ; wind it in a new elne otT ihe old one : and, towards the liitter end, something h rll hold the thread, demand ujA/j /(aurfj ? i.e. who holds? .-ui answer will be returned from the kiln-put, by naming the Chris- tian and sirname of your future spouse. t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; rat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the time ; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen i^ the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder, The simmer had been cauld an* wat, An' stuff was uui-o green ; An' aye a rantin kirn we gut, An' just on Halloween It fell that night. XVI. " Our stibblo-riu: was Rab M'Graen, A clever, sturdy fallow ; He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That liv'd in Arhmacalla : He gat hcnip-xeed,* I mind it weel, An' he made unco li;^ht o't ; But mony a day was hi/ himsel', He was sae sairly frighted That vera night.* XVII. Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swour by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; For it was a' but nousense ! The auld guid- man raught down the pock, An' out a haiidfu' gied him ; Syne bad him slip frae 'niang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see'd him, Au' try't that night. XVIII. He marches thro' aman;^ the stacks, Tho' lie was something sturtin, The ffraip he for a harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin : An' ev'iy now an' then he says, " Hemp-seed I saw thee. An' her that is to be my lass, Come after me, and draw thee, As fast this night." XIX. He whistl'd up Lord Leunox' march, To keep his courage cheery ; Altho' his hair began to arch, lie was sae fley'd an' eerie : Till ])resL'nt!y he hears a squeak. An' then a grane an' gruntle ; lie by his shouther gae a keek. An' tuiubl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre that night. XX. He roar"d a hoilid murder shout. In dreadfu' desperation ! An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out. To hear the sad narration : • Steal out uupcrceived, and sow a handful of hemn- secd : harrownii; it with .-uiy thing you can convenient- ly draw after you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp-seed I saw thee: henipsptd 1 s.iw thcei and him (or her) that IS to be my irue.love, come after me and pou thee." Look over vonr left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. .Some traditions say, ' come after me, and shaw Ihce,' that is, show thyself: in which ca.se It snnply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, • come after me, and hanow thee.' POEMS. » He swoor 'twas hilcliin Jeau M'Craw, Or ciouchie Merran Humphie, Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; An' wha was it but Grwiiphie Asteer that night ! XXI. Meg fain wad to the ham hae gane, "To win three wechts o' naetlung ; * But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in : She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red clieekit apples, To watch, while tor the bai-n she sets, In hopes to see Tarn Kipples That vera night. XXII. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. An' owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca', Syne bauldly in she enters ; A ratton rattled up the wa', An* she cry'd, L — d preserve her ! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a'. An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night. XXIII. They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; It chanc'd the stack he fa.ddomd thrice,-^ Was timmer-prapt for thrawia' ; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin ; An' loot a wince, an* drew a stroke, Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Aff's nieves that night. XXIV. A wanton widow Leezie was. As canty as a kittlen ; But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin' I She thro* the whins, an' by the cairn, Au' owre the hill gaed scricvin', Whare three lairds' lands met at a hurn.,\ To dip her left sark-sleevc in, Was bent that night. XXV. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wirapl't ; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the biaes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. XXVI. Aniang the brackens, on the brae, Between her an' the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey. Gat up an' gae a croori : Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; Ne'er lav rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an' in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night. XXVII. In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The litggies three* are ranged, And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, To see them duly changed : Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin' Mars-year did desire, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. He heav'd them on the fire, In wrath that night. XXVIII. Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary ; An* unco tales, and funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an* cheery : Till butter'd so'ns,f wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o* strunt, They parted aflf careerin' Fu* blithe that night. • This charm must likewise be performed unper- eeived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; lor 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 country dialect, we call a xoecht, and go through all the aittitudes of letting down corn against the wuid. Re- peat it three times; and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, ifi at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employ- ment, or station in life. f Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to Bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. 1 he last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke- fellow. % You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where ' three lairds' lands meetj' and dip your left shirt slteve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- fore it to dry. Lie awake ; and sotne time near mid- night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object m question, will come and turn the sleeve as if to dry the other side of it. * Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the third empty ; blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged : he (or she) dips the left hand ; if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It i« repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. t Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, (I always the kalloween Supper, BURNS' WORKS. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCCSTOMED RIPPOF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. A Guid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : Tho' thou's howc-backit, now, an' knaggie, I'vn seen the day, Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stifF, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, A bonnie p'ay : He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A Jillff buirdly, steeve, an' swank. An* set weel down a shapely shank As e'er tred yird ; An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like onie bird. It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin* thou was my guid father's meere ; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An* fifty mark ; Tho' it was sma', 'twas wcel-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' funnic. Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day, ye pranc'd wl' muckle pride. When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : An' sweet an' giacefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air ! Kyh Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a pair. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble. An' wintic like a samount-toble. That day ye was a jinker noble, Fer heels an' win' ! An' ran them till they a' did wauble. Fur, far behia'. When thou an' 1 were young and skeigh. An' stable-meals at fairs were dieigh. How tho»i wad prance, an' snore, an* skreigh, An' tak the road ! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abcigh. An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. We took the road aye like a swallow : At JBrooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed ; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The sma', droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle. Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle ; Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Tliou was a noble Jittie-lari, As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun. On guid March weather, Hae tiirn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never brainug't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. An' spread abreed thy weel-fiil'd brisket, Wi' pith an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, An' slypet owre. Wlien frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer : I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit ; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit. Then stood to blaw ; But just thy step a v.-ee thing hastit. Thou snoov't awa. . My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a* : Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. That thou hast nurst : They drew me thretteen pund an* twa, The vera warst. IMonie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat ! Yet here to crazy age we're brought,' Wi' something yet. And think na, my auld, trusty servap', That now perhaps tliou's less desei-vin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin'. For my last_/c)«, A hcapit stimparf, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither ; We'll toyte ab6ut wi' ane anither j POEMS. 29 Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue. TO A MOUSE, ON TURKING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH IHK J-LOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin", tim'rous beastle, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin an* chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle I I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion An' fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! A daimen iclttr in a throve 'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin* wi* the lave. An' never miss't ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green ! An' bleak December's winds eusuin', Baitli snell an' keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. An' weary winter comin' fast. An' cozie here, beneath the blast. Thou thought to dwell, Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble. An' cranreuch cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. In proving foresight may be vain : The best laid schemes o' wifce an' men. Gang aft agley. An' lea'e us nought but grief as pain. For promis'd joy. Still thou ait blest, compar'd wi' me I Th« present only toucheth thee : But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear : An' forward, though I canna see, I ffuess an' fear. A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked ivretches, wheresoe'er you are. That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! How shall your houseless heads, and unfed side*, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these ? — S/iaksepeare- When biting Boreas, fell and doure. Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; . When Phodius gi'es a short-liv'd glower Far south the lift, Dim-dark* ning through the flaky show'r Or whirling drift : Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. While burns, v.-i' snawy wreaths up-choked( Wild -eddying swirl, Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle. Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That in the merry month o' spring. Delighted me to hear thee sicg, V/hat comes o' thee ? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' dose thy e'e? Ev'n yoa on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exil'd. The blood- stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, Biy heart forgets. While pitiless the t^impest wild V Soic on you beats. Now Phxthc, ii; her miduight reign. Dark muffled, visw'd the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. Rose in my sou). When on my ear tills plaintive strain, Slow, solemn stole — ' Blow, blew, ye winds, with heavier gust ! Ar.d freeze, ye bitter-bitiag frost ; Descend, ye chilly, sniotheriug snows ; Not all your rage, as now, united, shows Jlore hard unkiiidness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepcating, ttO BURNS* WORKS. Than tedVfejl-lllumm'd ftiafi On bfotticf tiidin bestows ! See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or Iliad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! Even in the peaceful rural vale. Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her e:ir, 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 glitt'ring show, A creature of another kind, Some courser substance, unrefined. Placed for her lordly use thus f:ir, thus vile, below. Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe. With lordly Honour's lofty brow. The powers you proudly own ? Is there, beneath Love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone ! Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasting Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity's rising sway. Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- ing blast ! Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! rUtatisfy'd keen ^fature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep. While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall. Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! Think on the dungeon's grim confine. Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch; already crushed low By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? AfiSiction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the ' bliss!' I heard nae malr, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw. And hail'd the morning with a cheer, A cottage -rousing craw. 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 BROTHER tOET.* January While winds frae afif Sen-Lomond bUw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. In hamely westlan' jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift. That live sae bien and snug : I tent less, and want less Their roomy fireside ; But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. IL Its hardly in a body's pow'r To keep at times frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd ; How best o' chiels are whiles in want. While coofs on countless thousands rant, An' ken na how to wair't : But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. Tho' we hae little gear. We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier : ' Mjir speir na, nor fear na'f Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only for to beg. III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress ! Yet then, content could make us blest ; Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba'. Has aye some cause to smile ; And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma' : Nae malr then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. IV. What though, like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall ? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground. And blackbirds whistle clear, • David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, an<] author of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect, t Ramsay. 1»012M9. Witk holiest joy our keafU will bound, To see the coming year : On braes when wc please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune ; Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done. V. It's no in titles nor in rank ; It's DO in wealth like Lon'un bank, To purchase peace and rest ; It's no in making muckle mair : It's no in books ; it's no in lear, To mak us truly blest ! If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures, nor pleasures. Could make us happy lang ; The heart ay'es 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 heav'n or hell ; Esteeming and deeming It'* a' an idle tale ! 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 oursel' ; They make us see the naked truth. The real guid and ilL Tho' losses and crosses, Be lessons right severe. There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'U find nae other where. vin. 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 joyv the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien' ; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean ! It Warms me, It cUrma ih«, To mention but her name • It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame ! IX. O all ye Powers who rule above ! O Thou whose very self art love ! Thou knowest my words sincere ! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part. Is not more fondly dear ! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive ray soul of rest. Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Seing, All-seeing, O hear my feivent pray'r ; Still take her and make her Thy most peculiar care ! 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 numbered out my weary days. Had it not been for you ! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill ; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene. To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean. XI. O, how that name inspires my style ! The words come skelpin' rank and file, Amaist before I ken ! The ready measure rins as fine, As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin* owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp. Till ance he's fairly het ; And then he'll hiltch, and stilt, and jimp. An' rin an' unco fit : But lest then, the beast then, Should rue his hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now His sweaty wizen'd hide. THE LAMENT, occasioned by theunfortunate issue op a. friend's amour. Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, And sweet ^jffiction prove the spring of woe '.—Uomt, THoo pale orb, that silent shines. While care-untroubled mortals sleep ' 32 BURNS' WORKS. Thou seest a wretcK that inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep i With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan unwaniilng bcara ; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. II. I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly-marked distant hill : I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill : My fondly-fluttering heart be stdl ! Thou busy power. Remembrance, cease ! Ah ! must the agoniziiig thrill For ever bar returning peace ! III. No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings 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 ! IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown ! How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone ! And must I think it ? is she gone. My secret heart's exulting boast ? And does she heedless hear my groan ? And is she ever, ever lost ! 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 niny be unsmooth ! Her way may lit- tiiro' rough distress ! Then, who her panjrs and pains will sooth ? Her sorrows share aud make them less ? \I. Ye winged hoiir-j that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void. For her too scanty once of room ! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. And not a wish to gild the gloom ! VII. The morn that warns th' approacliing day, Awakes me up to toil and woe : I see the hours in long array. That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, 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-woin eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy,,chief, Reigns haggard-wild, in sore aflfright : Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a honor-breathing night. IX. O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly wandering, Stray : The time, unheeded, sped away, While love's luxurious pul^e beat high. Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. To mark the mutual-kindling eye. X. Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! Scenes, never, never, to return ! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn ! From ev'ry 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 ; Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, I sit me down and sigh : O life ! thou art a galling load. Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I ! Dim backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear ! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', Too justly I may fear ! ^ Still caring, despairing. Must be my bitter doom ; My woes here shall close ne'er. But with the closing tomb ! 11. 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'*^ They bring their own reward ; Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim. Meet ev'ry sad returning night. And joyless mora the same j POEMS. 83 You, bustling, and justliog', Forget each grief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless, Find ev'ry prospect vain. m. How blest the solitary's lot. Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well ! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream : While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring. He views the solemn sky. IV. Than I, no lonely hermit placed Where never human footstep traced, Less fit to play the part ; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art : 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 hate, Whilst I here must cry here. At perfidy ingrate ! Oh ! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill-exchanged for riper times, To fed the follies, or the crimes. Of others, or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush. Ye little know the ills ye court. When manhood is your wish ! The losses, the crosses. That active man engage ! The fears all, the tears all. Of dim declining age ! WINTER : Th£ wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw ; Or, the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw : While tumbling brown, the burn cotnes dowo> And roan frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast In covert rest. And pass the heartless day. n. " The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," • The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May : The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, JMy griefs it seems to join. The leafless trees my fancy please. Their fate resembles mine ! in. Thou Poiver Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil. 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. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple anuals of the poor.— Craj/. L Mt lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; [been; What Aitken in a cottage would hav« Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, fax- happier there^ I ween ! IL November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the mor» in ease and rest to spend. And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. Dr, Voung, il4 BURNS' WORKS. lit vm. 1 At leogtk ki8 lottely cot Appears m VieW, r Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expecUnt wee things, toddlin, Stacher thro' [aa' glee. To meet their Dad, wl' flichterm' noise His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, ^ His clean hearth-sUne, his thriftie wijie s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil IV. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in,^ At service out, amang the farmers roun', Some ca* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town ; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, ^ In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. V. Wi* joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, v/'i her needle an' her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weeKs the new ; Tte/atAer mi-xes a' wi' admonition due. VI. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labours wi' an eyedent hand, And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : • An' O ! be sure to fear the LoiiB alway ! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !' VII. But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how n neebor lad cam o'er the moor. To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; Wl' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, ■While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; yfft\ pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, YTtnthless rake. Wl' kindly Welcome Jennu brings him bcJl ) A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's eye J Blithe Jenny' sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and The youngster's artless heart oerflows wi But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel bphave ; The mother, wl' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her hainis respected like the lave. IX. , O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I've paced much this weary mortal round. And sage experience bids me this declare—. « If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, "_ 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' » X. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth J That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse oil his perjur'd arts ! dissembUng smoothi Arc honour, virtue, couscience all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to tiie parents fondling o'er their child ! Then paints the vuin'd maid, and their distrac- tiou wild? XL But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesomepnrr!it, the father, and the husband Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,* That thus they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays, [daj^s : No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; Wliile circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. XVII. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to «>»?gregations wide, Devotion's cv'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul ; And 1q his hook of life the inmates poor enrol. • Pope's Windsor Forest, | xvnr. Then haiTiew'ai'd all take off their s'ev'rat way j The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homaye pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's elam'rous nest,' And (leeks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, rcYered abroad ; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of Gon !" And cerlcs, in ^r virtue's heav'nly road, The coitaye ieaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! XX. O Scotia ! my dear, rny native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- vent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much- loved Isle. XXI. O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; Wlio dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot and the patriot bard. In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN; Whev chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banka of Ayr, 36 I Bpy'd a man, wboM aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care ; His face was furrow'd o'er with year«, And hoary was his hair. Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? Began the rev'rend sage ; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youtliful pleasure's rage ? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man ! III. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, AVhere hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling'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 ! while in thy early years, Hew prodigal of time ! Mis-spending all thy precious hours ; Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives Nature'j law, That man was made to mourn. V. Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right : But see him on the edge of life. With cares and sorrows worn. Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! Show man was made to mourn. VI. A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest ; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, Are wretched and forlorn ; Thro* weary life this lesson learn, That 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 heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thouHoda mourn ! BURNS' WORKS. vni. Sec yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wigh^ So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. IX. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- By Nature's law design'd, Wliy was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? X, Yet, let not this too much, my ion, Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last ! The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! XI. O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. From pomp and pleasure torn ; But, Oh ! a blest relief to those That, weary-laden, mourn ! A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF TIEATK. I. O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear ! IL If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; IIL Thou know'st that Thou hast formed mo With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching; TVIM Has often l«d me wrong. POEMS. S" IV. Where human tceaJhitss hi* come skort. Or frailty slept aside. Do thou, All Good ! far »nch thou art, In shades of darkness hide. V. Where with intention I hare err'd, No other pica I have. But, 77io« art good ,- and goodness still Delighteth to forgiye- STANZ.\S OS THX SAME OCCASIO:. Wht am I loath to leave this earthiv scene ? Have I so fbond it fall of pleasing charms ? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- tween : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed storms : Is it departing pangs mr soul alarms ; Or death's unlovely, drear)-, dark abode ? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry Gor>, And justly smart beneath his sin-arenging rod. Fain would I mv, ' Forgive my foul oSence I' Fain promise never more to disobey ; Bat, should my Author health again dis- pense. Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray ; Again exalt the brute and sink the mian ; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. Who act so counter heavenly raercj's plan ? Who sin so of^ have moum'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below I" If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. Those headlong furious passions to con- fine ; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! O aid me with thy help, Omnipotenct Divine ! When for this mkm of peftoe and lor*, I make my prayer sincere. n. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, Long, long be pleased to spare, To bless his little filial flock, And show what good men are. m. She, who her lovely oflfepring ejre* W^ith tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother's joys. But spare a mother's tears I IV. Their hope, their stay, their darling yovth, In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of lore and trath. Up to a parent's wish ! V. The beauteous, seraph sister-band. With earnest tears I pray, Tnou know'st the snares on ev'ry haod, Guide tbou their steps alway ! W. When soon or late they reach that eotst. O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. May they rejoice, no wand'rer lort, A faniilv in Heav'n ! LYISG AT A KEVEREXD FEIEXD S HOVSE ONE MGHT, IKE AUTHOR LEKT THE rOLL0«"I>"0 VERSES, IN THE ROOM WKEBE HE SLXFI. O THOO dread Pow'r, who reign'st abore, I know thoD wilt me hear, THE HRST PSALM. The man. in life wherever placed. Hath happiness in »tore. Who walks not in the wicked's war, Xor learns their guilty lore ! J«or from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility apJ s^*^ Still walks befr>^e his God. That man siall flourish like the trees WhJcb by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high. And firm the root below. But he whose bl(K9om buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast. And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that God the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and r«t. But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly Uest. 38 • BURNS' WORKS, A PRAYER, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, CmSBr THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. S THoa Great Being ! what thou art Surpasses me to know : ' it sure am I, that known to thee Are all thy works btlow. rhy creature here before thee stands, AH wretched and distrest ; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! O, free my weary eyes from tears. Or close them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be. To suit some wise design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine. TUE FIRST SIX VERSES OP THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place ! Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath tby forming hand, Before this pond'rous globe itself Arose at thy command ; That pow'r which lais'd, and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, iinbeginning time, Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years, Which seem to us so vast. Appear no more before thy sigVit, Than yesterday that's past. Thou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought : Again thou say'st, ♦ Ye sous of men, Return ye into nought !' Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep ; As with a flood thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd ; But long ere night cut down, it lies AU wither'd and decay'd. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUOH, 11 APRll,, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r. Thou bonnie geca. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. The bonny Lark, companion meet . Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble, birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou beueath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorub the histie stibUe-Jicld, Uuseen, alaue. There, in thy scanty mantle clad. Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptcars thy bed. And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sv/ett floweret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'ii, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless Starr' d, Unskilful he to note the card Oi prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffering iforth is giv'n. Who long with wauts and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink. Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. That fate is thitie~— no distant date; POEMS. sa Stern Rum's plough-sJiare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom. Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! TO RUIN. I. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word. The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With steiu-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; Fur one has cut my dearcU tk. And quivers in my heart. Then low'riug, and pouring. The storm no more I dread ; Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing. Round my devoted head. II. And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd. While life a pleasure can afford. Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; I court, I beg thy fiiendly aid, To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's ju.y/tss day ; Aly weary heart its throbbings cease. Cold mouldering in the clay ? