V ^,\ iir rf Book ' "t,^ PRESENTED BV ♦ ' 1 >./ jyoiA)cil thvtliu^r^ • Lt' ,^SiiA/ (fiwmJ^- %Jz^ THE WORKS OP ROBERT BURNS CONTAINING HIS LIFE; JOHN LOCKHART, ES^. THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, BY HIMSELF GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, kND OTHERS; ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY, FNCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, BY DR. CURBIE; BURNS'S SONGS, PROM JOHNSON'S "MUSICAL MUSEUM," AND "THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIES SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF THE OTHER POETS, FROM THE BEST COLLECTIONS, WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. • FORMING, IN ONE WORK, THE TRUF.ST CXHIBITION OF THR MAN AND THE POET, AND TBS FULLEST SniTlON OF Ills POETRY AND PROSE WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED. NEW YORK: ' ii jj. ;^ i l3 K* LEAVnr & ALLEN, No. 379 BROADWAY. 1857. " "]' '^ 7':?Vr' i .0,0V ^ PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION. 1 nn ftir»ort-iug trifles art not the production of the poet, who, with all Jie advantaf,^es of learned an, 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 m their original language, a fountain shut up, and a hook sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings th» sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- self and rustic compeers around him, m his and their native language. — Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest mipulse 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 thmk any thing of his worth showing : and none of the following works were com- posed with a vieAr to the press. To amuse himself with the littL- 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 autnor^ he does u with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a ^ew doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, wnose divine ele- gies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Hamikty^ has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells hmi once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manceuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his -ye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. w PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere tliauKs . iS.'l the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart- throbbing gratitude ol' the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- "''^■ing him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wash of every poetic bosoni- )e distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the jite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- Avance 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 hiaj be condjmned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. In the Dedication m the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap tain (Iraliani Moore, tlie 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 excehent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlup, and oi " other friends »f the family of the poet, 1 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 ethers have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's s(jueamishness in favour of persons of established reputation, who might be chary of a tick- lish and imoracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the master-spirits of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage.'' They have all roluntarilif written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only honour, but write as if honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely [)ointing attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it, as a decisive test of the evil days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. It is true. Dr. Currie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — ■ the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr. Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable nia» terla!^. They form trulv the very bacJ»bone of the poet's hfe, as edited by V " ) Dr Currie. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and however largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- men of all degrees, of that literary talent, which had only been inferred, bvpothetically, from *he nature of her elementary institutions. vVe have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his Ifibours, as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of redactenr. — 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 map and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei" such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in justice in various respects, particularly as to his persona! habits and mora' character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru lence of party strife. The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals ol the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, who each ol them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon t: e publications of Cromek, who in his " R cliques," and " Select Scottish Songs," brought to light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- ted and kept alive the general feeling, which was not gratified in its full extent until nearly thirty years after the pubiicution of Lr. Currie' t work. It was not until IS27 that a historian, worthy of the poet, aj)peared in the person of Mr. John Lockhart, th\' son-in-law of bir Walter .Scott, and (ra- ther a discordant title). Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part of that excellent repertory known by the title of Coiistuhles Miscellmiy. 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 ajipears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the champion of the Bard who sung, "■ A man's a man for a' that :" and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect persecution the local satellites of intolerance could Hing upoi. him. 1 ut the lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove prejudices and soften asperities r to say nothing of that independence of mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances in the poets history naturally roused and excited in a kindred suirit. Mr ( i" , Lockhart, it will farther be observed, besides having compiled his work ;-« 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 inay be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet did, always thinks and speaks for himself. These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi- tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the respectable authors who have since written or published of "Burns The following genera] heads will show the nature and extent of the present work. 1. The Life by Lockhart. 2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Croraek. 3. Essay (by Dr. Currie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of Burns. 4. Select Scottish Songs 7iot Burns's, upw'ards of 2 00 in number, and many of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 5 Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and others. The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like- wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. New York, Sept. 11, 1832. CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. OF THE LIFE. Page Uhap. I —The Poet's Birth, 1759 — Circumstances and peculiar Character of his Father and i\Iother — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of his JMental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 16, i — ^viii Chap. II From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to tlieir Father, as Labourers, at stated Wages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This period not marked by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir- vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member ut'a Batchelor's Club, ix — xii Chap. Ill The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossgiel — Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not Prosperous — The Aluse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with heresy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin- cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies Chap. IV The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert— Intends for Ja- maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit — One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 17!i6 — It brinfis him extended repu- tation, and £20— Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- stances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, „,„ xxxv — ^Ixiif 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 while ca- I ressed by the fashionable — What happens to him generally in that new world, ' j and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern ! ! life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by j bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as ! not the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried off" their ftet by it, while the philosophers hardly keep their- — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields luuch money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusion, ,„ ,-^ „— - Ixiv — Ixri Chap. VI Makes three several pUgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first } or these, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends in tlie " Auld Clay I Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country^Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpots, winter \lVti-\S — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised limb, and mournful luusings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Excise — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop 1 ; not to desert him — (rrowls over his publisher, but after settling with him leaves [ ' Edinburgh with £500 — Steps towards a more regular life, __ Ixii — IxxT Chap. VII Marries — Announcements, (apologetical,) of the event — Remarks — Becomes (1788) Farmer at Elliesland. on the Nith. in a romantic vicinity, six Pagt Ixxxii— 3H ri CONTENTS. miles from Dumfnes — The Muse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maini^ins a varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shews cause against success in farming — The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life — Leaves Elliesland (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, .„„„„~~„~ ~~ Chap- VIII — Is more beset in town than country — His early biographers, (Dr. Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual discharge of his official (Katies— He is shown to have been the affectionate and be- loved husband, although passing follies imputed ; and the constant and most as- siduous instructor of his children— -Impulses of the French Revolution — Symp- toms of fraternizing— The attention of his official superiors is called to them — Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name— Interesting details of this pe- riod — Gives his whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, xci dx Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of preiuature old age— These not diminished by narrow circumstances —Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter — The Poet misses public pa- tronage: and even the fair fruits of his own genius— -the appropriation of which is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell-— His magnani- mity when death is at hand ; his interviews, convers:iti(>ns, and addresses as a dying man--Dies, 21st July 179o— Public fuiur;-.!, at which many attend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the Poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public —Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Byron, and others, „.w ex— .cxxxi» Verses on tlie death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, — — ~-~„-~ >. cxxxv Character of Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, Preface to the First Edition rf Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmamock, Dc4icai;on to the Caledonia-' Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, cbdii clsf frii CONTENTS OF THE POEMS ^ Bards Epitapii. _. \ddress to a I-Wiggis, o a Lady, to a Louse, to a Mouse, to Colonel ile Peyster, to Edinburgh, — . to General Heniourier, to J. Syme, to Mr. "Mitchell, to Mr. Wi.liam Tytler. to Robert Graham, E^q. to the Deil,~ to the Owl, to the Shade of Thomson to the Scotch Representat to the Toothache, to the Unco Guid, A Dedication toGnvin Hamilton, A Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the A Gnice before Dniner Answer to a Tax SurvL . A Prayer in Piospect of Death, in Anguish, ^ A Sketch A Winter Night,, A Vision,, Death and Dr Hornbook,. Despondency, an Ode, Page. King), a Hymn, Elegy on C.iptain Matthew Henderson, on William Creech, - on Peg Nicolson,, Tarn Samson, 45, on the Year 1788,. Epistle to a Voung Friend, to Captam Riddel. „ to Davie, a Brother Poet (1), . to Davie, a Brother Poet (2), . to Gavin Hamilton, , to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,. to J. Rankin with Poems, ~ to Mr. Macadam, to Terraughty, to the Reverend Mr. M-Math. to \V. S. Ochiltree. Epitaph on a Friend, on a Noisy Polemic,, on a Ruling Elder,, on Gavin Hamilton, on R. .Aitkin,. on tlie Poet's Father, on VVee Johnny, . Extempore Effusions in ihe Court of Session, on Falsehood,, to a Friend, ~,. to Mr. Syme, Refusal to Dine, , when at Carlisle, - 7.5 2'i 41 18 75 72 .-fi, 78 38, 78 ,„ 82 29 69 9 32 78 49 76 77 23 Halloween, ~. Holy Fair, 39 81 ."0 59 79 45, 79 - 47 81 81 79 46 75 55 55 55 55 55 55 82 83 74 74 83 24 6 Lament for James Earl of Glencairn, for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, Lilies left at a Friend's House left at Carron, left at Frier's Carse Hermiiage, left at Tavmouth Inn, „. on a Posthumous Child, on a Wounded Hare, ~« on Bruar Water on Capt.iin Grose, on Miss Ouikshan on Rclinion on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, , — on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, on the Death of J. Maeleod, . , on the Fall of Fyers, on the Highlant' on William .Sim to a Mountain Daisy, to an Offended Friend, to an Old Sweetheart with his Poem- to a Young Lady with Books, to Mi-s L. with Bcattie's Poems, . to Robert Graham, Esq to Ruin, to Sir John Whitefoord,, Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph, New- Year's Day, a Sketch, . Ode on a Miserly Character,, on my Early Days, on Pastoral Poetrv, Pagt - 52 on tlie Death of Sir James Hunter Blair Poor Maillie's Elegy, . .Scotch Drink,, et on the Death of Mr. Riddel, Stanzas on Death, Stiathallan's Lament,, Tim o' Shanter, , Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,- Inscription, Altar of Independence,, Lament of Queen Mary, . 73 72 Tam Samson's Elegy ami E])itaph, — . ~ — The Auld Farmer's New-Year's Salutation to his M.ire Maggie,. Brigs o' Ayr, Calf, Cotter's Saturday Night, Death and Dying V\ ords of Poor Maillie, First Psalm,, First Six Verses nf 9Uth Psalm, Henpecked Husband, Jolly Beggars, Kirk's Alarm,. Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, Newspaper, . Ordmiition, . Tua Dogs, Twa Herds. Wliistle, . Vision, Vowels, a Tale, Winter, a Dirge, — Essay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Currie), 84-37 CONTENTS OF TlIE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS. \n<1rrw arm nis Cu.ty Gun, dnnie Lawrie, As I went o\it in a May Morning, AuUI Rub Morris, Robin Gray, Aye waukiii' O \ waiikrile Minn Awa Whigs Awa, Beds of SwG?t Roses, . — Be^s the Gai kie ~-™~- Bessy Bell an i Mary Gra> Bide ve Vet i >. sets), ~ — ~~ Bliiik'o'er thi llurn Sweet Deity, Blvie Bonnets over the Border,- B'liinie Barbara Allan, — ~ Dundee, Mary Hay,. Came ve o'er frae France, Carle :In' the King come,,, Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,-. f 'a' the Kwes to the Knowes, - Charlie is mv Darling, Clout the Cau'dron,, Coikpen,, Come uniler my Flaidie,. Coniin' thro' the Rye, Co n Bigs are Bonnie, Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago), ~. Cnwnlei's Lilt, — Pinna think Bonnie Lassie,- Donald Coupar, Down the Burn Da\ie,. Dumbarton's Drums,. Dusty Miller, Eitriek Banks, Jockey said lo Jenny.-~>~~ John Hay's Bonnie Lassie, John o' Badenyon, Johnny Cope,- Johnny Fa Johnny's Gray Breeks Jumpin John, -— — — Kate of Aberdeen,-. Kathrnie Ogie, . Page, — isa 115 144 143 136 1116 159 Fair Annie of Loehroyan, Fairly Siiot of Her, -— .— . False Love and hue ye Played Me This, . Farewell to .\yrshire, Fire ye weel inv Auld Wife, For Lack o' Gold She's left me. For the Sakeo' Somebody, . Fye gar ruli her o'er wi' Straw, Get up and Bar the Door O, Go to Berwick Johnie, ~ Gude Yill Comes and Gude \"ill Goes,. Hame never c.im' He, Haud awa frae me Donald, . Hap and row the Feetie o't,. Here's a Health to them that's awa,- Hev ca' through, - Highland Laddie, - Hooly and Fairlie,- Hughie Graham, I had a Horse and I had nae mair, I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet, I'll never leave Ye, I loo'tl nae a Laiidie but ane, Jenny Dang the Weaver, -, If yi''ll be mv Dawtie and sit on my Plaid, . ku the (Jarb of Old Gaul.- Keep the Country Bonnie Lassie, Kelvin Grove, — — . — ~- Kenmure's on and awa Willie, . KiUverankie (the Battle), — — . Kill'vcrankie O (the Braes), Kind Robin Iocs me, . Lady Mary Ann,-. Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now Lassie lie near me,-. Lewis Gordon, Little wat ye wha's comin', Lochaber lio more, ~ Loehnagar, . — Logan Braes, (double set),- Logie o' Buchan,. Lord Ronald, my Son, Low down in the Broom, Macpherson's Rant Maggie Lauder, Mary's Dream 7 My Auld Man,. Mary Scot, the Flower o' \'arrow, — Merry hae I been Teething a Heckle, Mill, Mill, O,-. My Dearie, if thou Die,. My Jo Janet, . M y Love she's but a Las.sie yet, ~. My Love's in i;ermanie, My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er i My Native Caledonia, Mv onlv Joe and Dearie O, My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing My Wile has taen the Gee, — — . Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, O an' ye were Dead Gudeman, O can ye labour Lea Young Man, Oeh hev Johiinv L:id,. O dear Minny what shall 1 do, O merry may the Maid be, — O on ochrio (the Widow of Gleiieo,\ Old King Coul, ~ — f OurGuidnian cam' Hame at E'en, - O'er the Muir amang the Heather, - O'er Bogie wi' my Love,. O Waly, Waly up yon Bank, Polwarth on the Green,, Poverty parts Gude Company,- 107 ltj3 159 156 185 147 160 173 148 165 164 119 161) 1H6 184 151) 155 149 164 125 li'l 112 124 164 128 . 165 118 lt'3 165 174 1«2 167 153 166 1G6 170 167 1.39 161 160 185 119 ™ 168 ^^ 161 1.^0 153 „ 158 185 Ro.-lin Castle,—. Roy's V\ he, . Sae Merry as We hae been, . Sandy o'er the Lea, Saw ye Johnny Coiniii', — Saw ye my Father, 103 170 116 165 103 Hi CONTEJ^TS. IX sa'V ye nao iny Pessy, . filie nwo ami lot ine in. '■'tpcr her up anhi>n and Lyrii:i, S J moil Broilie, ~ Tak' ymir AiiM ClnaK about you,, ram o' the Balloch, Tarry Woo,, The Auld Mm s Mare's iieai 191 .-„ 192 192 193 192 193 193 193 194 194 194 194 195 196 195 196 Diiiiity Davie,, Deiiideii Swain, l-ors h;iught\ Gaul,, Do" II the Burn Davie,,,. Duncan Gray,,,, Evan Banks I'Vir Eli ._, . Fairest Maid on Devon Hanks,, Fate gave the Word, . — ~ For the Sake o' Somebody, . Forlorn my Love. . From thee Eliza,. Gala-Water, Gloomy December, ,, (ricen grow the Rashes O, s Gudcwiie coiuit the Lawin' Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, Handsome Nell, . Her flowing Loeks, Here's a health to \ne 1 loe dear to Them that's awa. Page. 197 197 197 197 198 193 198 198 199 199 199 ?00 I'OO 2(>a t'OO t'dl 201 201 201 2 2 2(12 203 202 21 13 204 CONTENTS. Upre's a Boltlo and an Honest Frieml, . Hmlilatid Harry, «— — , Highland Mary, Hnw Cruel are the Parents,, ilciw lang and dreary Is the Night, ! am a Son of Mars,- Jamie come tr\ me,. Pagv. ^ 2' 14 „ '205 ^ 1'03 2(14 204 i.ream'd 1 lay where Flowers were spnngmg,. I'll aye ca' in by yon Town, „,„„„ I'm o'er Voung to Marry yet. It 15 nae Jean Ihv bcmnie Face, Jockey's ta'en the Parting Ki>s, John Anderson my jo, John Barleycorn, ~^ Raving Winds around her blowing,,»^ Pagt, >_ 223 Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 Lassie w'i' the Lint-white Locks Lay thy Loof in mine Las; Let not a Woman e'er complam, Logan Braes, . Long, long the Night, „- Lord Gregory, — ~ — ~. -~ Lord Daer,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Macpherson's Farewell, -~~ Maria's Dwelling, ~^ Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion, ilary Morison, Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, Scroggnm,-^ ~^~~~-^ — She's Fair and She's Fause, , She says she Loes me best of a'. Sic a Wife as Willie had, ■ Steer her up and hand her gaun, Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburn-wood, Tarn Glen, The Auld Man, 223 223 -,, 2-23 223 224 224 224 The Banks o' Castle Gordon, o' Cree, o' Devon, o' Doon, „~~~« o' Nith,~- The Bard's Song The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, The Big-bellied Bottle,„ The Birks o' Aberfeldie, The Blue-eved Lassie, ~. 225 22.5 225 Meg o' the Mill, ~. My Bonnie Mary. -, 'Mv 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 Thmg, Musing on the Roaring Ocean,- Naebody, Nancy, ~- 210 210 211 211 211 212 212 2I1' 212 „ 215 _- 2 3 213 214 The bonnie Wee Thing,* The Braes o' Ballochmyle, The Carle o' Kelh burn.Braes, . The Chevalier's Lament, The Dav Returns The Death Song Now Banks and Braes are clad in Green, — Now S|)ring has clad the Grove in Green, — Now wesllin Winds and slaughtering Guns, O' a' the airts the Wind can blaw,- O ay mv Wife she dang me, O bocnie is yon Rosy Brier,. O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, O gin my Love were yon Red Rose, ~ O leave Novelles ye Mauchlin Belles, O let me in this ae Night, v O Love will venture in, — ...- ■'•■~ O May, thy Morn,~_~ ~~~. — ~ On a Bank of Flowers, ~~. On Cessnock Bank, . On the Seas and far away,. Open ihe Door to me O,-. O Philly happy be that day, O stay sweet warbling Woodlark, O wat ye Wha's in yon To.»n, — > O were I on Parnassus Hill, O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,, O wha is She that Loes me,. Out over the Forth,, Peggy Alison, Phillis the Fair, . _„„„,„„ Powers Celestial wnose proiecf.on, Puirtith Cauld,——" — - ...r.~ 214 214 215 214 213 215 216 216 216 217 217 217 . 218 . 2I,S . 219 21.S 219 219 220 -.«o 220 . 1:21 216 216 216 221 222 The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,- The Election,, The Gallant Weaver,, The Gardener, . The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast, . The Heather was bloomin', - The Highland Lassie O,. The Lad that's far awa. The Lass o' Ballochmyle, The Lass that made the Bed to me,~. The Lazv Mist,~~~~~~~,^ — "— The Lea-Rig, -,. ■ The Lovely Lass o' Inverne The Lover's Salutation The Riggs o' Harley, ~ The Soldier's Return Thestown Glance o' Kindness,. The Toast, The Tocher for Me The Woodlark, The Young Highland Rover, There'll never be Peace till Jamie coines harne,. 1'here's a Youth in this City, - There's News Lasses, . 227 227 228 228 228 22s . 229 229 230 250 250 231 „ 231 232 232 232 253 S33 233 23! 234 2.-4 255 235 235 There was once a Day, This is no mine ain Lassie, Thou has left me ever Jamie, Tibbie I haeseen the Day, — To Mary in Heaven, Rantin' Roarin' Willie,. 'i'ruehearted was He, , ^,~~- ™~~ Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, Wandering VVillie,~~ — ~ ~^TCr~~ What can a Voung La-sie do wi' an Auld Man, Wha is that at mv Bower Door, . , — ~ When Guildford (^oos i hae met in the Mornnig, AVhistle and I'll eonie to ye my Lad, Willie hrew'd a Peik o Maul, . Wdl N'egotothe Indies mv Mary, Wilt thou be my Dearie, Von Wild Mossy Mountains \'iniMg Jocl.ey was the biythe-l 1-ad, . 256 257 237 258 2.->8 239 240 239 240 240 240 240 241 241 242 242 242 243 243 •JlJ 21-! i ! CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 1783. 1784.. Page Love Letters, at 2e, in good English, but unavail- To Mr. Murdoch — state of the Poet and his Opi- Extracts from the Scrap-book, -,^,„„w — ™~„™ 25U-2 1786. To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh— first pub- To Mr. Macwhinnie, .\yr — same topic, To Mr. James Smith, Mauchhne— route for Ja- To Mr. David Brice — same— about to become Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to To Mr. .\itken, Ayr — \uthorship — Excise — a fu- To Mrs Dunlop — ^first Letter — her order for Co- pies — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir W. To Mrs. Stewart of Sl;air — introductory — hurry — going abroad -sends Songs, „ J From Or BlacUlock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie— with just estimate of the Poet's merits — which puts ail end to the West India scheme, and brings him to E(Mnb'irgh, ^ ,^,„..„„,.-„,.„ From Sir John Whiiefoord — complimentary, ~~ From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview with Dr. Blacklock — good .advice, To Gavin Hamilton, Mauohline — from Edinburgh — the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Banyan — favours of the Edinburgh public. To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline — with the Lines on Lord Daer, 1787. To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and humourously apologetical, ,,^„.™.„.-„ ^~ To Mr. John Ballantine — Farming projects and farther incidents at Edinburgh, To the Earl of ICglinton— a thai.kful Letter, . To Mrs. Dunlop — treats of Dr. Moore and his Writings — critical remarks on his own — and upon himself at the heiglit of popular favour, ~ To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of From Dr. Moore — tinnks the Poet 7wt of the ir- ritabi/e genus — admires his love of Country and independent spirit, not less than his Poetical Beauties — sends Miss Williams .Sonnet on the Mountain Daisy, , . , To Dr. Moore — general character of Miss Williams' To Mr John n.Ulantme — printing at Edinburgh, and getting his/jA/; done,~„.«~~~~~~,„,~^.,~ From Dr. Moore — with his View of Society — and To ilie Earl of Glencaun — -with Lines for his Pio- r.i tliB Earl of Bueh.m— as to Pilgrimages in Cale- tiouia. P3<„ Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Ferguss-m, 2GC-3 To Mr. .(.imes Candlish, Glasgow — the Poet clings to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still the Old Man with his deeds, „ ™™- 264 To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— the Bard— his situation and views, -^ ™ 264 To the same, . .— 265 To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti- To tlie Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair— leave taking,. . 265 From Dr. Blair — who notices hi-^own claims for first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — gives the Poet, at parting, » certificate of cha- racter, with much good advice, both wordly and To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during the first Pilgrimage, . ™ . 268 From Dr. Moore— sparing use hereafter of the Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua- ble hints also given, 267 To Mr. William NicoU — the Poei's Itinerary in From Mr. John Hiitcheson, Jamaica — Poems excellent — but belter in the English style — Scot- tish now liecoming obsolete — dissuades from the West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a man of learning and genius there," 268 To Mr. W. Nicoll — on arriving at home^moraii- zes over the Scenes and Companions of his re- cent elevation — gloomily as to the future, — 268 To (Savin Hamilion — occurrences of the second To Mr W^dker. Blair-m-Athole — the same — the Duke's familv, . .„ 270 To Mr. Gilbert ii'urns— further adventures, . 270 From Mr.Ramsay of Orlitertyre — with Inscriptions — Tale of Owen Cameron — hints for a Poetical Composition on the grand scale and other taste- ful and interesting mater , 271-2 From Mr. Walker, ."V thole- House — particulars of the Poet's visit there — female contrivances to F;om Mr A. M. an admiring Friend returned from abroad — with tributary Verses, '-73 From Mr. Ramsay to the Re . William Vonng — introductory of the Poet, , 274 From the same to Dr. 'Hacklock— with thanks for the Poet's acquaintance and Son;;s — .Anecdotes, 274 From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Le.ter from an old Tut.ir, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he had helped to cultivate, . , 275 From Mr R , from Gordon. Castle — incidents of the Poet's visit there, , .„.— 275 From the Rev. John Skinner — prefers the Natural to tile Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- butes to th2 Song-making cnterprize, „-., ™ 276 From Mrs. Ro.ss of Kilraivach — Gaelic airs — the Poet's Northern Tour, — 277 To .Mr. Dalrympleof Orangefielil— Rhymes,™-™ 278 Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, .„ — 278-81 To Mi.ss M an Essay on the complimentary To Mr.' T?obert~\iTisHe— friendship, . -~ 281 To Mr. John Ballantine— with Song, \e Banks and B.ae.io' Bonnie oon. , 281 CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCllES. Page. To Pr. Moore, from the Poet. — Sketch of his From Mr. Gilhert Burns, a running Commentarv on tlie foregoing, ^ „-„-2SG-00 From Mr. Murdoch, as to the Poet's early Tui- From Professor Dugald Siewart — his SIcetches of From Mr. Gill)ert Burns, giving history of origin of the principal Poems, ~~ — 295-7 From tlie same, in continuation — and Essay on Eiiucation of lower Classes, ^'97-302 I eath and Character of Gilbert Burns, — ~~- — .- 3ni' The '■oet's Scrap- Uook, (farther extracts),-. -^i.i'-o LETTERS, 178S. To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — second visit — To the same — repelling insinuation as to irrcli- To a Lady — upon the use of sarcasm imputed to him against her, — , — ~™~ 3 4 To Mr. Robert Cleghorn — origin of ihe Cheva. From the same, in answer — and with Farming To Mr. James Smith, Avontield — marriage pre- To Mrs. Dunli)) — Karnnng — reasons for and in- structions m the Excise — tart expressions, 305 From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming Nancy," by a Buchan Ploughman, and other Songs — his'own Latin poetry, — 306 To Professor Dugald Stewart — wishes at his going to the Continent, , : : .306 To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil — likes the Georgics — disappointed in the .-Eneid, often an imitation of Homer — Dryden, Pope's master, in genius and harmony of language, ™- 307 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dull Letter may be a To Mrs. Dunlop — inequality of conditions, 507 To the same — tirst from Ellisland — his marriage, 508 To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-milk Cheese— r slice of it good for indigestion of all kmds, 308 To Mr. Robert Ainslic— friendship— the Poet's suspicious temperament — his purpose to leave the light troops of Fancy for ihe squadrons of heavy-armed Thought— .VlarriHge, ™ : — i )9 To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Mauchline — the Poet's new house, - ~~ ," '9 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a serous Let.er. ~- ; To Mr. George Lockhart, Glasgow — iirimiiaiion of certain Female beauties, cil To Mrs. Dunlop^a luck-pLiiny — Friar's C'arse Hermitage and other Lines, „ ^— ~~ .311 To the same — his answers to her, not Echoes — Marriage Anecdotes — account of his Wife — Let- To the same— gossip of a Dinner-party- Life and Age of Man — religious Impressions, ~„„~„. 512 To Robert Graham, Esq. with first Poetical Ad- To M r. Beiigo, Engraver — estimate of the Poet's new neighbours — matters poeticki, . . . 314 To Miss Chalmers— complimen'ary to her — and explanatory of his marriage- present state and prospects — Songs, ~—~-~, , — 315 To Mrs. Dunlop — twins — cr' A;ism&— verses, . 316 7'o Mr. Peter Hill — i pinitms of the Poetry of To Mrs. Dunlop — the Major's present, — . 517 To — — apologetical for the bloody and tsramiical House of Stewart,™—^. ^„.™„ 518 To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh — with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- seum, „... ~~~ 319 To Dr. Blacklock — with Poetical Pieces and Songs — his Marriage and other movements, — — ~,~~ 319 To Mrs. Dunlop — consolatory — the Poet's esti- mate of worldly concerns, as against the func- tions of the immortal soul — .\uld Lang Syne— _ Te a young Lady, enclosing a Ballad upon hei,~ 3W 1789 Pagt, To Sir John Whitefoord— thanks for his rnluntary defenceof the Poet, 321 From Mr. Gilbert Burns — New-year's wishes, — 321 To Mrs. Dunlop — thesame — approves of set times of Devotion — glowing sentimenis of a Life be- yond the Grave . -~~- 321 From the Rev. P. Carfrae — of Mylne and his To Dr. Ml ore — poetical purposes — worldly slate of the Poet and his Friend,s, . -™~„, 322 lo Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice and encourage- To Bishop Geddcs — •' What am I ?— Where 1 am ? —and for what am I destined ?" 324 To Mrs. Dunlojv— contrast of high and low — _ Mvlne's Poems, ^~~ •. — . 324 Frorn William Burns, the Poet's Brother— his out- _ set and progress, _, „„ . — ,„ — . .~~v», 3"'5 To the Rev. P. Carfrae — Mvlne's Poems, ZtQ lO Dr. Moore— the Bard's snfferings from the Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, 326 To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality — order for ^ To Mrs. Dunlop— Sketch of Fox, 3i.'8 To Mr. Cunningham — effusions of Friendship, ~ 328 From Dr. Gregory — iron bound criticism 328 To Mr. James Hamilton, Glasgow — consolation, 329 To Mr. William Creech — Toothache, . . 329 To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton- descriptive of the Poet's feelings and condition, . — „„„— ™ 330 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same topics, ~. — 5 <0 From Dr. Moore — advice — to preserve and polish his lays, and to abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect — Zeluco, — — 531 To Mrs. Dunlop— low spirits — religious feelings,™ 531 From Miss J. Little — with a poetical tribute, — : — 532 From Mr. ( unningham — reminiscences of Fergus- To Mr. Cunningham, in answer, — — — 533 To Mr. Dunlop — domestic matters— Poetical Tri- bute from Miss L a Future State— Zeluco, 334 From Dr. Blacklock — a friendly Letter in Rhyme, 7>5i To Dr. Blacklock — a suitable answer, • — .'5.'55 To Captain Riddel — the night of the Whistle, ~~ 335 To the same — the Scrap-book, ~ » 335 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word " Exciseman," 335 ro Robert Graham, Esq.— Captain Grose and lo. _ cal polemics, — ■ — ~ 336 , o Mrs. Dunloj) — " under the misciies of a diseas- To Sir John Sinclair— the Library of Dunscore,— 538 From Cajitain Riddel to Sir John— on same sub- ject, . , 338 1790. To Gilbert Burns— the Players— Verses for them, 339 From William Burns — at Newcastle— wants intor- mation and fraternal instructions, — 359 To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer — Ballads, ~ 54C From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices, ~~ 341 From Mr. Peter Hill-" a poor rascally Gauger," —Borough Reform— Books— iS'ote, with secrtts To Mr. William Nicoll— i.ast illntss and death of Peg Nicolson — matters theatrical — eccle-iaslical squabbling— Exciseman's duty, ~-™ 34J To Mr. Cunniiighairi^n Letter writing — cxist- cnec — and the course of the Poet's reading — To Mr. Peter Hill— a large order — existence, 313 From William Hums, at" London — his adventures shears tlie C'a//' preach at Covent Garden Cha- To Mrs. Dunlop — advantages of the Union— Lord Chesterheld — Mirror — Lounger— Man of Feel- ing, 545 From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices,. , 3i5 To Dr Mooic — Letter writing — Zeluco — Miss To Mr. Murdoch — ren wing friendly mtercourse, .'46 From Mr Murdoch — Death of William Burns, ~ 34'' To Mr. Cunningham — Independence — Smollett's Ode, ^ ~ . ~ 34» CONTENTS. xiu From Dr. Blacklock— a Letter in Rhyme— Dr. Anderson and the Bee, — — — -, — 348 From Mr. Cunningham — a Song for each of the four .Se:isons suggested, . — -..,j~, .349 To Mrs. Dunlop— Birth of a Posthumous Child- Ode thereon, - ~ 319 To Crawford Tait, Esq. — recommending a voung Friend, ~~ — ~-™J — __ 349 To • Parliianship, ..^ - 350 1791. To Mr. CiKiningli»m — Elegy on Miss Burnet, 350 To Mr. Peter Hill— Essav on Poverty, 351 From A. F. Tytle-, Esq.— Tam o' Shanter, ~, o5I To Mr. Tytler — in answer, . „.-~ 55'2 To Mrs. Dunlop — broken arm — Elegy on Miss Burnet — a remembrance, ,.„.„.„.„.„„^,„ 352 To Lady Marv Constable — a Snuff-box, ~ 353 To Mrs. Graham of Fuitry — Ballad on Queen Mary — the Poet's gratitude, .553 From the Ilev. Principal Baird — Michael Bruce,„ 555 To P'-inci|)aI Baird— otfenng every aid for pub- To the Re\'. Archibald .Mlisoi. — his Es.says on To Dr. Moore — .^oiigs and Ballaus — Zeleuco — pri. v:ite concerns, -™,~~v,^~-~ — ~ 555 To Mr. Cunningham — Song, " There'll never be peace till Jamie come home,'" .,.. — ,^.,.„„,„ 556 To Mr. Dalzell, F'^ctor to Lord Gleneairn— the Poet's grief for his Lordship— his wish to attend From Dr. Moore — criticises Tam o' Shanter, and other pieces — solicits the Poet's remarks on Ze- leuco — advises him to be more chary of givmg Copies— and to use the modem English, . 356 To Mrs. Dunlop— a domestic occurrence — exclu- sive advantages of humble life, 557 To Mr. Cunningham — in behalf of a persecuted Schoolmaster, ,.-.-.— — — — .- 35S From the Earl of Buehan.— crowning of Tliomson's Bust at Ednap, — ,-. — — , — 358 'I o the same — in answer,-^ . 559 To .Mr. Thom«i .S!can, Manchester — disappoint- ment — perseverance recommended — The Poet's From the Earl -^f BuDhan — suggests Harvest-home for a theme to the Muse, 359 To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the death of her Brother, Lord Gleneairn, 360 To Mr Bobert Ainslie — a Mind diseased, 560 From Sir Jo.hn Whitefoord — Lament for Lord From A. f! Tytler, Esq.— the Whistle— the La- To Miss Davies — sentimental — with some hints as to a Radical Reform, 56i' To Mrs Dunlop— with the Death-Song— High. To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew- To the same — Witch Stories of Kirk-.\lloway, — 563 To Mrs. Punlop — animadversions of the Board — malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness, ,~™ 3'"4 To Mr. W. Smellie — introductory of Mrs. Riddel, 564 To Mr. W. NieoU — admiration of, and gratitude To Mr. Cunningham — the Poet's .Arms, ,v«~~-,~ 365 1 o Mr. Clarke invitation to come to the Country, 566 To Mrs. Dunlop — a Platonic attiichment and a Ballad — Religion indispensible to make Man better and happier, -.,,~--,-^...,~ - , 367 To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings, „-„,^„ 567 i To Mrs. imlop-difference in Farming for one's j self and Farming for another, -~ ^ 368 To the same — a Family Infliction — condolence, — 369 To the same — shortness and uncertainty of Life — | Rights of Woman. -. 369 To Robert Graham, Esq. — ^justifies him.self against the cliar(;e of disalf'ectiun to the British Coiisti- Vo M;s. Dunlop — the Poet's improved liauits — al- , hisions to her suggestions for his official prtmo- To Miss B. of Vork — moralizes over the chance- medleys of human intercourse, _—„.-„,„„„.„„ 371 To Patrick Miller, Esq of Dalswinton— an honest To John Francis Erskineof Mar, Esq — ilio Poef's independence of sentiment, and pariicidarly his opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, — 372-3 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — Spunkie — selioolcraft caught by contact, .. .. ..„ 573-4 To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, , 374 To Lady Gleneairn graticude to her Family— from an infiependent Exi'isemaii, — — .-« „ 374-.5 To Miss Chalmers — a curious analysis which shews " a Wight nearly as miserable as a Poet," ~~~ 375 To John M'Murdo, Esq out of debt, - 3:5-6 LETTERS, 1794., 179.-), 1796. To the Earl of Biiehan — with " Bruee's Address," 376 To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Tlieairiciils, 376 To a Lady — the same, 376 To Mr. the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- tion and literary leisure, „.. 378-7 To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated To the same — gin horse routine of Excise busiii'.ss, 577 To the same — effects of a cool reception,—, 377 To the same — a spice of caprice, 578 To the same — firm yet conciliating,,. 378 To John Syme, Esq. — praises of Mr. A, — Song on Mrs. Oswald 378 To Miss in defence of his reputation — re- claims his MS ..„„--.,. 578-9 To Mr Cunningham — a Mind Diseased — Religion necessary to Slan,~.~„,™„„.~~-, 379 To a Lady— from the Sh .des, ^^ — ^ 580 To the Earl of Gleneairn — the Poet's gratitude to his late Brother, „.„- , 380 To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Liies of the To Mrs. Riddel — solitary confinement good to re- claim Sinners — Ode for Birth-day of Washiiig- To Mr, James Johnson — Songs and projects for To Mr. Miller of Dalswinton — declines to be a re- gular contributor to the Poet's Corner of the Morning Chronicle, _-.— 381 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton — the Poet recmmends a particular regimen to him, 382 To Mr. Samuel Clarke — penitence ;iftcr excess, „ 582 To Mr. Alexander Findlater — Supervisor — " So much for schemes," , .'83 To the Editors of the Morning Chronicle — its in- To Mr. W. Dunbar— New- VeaTwdshes, ZZZZ 383 To Miss Fontenelle — with a Prologue for her be- i o Mrs. Dunlop — cares of the Marrieil Life — Dum- fries Theatricals — Cowper's Task — the Poet's To Mr. Heron of Heron— Political Ballads — Dreams of Excise promotion, ^ 5S5 To the Right Hon. W. Pitt— m behalf of the Scots Distillers, . ™,. . . 386 To the Magistrates of Dumfries— Free School E- To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's Work — acting Supervisor— New Year wishes — To Mrs. Riddel — Aiiaeharsis — the MusfS still pre- To Mrs. Dunlo|)— in AmiclUm.TZZZZZZZZZIZ 588 To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-day lo.aliy, 388 To Mr. James Johnson— the Museum — a consum- ing illness hangs over the Poet, 3S9 To Mr. Cunningham — from Uie Brow, .Sea-bath- ing Quarters — sad )iictiire, . . . ~, 589 To Mis. nurns— fmin the Biovv — strengthened — but total decay of appetite, . — . '. .■?89 To Mis Dunluu— a U>t farewell ~~. 5SS CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE WITH ]VIR. GEORGE THOMSON Pafre From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to the Select Melodies, .,.. „ „,„.,„„„ 591 The I'oet's answer — frankly embarking in tlie From Mr. Thoivson — views of ennducting tlie Work — and with II Songs for Ncv/ Verses, 592 From the Poet— >ith the " I.ca Ric;"— " My Nan- nie O" — " Will ve go to the Inilies my Nlary," 595 From the Poe' — with " My Wife's a wanton wee thmg" — " O saw ye bonn'ie Lesley," ~- . ~ 595 From the Poet — with " \'e Banks and Uraes :ind Streams aroued the Castle o' Montgomery," ., 594 From Mr. ! homson — criticisms and correetions,™ .■)94 From the Poet — admits some corrections, •' but cannot alter b nnie Lesley" — adilitiimal Verse for the " Lea Rij;,"™ 595 From the Poet — ta.ste as against From the Poet — dogmatically set against alternig, 400 I he Poet to Mr. Thomson— Fraser the Hautboy Player — Tune and Song, " The Quaker's Wife" — "Blythe hae I been on yon Hill," — „ 40 '-1 The same — mad ambition — "Logan Braes" — Frag- ment from Withcrspoon's Collection — " O gin my love were yon Red Rose." 401 Mr 1'homson — m answer — a change of Partners in The Piiet to Mr Thomson — Tune and Air of " Bonnie Jean" — the Poet's Heroines, ^ 402 The same — a remittanre acknowledged—" Flow- ers of Ihe Forest" — the \uthoress — Pinkerton's Ancient Ballads — prophecies, ~— ~ — 402 Mr. Thomson to the Poet— Airs waiting the Mu- se's leisure, • ~~~ — « 403 The Poet to Mr. Thom.son— rune, ' Robin A- (Jair"— " Phillis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail From Mr. Thomson — grateful for the Poet's "va- lued Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the burn Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 From the Poet— Tune " Robin Adaii-" again — sends •• Had I a Cave" to it — Gaelic origin of the Tuue ■■• — . . •104 ^ f'-gt. From the Poet — with New Song to " Allan Wa- From the same— with Song " Whis;-lc and I'll come to you, my Lad," and " i'hillis tlie Fair," to the " Muckin' o' Geordie's byre," „ 401 From the same — " Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot at the Muses, ~— 405 From the same — " Dainty Davie"— four lines of Song and four of Chorus, ~ — ~ 405 From Mr. 'Jhcmison — profuse acknowledgments for manv favours.. — . ~ ~— — ~ 405 From the Poet — Peter Pin('ar — '■ Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the cause of truth and lihcrtv as he did that day,"~ 40i From the same— with Song " Behold the hour the Boat arrives," to the Higldaml Air " Oran gaoil," 4/16 From Mr. Thomson — " Bruce's .\ddress" — the Air " Levis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie taiie" — verbal criticisms, ~ 406 From Ihe P"et — additional Verses to " Dainty Davie" — " Through the wood. Laddie" — " Cow- deii-kiiovve~" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's form ofSong making—" Gill Morriee" — " High- land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon" — " Fee him Father' — " There's nae luck about the House" —the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa- ther" — " odiin hame" — sends "Auld Lang Syne" — farther notices of other Songs and Bal- lads, „„ -^ : 407-8 From the Poet— rejects the verbal criticism on the Ode, " Bruce's Address," _- 408 From Mr. Thomson — Stricture.s on the Poet's no- tices of the above Songs—again nibbling at the Ode, ™„ — ™ — ™ 409 From the Poet—" Ihe Ode pleases me so much I cannot alter it" — sendi; Song " Where are the Jovs I hae met in the mornin',"—. — ™_ — ■ — ~ 409 Ftoin the Poet— sends " Deluded Swain" and " Raving Winds around her blowing"— .\irs and Songs, to adopt or reject — diflerences of From the same — " Thine am I my Faithful Fair" — to the " Quaker's Wife," which is just the Gaelic Air " Liggeram cosh," ~~- — .., — -. 410 Fn m Mr. Thomson — in answer ~ — ~ 410 From the Poet — Song to " My Jo Ja et," 410 From Mr. Thomson — proposeil conference — Re- marks on Drawings and Si:ngs, ~ 410 From the Poet — same subjects — Pli yel — a detenu — wheriby hiiiderance ot theWork — Song " The Banks of tree," ~ 411 From the same-" The auspicious period preg- nant with the liappiness ot Millions"— Inscrip. tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss Graham of Fintry, ~^ — « ■....<. — 4U FYom Mr. Thomson in answer, — „-.~,«-™~«™ 4U From the Poet^with Song " On the Seas and far From Mr. Thomson— iritieises that Sf^ng severely, 412 From the Poet — tjithdrawing it — " making a Song is like begetting a Son". — .sends " Ca' the yewes to the ki'owes," . -,~-™ 412 From tlie same — Irish .\ir — sends .Sung to it " Sa - flaxen were her rii.^ilets" — Poet's ^a^to in Music like Frederic of Prussia'.s — has begun " O let me ill this ae night'' — Epigram, . .. . ~~~ 412 From Mr. '1 homson — profuse of acknowledg- From the same — Peter Pindar's task completed — Rilson's Collection— dressing up of Old Songs, 413 CONTENTS. Page. Fmm tht > oet — " Craigne-l'U'T Wood" and the heroino— lli'cipe for Song making — Sons; " Saw ye my Prtcly" — " The Posie" — " Donochthead" not the Poet's — " Whistle o'er the lave o't" his — so is " Blvthe was she" — sends Song " How lang and dreary is the night" — " Let not Wo- man e'er com]i!ain" — " Sieep'st thou" — East Indian Air— Snag " The Anlil Man," 414 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, and with farther commissions, „-_~w, 415 From the Poet -thanks for Hitson — Song of Chlo- ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" — " I,as rr't'vr better than otherwise, thougli I niei.tl by very slow degrees. The weakness of my serves has so debilitated my LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xv mii'i, that I dare neither review past M'ants, nor look forward into futurity for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy etfi'cts on my wliole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are aHglitened, I glimmer a httle into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for- M^ards 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 myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. ' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' " It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Re^'elations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with whicli they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this wi)»-ld, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, lam altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet tliem. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful tlianks fo - the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much nti'^lected at the time of giving them, but which 1 hope have been remem- be:ed ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and, with wishing you a mer3-y New-year's-day, I shall conclude. " I am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, " Robert Burns." " P. S. — M-Y 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 tlie}' before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his tem- ple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. " 10. They shall hunger no mere, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on 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, displaj'S the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns at this time pos- sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- ling a-week. He passed his days in constant labour as a 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. , the world, shows how ardently he wished for honouraole 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." — Z./e, 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 smuggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert, " of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose society prepared !im for overleapmg 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 U> Da- vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequently addressed. Sillar was at this time a poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer of local 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 theptinci- pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed v ith a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune He vas the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighboialiood, taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with :; view of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ret.-ly to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast ot 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 1 was all attention to learn. He was the only man 1 ever saw who was a greater fool than myself, where women was the j)residing star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard- ed with horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief." Professor Walker, when preparing to write his Sketcli of the Poet's life, was informed by an aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- cussing religious topics, particularly in those circles which usually gather in a Scotch churchyard alter service. The senior added, that Burns com- monly toOK the high Calvinistic side in such debates ; and concluded with a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in & great measure for the gradual adoption of " more liberal opinions." It vvas during the same period, that the poet was first initiated in the mysteries of free masonry, " which was," says his bro her, " his first introduction to the life of a boon companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvii John Ranken, a ■''ery dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which will be noticed in its place. " Rhyme,'' Burns says, " I had given up ;" (or, going to Irvine) " but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly soand- 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 poi Ir} ; and indeed, but for the lasting sense of this obligation, and some natural sym[)athy with the personal misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the verv high terns in which Burns always mentions his productions Shortly before Burns went to Irvine, he, his brother (iilbert, and some seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly filled is evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next *hey cam.e prepared to deliver their sent.ments upon the subject-matter th^^s proposed. Burns drew up the regulations, and evidently was the principal person. He in- troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap- pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Of tlie sort of questions discussed, we may form some notion from the minute of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-writing. — Question for Hal- LOW^EEN, (Nov. II), 1780.- " Si(ppose a young ninn, bred a fanner, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of tioo women, the one a girl of large fortune, hut neither handsome in person, nor agreeable in con- versation, but who ca?i manage the household affairs of a farm well enoiigh ; the other of them a girl every ivay agreeable in person, conversation, and behavi- our, btit without any fortune : lohich 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 expressincr them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, we ought to at- tribute much of that conversational skill which, wLen he first mingled with the upper world was generally considered as the most remarkable of all his personal accomplishments. — Burns's associates of the Bachelor's Club, must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other- wrse such minds as his and CJilbert's could not have persisted in measuring themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display of the poeJ 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 cr-Lti' all over " the Carrick border." 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 Chib, vvliich 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 mfluenced, while it set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindre-d at- tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his princij)les. He wore the only tied hair in the parish ; and in the church, his plaid, which was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he wrapped 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 with our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these walks, 1 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, hi time of a sowen supper, he v/as so intent on reading, I think I'ristram Shandy, that his spoon falling out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a tone scarcel}' 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 liobert 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 agaii\st the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xl> tiien regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could nevei have been at all agreeable to the worthy man wliom he satirizes under the appellation of " Daddie Auld." T//e Poet's Welcome lo an Illegitinmte 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 soi^g in honour of the same occasion, or a similar one about the same period. The rantin Dog the Daddie o't, — which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of the father whom he had so recently buried. I cannot believe that Burns has thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited in his bosom. " To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin," he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottar s Sidnrdai/ 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 : — " Tne mair they talk, Fm kend the letter ; E'en let them clash !" This is indpf^'d a singular manifestation of " the last infirmity of noble minds." CHAPTER III. Contents. — TTie Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Massy iel-^ Their inces»ant labour and moderate habits — T/ie farm cold and unfertile — Not prosperous — The Muse anti-calrinisticat — The paet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he- res;/ — Cnriiins account if these disputes — Early poems prompted by them, — Origin of and remarks upon the poet's principal pieces — Xooe leads him far astray — A crisis— -The jail or the West Indies — The alternative " The star that rules my luckless lot - Has fated me the russet coat, And damn'd my fortune to the groat; But in requit, Has bless'd me wi' a random shot O' country wit." Three months before the death of William 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 190. " It was stocked by tlie 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 laboui 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 farm," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come, go, I iv'dl be tmse. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the jledi, 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 dug to his vomit, and the sow that was washed to her tvallowing in the mi>'e." << At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming wise, he procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. Ihese farming memorarulums are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a spe>'imen may gratify the reader." — Specimens accordingly he gives ; as. " O why the deuce should I repine. And be an ill foreboder ? I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine,— I'll go and be a sodger," &c. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxi ■* O leave novells, ye Mauchline belles, - Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks — like Rob IMossgiel. 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 iMossgiel," &c. &c. The foui ft&is Jaiing 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 iis 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 liglits, and 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 be his destined vocation Gilbert continued for some time to be his chief, often indeed his oniy confidant ; and any thing more inte- resting and delightful than this excellent man's account of the manner in which the poems included in t^e first of his brother's publications were (Composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them was known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of which he formed one in Mauchline, on the Tarbolton model, immediately on his re- moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, which must not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergymen among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met Burns in company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by him, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his power of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to me by accident. On the occasion of my second appearance in the pulpit, I came with an assured and tranquil mind, and though a few persons of education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- fidence and self-possession unimpaired : but when I saw Burns, who was of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was affected with a tremor and embarrassment, which suddenly apprised me of the impression which my mind, unknown to itself had previously received." The Pro- fessor adds, that the person who had thus unconsciously been measuring i-he stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents and education, but '• remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con stitutional firmness." Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a theological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It mav be guessed that from 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 lie 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, tvc, 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 liour." 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 })olemicaI divinity was putting the country hall' mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu- tion of insS, have pretty equall}' 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 warfiu'e, 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 the nirmse, lie 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 Burncs, as we have already seen, though a most exemplary and devout man, entertained opinions very different from those which conmion- iy 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 Irvine, and afterwards, were of course habitual deridcrs of the manners, as well as the tenets of the " Ortliodox, orthodox, wlia believe in .Jolin 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 l>urns formed the connexion, which, more than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to the matter now in qu(;stion. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. (Javin 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 time it hapi)encd that Hamilton was at open feud with Mr. Auld, tlie minister of Mauchline, (the same who had already rehnhcd the ])oet), and the ruling elders of the parish, in consequence of certain irregularities in his personal conduct and deportment, which, according to the usual strict notions ol kirk discipline, were considered as i'airly demanding the vigorous interl'er 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 Maudi- line at the time, must, of course, have been very fiatteringto our polenncal young fiirmer. He espoused (Javin Hamilton's cpiarrel warmly. Hamilton was naturally enough disposed to mix up his personal affair with the stand- in" controversies whereon Auld was at variance with a large and powerlu! body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr Hamilton's ardent ;;ra- teyecixmc to be as vehemently interested in the church politics of Ayrshire^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxiii 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 for the honour of representing it in St. Stephen's. Mr. Cromek has been severely critic cised foi- 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- hend either the merits or the demerits. of many of Burns's most remarkable productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa- lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- ed times that preceded the Revohition, 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 was likely enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every trace of feuds, that were still abundantly discernible, in the days when Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- ation of, — " Poet Burns, And his priest-skelping turns" It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. I^roud 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 ni 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 pu!))it — which Dromise, however, he never performed. The gentry of the country took xxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. for the most part, the ^^ide of Macgill who was a man of cold unpopulai manners, but of unreproached moral character, and possessed of some ac- compHshmei ts, though certainly not of distniguished talents. The bulk of the lower orders espoused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those who conducted the prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill — Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speakinj.