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face ; Enclasped, and grasped Within jny cold embrace ! TO MISS L- WITH BEMTIE S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEAR S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787. AcAiK the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n. And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Hcav'n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail ; I send you more than India boasts la Edwins simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you ! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND . MAY , 1786. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu* Friendf A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end Than just a kind memento ; But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turu 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 inuckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set your thought, E'eu 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, liarden'd wicked, Wha hae uae check but human law. Are to a few restricted : But och, mankind are uneo weak. An' little to be trusted ; If se{/' the wavering balance shake, Its rarely right adjusted ! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife Their fate wq should na censure. For still th' important end of life They equally may answer ; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neebor's part. Yet hae nae cash to spare him. V. Aye free aff han' your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony ; But still keep something to yoursel' Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection ; But keek thro' every other man, Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. VI. The sacred lowe o* weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it ; But never tempt th' iUicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it : I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing ; But och ! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling ! VIL To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her j id Ana gaflier gear by ev'iy 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. BURNS' WORKS. 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 range, Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended ! When ranting round in pleasure's ring. Religion may be blinded ; Or, if she gie a random sting. It may be little minded : But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, A conscience but a canker — A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor, XI. Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! Your heart can ne'er be wanting : May prudence, fortitude, and truth. Erect your brow undaunting ! In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,' Still daily to gi-ow wiser ; And may you better reck the rede. Than ever did th' adviser ! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE 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 biUie's gi'en us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key; For now he's ta'en anlthir shore, An' owre the «ea. The bonnie lassies weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him : The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e ; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him. That's owre the sea. O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bumme]« Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea But he was -gleg as ony wumble. That's owre the sea. Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee ; He was her laureat monie a year. That's owre the aea. He saw misfortune's cauld nor^wast Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak' his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast. An* owre the ses. To tremble under Fortnne's commock. On scarce a bellyfix' o* drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, An* owre the sea. He ne'er was gi'en to great misgnidiog Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; He dealt it free : The muse was a' that he took pride in. That's owre the sea. Jamaica todies, use him weel. An' hap him in a cozie biel ; Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel, And fu' o' glee : He wadna wrang'd the vera deil. That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing hiUiei Your native soil vvas right ill-wiUie ; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie ; I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! POEMS. 41 Abooa th«m a' ye tak your place, Paincb, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang'fi my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro* your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight. An* cut you up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch ; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich ! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a* their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums ; Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, Bethankit hums. Is there that o*er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Ot fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi* sneering, scornfu' view, On sic a dinner ? Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. As feckless as a wither'd rash. His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit ; Thro* bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit ! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle ; An' 1^, an' arms, an heads will sned. Like taps o' thrissle. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, Aad dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis ! A DEDICATION. TO GAVIN HAMlLTOf, ESQ. ExrECT na, Sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication. To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. Because ye're surnamed like his grace) Perhaps related to the race ; Then when I'm tired — and sae are ye, Wi' mony a fulsome, sint'u' lie. Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do-^ — maun do. Sir, wi* them wha Maun please the great fo'.k for a wamefu* ; For me ! sae laigh I ncodna bow, For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I cart beg ; Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin*. It's just sic poet an' sic patron. The Poet, some giiid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him ; He may do weel for a' he's done yet. But only he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me) On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. He's just — nae better than he should be, I readily and freely grant. He downa see a poor man want ; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refuse' Till aft his goodness is abused ; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; As master, landlord, husband, father He does na fail his part ia either. But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; It's naething but a milder feature. Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'iMang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, ; Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed. It's no thro' terror of damnation ; It's just a carnal inclination. jMorality, thou deadly bane. Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice ' No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro* a winnock frae a wh-re. But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane. And baud their noses to the grunstane ; Ply ev'ry art o* legal thieving ; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three mile pray*rs, an* half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces • Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. And damn a' parties but your own j 26 42 BURNS* WORKS. I'll warrant then, ye' re Die (Receiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the spriugs of Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your aia delvia ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day sqiieel in quaking terror ! When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath ; When ruin, with his sweeping besom. Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I noaist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me, jly readers still arc sure to lose me. So, Sii-, ye see 'twas uae daft vaf)our. But 1 maturely thought it proper, When a' my works 1 did review. To dedicate them. Sir, to Yoti : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronise them wi* your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said ever pray. But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer. That tens or hears about you, Sir — " May ne'er misfortune's gowliug bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! May K 's far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame. Till H s, at least a dizen, Are frae her nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table. And seven braw fellows, stout an' aide To »erve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel I May health and peace, with mutual rays. Shine on the evening o' his days ; Till his wee curlie Johns ier-oe. When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion ; But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are bhst 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 iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances. By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly lum, 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 Heavea ! While recollection's power is given. If, in the vale of humble life. The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognize my master dear. If friendless, low, we meet together. Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother I TO A LOUSE ox SEEIKG ONE OK A LADy's BONNEX AT CHURCH. Ha ! whare ye gauu, ye crowlin' ferlic ? Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye sti-unt rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner. On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's ha£fet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ithcr kindred, jumpin' cattle. In shoals and nations ; Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it. The vera tapmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and grey as ony grozet ; for some rank, mercurial rozet. Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. Wad dress your droddum ! 1 wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat ; But Miss's fine Lunardie ! fie. How dare ye do't ! O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin' ! POEMS- 43 TLae winks and Jinger-tnds, I dread, Are notice takiu' ! O wad some power the giftie gie us To see ourscls as others sec its ! It wad frae monie a blmulcr free us, ADd foolish notion : 'What airs ja dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. Edina ! Scotia s darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towers. Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'vs ! From marking wiklly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of At/t I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'riug houis, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golJeu tide, As busy trade liis labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from lier native skies, High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn I Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine : I see the sire of 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 many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd the invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome. Where Scotia's kings of other years, Famed heroes, had their royal home. Alas ! how changed the times to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. Whose ancestors in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : E'en /who sing in rustic lore. Haply nuj sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar. Bold-following where gour fathers led ! VIII. Jlj'IN'a ! /Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, \\')iere once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shclter'd iu thy hoaour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISU EAKD, AI-BIL 1st, 1785. While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. An' morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse. This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin*, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; And there was muckle fun and jokin'. Ye need na doubt : At length we had a hearty yokin* At sang about. There was ae sang amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleased me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife : It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A* to the life. I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel , About Muirkirk, It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. And sae about him there i spier^ 44 BURNS* WORKS. Then a' that ken't him round declared He had ing'ine. That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That bet him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made hirasel', 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' gi'aith, Or die a cadger pownie's death. At some dyke back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel' Docs weel eneugh. I am uae 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, To mak a sang ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang. MTiat'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 taeu up spades and shools. Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull conceited hashes. Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks, and come out asses. Plain truth to speak ; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o* Greek ! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! That's a' the learning I desire ; Then tho' I drudge thro* dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire. May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan^s glee, Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee. Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, Iflcaahitit! That would be lear eneugh for me ! If I could get it. Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few. Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I'se no insist. But gif ye want ae fi-iend that's true, I'm on your list. I winna blaw about myscl ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends, and folk that wish me well. They sometimes roose me ; Tlio' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay te me, I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair ; May be some iflier thing they gie me Tliey weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or Mavchline 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' ane anither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reckin' water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. To cheer our heart ; An' faith we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish warly race, Wha think that liavins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack ! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms. Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. Who hola your being on the terms, ' Each aid the others,* Come to my bowl, come to my arms. My friends, my brothers ! But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, "^Vho am, most fervent. While I can either sing, or whissle, Youi- friend and servant. POEMS. 45 TO THE SAME. APRIL 21, 1785. While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or brake, This hour on e'enin's edge I take. To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted auld Lapraik For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro* amang the naigs Their ten hours bite. My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. The tapetless rarafeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sac busy, This month an' mair. That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' soinething sair.' Her dowff excuses pat rae mad ; ' Conscience,* says I, ' ye thowless jad ! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night ; So dinna ye affront your trade. But rhyme it right. ' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho* mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts. In terms sae friendly, Yet yell neglect to shaw your parts, An' thank him kindly !' Sae I gat paper in a blink. An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it ; An' if ye winna mak' it clink. By Jove I'll prose it !' Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof ; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' caip Tho* fortune use you hard an' sharp ; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesonie touch ! Ne'er mind how Fortune ivafl and jvarp ; She's but a b-tch. She's gien me mouie a jirt and flcg. Sin* I could striddle owre a rig ; But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an' siug, an' shake my leg. As land's I dow ! Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the tiramer, Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year ; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, /, Hob, am here. Do ye envy the city Gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent. Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And" muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A JBailie's name ? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, V/i' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, Wliile caps an' bonnets aff are taen. As by he walks .' ' * O Tliou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift Thro' Scotland wide : Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride !' Were this the charter of our state, • On pain o' hell be rich and great,' Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate We learn our creed. For thus t'he royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, ' The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, An' none but he !' O mandate glorious and divine ! The ragged followers o' the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine In glorious light, ^Vhile sordid sons of JMamraon's line Ajie dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' s^WV^ Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl I\Iay shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. To reach their native, kinched skies, And sinff their pleasures, hopes, and joys, In some mild sphere. Still closer knit in friendship's ties. Each pa.'-sing year. 46 BimNS' WORKS. TO W. S. -N, OCHlttKEB* May 1785. 1 OAT your letter, winsome Willie : Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; Tho' I maun say't, J wad be silly, An' unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. Your flatteiin' strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 1 sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor music ; Tho' in 8ic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in .i creel. Should I but dan; a hope to spccl, Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbert field, The braes of fame ; Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, A deathless name. (0 Ferguson ! thy glorious parts Dl suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstanc hearts, Yc E'nbrugli Gentry ! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes. Wad stow'd his pantry !) Yet when a talc comes i' my head, Or lasses jjie my heart a screed, As wbyles they're like to be my dead, (O sad disease !) I kittle up my rustic reed ; It gles me case. . Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels Wha their chanters winna bain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style ; She lay like some unkenned of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan, Ramsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings. Th' Tlissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnles sliiilfl Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fell3> Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Wicre glorious Wallace Aft bure the grec, as story tells, Frae southern billies. At Wallace'' name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious died. O sweet are Coila s hauglis an' woods, Wlien lintwhites chant among the buds. An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids. Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat crood3 With wailfu* cry ! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary grey ; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day ! O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life an' light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night ! The Muse, nae poet c%'er 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 brithcr ! We've been owre lang imkenn'd to ither : Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal : May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal ! Wliilc highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; While terra tirma on her axis Diurnal turns. Count on a friend, in faith and practice, In Robert Burnt, POEMS. 4n POSTSCRIPT. Mv memoiy's no worth ft preen } I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this new-light, * *Bout which our Iierds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight- In days when mankind were but callana At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gi'e, But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallaua, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moortf Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing^ An' shortly after she was done. They gat a new ane. This past for certain, undisputed ; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an* wad confute it. An* ca*d it wrang ; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith Joud an' lang. Some herds, wecl learn 'd upo* the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a ncuk. An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; The herds and hissels were alarm'd ; The rev'rend grey-beards lav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies; Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Froe less to mair it gaod to sticks ; Frae words an' aith» to clours an' nicks j An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' br\int, Thia game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-Ught caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands. Wi' nimble shanks. Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sicbluidy pranks. But tma-light herds gat sic a cowe. Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on ev'ry knowc, Ye'U find ane plac'd ; • See Note, p. 14. An' some, their nm-ti^ht fair avow. Just qujite barefac'd. I^ae doubt the auld-Ught floch are bleafin' } Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' Wi' girnin' spite. To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some aidd-light herds in ncebor towns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak' a flight. An' stay a month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them ; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch. An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a ' moonshine matter ;' But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzift EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ^, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine. The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! There's mony godly folks are thinkin', Your dreams • an' tricka Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'. Straight to auld Nick's. Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants And in your wicked, drucken rants. Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou ; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a* seen t'uro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha afteu wear it, The lads in lilack ! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back. Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge an* claithing O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by. * A certain humorous dream of h!3 was then mak ing a noise in the oountry-«ide. 48 Frae ony unr^enerate heatten Like you or I. Fve sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for aa' mair ; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,' I will expect Yon sanff,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care. And no neglect. Tho* faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. An danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen and sair'd the king At Bunker's Hill. *Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, A bonnie hen. And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt ; I straikit it a wee for sport. Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; But, deil-ma care ! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. That sic a hen had got a shot ; I was suspected for the plot ; I scorn'd to lie ; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't thej^e. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale. An' by my pouther an' my hail. An' by my hen, an' by her tail, J vow an' swear ! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. For this, niest year. As Eoon's the clockin' time is by. An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. For my gowd guinea : Tho' I should herd the buckskin kyc For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 'Twas neither brokcu wing nor limb. But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro* the feathsn ; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair, But pennyworths again is fair. When time's expedient : Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. BURNS' WORKS. • A »07i^ he had promised the Author. wftirriH t» FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIttS. Thoit whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lour. As youth and love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning star advance. Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair ; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high. Life's meridian flaming nigh. Dost thou spmn the humble vale ? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? Check thy climbing step, elate. Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose : As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought , And teach the sportive younker'g round. Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate. Is not, Art thou high or low ? Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? Did many talents gild thy span ? Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find. The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to vice is giv'n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. There solid self-enjoyment lies ; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Night, where dawn shall never break. Till future life, future no more. To light and joy the good restore. To light and joy unknown before. POEMS. 49 Stranger, go ! Heav*ii be tliy guide ! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. ODE, BACKED TO THE MEMORY OF MRJ. —' OF — DwELLEK. in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation ! mark AV'ho in widow-weeds appears, La.lcn with unhonoured years, IS'oosing with care a bursting purse, IJaited with many a deadly curse ! STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face- Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting g;race? Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. Pity's flood there never rose See those hands, ne'er stretcb'd to save, Hands that took — but never gave. ■ Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; She goes, but not to reolois of everlasting rest ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, ( A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends), Seesi. thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies j ^ 'Tis thy trusty quondam mute, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EFODE. And are they of no more avail. Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? In other worlds can Alammon fail. Omnipotent as he is here ? O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous Her, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear. Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'o. ELEGY CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, I GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS UIMEDIATELY FROM AL MIGHTY GOD ! But now his radiant course Is nm, For Matthew's couric was bright J His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Hca\''nly light I O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; The mtikle devil wi a woodio Haurl thee hame to lils black smiddle, " O'er hurcbeon bides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdle Wj' thy auld sides ! He's gane, )ie's gane ! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was bom ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns. Where echo slumbers f Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, Aly wailing numbers ; Mourn' ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, Wi* toddlin* din, Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to Un. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bow'rs ; Ye roses on your thorny tree. The first o' fiow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my waiL Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro* a clud ; Ye whistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; He's gane for ever ! IMourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair fur his sake. IMourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' dsjr, *Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far worlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplorb Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, \Vhat time the moon, wi' silent glow r, Sets up her born| 27 50 BURNS* WORKS. W»il tkro* ilie dreftrV tnUniglit koUf Till waukrijft mom I nvers, lorests, bills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains i But how, what else for me remains But tales of woe ; An' {rat my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Lie cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thjr gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead ! Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast. Wide o'er the naked world declare _^^^5_^ The worth we've lost ! Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! Mourn, empress of the silent night ! And yoo, ye twinkling stamies bright. My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. Ne'er to return. O Henderson f the man, the brother ! And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! And hast thou cross'd that tmknown river, Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around ! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, )a a' the tit^el trash o' state ! Bat by the honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in «arth THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger ! my story's brief ; And truth I shall relate, man : I tell nae common tale o' grief. For Matthew was a great man. If thoa uncommon merit hast, Yet spum'd at fortune's door, man'; A look of pity hither cast, For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art. That paseest by this grave, man ; There moulders here a gallant heart, For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways, Cmat thivw uncommon light, man ; Mcta lie^ wliA xt&ti W woh tLy pithUt tot Matthew wai a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca*, Wad life itself resign, man ; Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man ; This was a kinsman o' thy ain, For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish whingin sot. To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; May dool and sorrow be his lot. For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hings her mantle green On every blooming tree. And spreads her sheets o' daisie'cr. About to beg a pans for liMve to he:; ; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejeiKd. and cl>;j)rcst, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; Will generous Graham list to his poet's v,-ail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkenin'^ to hei tale), And hear him curse the light he first survey ' Gawin DougUu, When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebori, neebors meet, POEMS. 53 As tnarket-days are wcaiiug late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the napj)y, An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it wami. This truth fand honest Tarn o' S/tanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. For honest men and bonny lasses). O Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise. As ta'en tliv ain wife ICute's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skeihini, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller. Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig was caM a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L — d's liouse, ev'n on '?»!;(;:;;,■, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till ^Itr.r.';:y. She prophesv'd, that late or soou. Thou would be ioiiiid deep drovv'!;"fI !;i jD a;.! Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle d;imes ! it gars me giecf, To thinic 'now raony counsels sweet, How mony lecgthen'd sage advicts. The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that dran's divinely ; And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld hi» queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, road to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tu7n was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious i But pleasures are like poppies spread. You wise the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white — then inelts for ever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place { Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour ;ip|)ro:iches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stauCf That dreary hour he mounts his beast inj And sic a niglit lie taks the road in. As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : The sp;;c>ly gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his band. Wcel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— A bi;tt»r never lifted Ic'g — Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. Despising- wind, and rain, aud fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; Wliiles crocip.irig o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; Whiles giow'ring rounil wi' prudent cares, Lest. 'oo:;ies catch hiiu unawares ; Kirk- Allcwui/ \v,is drawing nigh, Wuarc ghaisls and houlets nightly cry— I5y this time he was cross the ford, Wh;i;e in the sn:iw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and nieikle stane, Whaif drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane { A;k1 thro' the whius, aud by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mutiijo's mither hanged herseU— Before him Do^in pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering t'nro' the groaning trees, Kirk-AUotvay seem'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, Aud loud resounded mirth and dancing— ~ Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil,— The swats sae reara'd in Tammie's noddlci Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward an the light ; And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the cast, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge ; He screw 'd his pipes and gart them ikirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 54 BURNS* WORKS. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic 7am was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairus : A thief, new-cuttcd fr.ie a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; Five scymitars wi* murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft. The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; "Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious. The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they clcekit. Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark. And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, O Tarn ! liad they been queans A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creesliic flaunen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies ! For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie. There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot. And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear), Her cutty-sark, o* Paisley harn. That while a lassie she had worn. In longitude though sorely scanty. It was her best, and she was vauntie Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang) And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought liis very een enrich 'd ; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main , Till first ae caper, syne anitlier, Tam tint his reason a' thcgither, And roars out. " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Marjffie rallied, When out tlie hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd. When '• Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' nonie an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tamf Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin, lu hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! Ill vain tliy Kate awaits thy comin ! K Ilislied at Kilmarnock, 1:89, and has not before appear ■ ed in our author's printed poems. POEMS. •1 For me, I'm on tani.iisus bi-ink, Rivin' tho woitls to gar them clink ; WhyV's d.iez't \vi love, Ti'hyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons ; An' wliylp", but aye ovvre late,' I think, Braw sober Ussoas. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the bardie clan ; Except It be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink, The dcvil-haet, th,it I sud ban. They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livla' ; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : But just the pouchic put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fush nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, My chief, araaist my only pleasure, At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure. The JMuse, poor hizzie ! Tho' rougt ao' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Da\ne : The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae pour, Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door tae' door. ON MY EARLY DAYS. I. 1 MIND it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate^ An' first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh. An' tho' forfought^n sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn — When first amang the yellow corn A man 1 reckon'd was. And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass — Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa. II. E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast. That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang, at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wida Amaog the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-cups aside, An' spared the symbol dear : No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. III. But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' rang, Wild floated in my brain : 'Till on that har'st I said before, ]\Iy partner in the merry core, Slie lous'd the forming strain : I sec her yet, the sousie quean, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her puuky e'en That gart my heart-strings tingle ; I filed, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing, and d.ishing, I feared aye to speak.* ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Ouce the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ; f Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, well.t Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.§ Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, iiew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ; Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. • Tlie reader will find some explanatioa of thll poem in p. viii. ■ The King's Park at Holyrood-houii. St. Anthony's Well. ^^^ SU Aatfuuiy'i ChapeL ti BURNS* WORKS. ReVersei tliat Spear, JC(loul)tai)\c In war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields imfuil'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And braved the mighty raonarcbs of the world, — •' My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save. Low lies the heart that swoU'd with honest pride ! " A weeping country joins a widow's tear. The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cr)' ; The drooping arts around their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. " I 6aw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid tlie guardian low " My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. " And I will join a mother's tender caves, Thro' future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast WRITTEN OK THE BLANK LEAF OE A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.* Once fondly lov'd, and still remembcr'd dear, Sweet early object of my yoiitlifu! vows. Accept this mark of friendship, waiin, sincere, Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. — And wlien you read the simide artless rhymes, One friendly sijrh for him, he asks no more. Who distant burns in flaniintr torrid climes, Or h.iply lies bcocath th' Atlantic roar. THE JOLLY BEGGARS A CANTATA. RECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,-}- Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; • The Rirl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore, f The old Scotch name for the Bat. When hailstancs drive wi' bitter s^ytCf And infant frosts beRin to bite, In hoary crarueuch drest ; Ac night at e'en a merry core, O' randie, ganj^rel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing. They ranted and they sang ; Wi' jumping and thumping, I The very girdle rang. 1 First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order j His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- She blinket on her sodger : An' aye he gies the tousie drab The tlther skelpin' kiss, ^\Tiile she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'mous dish. Ilk smack did crack still. Just like a cadger's whip. Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — AIR. Tune—" Soldier's Joy. j L I AM a son of Mars who have been in miaj wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When Avelcomiiig the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudlc, &c. n. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last, Wlien the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lai dc daudle, &c. III. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries. And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, Td clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. IV, And now tho' I must beg with a wooden afm and leg. And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my blQii, t>OEMS. 69 |H» M liapjiy wltli my Wallet, my uottlc and iDy callet, Am whea I us'd la scarlet td follow d drUti]. Lai de daudle, &c. XVhat tho' with hoary locks, 1 must stand the Winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, i could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattans backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore ; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. He skirl'd out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar. AIR. run*—" Soldier Laddie." I ONCE was a maid, the' 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 Tm fond of a sodger laddie, Sing, Lai de lal, &c. n. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy. Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. HI. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, Twas then I pr»v'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IV. Pull soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regimiiit at large for a husband I got ; From the gilded snontoon to the fife I was ready, I avkrd no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lul de lal, &c. But the peace it rcduc'd mc to lipg in despair, Till T met my old buy at Cunnin;'-h:\m fair ; Hi* Mff regtnunial they fluUerM w> gaudy, My heart it i-ejoic'd at my Sodgei' laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, Uc. VL And now I have liv'd — I know not how \oag. And still I can join in a cup or a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady. Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling. For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie. But weary fk' 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 LaUand laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey ray braw John Highlandman ! Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! There's not a lad in a' the Ian' Was match for my John Highlandman. IL With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. An' gude claymore down by his side, The ladies hearts he did trepan, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. in. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spcy, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lalland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond tl;e sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hev, &c. But, oh ! they catch'il liini at the list, Au'I bdiind him in a diinifi'on fist ; C4> BURNS' WORKS. My curse upon them every one, They've hang'd my braw John Hlglandman.] Sing, hey, &c. VI. And now a widow, I must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle. Her strappin limb and gausy middle He reach'il nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie l>ke a riddle. An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e. He croen'd his gamut, one, two, three. Then ia an Arioso key. The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. Tune—" Whisth owre the lave o't." I. Let me ryke up to dight that tear, An' go wi me to be my dear, An' then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. I am a fiddler to my trade. An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to wife or maid. Was whistle owre the lave o't. n. At kirus and weddings we'se be there, An* O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; We'll bouse about till Daddie Care Sings whistle owie the lave o't. I am, &c. HI. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. An' sun oursels about the dyke, An' at our leisure, when we like, , We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. IV. But bless me wi' your heavo'n o' charms, And while I kittle hair on thairms. Hunger, cauld, an a sick huinis, May whistle cure the la^■e o't. I am, &c. Her charms had struck a sturdjr Curd, As weel as poor Gutscraper ; He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a rusty rapier — He swoor by a* was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver. Unless he would from that time forth. Relinquish her for ever. Wi* ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu* fiuje, And sae the quarrel ended. But though his little heart did grieve. When round the tinkler prest her. He feign'd to snu'tle in his sleeve. When thus the caird address'd her. Tune—" Clout the Caldron." I. Mt bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station ; I've traveli'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron : But vain they search'd, when off I march''f To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, In^ XL 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 Keiibagie,* If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by that stowp, ke, RECITATIVO. The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair In hjs embraces sunk. Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair. An' partly she was drunk. ^ Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair. An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft That play'd a dame a shavie. The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft, Tho' limping with the spavie. « A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favour- ite with Poosie-Mancie's clubs. * Homer is allowed to be the oldest boUed-siognoo record. POEMS. 65 He tirplM up, and lap like daft, An* shor'd them Daintie Davie O boot that night. He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed, Though Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever niiss'd it. He had no wish but — to he glad. Nor want but — when he thirsted ; He hated nought but — to be sad. And thus the Muse suggested. His sang that night. AIR. Tune—" For a' that, an' a' that" I AM a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks, au' a' that ; But Homer-like, the glow ran byke, Frae town to town I draw that. For a' that, an' a that ; An' twice as nieikle's a' that ; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife enough for a' that. IT. I never drank the Muse's stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; But there it streams, and richly reams, Bly Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c. III. Great love I bear to a' the fair. Their humble slave, an' a' that ; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c. IV. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; But for how lang the flie mat/ 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 jids for a' that. " For a' that, an' a' that, • Au' twice as meikle's a' that : My dearest bluid, to do them guid. They're welcome tiU't for a' that. RECITATIVO. So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Shook with a tliumler of applause, Re-echo'd from each mouth j They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd tkelr dud*, They scarcely left to co'er their fud». To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request, To loose his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best : He rising, rejoicing, Between liis twa Deboralit, Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus. Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your Glasses." I. See ! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest IT. What is title } what is treasure ? What is reputation's care ? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where I A fig, &c in. With the ready trick and fable. Round we wander all the day ; And at night, in barn or stable. Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. IV. Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove ? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love ? A fig, &c. V. Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes ; Let them cant about decorum Wlio have characters to lose. A fig, &c. VL Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ' Here's to all the wandering train ! Here's our ragged brats and collets ! One and all cry out. Amen ! A fig for those by law protected ! Libei iy's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest, V^ BUftKS' WORKS/ TMfi KIRK'S ALARM:* A SATIREi OkthodoX) orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast. That what )« no sense must be nonsense. Dr. Mac, f Dr. Alac, you should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror ; To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- clare. To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, And orator Bob \ is its ruin. D'rymple mild, § D'rjmple mild, tho* your heart's like a child, "" And your life like the new driven snaw. Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have For preaching that three's ane an* twa. Rumble John,1[ Rumble John, mount the steps wi* a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Tkca lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adlc, And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James, |j Simper James, leave the fair Killie (lames, There's a holier cUacc in your view ; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's bat few. Siogct Sawney,"* Singet Sawney, are ye herd- ing the |)enny. Unconscious what evils await ; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Aul(l,|f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in tlte fauld, A to out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ! As meikle better as you can. January 1, 1789. VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CAR RON. We cam na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise : But when we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us ; Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, Your billv Satan sair us ! II LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, V,-HILE ON HIS DEATH-RED, TO J N R K K, AYRSHIRE, AND FOnWARKED TO Ii'IM IMME- DIATELY AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. He who of R— k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, And a greeu grassv hillock hides his head ; Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Voi-unteecs, held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's victory, April 12th 1782, BunNs was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the follow- ing Lines: INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found. For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, ^Tioe'er would betray him on high may he swing; And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; AtmI who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his sen be a hangman, and he his first triaU POEMS. 69 STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling I Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 'urbid torrents, wintry swelling. Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy liaunts of base mankind, Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not ray distracted mind. n the cause of riglit engaged. Wrongs injurious to redress, lonour's war we strongly waged. But the heavens deny'd success, luin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, 'he wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend !* CLARINDA. yLAKiNDA, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! rhe wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. [o what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy. iVe part, — but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes ! Vo other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her ses, Has l)lest my glorious day : \nd shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? A VISION. ks I stood by you roofless tower. Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air, Where th' Ijowict mourns in her ivy bower. And tells the midnight moon her care. Che winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky ; fhe fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. The stream adoxvn its hazelly patt, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming fortli Her lights, wl' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and 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 ! And frae his harp sic strains did flow. Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear ; But oh, it was a tale of woe. As ever met a Briton's ear ! He sang wi' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur't in my rhymes.^ * Strathallaii, it is presumed, was one of the fnllow- ■rs of tlie young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lyinp; .oncc'al(.'d in some cave of ihe Highlands, after the Kittle of Cullodeii. This song was written before the t^r 1 78» COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WIIH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's FICTURK. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart. But now 'tis despised and neglected : * Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. Her horn the pale-faced Cyntliia rcar'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern anil stalwart ghaist appear'd. i. This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print- ed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last correctio'is. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks cf the river Clu. den, and by the ruins of Lincluilen-Al)bev, founded in tlie twelfth century, in the reign of Malcom IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some ac- count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Anti- quities ( f that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yel it mav be presumed that no reader ot taste, what- ever his opmions mav be, would forgive it being omit, ted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Li. berli/, perhaiis fortunately for his reputation. It may be (juestioncd whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found wor- i thy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. •ro BURNS' ^VORKS. Tlio' somctliinjj like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless waad'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. BIy fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join. The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; Tlieir title's avow'd by the country. But whj^of that epocha make such a fuss, But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter, The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter. I send ynu a trifle, a head of a hard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good Sii, as a mark of regard. Sincere as a saint's dyiug prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night i But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. Your course to the latest is bright. My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- ner on me, and I have not got ag:un into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured mc with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honour to be. Revered Sir, ' Your obliged and very bumble Servant, R. BURNS. Edinburgh, 1787. To ken what French snischief was brewin' ; Or what the diunilie Dutc'u were doin' ; Thut vile dnup skclper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or ho\v the collieshankie works Atween the Russian and the Tuiks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt. Would play anitlier Charles the Twalt ! If Denmark, oiiy body spak o't ; Or Poland, wriu had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades weiie hingin How lihbet Italy v/as singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss. Wfre saying or takin nught amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game : How roval George, the Lord leuk o'er him ' Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin. Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How (laddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warreu Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, Or if bare a — yet werp taxed ; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls , If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, Was thrcshin still at hizzies' tails. Or if he was growin oughtlins dous^r, Ari