-.. had the principal management of Macgill'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, whidi soon ripened into" a warm friendship, with Burns. Burns, therefore, was from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perhaps the most effective partizan, of the side on which Aiken had staked so much of his reputation. Macgill, Dalrymiple, and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, are the New Light pastors of his earliest satires. The ])r0minent antagonists of these men, and chosen cham- pions of the Auld Lnjht, in Ayrshire, it must now be admitted on all hands, presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. These men prided them- selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre- sentatives of the haughty Puritans, who chiefly conducted the overthrow of Popery in Scotland, and 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 were in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever wore cowl and cord— austere and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners — very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all outward appearance at least, overflowing with pharisaica! self-conceit, as well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the worst of these gloomy passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- ment ; and that Burns has grossly 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 withui the sympathies of many of the worthiest and best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour, charges of that heinous sort, which they fearlessly, and 1 fear justly, pre- ferred against their antagonists. No one ever accused them of signing the Articles, administering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church, whose fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least, disavowed. The law of Church-patronage was another subject on which controversy ran higi\ and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- tion of things on this lead being upheld by all the men of the New Light, and condemned as equally at variance with the precepts of the gospel, and the rights of freemen, by not a l^w of the other j-arty. and, in particular, by certain cons])icuous zealots in the immediate neighbourhood of Burns. While this warfare raged, there broke out an inte tine discord within the i.ll'E Oh ROBERT BURNS. xxt camp of the faction which he loved not. Two of the foremost leaders of the Auld Light party quarrelled about a question of parish boundaries the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilmarnock, and there, in the open court, to which the announcement of the discussion had drawn a multitude of the country people, and Burns among the rest, the reverend divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, and abused each other coram pojmlo, 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 those of a certain unwritten code. " The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says l>urns, " was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramntis purRnruc in my //o/// F>ih-. 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 1 could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar oj applause." This was TJie Iloh/ Tailzie, or Twa Herds. Tlie two herds, or pastors, were Mr. Moodie, minister of i{iccartoun, and that favourite vic- tim of Pnirns's, John Russell, 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 apjiearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, presents Holy Willie s Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. Carrie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of the poet who took such a judicious method of" leading the liberal mind to a rational view of the nature of piayer." — " This," says that bold com- mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and delended 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 i'ew of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disr iples of Maho- met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, descend to the pit of perdition, man, woman, and child, without the possi- bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians of the present day, and such was Holy Willie's style of prayer. The hy- pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint, were perceived by the discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited in that able production is precisely the same view which is given of him, in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- ••II ed biiwd is more acceptable to the Almighty than a pure vu-gm, who has hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the wilderness, to perish without mercy — that the Saviour of the world loves xxvl 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 manliifid, and whc 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-calvmistic 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 far to make the reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing more about their professional character and authority, were almost the only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when rather too late, by a layman who was as far ft-om 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. — " Lef 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 their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive me for these hints." It is an^using to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gahia from being cet in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of " Gaun Hamilton's deserts, .... He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; Yet has sae mony taken' arts Wi' 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 BUllNS. xxvu Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as having merited Willie's most fervent execration by his " glib-tongued" defence of the heterodox doctor of Ayr .- " Lord ! visit 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 Ordinnfion ; The KirJis Alarm, &c. &c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper that malice had forn^ed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest mut-terings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands ot a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to Match the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical inaster-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of liurns'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 the earliest of his poems," was the Epistle to Davie, [i. e. Mr David Sillar), and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease and grace in his very unnecessary trammels ; but young poets are careless^ beforehand of difficulties which would startle the 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 celebrat-ed 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 ^11 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 Hums ex- orcised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend a life of imsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivial points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURi-IS. be put in their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed without any regular plan. 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 thougiit in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and coiiclud- ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of hiu'der 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 much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- tles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Ro- bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending it to some magazine ; but as this plan 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 Dcil. The curious idea of such an address was sug- gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- age. Death and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmar- nock edition, was produced early in the year 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 few medi- cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he h.id advertised, that '■ Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a mason meeting in Tarbolton, when the Doniinie unfortunately made too ostentatious a disj)lay of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from tliis mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions, he men- tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- neated the verses to me next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, and he was letting the water off the field beside me. The £pist/e to John Lap- raik was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He Bays in that poem. On Fusttn-e' en we had a rockiii. I believe he has omit- ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the rock or distaff. This simple implement is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase o? going a-rocking, or with the rock. As t!ie con- nexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rcci; LIFE OF ROBERT BUR?JS. xxlx gave place to tlie spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women. It was at one of these rockings at our house, when we had twelve 01 fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — " When ] upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was the author. Upon this Rooert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mountain Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v/ere produced for the pur- pose of bringing ft -ward 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 tvas 7vade to Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- tar's Saturday/ Night. 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 QumbtT 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 electrijied. 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 there may be a time for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may be mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, thai his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned Jiis Schoolcraft also. Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial pursuits. Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not eftec- tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer- ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless the lucky hour in which the dominie of 'I arbolton provoked the castigation of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit of a considerable circuit of parishes; and his advice, to say the least of the matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem which drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the })oet were old acquaintances, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma son lodse. XXX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In Miui wcis ^nade to Mourn, whatever might be the casual idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident, that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with which he tlirough life contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, the con- trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those stanzas : — " See yonder poor o'erlauour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Wlio begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil. And see his lordly fellow worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tlio' a weeping wife And hel))less offspring mourn. If I'm design'd yon lordling'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 would sing the simple old song of The Life and Age of Mmi." In Man was made to Mmirn, 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 !"• TJie Cottar s Saturday ^lic/ht 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 stanzas, 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 ^ut 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, wlio 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 loi e, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. • Croniek's Scottish Sonus. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi Tlie Coflars Satnrilay Night and the Holy Fair have been put in con- trast, and much marvel made that tliey 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 unfort .^.ate Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in which 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 tbe 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 fancy which enabled him to represent scenes, and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he 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," maks 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 m which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above the tombs of their fathers Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young i)net, mad with the inspiration of th.e moment, from whatever source derived, too far. It can hardly be doubted that the author of T/ie Cottars Saturday Night had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his HuJii 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 tliey 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 systeni 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 ol The Holy Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and, indeed, expressly applauds Burns for hav'ng endeavoured to explode ' a- buses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Hallowe'en, a descrip tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Huly Fuir^ and containing nothing that could offend the feelings of anybody, was pro« xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. duced about the same period. Burns's art had now reached its climax but it is time that we she uld revert more particularly to the personal his- tory of the poet. He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossciel could at the best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so large a family ; and wearied with •' the prospects drear," from which he only escaped m oc( asional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes of solitary flmcy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thino-, he very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and^lry- ing his fortune in the West Indies, where, as is well known, the manao-ers of the plantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Bur^ns's own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two or three different occasions, long before his poetry had excited any attention, he had applied for, and nearly obtained appointment,sof this sort, through the intervention ' of his acquamtances in the sea-port of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth describmg, 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, his 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 mqutre ; that they were many, his songs prove, for in those days he wrote no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. 3far>/ Morison—Behmd yon hills ivhere Stuichar fows—Oft ( essnnrk bajtk there /ires a /r?,«— belong to this period ; and there are three or four inspired by .Mary Canipbell-lthe ob- ject o( by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and whi^h he has accordingly immortalized in the noblest of his elegiacs. In introducing to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — " Will ye i,'o 10 r'le Indies, wv ?M.iry, And leave ;u:ld Scotia's shore ? A\'ill ye go to the Indies, my .Mary, Across the .Atlantic's roar ?" Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on " Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The Castel o' Montj^jomerie ; Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Vour waters never drumlie." he adds,—" After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal afFec- tion. 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 xxxu 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 very strongly by the accidental discovery of a Bible presented by Burns to 3/flr// Ccnnphell, in the possession of her still surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is in- scribed, in Rurns'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 blank leaf of either, — " Ro- bert Burns, IMossgiel." How lasting was the poet'§ remembrance of this pure love, and its tragic termination, w^ill be seen hereafter. Highland Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious attempts in poetry. In 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 your.g belles. The pride ol' the place and its neighbourhood a ; Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In lion'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : *' Miss IMillar is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and flliss Betty is braw ; There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss rtlorton, 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 INIiss 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, 1 will not do ! — the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good God bless you, and make you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of parting friendship If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me God, in my hour ot need." The lovers met accordingly , and the result of the meeting was what was to be anticij)ated 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 luiblerstood that the marriage was to be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could no longer be concealed from her family. The disclosure was deferred to **'''' LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tlie la- moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with equa surprise and anger. Burns, confusing himself to be unequa to the n^aintcnance of a fam.ly, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica^ where he oped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected to Iban! don h,s arm winch ,vas by this time a hopeless concern, ind earn bfead at least or h,s ^v.fe and children, by his labour at home ; burnoZ. could' appease he md.gnat.on of Armour. By what arguments he nrev Tied on h.s daughter to take so strange and so p'^.inful a step Cb.ow not bu the fact .s certam, that, at Ins urgent entreaty, she destroyed the doc'unl It was under such extraordmary circumstances that xMiss Armo n L came the mather of twins Burns's love and pride, the two not powerful feelmgs of h.s mmd, had been equally woundid. His anger and l^rilf « gether drove hnm, accordn.g to every account, to the v?r.re of absohtP insamty ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and t' published, have certamly all the appearance of having been wntte" in^^ deep a concentration o despair as ever preceded the most awf" of^luman calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fl" a n^ce from the scene of his disgrace and misery; and this course seemed now to De absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find securitvX fh. 1 tenance of the children whom he was prevented fion'^tn a ""!;;■ he man who had m his desk the immortal poems to which we havf been referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find ptcuniarv as^stance m his hour of need ; and the only alternative hat nreLn^d7 seli to h.s view was America or a jail i're-emea it CHAPTER IV. CcNTBNTS The Poet given vp Mossgiel to his Brotiier Gilhert — TntenJs for Jamaica^ , Subscription Edition of his Poems sugi/csteil to supply meons of outfit — Oi,.e (//'fiOO copiet printtrt at Kilmitrnnck, I7S6 — // brinjs hin exteivlcd reputiition, unrl £20 — Also man;/ very kind fi ieiids, but no patron — In these circumstances, Gnai/ing first hinted to him l>y his early frieni Is, Hamilton and Aiken — Sai/inns and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaiai again in view — Plan desisted from because of encourayement by Dr. lilaclJocA to viiblish at Edinburgh, ivherein the Poet sojourns. *' He saw misfortune's cauld nnr^-xvest, 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 sea." Jamatca was now his mark, for at that time the United States were not looked to,as the pkice of refuge they have since become. After some little time, and not a littje trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one ol his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, however, he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the i'ew 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 alreadj'. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- cess in the matter ; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to the printer , and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage had begun to throw on his aftairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- gress, some of the best p;)ems of the collection. The tale of the 7\va 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 form to my brother : in truth, it was only nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power ror Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my j)ower : 1 thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea thftl I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the x'^xvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. world of spirits. I can truly say that, pauvre incojmu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- rance of themselves. -To know myself, had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch^ ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I tlnxnv off six hundred copies, for which I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.*— My va- nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and ■ besides, I pocketed nearly i 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, 1 took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." " I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my i^ew friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy mght is gathering fast, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." 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 guaging, it occurred tc 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 publication of the poems than one might suppose from his own narrative, in the hope that these gentlemen might at length succeed in their efforts 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 earneu 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 lively interest in his nersonal fortunes was excited among som'e of the gen- ' -'■il'.trt I3uni> iiie,itioii>. that a single individual. JMr. William Part"' ^liuiainock. subscribed for 35 coQWfc 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 paying 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 country, 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 The Cottar's Saturday Night. " She read it over," says Gilbert, " with the greatest 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 wonted mward harmony and satisfaction." Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to Mossgiel, dis- tant sixteen miles from her residence, with a very kind letter to Bm-ns, 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 Iionoured 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 Country. " Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !" " The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal ; the next was The History of Sir William Wallace : for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being struck with that part o^ 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. 5^xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my .me of life al]ov,'ed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood, with as much devout enthsiasm 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 1 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 or Sage Mentor to the poet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend him to the utn)ost of her power His letters to Mrs. Dunlop form a very large 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 pleading 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 where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. 1} 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 fiuency, and precision, and origi- nality of his language, when he spoke in company, more particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully than most 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, however, without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or ganger 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 the 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 :_" J have been feeling all the various rotations and movemeiits 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 fdlli'es, 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 ivlFE OF ROBERT 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 criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons 1 hav« only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it." He proceeds to say, that he claims no right to complain. " The world 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, while, all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however 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 was something to be do?ie. 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 reverend 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 deserve 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 som.e 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 tliee a song in thy praise : 31 y Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, "SVhere wild in the woodbinds the primroses blow; There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my JMary 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 he found in the following letter t^ Miss Alexander, the object of his inspira- tion : — — I LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. « Madam, Mossgiel, \Sth Nov. 1786. " Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancj 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 i<^ 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 han with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my pa lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another stati 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 nmst have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from tlie rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, 1 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 Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. " What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. " The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps i but 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 the mavis sang. All nature listening seemed the while. Except where green-wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. M'ith careless step I onward strayed, Sly heart rejoiced in nature's joy, A^'hen musing 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, • Hang, Scotticism for hung LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xli Perfection whispered passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle !• Fair is the mom in flowery IMay, And sweet is night in autumn mild; When roving through the garden gay, Or wandering in the lonely wild : ' 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' Ballochmyle. O had she been a country maid. And I the happy country swain, Though sheltered in the lowest shed Tliat ever ro'-e 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' Ballochmyle. 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' Ballochmyle. The autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Bums, A ho had already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi- oered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be yost 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. Ballant}Tie, 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 few days for America." And it was under these circumstances that he composed the song already referred to, which he meant as his fare- well dirge to his native land, and which ends thus : — " Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. Her heathy moors and winding vales. The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past unhappy loves. • Variation. Ttij lily's hue and rose's dye liespoke the lass o' ballochmyle. xlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these — my love with those — The bursting tey.rs 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 liis 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 1 think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish to have expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or a temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom- plish that agreeable intention. " Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly read me three of the poems, and 1 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 my 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- tion.?, 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 upon earth than Dr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xllfl M 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." Tht was not the man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage witt 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." CILVPTER V. Contents The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7— J?.V his advent, the condition of that f.iy. Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while caressed 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 folloived— The Poet tempted beyond all' former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universaJly admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, while the philosophers hard'ly keep theirs— Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields much money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the clnssic scenes of his own country — Assailed Kith 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 wikUy-scatter'd flow'r^, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade." Burns found several of his old Ayrshire acquaintances established 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 of 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 wintewart, '• 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 \V alker, 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 1 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 oy a thoughtful gravity which 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 Vfho 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 farmer, 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, hail 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- ton, nor could a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behavioiu LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlvii or 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. Though somewhat autho- ritative, it was in a way which gave little oifence, and was readily imj)uted to his inexperience in those modes of smoc'thing dissent and softening asser- tion, which are important characteristics oi' polished manners. After break- fast I requested him to comnmnicate some of liis 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 without 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 window, to which, and not to his auditors, he di- rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the language of his 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 &ong. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company with him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very t^ew, and as each had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with tlie 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, Virgiiium vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in I78G-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 workl to know him ; but 1 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 time 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, 1 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 Burns's manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, re- presenting a soldier lying dead on tiie snow, his dog sitting in misery do one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath, — " Cold on Canadian hills, or IMinden's plain, Perha])s that )>arent wept her soldier slain — Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops, minghng with the milk He drew, * Morrisiin's Burns, vol. i. pp. Ixxi, Ixxii. Jfiviii 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 ratlier the ideas 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 half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, with very great pleasure. " His person was strong and robust ; his 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- vian who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, 1 think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (1 say literally glowed) 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 conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, lie 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 1 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 trifiing. I remember on this occasion I mention, 1 thought Burns's acquaintance with Engli.sh Poetry was rather limited, and also, that having twenty times the abilities of Allan Kamsay and of terguson, he talked of them with 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 malum 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 affectation of embarrassment. 1 was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females w«s extremely deferential, and al- ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly. 1 have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. — ■! 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 sin;e the death of Thomson: — i I LIFE OF KCmERT 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 recognized 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- sfrel, be it said — men must have gone back 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 avo^v^edly, 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 t!ie days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the Play ; and in his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stranger, at least since " l3unbar the Mackar." The Muses of Scotland had never 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 images of the peculiar tenderness, and jjeculiar humour, of the na- tional fancy and character — precious representations, which Burns himself never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and with a scanty handful of exceptions, the best of 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 had passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of hi& 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 1 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 wire 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. F'erguson, 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 ter's Tryste, than to have expressed the results of intimate knowledge anc sympathy. His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Uppei Ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckenbooths ; and he could neither write English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- traying a lamentable want of skill in the use of his instruments. It was re- LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. served for Burns to interpret the inmost soul of the S<^)ttish 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 masculine genius. This is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Rurns'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 high condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, in o far as they have been produced, had nothing to do with the peculiar cha- lacter and feelings of the men of the we?t. As Burns himself has said, " It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark. Renfrew, Ayr, &c. there is scarcely an old song or tune, which, from the title, «Src. 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 ot' 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 affected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- tronage it had, 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 autlior 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, for a time, to have all but extinguished th& flame i/f intellectual 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 their own prince and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was humbled; the unhappy insurrections of 1715 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 only 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 every national honour and distinction which it was pos- sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — sunk at last, as men thought, effectually into a province, willing to take law with jjassive submission, in letters as well as jiolity, 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, I)ut 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 as Kennedy, Shaw, Montgomery, and, more lately, Hamilton of Bilbertfield. ! ! r~ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. li It will ahvays reflect honour on the galaxy of eminent men of letters, '^ho, in their various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere with their '-eception 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 ai"i (,f ,'irii , 'ir ■> ."'bout 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 s])len- dour of his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings «vere 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 p-igantic 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 describes himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Eswy on Taste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the general principles of the association of 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 when such suggestions oc- cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines of a diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgh. " 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 the shades of life, as I have been, 1 am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in general, but witli 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) Hi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. mtl> his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acuie- ne.«s and penetration. The world 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 what passes around them, except where that observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental fiights 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 jf that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable Imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. For these reasons 1 am determined to make these pages my confidant. I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old law phrase, ivithont 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 SC' curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " 1 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 style of Dr. Currie) 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 eiTect 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. Currie, writing with views so honourable, the so- cial condition t.f the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might be discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost with- 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 Currie, 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- nierged 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 in 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 : haberiius ream c.f cnnfitentem. " 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 • I\Ir. AVc'.-clswortli's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lii/ mere ordinary character, decorated with the tra])pings and futile distinc tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abihties, 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 table ; 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 I 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 likirg. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference 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 prose ; even in poetry a bard of nature's mak- ing can only take the pass of him. 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 sbozzos 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, but quite iinpossible 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 .'eproached " Nature, par- tial nature :" — " Thou givest the ass his liide, the snail his shell ; The invenom'd wasp victorious guards his cell : " D'Israeli on the Literary Charaster, vol. i. p- 136. ^^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard, 1 o thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard. . In naked feeling and in aching pride. He bears the unbroken blast from every side.' No blast piercrd this hauglity soul so sharply as the contumely of conde Ecension. •' 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 hie and the polite world he obser -ed little difference— that in the former though unpolished by fashion and unenlightened by science, he had found much observation, and much intelligence— but a refined and accomplished woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how to please ; and therc^is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stlitelv patricians as he calls them., of his own sex. The vivid expression of one of them has almost become proverbial-that she never met with a man "whose conversation so completely carried her off her feet," as Burns's! I he ate Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa- tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here referred to. But even here he was destined to feel ere long something of the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old fHends ere the season was over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously no longer seemed to know him, when he bowed in passing their carria-es and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. " ' It is but too true, that ere this season was over, Burns had formed con- nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much an probation oy the eminent literati, in whose society his deku had made so powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- lousy—how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty means of ascertaining: No doubt, both had their share; audit is also suf- ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such ' a genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means restricted his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in sc 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 pam, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his enterin- into a ong discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day at the table of Dr. hlair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the rest in comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague* and most formidable rival— a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious How o, language ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishmentf , • Or. Robert Walker. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Iv for tvliich TAiur was honoured in a must accomplished society, or to the pohshed elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such an escap'uk; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' labouring un- der that compulsory eifort wJiich was unavoidable, while the thoughts of all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns .showed his good sense by making no effort to repair this bl'under ; but years afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the genus inUubUe ot authors, orators, and wits. A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded by Cromek: — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Grays Elegy a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon ever_y subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation ot Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- ral than specific, Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he thoui'-ht exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, lie 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 l\Ir. 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 Kussel speels the holy door \\"i' tidings o' Salvation — Nay, said the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the wit of this verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation; but he gave another strange specimen of wantof tacA 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 tlie 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 Hashing eyes, wIk), having forcod his way among theiv from the plough-tail at a single stride, mani /vi LIFE OF ROBER'I' BURNS. Tested, 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, he was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- tice ; by turns calndy measured himself against the most cultivated under- standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the ban mots of the mcst 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 indiiating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid 'n money and smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed -if do- ing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it: and.— last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their own, 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 whose wider circles Burns figured at his outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, 1 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. W hat their haughtiness, as a body, was, may be guessed, when we know that in- ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any man from the bar. In one remarkable insta-Jice, about this very time, a man of very extraordinary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- cratical prejudice has, within the memory of 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 brams and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies 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. .John M'ild, son of a Tobacconist in the High Street, Edinburgh, lie came to be Professor of Civil law in that University ; but, in th.? end, was also an instance of anhappv genius. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ivh of course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse cJe la r-ihe. The tavern^ life is now-a-days nearly extinct everywhere; but it was thtn in full vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubc that Burns rapidly fami- 'iarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after a'l, tasted but rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. *So little are we to consider his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the eariy period, as conveying any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of hfe, that " Auld Nanse Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have expressed, amu^ngly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found her name celebrated in the Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was rrgarrUcss, as, to the best of her belief, he had never taken three half-niutchkins 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 enjoyment, as hardly any other person could have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns weL , and himself mingled largely in some of the scenes to which he adverts in the following strong language : " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and passionately embrace the enchantress. The hnchs of lidinburgh accom- plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. After residing some months in Iklinburgh, 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 would be idle nmo to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this winter. 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. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's : from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ- ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoll's letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to the poet, except a rajjturous 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 attaclnnent to tlieir more sober charms " Heron adds — " He now also began to contract some- Da mil 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 ol 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 exfncie probable, and which sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek. Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper- fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rud<»«Jt rhymes he sung, " to be great is charming ;" and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent v/as still that which appear- ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that he should delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes to convey regret r* 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 induce him to record his suspicions in lan- guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- mosphere of joy and hope. On the i.5th of January 1787, w^e find him thus addressing his kind patroness, Mrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided witli all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity, and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble, when 1 tell you I tremble for the conse- quences. The novelty of a poet ill 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 ov this time of day, has raised a partial tide of ptiblic notice, which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadet^uate 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 vvlsh to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same time, to Dr. Moore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- stood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, April the '-^3d, 1787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr. Moore : — " I leave Edinburgh in the course often days or a fortnight. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never lyiore 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 ahcat/s in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- ing shared with him all that they possessed on his nrst arrival in the metro- polis, faithfully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fiishion- 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 appellatir.n of a Scottish Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. bard is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex* ahed ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish story, are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, and tc rnuse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes if 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 ol Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Mr. Alexander Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and has become so familiar, 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 buif vest, with blue stripes, (the Whig-livery), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his fiivourite morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had ever done in company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad- miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in Edinburgh. Creech s edition included some pieces of great merit, which had not been previously printed; but, with the exception of the Address to Edinburgh, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important additions were. Death and Doctor Horiibuok, The Brigs of Ai/r, The Ordi' nation, and the Address to the unco Guid. In this edition also, If hen Guild- ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. The evening befi)re l.c quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation However the meter- like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- tract notice, 1 knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal tc the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not sur- prise me in my quarters." It ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first fruits of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto • Letter to JMrs. Dunlop, Edinburgh, 22d March 1787. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixi neglectet: remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the Canongatt! 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 feelings he was now about to quit it for a time. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. Edixa ! Scotui''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 struy'd, And singing, lone, the lingermg hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide. As busy trade his labours plies ; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod ; There learning, with his eagle eyes. Seeks science in her coy abode. Thy sons, 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. rhy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer's sky, Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I Fait Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n'f beauties on my fancy shine : I see the sire of love on high. And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pon'drous wall and massy bar. Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : Have oft withstood assailing war. And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. - With awe-struck thought and pitying tear* 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 ! Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, \Vhose ancestors in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scoiia\'! bloody lion bote : E'en / who sing in rustic lore, Hauly my sires have left their shed, And raced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fatliers led ! EniNA ! Scotia' f darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, \^'here once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring houiaf I shelter in thy honour'd »had<. CHAPTER VI Contents. — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the JirsT tf them, after an absence of six months, amonqst his friends in the " Anld Clay Biggin" — Finds honour in his oivn country — Falh in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, hut ne~er secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edirdmrgh amidst the Jieshpr ts, winter IIS^S— Upset in a hackney ci Gotldc Architecture, Szc; 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. Bowmaker. " Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman, Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine Dridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace . — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly bush growing where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli- gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a niaitre d' hotel of the Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, su- perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- cence of farmers and farm houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. " M^ediiesday. 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 tc Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to vxi/ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Mr. Sonierville, the clergyman of tlie parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. " Jedburgh, Suturday. 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 i 50 value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir — Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my English tour. " Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, I.Sth May. In this he makes complinlentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence the name of Creech's Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- nery he had visited. " Up wiinpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw." Burns returned to Mauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine ihe delight with which he must have been received by the family after the absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tcnder- 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 Avith his praises, from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the aiild 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; tliat dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- sequent course of his history too' well justified ; that nervous intolerance ot condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature liad given him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than was LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xXM 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 1 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 Mossgiel. His appetite for wan- dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Inverary, and so back again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchline. Of this second excur- sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. la 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 anotner, he gives an account of Jenny (icddes running a race after d'nmcr with a Highlander's pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters. — " I have as yet," says he, " fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon." In the course of this tour. Burns visited the mother and sisters of his friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the Castlt Ixvi LIFE Ot ROBERT BURNS of Gloom, is grandly situated in a gorge of the Ochills, commanding an extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in 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 Humbling Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one of the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but the respectfulness of admiration. How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew, O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, \t'ith chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. And England triumphant display her proud rose ; A fairer than either adorns tlie green valleys, ■Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the most interesting se- ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to IMrs. 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 ac Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning familj' 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 thenj, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his works hithei to 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, "W^ho know them best, despise them most. The young ladies of Harvieston were, according tc Dr. Currie, surprised with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on Devon water; and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- ed anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for granted that Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a company of young ladies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, his companion teased him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; " Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" — " Sir," paid Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " 1 would not look ! look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : — " Notwithstanding the various reports 1 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 M'as, however, somewhat alarmed about the effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- pliments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution." In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Mr. Ramsay (a friend of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His host was among the last of those old Scottish Ldtinists who began with Bu- chanan. Mr. Kamsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls of his house with Latin instriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and these 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. Kamsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, and j)roposed 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. It. " to have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him. the impulse of the mo- ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, than with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 1 should have made little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always know Ixvili LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. when to play off and when to play on. When I asked him whether the Edniburgh 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 fisr weft nor woof.' " At Clackmannan Tower, the Poets jacobitism procured him a hearty welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as her toast after dinner, Hooki uncos, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry when strange sheep mingle in the flock At Dunfermline the poet betray- ed deep emotion. Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the cuttystool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith of Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend NicoU on a more extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- trian. " August 25th, 1 787. — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. NicoU, whose originality of humour promises me much entertainment. — Linlit/iffow. - 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 safelj^ tak a for a guide as the inductions of the political economist: — From scenes like these old Scotia's gt andeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of GoD !" And certe.s, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied 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 oil. Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixb And, O I may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowm and corunsti be rent, A virfiiom populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. Of Linhthgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation — the old Royal Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated by the brink of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ot Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ot repentance, in the oid Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and squalid, stuck in a corner ol old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- ters " At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- terested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant countrymen coming over the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the battle of Bannockburn. At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhyme." This al- ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely English heroics — " Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. Lone wandering by the hermits mossy cell ; The sweeping tneatre of hanging woods ; The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... ^ Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative fire .... Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And Disappointment, in tnese lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, And injured W^orth forget and pardon man." Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — •' Druids' temple, three cir- cles of stones the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- east — say prayers on it." His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows: — " Dunneld — Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout-built. High- land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow Friday — ride up Tummel river to B-^air. 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 W alker. — Sutur- •/a?/— visit the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." lAFE OF ROBERT BURNS Mr. Walker, wlio, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in Edinburgh through Blacklock, was at this period tutor in the family of Atliole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the seat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar- rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, begged I would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view of their beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the state of bis feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm ot 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, t;nd 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, ile did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young family attracted much of his admiration ; he drank their healths as honest jnen and bonnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, and with which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen of his happiness of conception and strength of expression, I will mention a remark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time a few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and while Burns M'as expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by coarseness of manners ; " in short,' he added, " his mind is like his body, he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a soul."' — Much attention was paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, v/ithout being vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him. as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des- criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls oj Sritar, and in a few days 1 received a letter from Inverness, with the verses enclosed." * At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman to whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important " Extract of a ktter from Mr. Walker to JMr. Cunningham, ^ated Perth. 24th October 797 U¥h OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxi occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did not remain 9 day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was but little addicted to literature ; still, had such an introduction taken place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- tish music), Badenoch, &c. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical bed in which, tradition sai/s, King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to Fochabers, taking Culloden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- day, Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break- fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, perhaps owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung two Gaelic songs — beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, mild- est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be vi-ith them ! Brodie House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — Fridaj/, 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 abbej^ a grander effecf at first glance than Melrose, but nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy of the noble, the poiite, 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 — Cxod bless them."* Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the • Extract from Journal. [xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coast of the Murraj 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 persona of such influence, might have begot a permanent intimacy, and on theii 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 IMontrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him in*.} the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native t/istrict, never to Kevisit 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 ol 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 afte. 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 Itith af 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 i'ew 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 rujjfiied 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 Scarmff some Wildfowl on Loch Twit, — " ^Vhy, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. were composed while under the same roof. These last, eNcept perhaps Brvur 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 o" the delight with which he had contemplated nuture in these alpine regions " General Correspondence. LIFJi OF ROBERT BURNS. ixxiii 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 decidea 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 17H8, that a bargain was actually concluded. More than half of the intervening months were spent in Edinburgh, ■^-here Burns found, or fancied that his presence was necessary for the sat.sfactory 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 rom.ance 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 s>ing, "■ 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 writings besides. At this time the publication called Johnsons 31useum of Scottish Song was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though Green grow the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the first volume, published in 1787, many of the old ballads included in that volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared in March 1788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have been already mentioned. ' and three far better than them, viz. Theniel Mcnzies boany 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 111 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 ^aw 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 like y 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 Devoi." ixxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS be was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was present, on the 3 1st of December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which Dr. 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 different indeed from the Chevalier's Lament, which the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy 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, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliance to gua- rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am go/" half way through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the elegance of his craft." f — 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 anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty, attended as he always is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily withstood his bufFetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is / DARE. My worst enemy is moi-menie. 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 1 would not take in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and Cod knows a miserable soldier enough : now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth; but all the while nourished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country would ere long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and con^ finement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side of his prospects ; and the letters which we have quoted may teach those who envy the powers and the fame of genius, to pause for a moment over • General Correspondence, No. 46. f Keliques, p. 43. J Ibid. p. 44. y General (Jorrespondeuce, No. 43. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Jaxv the annals of literature, and think what superior capabilities of nii?drjr have been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven 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 with Jean Armour had once more exposec' her to the reproaches of her fomily. The father 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 he) whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, written on hearing of this new misfortune, he says, " ' / icish I tvere dead, hut I'm no like to die.' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." * it seems to have been now that Burns at last screwed up his courage to solicit the active interference in his behalf of the Earl of (jlencairn. The letter is a brief one. Burns could ill endure this novel attitude, and he rushed at once to his request. " I wish," says he, " to get into the excise. I am told your Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of Itoine, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of The Great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of soHcita- tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as of the cold denial." f It would be hard to think that this letter was coldly or negligently received ; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's influence. 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 INIr. Graham of Fintray, one of the conmiissioners of excise, who had met Burns at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Mrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing to do. 1 wanted an hut, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the coinmissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them ray firm friends." % * Reliques, p. 48. -}- General Correspondence, No. 40. J Reliques, p. 50 ixxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con- finement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he ^" abuses very heartil}- in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however, when they were at last made up, mus*, 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 ^ 2t>0," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr Creech, he fount^ himself in possession of 1500, if not of 1600. 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 1 600 for the first Edinburgh edition, and .flOO afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product of Creech's edition at faOO, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- ters, at 4'400 only. Nicoll hints, in the letter already referred to, tliat Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not wish to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probable, the expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de- ducted from the 17 00 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be reason for thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than t 100 for the copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it at the end of his Memoir, " nearly 1900 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 it 180 or iSOO, 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 -O sni'joth matters at the grand reckoning." * • Geueral Correspondence, No. C6. CHAPTER VII. LcvTENTS — Marries -— Announcements, fapologeticalj, of the event — Remai ks—Becomet (1788) Farmer at Elliesland, on the N'th, in a romantic vicinity, six miles from Dumfries — The Muse wakeful us ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary corre- spondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence. — Sketch of his person and hahits at this period by a brother poet, who shows cause against success in farming — The untoward omjunction of Ganger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra i^rnvivial life — Leaves Ellieslanja (1791) to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries. ** To make a happy fireside clime ' For weans and wife — That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life." Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- giel, and went through the ceremony of a Justice of Peace marriage with Jean Armour, in the writing-chambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He then crossed the country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain with Mr. Miller as to the farm of Elliesland, on terms which nmst undoubtedly have been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet ; they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive terms, of nineteen years each, — in all seventy six years ; the rent for the first three years and crops i'5() ; during the remainder of the period 170 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 i'SOO fiom the proprietor, for the e^-ection of suitable build- ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 1788, but the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify himself for holding his excise commission by six weeks' attendance on the business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Currie mentions this as one of his chief misfortunes. 'I he poet, as he says, was continually rid- ing between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on the road, " sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had formed." What these resolutions were, tlie 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 liglit-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 squadi'ons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding con IXXMU LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. trivance. . . . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situatton e* specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 have taken is vastly for my happiness." * To all his friends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfaction in regard tn his marriage. *" Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- lop, " is just I am indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and still mu. h-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled her to puwhase a shelter ; and there is no sporting with a felkov-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 to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; these, 1 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should ne- ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger ; my preservative from the first, is 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, sne is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and sisters in their oairy, 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 unmistrustmg confidence in approaching my God, would p«ildora have been of the numoer." f Some months later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not, perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing a young lady), — " but," he continues, " 1 have no cause to repent it. if 1 have not got polite tatiie, modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affec- tation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindes^t heart in the country. Mrs. Burns believes as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit et lephis Iwmiete homwe in the universe ; although she scarcely ever, in her life, except the Scriptures and the Psalms of David in Metre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse — I must except also a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads 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 Eliiesland, \ and only occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, that he wrote the beat titul " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west. For there the bonnie lassie lives, the la-isie I lo'e best ; There wildwoods grow, and rivers row, and niony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean. O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees, Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, bring hame the laden bees. And biing the lassie back to me, that's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean." Reliques, p. 63. -f- See General Correspondence, No. 53 ; and Reliques, p. 60L : Reliques, p. 75. II ibid, p, 273. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxix One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- ly marked with his haughtiness of character. . " I have escaped," says he, " the fantastic caprice, the apish affectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements which are sometimes to be found among fe- males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry."* '< A discerning reader," says Mr. Walker, " will perceive that the let- ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- ing on an imwelcome step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments to justify the deed, anu essen 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 take3 an original view of this business : — '* Much praise," says he, ■' has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with Jean when in the blaze of his fame. . . The praise is misplaced. We do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what the law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, and it is truly ludicrous to hear him, aware as he must have been, of the in- dissoluble power of the obligation, though every document M'as destroyed, talking of himself as a bachelor." \ There is no justice in these remarks. It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar- riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriage having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only not assuming, but rejecting the character of Burns"s wife ; and had she, un- der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage,, with no docu- ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but that of her own father, it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the world could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful whether she had ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- clared the marriage of I7bi8. Burns did no more tlian justice as well as honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could ha\'e 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 i)th) •' busy with my harvest, but for all that most pleasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- bow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only know in graces, &c., and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaid- ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, they have as much idea of a rhino- ceros as of a poet."' And in another letter (September Kith) he says, " This hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and 1 am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be pleased to hear that 1 have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day aftei • General Correspondence, No. 55. f IMorrison, vol. i. p. Ixxxvii. J Paul's Life of Burns, p. 45. ixxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. my reapers." His .'ouse, however, did not take much time in building , nor had he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his vrife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and iew housekeepers start with 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. I'Vom 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 sanie 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 overhangs the stream. Burns had his favou- rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- lent. For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more serious and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be eaay to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom ol winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a gloanun' shot at the muses." The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period cf his life was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for 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 which had haunted his youth, looking forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, " I liae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody; 1 hae a penny to spend — there —thanks 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 — Tiis genms 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 ! 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 v/hich he complained on his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disapj)eared. On * Poetical Ihventory to Mr. Aiken, February 1786b LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxx! the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- farmers, but by the neiglibouruig 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 ncM; 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, lie was not wholly regardless of the muses ; for in addition to some pieces which we have already had occasion to notice, he contributed to this year's Museum, The TlKtmes flows prondli/ to the Sea ; The lazy Diisf hangs, &;c. ; The day returns, my hosoni burns ; Tarn Glen, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go fetch to me a pint of uibie, and My heiirfs in the Ilielands, (in both of which, however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); John Anderson, in part also a rifncciamen/o ; the best of all his Bacchanalian pieces, Willie hreuted a peck o' maut, written in celebration of a festive meet- ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. Nicoll of the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To Mary in, Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands 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 with circumstances which did not oc- cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal recollec- tion on this occasion, and whose recollections of all circumstances con- nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- saic edition of the histcr_y. * 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 bai'n-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always promised compliance — but still remained where he was, striding up and down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beautiful ])lanet " that shone like another moon ;" and prevailed on him to come in. He immediately on entering the house, called for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with all the ease of one copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses- " Thou lingering star with lessening ray. That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou u-sher'st in the day iMy JMary from my soul was torn. O IMary, dear departed shade, ^\"here is thy jdace of blissful rest ; See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?" &c. The 3To^^Jiers Lament for her Son, and Inscription in an Herndtage in Nithsdale, were also written thi? year. From the time when liurns settled himself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity had engaged him. The " I owe these particulars to Rlr. M'Diarmid, the able editor of :he Dumfries Courier, and brother of the lamented author of " Lives of British Statesmen." Ixxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. etters that passed between him and Iiis brother Gilbert, are among rhe 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 which they both write, is truly honourable to tliem. and It '^he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert, January Ist, 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, 1 7 89, 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 avdileth 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, anu 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 acjs 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 1 was capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered 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 of 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^rey plover, in an autunuial morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm oi devotion or poetrj^ Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow ing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian 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 Vond death and the grave." LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. IxxxIrJ Few, it is 1o 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 Burn^'s history, with- out being afflicted. The " golden days" of Elliesland. as Dr. Currie justlj calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming speculations once more failed ; and he 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. (iraham 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 tSo ; it by and by rose to ' nO -, and sometimes was i 70. These pounds were hardly earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very often from the farm, which needed his utmost attention, and exposed him, which was still worse, to innumerable temptations of the kind he was least likely to resist. I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu- lars of tins part of Burns'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 father 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 was 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 him. 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 are 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. Burn.s had just come to Nithsdale ; 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. His frame was very muscular and well proportioned, though he had a short neck, and something of a ploughman's stooj) : he was strong, and proud of his strength I saw him one evening match himself with a iiumber of masons ; and out of tive-and twenty practised hands, the most vigorous young men in the parish, th.ere 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 afl'ection and genius. His voice was very musical. I once heard him read 7am o Sluinter. 1 think I hear him now. His fine manly voice followed 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. Asa man feels, so will he write; and in propor- tion as he fe-'mpathizes with his author, so will he read him with grace and effect. xxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. " I said that Burns and my fatlier conversed about poetry and farming Tlie poet liad newly taken possession of his farm of Elliesland, — the masons were busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him, and a little of its money in his pockets — 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 ons 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 Ellies- land, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, ' how could he miss but fail, when his servants ate the bread as fast 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 twent} pounds a- year by Elliesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques- tion : he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard- working farmer ; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayrshire. The lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fireside, and ate it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon 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, 1 mean, was then very humble His one-story house had a covering of straw, and a clay fioor ; the furniture was from the hands of a country carpenter ; and, between the roof and fioor, 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 bis children and domestics. He performed family worship every evening — except dur- ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty was 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 family. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care of her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools. ••' 'fhe 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 {)rimitive 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 harrows had as often teeth of * Holm is flat, rich meadow laiia, intervening between a stream and the general elevation of the adjoim ng country. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxx^ 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 was 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 saws, which he interpreted as oracles delivered against improrc- ment. With ground in such condition, with tools so unfit, and with know- ledge So imperfect, he sometimes succeeded in wringing a few hundn d pounds Scots from the farm he occupied. Such was generally the state of agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own skill was equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- tunate. An important change soon took place, by which he was not fated to profit ; he had not the foresight to see its approach, nor, probably, the fjrtitude to await its coming. " In the year 1 790, 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. lie would have thought his daughter 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 commence^, gave a decided impulse to agriculture ; the army and navy consumed largely ; corn rose in demand ; the price augmented ; more land was called into cultivation ; and, as leases expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- ed the rents ; and the farmer was soon borne on the wings of sudden wealth above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even bogan 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 yentlemun, v.-ho rode a blootl 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 Dlace, 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 j)ossibility, have found the independence which he sought, and sought in vain, froin the coldness and parsimony of mankind." r*Ir. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland in thiese terms : — " During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said that Burnb 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 lie was compelled to support an, increasing family and an expensive station in life, preyed on his spirils ; and, during these fits of despair, he was will xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ing too often to become the companion of tlie thoughtless and the gross. ) 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 afraid they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had so much of the poet about them, and i'ew 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 sufficiently prepared to hear, that from the time when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of excelling, or stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in far different pursuits. •' I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally gauger, 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- inent, 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. " J here is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- man ; but 1 do not intend to borrow honour from any profession :" — which may perhaps remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quit- ting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris, for his Swiss re- tirement : " I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that of my associates." Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along with him in the duties of the excise, could present. He 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 farmer, 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 enough to demand an extra-libation. If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the ir^nates M^ere 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 comes to-morrow ?" was the language of every eye in the circle that welcomed him. The stateliest gentry of the county, whenever they had especial merriment iu LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvii view, called in the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals.* The famous song of The WIdstle 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 tliou 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 disiposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- ty of his wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they ate and drank at his cost, and often went away to criticise him and his fare, as if they had done Burns and his black boivl f great honour in con- descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such company and such liquor. We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he was half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti- tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to dwell. For examj)le, the circumstances under which the verses on The wounded Hare were written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunningham, that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns^' said this person, " was in the custom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every evening, along the Nith, and by the march between his land and ours. The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one, and wounded her : she ran bleeding by Burns, who was pacing up and down by himself, not far from me. He started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed, 111 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 JMacculIoch, Esq., who, being at this period a very young man, a passionate admirer of Burns, and a capital singer of many of his serious songs, used often, in his enthusiasm, to accompany the poet on his professional excursions. + Burns's famous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marble, was tlie nuptial gift of i\ii Ar- mour. iiis fatber-in-1 iw, who liimself fashioned it. After passing through many hands, it i% now ill excellent keeping, that of Alexander JIastie, Esq. ot London. txxxviii LIFE Or ROBERT BURNS. " Hear, Land o' Cakes and britlier Scots, Frae IMiiidenkirk to John ()'(iroiits, A chiekl's amaiig ye takiu' notes," &c. and, infer alia, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Burns liad too much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know- ledge cf Scottish phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- quaintance that we owe Tarn o Shavter. Burns told the story as he had heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Captain, and was easily persuaded to versify it. The poem was the work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well re- members the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her children. " He was busily engaged crooning to hiniselL and Mrs. Burns perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered behind with her little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the strange and wild gesticulations of the bard, who, now at some distance, was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verse-s which he had just conceived : — " Now Tarn ! O Tarn ! had they been queans, A' phinip and strapytiii' in their teens ; Their sarks, instead of creeshie fl:innen. Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder "linen, — Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. That ance were plush o' good blue hair, I wad hae {^i'en them off my hurdies. For ae blink o' the bonnie iourdies !" -f To the last Burns was of opinion that Tarn o Shanfer was the best of all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and public come to the same conclusion on such points, 1 believe the decision in question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu- tion of the piece, so far as it goes, leaves nothing to wish for ; the only cri- ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot where he was born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has marked the progress of Tarn's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- dition. " By this time he was cross the ford M'hare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd. And past the birks and meikle stane, Whave drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; And through the whins, and by tlie cairn, Whare hunter's land the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorr., aboon the well, Whare JMungo's mither hang'd hersell." None ot these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was Tam o' Shanter himself an imaginary character. Shanter is a farm close to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen years old, studied mensuration, and " first became acquainted with scenes of swaggering riot." The then occupier of iShanter, by name Douglas ■ • " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on a reed of 1700 divisions."— Croinrk. -f- The above is quoted from a ]\1S. journal of Cromek. i\Ir. AI'Diarmid confirms the statement, and adds, that the poet, having committed the verses to writing on the top of his sod-dykr over the water, came into the house, and read them immediate/y in high triumph at tlie fireside. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxix Grahame, was, by all accounts, equally what the Tani of the poet appears, — a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more hiterest in the contraband traffic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ; and to his dying day, he, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers by the name of Tam o' Shanter. A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Elliesland. Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, happening to pass through Nithsdale in 17 90, met Burns riding rapidly near Closeburn. The poet was obliged to pursue his professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ramsay and his fellow-traveller to Elliesland, where he joined them as soon as his duty permitted him, saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Sliakspeare, steired in haste." Mr. Ramsay was " much pleased with his n;ror Sahina qiialis, and his modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics." The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temperament, who looked in accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen- ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. " Poor Burns!" say.* Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Elliesland, were told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search ot him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose great coat, fastened round him by a belt, from which depended an enormous Mighland broadsword. It was Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share his humble dinner," These travellers also classed the evening they spent at Elliesland with the brightest <^f their lives. Towards the close of 1791, the poet, finally despairing ox his farm, ae- termined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered easy of arrangemenr ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi- sion, which raised his salary from the revenue to 170 per annum, removed his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con- duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and he nourished warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Elliesland, however, with a heavy heart. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roi

» Irving, concur in the general statement, that his moral course from the 'inie when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more of .he matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these :— '' In Dumfries his dissipation became •itill more deeply habitual. He was here exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap- prentices, young surgeons, merchants' clerks, and his brother excise- men, flocked eagerly about him, and from time to time pressed him to drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept the invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- ing so much the scene of public amusement, not a little corrupted, and though a husband and a father, Burns did not escape suffering by the gene- ral contarnination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- t^als between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His Jean behaved with a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made him feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not , reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants some distressing shades that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a town, than he had been in the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife had her owu * " The above answer to an invitation was written extempore on a leaf torn from his Ex- cise-book Crumek^s MSS xcii LIFE OF ROBr.RT BUIIXS. particular causes, sometimes, for dissatisfliction. But that Burns ever sunk mto a toper — that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot- tle ever interfered with his discharge of his duties as an exciseman — or that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec- tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all false. His intemperance was, as Heron says, mji.fs; his aberrations of all kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources of exquisite misery in the retrospect ; they were the aberrations of a man whose moral sense was never deadened; — of one who encountered more temptations from without and from within, than the immense majority ol mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able to imagine ; — of one, finally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which ihe passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet was careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at Elliesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prosj)ects of his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain, that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of Ins later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and Paul ; and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Curric Th< statement has no doubt been exaggerated, but it ha? its foundation in truth ; and by the kindness of Mr. Tram, supervisor at Castle Douglas in Gailo- way, I shall presently be enabled to give some details which may thro« light on this business. Burns was much patronised when in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of the place — much more so, to their honour be it said, than bj- any of the influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Lilies- land, Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour, Mr. Riddel of IViars Carse, and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- ed to the same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the district, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he was thrown, entertained sentiments of the same description. Burns, whenever in his letters he talks seriously of political matters, uniformly describes his early jacobitism as mere " matter of fancy." It may, however, be easily believed, that a fancy like his, Jong indulged in dreams of that sort, was well prepared to pass into certain other dreams, which likewise involved feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of the old elements of political disaffection in ^Scotland, put on a new shape at the outbreaking of the French Revolution ; and Jacobites became half jaco- bins, ere they were at all aware in what the doctrines of jacobinism weie to end. The Whigs naturally regarded the first dawn of freedom in France with feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but universal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour- bon despotism ; and there were few who more ardently participated in the general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feeling that took place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to stain LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcHi the course of the French Revolution, and Burke hfted his powerful voice,, vras great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse- quences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides now rose and fermented. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society was for a time shaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams vt the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi- valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than hated. The very name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had known and loved each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it had been some loathsome pestilence. There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town of Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. 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 disci})les of King (>eorge the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- dition, — and to be shunned accordingly. The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions rt'hich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Hums IS a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous period, a democrat In that department, as then conducted, I am assured that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject, unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the exact termination of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord- ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood, Burns, inter alia, gave great of- fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the health of William Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- ciety rejected what he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a greater and a better man, George Washington." 1 suppose the warmest admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of these two great men. "1 he 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 exliibition 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 oar." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc- currence of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at whose table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain made use xciv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. of to me, had I had nobody's welfare to care for hut my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces- sity of murderinurns himseh considered as tantamount to the destruction of all hope of future |)romo- tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one oi his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even fotally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter Scot^ 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, net 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 tlie crown forfeited by his fathers, the stran^'e and almost poetical adventures LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xcvi! which he underwent, — the Scottish martial character, honoured in his vic- tories, and degraded and cruslied in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to unpress 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, (lleliques, p. 2ACi)\ that ' to tell the matter of tact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vire la bagatelle.'' The same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of poli- tical tenets, when the country was agitated by ••evolutionary 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 conipla 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 disgrace of rendering desperate the pos- sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is hut too certaiit, that from the moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his life. We doubt not, that in that awful period of national discord, he had done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's only shield against actqal dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- est credit on that gentleman " In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, who can refuse to concur ? but I am bound to sa}', that after a careful examination of all the documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access, 1 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 inmie- diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that ver}^ respectable per- son distinctly says : — '• 1 may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac- cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do I believe his promotion was thereby affected, as has been stated. That, had he lived, would, 1 have every reason to think, have gone on in the usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on thi account ' or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature grave ? 7 never saw his spirit fail till he was borne down by the pressure of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it would occasionally revive, and like an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- ed in Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corj)s. It is very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neiglibours 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 gr^at F x^viii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. est 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 last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse His poor ana honest Soclger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish this exquisite and useful song, with Scofs ivha hae wi Watktce bled, — the Sony of Death, and Does havc/hty Gaul hwasion Threat, — all lyrics which enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into mens breasts, had obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants." Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much of Burns both as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as- sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person who gives any thing like an exact statement : and accoi'ding to hnn. Burns was admonished " that it was his business to act, not to think") — in whatever language the censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had any cause to suppose that his hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. Eindlatcr, who had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns, tlie year before he died, was permitted to act as a Supenisor ; a thing not likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. On ',!ie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted with talents and necessarily with influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation that Burns's subsequent conduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits o? 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 tryin^j it to a farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcix af the country itself, I must say I think it is much more difficult to defend them. Mr. Pitt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension of f "iOO a-year for writ- ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such quarters as these, would have been at once safe and graceful. What the minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry 1 know not ; but Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " I can think of no verse," said the great Minister, when Burns was no more — " I can think of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com- ing sweetly from nature." * Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every- body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business o( those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some- what overstated the political indiscretions of .which Burns was actually guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray,-]- who, as has al- ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- lieves to be true. " Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- siderable share of his admiration : he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in their debates, nor did he ever 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 INIr. 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. -|^ Mr. (iray removed from the school of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. He tlten be- came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, and died a few years sihce in the East Indies, as officiating chanlain to the Company in tha presidency of JMadras. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may Lave been his opinion of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not thmk it right to fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in accordance with what Mr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed !)urns 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 ?crapes ; 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 VVesterhall, and Mr. Miller the younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- iron'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 flaggy by the banks o' Nith, -f a dame w' pride eneugfa. And Marjorj o' the JMonylochs, J a carline auld aiid teugh ; And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near 8oIway-side, And whisky Jean that took her gill in (ialioway sae wide; |{ And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, % o' gipsy kith and kin, — Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south counirie within. 3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day, And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae, But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a ane but tway. 4. The first he was a belted knight, ** bred o' a border clan, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him withstan', And he wad do theii errands weel, and meikle he wad say, And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 5. The next came in a sodger youth, -|--t- and spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was ; He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, nor meikle speech pretend. But he wad hecht an lionest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend. fi. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, For some had gentle I'olks to please, and some wad please themsell. 7. Then out spak mini-mou'd IMeg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride. And she wad send tlic 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 au'liority of I\Iajor Miller. •f- Dumfries. :]: Laclmial)en. § Annan. |[ Kirkcudbngh'. % Sanquhar. ** Sir J. Jolmstone. ff .f^Iajor IMUler. ^ tt tieorge I J I. ^.§ The Prince of V\'ales. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cl R. 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 f.ir-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 carhne stoor and grim. The auld guidman, and the young guidman, for me may sink or swim; For fools will freat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn ; But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink. Ye weel ken, kimmers a', The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight. But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 11. Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; There's some great folks set liglit by me. — I set as light by them ; But I will sen' to Lunnun toun wham I like best at name. 12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can tell, God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. The above is far the best humoured of these productions. The election to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's fiivour, 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 church and state, Alight richly merit lAIuir'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 havC; 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 Hev. James Gray, already more than once referred to, but 1 love the memory of Burns more. en LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth. The poet of The Cottar s Satnrdai/ Night, who felt all the charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged, (in Dr Currie's Nar* rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- ed of his species. As 1 knew him durmg that periol of his life emphati- cally called his evil days, I am enabled to spcah front iny otcn obser ration. It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, be- cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him. It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- tended the education of his children with a degree oi' care that I have ne- ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 1 have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- torians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drvnhenness .^ '• It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted by all classes of men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed ibr hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from hea- ven ; but even in the hour of thoughtless gaity and merriment, I never knew it tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, follow- ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last night's mtemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- lestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate, it would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the poets by heart The prose authors he could quote either in their own words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous, as when he composed Tlic Cottar s Saturday Niyht. The truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he could not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situa- tions where he w^as conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all imes have listened to her voice ? LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ciii " The men with wliom he generally associated, were not of the lowest order. He numoered 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 conne.xion M'ith 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 1 would not be an inattentive observer of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country- men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of which, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from him to myself, in a case of only seeiniug inattention. — ' I know. Sir, and re- gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and as the gentle- man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in my conduct as an officer, 1 shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- crifice to the dark manoeuvres of a smuggler." — This of itself affords more than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he would have written in such a style to me, but from the impulse of a consci- ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, it was not till neai the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating infirmities. I will further avow, that 1 never saw him, which was very fre- quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of business he wa. "juite him- self, and capable of discharging the daties of his office; nor was he ever known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore- noon. ... 1 have seen Burns in all his various phases, in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family ; indeed, I believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see^ after he became an Excise officer, and I never beheld any thing like the gross enormities with which he is now charged: That when set down in an evening with a few friends whom he liked, he was apt to prolong the social hour beyond the bounds which prudence would dictate, is unqucs • Mr. Findlater watched by lUvriis the i i^^ht before he died. civ LIFE OF nOBERT BURNS. tionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other • wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from men altogether incapable, for any purjiose, of wilfully stating that which they know to be untrue. To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, they were, it is obvious, and that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- dered the nervous susceptibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No one knew better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- sons as were most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more amusing than his replj'^ to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicoll. . . " O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, so be it ! " For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. &c. To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, might not such a Tu quoque be addressed ! The strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements of Heron, Currie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregiously ex- aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole, Hums gave sa- tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- nue service ; he, moreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- cation of his children, and spent n>ore hours in their private tuition thari fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship left him. are often in the custom of so bestowing. — " He was a kind and attentive father, and took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he did not, like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public schooiS ; he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great pains in training their minds to habits of thought and reflection, and in keeping them pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa- cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in liis 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 llie study of Latin. This boy afe ?nded the Grammar School of Dumfries LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cv and soon attracted my notice by the strsngtli of his talent, and the nrdour of his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right to advance him a form, and he began to read Cajsar, 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 sucli a way that he could gather the au- thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this important branch of parental duty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote, after his removal to Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable length, { Tarn o' Shnnfer), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. George Thomson, furnish undeniable proof that, in whatever ^Av of dissipation he mihappily 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 .|uestion have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. Of his letters written at Elliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo volumes have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural the leelings, 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 tact 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 unpubHshed, 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. fi ray justly sa3's, 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, for the most part embellished with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, and criticisms. Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at the head of till 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 ovei-warm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- • Letter from the Rev. James Gray to JMr. Gilbert Burns. See his Edition, vol. I A55. pendix. No. v. •cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. fusions. Burns knew that he was now engaged on a work destined for the eye and ear of refinement ; he laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- ing, " virginibus puerisque canto ," and the consequences have been hap- py indeed for his own fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, of Scotland ; and, what is of far higher importance, the moral and national feelings of his countrymen. In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect. He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels never ventured on more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy — following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the- dictates of native taste and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned only his own feelings ; but in writing to .Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs," says he, " gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for namby- pamby. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There 1 am al- ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort ot national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his native land from her peculiar idiom. The " genius loci" was never wor- shipped more fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says he, " that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, 1 made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, Lochalur and the Braes of Ballenden excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be .ascer- tained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, J " a naivete, a pas- toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and 1 will add, to every ge- nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let me give you : — Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iofa of the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- tional music preserve its native features. They are, 1 own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." § Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," says he, 7th April 179.S, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- ments. \\ hat with my early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- " Correspondence with .Mr. Thomson, p. 111. -f- Ibid. p. flO. J Ibid. p. 38. S It may amuse the reader to hear, that in spite of all liurns's success in the use of his native dialect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of \\ averley was sub- mitted, hesitated for some t'mie about publishing it, on account of the Scots dialoj^ue interwo- ven in the novel. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii making ate now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fcrtification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter' it away till I come to the limit of my race. (God grant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been hap- py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be ' Good night, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " * " Until I am complete master of a tune in my own. singing, such as it is, I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider the poetic sentirr.ent correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, — then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom, — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have fram- ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary tire- side of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at in- tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- variably my way What cursed egotism !" f In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later publi- cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu- lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- ten. They are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poet's per- sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- nion of his own individual life. A new Hood of light has just been poured on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's history. The reader must be contented with a few general memoranda ; " Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — .could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No. no. When- ever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- nation ? Tout au contraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- ing a fine woman." '\ " I can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- sion Which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, " Where love is liberty, and nature law." Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. Ths welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my • Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 57- + Ibid. p. 119. cvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. soal ; and— whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains the purchase." * Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which begins, " Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'." Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate of the performance. There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto^ and Sco*^* 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 1 might pass from the charge with that neglect which it merits ; but I am happy to say that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou- sand anonymous calumnies." -|- Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place. We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled when he visited that glorious 'field. According to tradition, the tune play- ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This ia 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 • Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 191. + Letter in Gilbert Burns's Edition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. LIFE OF ROBERT BURN8, cui — 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 tt Him, wlio. to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.' " — To the last, his best poetry was produced amidss scenes o( solemn desolation. CHAPTER IX. CoA^tNTS. — The poet's mortal penod aipronche^ — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of premature old age — Thfse not diminished In/ narrow circumstaiices^ hi/ chagrin from neglect, and by the death of a Daughter — The poet misses public j)a/ronage : and even the fair fnnts of his oil I genius — the uppnpriation of which is debated fir the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell — His magnanimity when deatli is at hand; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a dying man — Dies, 2]st July 1796 — Public funeral, at which mayiy at- tend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, u-ho had steadily refused to ac- knowledge the poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public — Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings iy Scott, Campbell, £yron, and others. " I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear." We are drawing near the close of this great poet's mortal career ; and 1 would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu- mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, pure and unde- based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings. For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficiently plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose, delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it ? the tem- porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, to extract and circulate. A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once had occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of 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 fn' fair on his brow, Hisauld ane look'd better than mony ane's new; But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing. And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-binii. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxi * O were we young, as we ance hae been, We Slid hae been galloping doun on yon green, And linking it ower the lilywhite lea, — And wcrcna mij heart light I wad die.''* tt 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 hcd been a course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the toils and miseries of his ill starred youth, could have sustained, to any thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative were sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, when intemperance assuredly had had not' ing to do with the matter, those ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi- tation and suffocation" of which (iilbert speaks, Mere so regularly his noc- turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief On a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi- lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing either of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! " The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or Imnting 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 JMiss Chalmers in 1793. cxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. In these few short sentences, as it appears co me, Bun.s has traced his owh character far better t!aril for the whole body of his writings. nxviii 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 intiict unnecessary pain. Let one ex- ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may j^robably keep me employed with my pen until noon, .line em ployment for a poet's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d ■ melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, cauglit amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." Towards the close cf 179a Burns was. as has been previously mention- ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently o 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 ho{)es, however, were mingl- ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest child lingered through an illness of which every week promised to be the last ; and she was finally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. This was a severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. " 'I'here had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husoand and father, for Gotl 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 conmiand of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! "Tis here that I envy your people of fortune — A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends ; while 1 — but 1 shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on the subject." To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his supervisorship, and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- given him — goes on in this ominous tone — " What a transient business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the i'l^w following extracts. " S\st Juhuary 17 9t). — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afHic- tion. ihe 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. 1 had scarcely begun to recover from that shock when 1 became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick bed,-it seenia to have turned up life, and I am beginnmg to crawl across n)y room, a»'' once indeed have been before my own d: y. in the street. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxix " \^'hen pleasure fasciniUes the mental sight. Affliction purifies the visual ray. Religion hnils the drear, the untried night. That shuts, tor ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." But a few da)« after this, Burns was so exceedingly imprudent a^ to join a festive circle al a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the morning. The weather was se\ere, and he, being much intoxicatetl, took no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its intluence. 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 everj' +ace with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — ' Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " " 1th July. — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you no more. — For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical folks,"' as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- den of care. " The duce of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on i B5 ?' He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the I'oard to grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an exit truly en pnete — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." Mrs. liiddell 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 5th July; and she has, in a letter published by Dr. Currie, thus described his appearance and conversation on that occasion x- — " I was struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp of death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you any • The binh-day of George III. cxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. commands for the other worhl ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case whicii 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 iook 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 'leath 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 Nattering marks of appro- bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on hi? hopes of tlKit boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reiiectiori 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 tlrc.id 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 niany 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 ot the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day 1 saw him again, and we parted to meet no more !"' I do not know the exact date of the following letter to .^frs Burns: — " Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce, .'t would be injus- tice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me . but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can 1 swallow . porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss .Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind- est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on J?undaT. Your affectionate husband, R. B." There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7th, in which tne tjoe* says, " 1 am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — Cod keep LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxi mjr wife and children."' On the l'2th, he wrote the letter to Mr. George Thomson, above quoted, requesting l!."i ; and, on the same day, he penned also the following — the last letter that he ever wrote — to his friend Mrs, Dunlop. " Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which ^ am. An illness which has long liung about me, in all probability will speed- ily send me beyond that hoiirne 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, v/ished 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 Airs. Craig, widow of the minister of lluthwell. 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 l))inds 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 ! 8th, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came bacK to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of popular feehng in the town during the short space which intervened between his return and his death. — " Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of his fame — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caught up and reported from street to street, and from house to house." " Mis 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 tire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen iucreased. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means 1 had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. His differences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- • I take the opportunity of once more acknowlcdgin','- my great obligations to this fifentle- tnan. who ia I understand, comiected by his marriage witli tlie family of die poet. cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. given ; they thought only of his genius — of the delight 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 me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage 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 en 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 '.^oth 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 [)ersons of the town and neighbourhood resolved to make {)art of the procession ; and not a iew tra- velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were lined by the Fen "ible infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque Ports, then quartedat Dumfries, whose commander, Lord Hawksbury, (af- terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. " The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says Cunningham, " witji the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes- tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- cession away. 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. 1 looked on it then, and I consider it now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath to • In the London Magazine, 1824. Article, "• Robe Burns and Lord Byron." + So Mr. Symehas informed i\Ir. iM'Dia,ridd 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 oi their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one. the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. 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 tlie streets in their mourn- ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the looks of his bojs, and the compassion which they excited. Ihe poet's life had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem," Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the benefit of his family; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Sj'me, Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'Murdo, becoming trustees for the application of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the lists, and not a few from England, especially London and Liverpool. Seven hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Curries Life and Ldition of Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- fries, called Burns' Street. " Of the (four surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in ISSlt, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- don, (Mr. Burns still remains in that establishment), Francis \\ allace, the second, died in 180.S ; W illiam Nicoll, the third, went to Madras in 1811; and James Glencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in 181 'J, 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 ajiy ex- ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the page of Burns, and remember without a blush, that tiie author of such verses, the human being whose breast glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere bread for his children by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills ' The subscription for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement of in- dignation did not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that Robert Burns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common ganger among the wilds of Niths'iale — and that, after he was so established, no interference from a highei 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, ttie 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, namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the Poet, because the Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was BuuN'.'5.'" The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius This is indeed a can- did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, then, found to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circuii;Stances 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, tJireats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails ?" To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submitted' to his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says ne, 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 tilings 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 s:ster of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashion- able and polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark neglected, and LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS cxxv his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, sliall 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 ; Ins consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and dies a ***•♦** and a lord! — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she. who, without the same neces- sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may say of it what they please, but execretion is to the miqd, 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 ot Burns. Addison himself the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Au- 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. Ihe 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," sav« Johnson, "it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen- tangled 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 1 once de- lighted to converse, and whom 1 yet remember with tenderness." " Letter to Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh. (Jeneral Correspondence, p. 328. cxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ' Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open. " His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were great beyond his means ;" and 1 have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- ings ot the Justices, — " Bring me Burnss journal : it always does me good to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about with him." Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the fervour of a poet. " It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- ters, — " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to be true;" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his method ot thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- dered " a hypochondriacal 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 breathe 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 mute." Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally ot 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. iSucl" men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, bui let fly their fulniinations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength to the enemies of truth. It must always be the condition of 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 founded." * In conclusion, let me adopj * 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 ; — " liCt no mean hope your souls enslave — Be independent, generous, brave ; Your" Poet " such exami le gave, And such revere. But be admonished by his grave, And think and fear." * It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- staijces in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- 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, 1 mean when the grave had closed on him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the speckles 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 ! IVom 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 Burns's 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 most 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 j)assage — 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 dindy conscious, a * Wordswortli's address to the sons of Burns, on visitini; his grave ia ii)03. cxxviif LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. spirit of pleasui-e wherever it Jan be found, — in the walks of nature, and in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer aspects of war; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas sion of love though immoderate — from convivial pleasure though intempe- rate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the hand maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself and in describ- ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- minded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, Tam o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fre- quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the anger of the tempest wnthout doors, only heightens and sets off the enjoy ment within. — 1 pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. " Kings may be Iilest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the i/ls o' life victorious." ♦' What a lesson do these v. ords 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 sui'faces 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 who 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 cu'cumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the Soiway, 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, th.an were their fathers', to the old faith and the old virtues ? I beliLve, he that knows the most of the country will • Vt'ordswortli's Letter to uray, p. 24. LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, cxxix be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius and virtue would desire to hear them answered. On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had most powerful influence in reviving and strengthening the national 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 v/ith 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. 1 he 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 ocxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. now, 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 surj asscd. " Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vitae 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 res])ects 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 famil arly 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 nionuments on all the high places, and they who follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * Dr. Currie says, that " li' Jictimi be the soul of poetry, as some assert, Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of Burns, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken fiction 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 Hal/owe'e/i, the Jo//)/ Beggars, and Tinn 6 Sliavter, (,to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce s Address, Mac- phersoiis Lament, kc), 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, varying, embehishing, 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 wdiich 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 oi' 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, 1 believe, the world at large are now-a-days w^ell prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as Byron's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that ever perplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Stutio, ergo sum, says the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert that that is poetry of the highest order, which exer-ts 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 BURN is. cxxxi rnulate all that has been said of him, even by men like himself, 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< feet and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of ail the materials in the world besides. " The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- sal ; and viewing hitn 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 fu-elings 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 sufficient evi- dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- ous tarsk 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 under\alue the songs of Burns. W'hen 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 inmiortal 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 [)iece totally unfit for the stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit which glo.ws 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 than supplied by a bard who could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of « • SDecimens, vol. vii. 241. cxxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. hero sustaining fhejvnk with the evening sun to rest. And met at morn his earliest smile. Vaked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile The powers of fancy came along. And f joth'd his lengthen*^u hours of toil. With 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 bhze, Expanding all the bloom of soul ; And Mirth concentre all her rays. And point them from the sjiarkling bowi And let the careless moments roll In social pleasure uncoi, fined. And confidence that spurns control Unlock the inmost spriiiijs of mind : CXXXVl And lead his steps those bowers among, Where elegance with splendour vies, Or Science biJs her favour'd throng To more refined sensations rise : Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, And freed from each laborious strife, There let him learn the bliss to prize That waits 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, witn wizard light. Disclose the yawning gulf below. And pour incessant on his sight Her spectred ills 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 ; ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. And let his infants' tender cries His fond parental succour claim, And bid him hear in agonies A husband's and a father's name. 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds , His high reluctant spirit bends ; In bitterness of soul he bleeds, Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot laujjh 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 sootliing strain. CHARACTER BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS, MRS. RIDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.* The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with itii, loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or of anticipating on the province of a biographer. Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- nicate. It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, and considered, with reference to his poetical talents o?i/i/ : for the fact is, even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, that poetry (1 appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person ally acquainted with him) was actually not his forte. Many others, per- haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I "• Mrs. Riddell knew the poet well ; she had every opportunity for obseivation of what he said and djol, a« woJl as of what was said of him and done towards him. Her beautifully writttn Ktogf, — friendly yetcsndid, —was well reeeiv3d and generally circulated at the time. It has been inserted hy Dr. Currie in his several editions, as interesting from its elegance, and authoritative from the writer's accurate information; we have therefore most readily given it a place hece. c^xxviii 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 aniini' His personal endowmfents 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 in 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 hi\ii, 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 rovgh 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 him 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 ridicille 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 aich and full-pointed bon mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly classes as a virtue on/i/ 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. " "Iwas 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 intpllectual sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- wardness of his fortune- The vivacity of his wishes and temper wa« 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 witli 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 oi decided enmity : for he possessed none of that negative insipidity oi f na* 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 nater" — 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 versatility. 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 avoival was a reparation. His nativey?er'n often re. marked 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, mid 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 imaginatio; which scorns the narrow 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 philosoi)hy, too often unable to control the passions which proved a source of frecjuent errors and misfortunes to him. Bur"'' made his own artless apology in language more impressive than ail 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," wlio concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, with these lines : " I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play M^ild send thee pleasure's devious way ; Slisled by Fancy's meteor ray, liy passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray. Was I't^ht from heaven /" * I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I had proposed to my- self, on first conmiitting 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 1 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 liis life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around 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 coid 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, 1 find pri- vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhaust- ed all her shafts. 1 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 exaltetn — Burn-the-wind —the blacksmith- •ppropriate title. Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, And doucely maurige our affairs In i)arliaraent, To you a simple Poets prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honoiu-s' liearts wi' grief 'twad pierc 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' me's in great affliction, E'er sin they laid that curst restriction On AquavitcB , An' rouse tliem up to strong conviction An' move their pity. • This was written before the act anent the .Sooah Distilleries, of session 17fi6; for whieh Scotland and the Author return their most grateful tliaaks. POEMS. Stat forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The h est, open, naked truth : Tell h. o' mine and Scotland's drouth, His servants humble : The mi kle devil blavv ye south, If ye dissemble ! Doe> my great man glunch an' gloom ! Speak ('it, an' never fash your thumb : Let posr- an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em i If hones' y they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gat ring votes you were na slack ; Now stai ' as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er clav your lug, an tidge your back, An' hum an' haw ; But raise our arm, an' tell your crack Before them a' Paint S. "tiand greeting owre her thrissle ; Her mutch 1* n stoup as tiiom's a whissle ; An' d-mn'(l Excisemen iu a bussle, Seizin' a stell, Triumphant -ushin't like a mussel, Or lampit shell. Then on tb tither hand present her, A blackguard -iinuggler right behint her, An' cheek-for-c:; wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sigl. I But could I like Montgomenec fight, Or gab lik. Boswdl, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some Lise well. God bless your Honours, can ye see't. The kind, auld, cantie Cariin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet. An gar them hear it, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. Ye winna bear it ! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues ; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's ^ Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; rhee, aith-detesting, c\\ixste Kilkerran ;* Aa' that glib-gabbtt High ir.d Barob, The Laird o' Graham ;• An' ane, a chap that's daum'd auldfarran, Ditndas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; An' mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or TuUy Alight 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 laug, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in canc'rous mood. Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud Abuut her Whisky. An' L — d if ance they pit her tiU't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' the first she meet* ! For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her fdi, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. An' to the mutkle house repair, Wi' instant speed. An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! E'en cowe the caddie An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Hockonnoek's, I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks. An' drink his health in auld iVanse Tinnock»,\ Nine times a week. If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks. Wad kindly seek. Could he some cnvtmntatiun broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition. Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotcKpotch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle toi-gue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung ; Sir Adam Ferguson. • The present Duke of Montrose.— (1S00<) + A worthy old Hostess of the Autlior's in Mauck- Une, where he sonietiTiies studies Pohtios over a gUs* of guid auld Scotc/i Drink. BURNS' WORKS. An* if she promise auld or young To ttik their part, rho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, May still your Mither's heart support ye : Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, pour an' hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours a' your days, Ml' soups o' kail and brats o' elaise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt St Jamie's ! Your humble poet sings an' prays While Rah his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-stai-y'd slaves, in warmer skies See future wines, rich dust'riiig rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But blithe and frisky. She eyes her frecborn martial boys. Tak aff their Whisky. What tho' their Phcebus kinder warms, hile fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! When wretches lange, in famish 'd swarms, The scented groves. Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; They downa bide the stink o' pouther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To Stan" or rin, Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. Say, such is royal George's will. An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings 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' phvjsically causes seek, In clime an' season ; But tell me Whiski/'s name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! Tho* whyJes ye njoistify your leather. Till whare ye sit, on craps o* heather, Ye tine your dam ; (Freedom and Whisky gang theglther !) Tak aff your dram ! THE HOLY FAIR.» A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation ; And secret iiung with poison'd crust. The dirk of Defamation : A mask that like the gorget show'd Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for a mantle large and broad. He wrapt him In Religion. Hi/pocrisy-a-la'^mocji, I. Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuif the callar air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; The hares were hirplin' down the urs. The lav'rocks they were chantiu' Fu* sweet that day* II. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad To see a scene sae gay. Three hizzies, early at the road. Cam skelpin' up the wav ; Twd had manteeles o' doletii* black, But ane wi' lyart lining j The third that gaed a wee a-back, Was in the fashion saining, Fu* gay that day. III. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, In feature, form, an' claes : Their visage wither 'd, lang, an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes ; The third came up, hap-stap-an*-loup, As light as ony himmie. An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day IV. Wi bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face. But yet I canna name ye.' Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak. An' tak's me by the hands, " Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck Of a* the ten commands A screed some day. * Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of ScoC land fur a sacramental occasion. h POEMS. " Mv name is Fun — yuur cionie dear, The neaiest frienrl ye ha'e ; An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisi/. I'm gaiin to -H'^ty Fair, To s])end an hour in daffin' ; Gin ye'li go there, yon runkled pair. We will get famous laughin' At them this day.* VI. Quoth I, ' With a' my heart I'll do't ; I'll get my Sunday's sark on. An* meet you on the holy spot ; Faith we'se hae fine remarkin' !' Then I gaed hame at crowdie time, An soon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frie side to side, Wi' monie a weary body, In droves that day. VII. Here f.ii-.ners gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin' hy their cotters : Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang. An farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. VIII. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws. An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show. On ev'ry side they're gatherin*, Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy bletherin'. Right loud that day. IX. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra Gentry, There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, Are blinkin' at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, An' there a batch of wabster lads, Blackguardia' frae K ck, For fun this day. Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An' some upo' their daes ; Ane curses feet that fyld his shins, Anither sighs an' prays ; On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang wiukiu' on the lasses To chairs that day XI. O happy is the man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him! Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, He sweetly does compose him ! Which, by degrees, slips rouud her neck, An's loof upon her bosom Uukenn'd that day. XII. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation ; For speels the holy door Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornic, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him. The vera sight o' 's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fi'ight that day. XIII. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin' an' thumpiri' ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. He's stampiii' an' he's jum|)in' ' His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, . His elilritcli squeel and gestures. Oh, how they tire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day ! XIV. But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice 5 There's peace and rest nae langer : For a' the real jvdges rise. They canna sit for anger. opens out his cauld harangues On practice and on morals ; An' aff the godly pour in thrangs. To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. XV. What signifies his barren shine Of moral pow'rs aud reason ? His English stjle, an' gesture fine, Are a' clean out o' season. Like Socrates or Antoniiie, Or some auld pagan Heathen, The moral man he docs define. But ne'er a word o' faith in That's right that day XVL In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum : For , frae the watei-fit. Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mini has view'd it. 8 BURNS' WORKS. Wliile Common-sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, au' up the Cowgate, * Fast, fast, that day Wee XVII. neist the euard relieves, An' orthodoxy niibles, I'ho' in his heart he weel believes. And thinks it aiild wives' fables: But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse So cannily he hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit and sense Like halBins-ways o'ercomes him At times that daj. XVIIL Now but an' ben, the chans::e-house fiUs, Wi' yill-caup commentators: Here's cryiiig out for bakes and gills. And there the pint stoup clatters ; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din, that in the end. Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. XIX. ^eeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College : It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pangs us fou o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or ony Ptronger potion. It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. XX. The lads an* lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body. Sit round the table weel content, An' steer about the toddy. On this aue's dress, an' that ane's leuk. They're niakin' observations ; While some are cozie i' the neuk. An' forming assignations To meet some day. XXI. But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts : Black is na spairin' : His piercing words, like Highland swords. Divide the joints au" mairow ; His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, Oil'' very sauls does harrow f Wi' fright that day. XXII. A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wlia's ragin' flame an' scorchin* heat. Wad melt the hardest whun-stane' The half asleep staj-t up wi' tear. An' thinli they hear it roarln , Wlien presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neighbour snorin Asleep that day. XXIII. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past, An' how they crowded to the yill, WTien they were a' disniist : How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups Amang the furms a'n' benches; An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches An' dawds that day. XXIV. In comes a gaucie, gash giiidwife, An' sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife. The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidnien, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother. Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An' gi'es them't like a tether, Fii' lang that day. XXV. Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lad. Or lasses that hae naething ! Sma' need has he to say a grace Or melvie his braw claithing ! O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel How bonnie luk ye wanted. An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be affronted On sic a day I XXVL Now CitnhumheU, wi' rattlin' tow. Begins to jow an' cr()(m ; Some swagger hame, the best they dow» Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies hak a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune, For crack that day, xxvn. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses I Their heai'ts o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh i-s. There's some are fou o' love divine ; There's some are fou o' brandy j An' mony jobs that day begin. May end in houghmagandie Some ither d»y. • A street so called, which faces tlie ent in • ♦ Shakesneare's Hamlet. 1 POEMS. 9 DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- I red ye weel, ink care e' skaith. BOOK : See there's a g"ajy !' A TRUE STORY. ' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, Some lx)oks arc lies friie end to cnrl, I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; And some great lies were never peiin'd : But if I (lid, I wad b'e kittle Ev'a Ministers, they hae been ketm'd, To be mislear'd, In holy rapture, I wadna mind it, no, that spittle A rousing whid, at times, to vend. Out owre my beard. And nail't wi' Scriptnre. ' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; Dut this that I am gaun to tell, Come, gie's your hand, an" sae we're gree't ; Which lately on a night befell, We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Li just as true's tlie' De'iis in hell Co:ii(; gie's your news ; Or Dublia city : This while ' ye hae been mony a gate, That e'c3' he nearer comes oursel' At mony a house.* *S a muckl© pity. ' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, The Clachan yill had made me canty, ' Its een a lang, lang time indeed I was oae fou, but just had plenty ; Sin' I began to nick the thread, I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye An' choke the breath: To free the iliu-hes ; Folk maun do something for their bread, An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye An' sae maun Death. Frae ghaists an' witches. ' Sax thousand years are nearhand fled The rising moon began to glow'r Sin' I was to the hutching bred. The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To count her horns, wi' a' my power, To stap or scar me ; I set mysel' ; Till ane Hornbook 's f taen up the trade, But whether she had three or four, An' faith, he'll waur me. I couldua tell. ' Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, I was come round about the hill, Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! And todlin down on Wille's mill, He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buckan J An' ither chaps. Setting my staff wi' a' my skill. To keep me sicker ; The weans haud out their ^ngers laughin' Tho' leeward whyles, against my will. An' pouk my hips. I took a bicker. ' See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, I there wi' Something did forgathes, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : That pv.t me in an eerie swither : But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art An' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. And cursed skill, Clear-dangling, hang ; Has made them baith no worth a f t, A three-taed leister on the ither, Damn'd haet they'll kilL Lay, large and lang. ' 'Twa.s but yestreen, nae farther gaen, Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. I threw a noble throw ,it ane ; The queerest shape that e'er I saw, Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; For fient a wame it had ava ; But deil-ma-care. And then, its shanks. It just play'd dirl on the bane. They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' But did nae mair. As cheeks o' branks. ' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, ' Guid-een,'quo'I ; ' Friend ! hae ye been mawin'. And had sae fortified the part. When ither folk are busy sawin' ?' * That when I lookeil to my dart. It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', It was sae blunt, But naething spak : Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun. Will ye go back ?' • I di-ew my scythe in sic a fury, It spak right howe, — ' My name is Death, But be na fley'd.' — Quoth I, ' Guid faith, Ye're maybe C(^ne to stap my bre ith ; i • An epidemical fever was then raging in that country t This gentJem in, Dr. Hornbook, is, profi'ssTonally But tent me, billie : a brother of the Sovereign Oiler of the Ft-rula; but by intuition and inspiration, Ls at once an Ajiothecary Surgwm, .-uul Physician. • This rencounter happened in seed-time, 17H5. X Bucliaii's Domestic Medicine. II 2 lO BURNS' WORKS. I nearhand coupit wi* my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock ; I might as weel h:ie tried a quarry O' hard whin rock. ' Ev'n theni :;e carina ^et attended, Altho' theii face he ne'er had ken'd it, Just in a kail-l)lade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't. ' An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. He's sure to hae ; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. ' Calces o' fossils, eaiths, and trees ; True Sal-marinum"o' the seas ; The Farina of beans and pease. He has't in plenty ; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. ' Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus ot capons ; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; Distill'd per se ; Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins, An* moi'y mae.* ' Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole * now ;' Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, Sae white an' bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; They'll ruin Johnny /' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear ; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year. • Whare 1 kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith. That Horiibook^s skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. ' An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred^ Gat tippence-worth to mend her head. When it was sair ; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. ' A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some cu.murring in his guts, • Thegisve-digger. 1 His only son for Ilonihook sets, An' pays him well ; The lad, for twa guid gimnier pets, M'as laird himsel*. ' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name. Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care ; Horn sent her aflf to her lang hame. To hide it there. ' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook' s way ; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slav, An's weel paid for't ; Yet stops me o* my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt. ' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; rU uail the.self conceited sot, As dead's a herrin* ; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat. He gets his fairin* !' But just as he began to tell. The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Some wee short hour ayont the ttval. Which raiw'd us baith I took the way that pleased mysel'. And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR A POEiM. Inscribed to J. B- E.3Q. Ayr. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush : The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er the hill ; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd. And train'd to arms in stem Misfortune' field- Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the ]ianegyric close. With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings^ He glows with all the spirit of ''he Bai'd, Fame, honest fame, his great, ftis dear reward- Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace, Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; j When B befriends his humble lame, i And hands the rustic stranger up to tame. POEMS. II With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlikn to give alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : Pctatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, Unnumber'd buds un' fldwers' delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are ddom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thundering guns are heard on ev'rjr side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather'd fitld-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds) ! Nae mair the flow'r in held or meadow springs : Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings. Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree ; The hoary morns precede the sunny davs, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze. While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity s reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of At/r, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi* care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Si7npso7i,'s* wheel'd the left about : (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether rapt in meditation high. He wander'd •)ut he knew not where nor why), The drov-fsy Du>weim-clock,f had number'd two. And Wallace tnwer-f had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar. Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : All else was hush'd as Nature's Closed e'e ; The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard, The clanging sough of whistling wings he heard ; Tvo dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, ?wift as the Gos ^ drives on the wheeling hare ; ♦ > noted tavern at the AtUd Brig end. * IV.e two stteples. f T6ie cos-hawk, or falcoui Ane on th Anid Srig his airy shajie upre:irai The itlier flutters o'er the rising piers .- Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the JBrigs of Ayr ])reside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae j:ike, An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) Aulil Srig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic iu his face : He seeni'd as he wi' Time had wajstl'd lang Yet toughly doure, he bade an unco bang. jVew Srig was buskit in a braw new coat. That he, at Lon'on, frae ane A' lams got ; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. Th€ Goth was stalking round with anxious search. Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e. And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien, He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en — AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye '11 think ye're nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were sfreekit o'er fine bank to bank ! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a Ijoddle, Some fewer whigraaleeries in your noddle NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Wliere twa wheel-barrows tremble when thej meet, Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Srigs 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 ! putf'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 lirig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erfiow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the brawl- ing Coil, Or stately Lugar^s mossv fountains bcil. Or where . the Greenock winds his moorlaml course, Or haunted Garpul f draws his feeble source. * A noted forif, ju.stabo\e the Auld Bng. \ The banks oiGariml f rater is one of the few place* \2 BURNS' WORKS. ArousVl byWusf 'ring winds and spotting thowes. In mony a torrent d>)\vn his sna-broo rovves ; While i-rashing ice, borne on the roaring si)eat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; And from Glevhwk* down to the Rnttin hiy,^ Auld Apr is just one Itntithen'd tumbling sea; Then down ye'Ll burl, deil nur ye never rise! A.nd dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies, A lesson sadly teaching, to vnur 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-allm'ing edifices. Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roots fantastic, stony groves ; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest. With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread coirimand be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; Fit only for a doited IMonkish race. Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion That sullen gloom w>is s>terliug true devotion ; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest with re- surrection ! AULn BRIG. O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; Ye godly Coiincils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the sr/iiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye ffodli^ Writers : A' ye douce folk I've home aboon the broo. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vex- ation, To see each melancholy alteration ; In the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring he- lugs, known by the name of G/uiists, still contmue oertinaciously to inhabit. • The sourse of the river Ayr. ♦ A small landing-place above the large key. And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! Nile langer Rev'rend Men, their country** 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 henyment 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 new Brigs and Harbours I NEW BRIG. Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said enough. And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, As for your Piiesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clerc/y are a shot right kittle : But, under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared : To liken them to your auld warld squad, I must needs say comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth ' a Citizen," a term o* scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles aown the street In aJl the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an* raisins. Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common -sense, for once betrayed them, Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. \\'liat farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adowii the glitt'niig stream they featly danced : Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat. The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had M'Lavclilin,* thairm-inspiring sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' .his dear Strathspeys they bora with Highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd^ And even his matchless hand with finer touch iuspir'd ! • A well known performer of Scottish music on th« violin. POEMS. 18 No guess could tell what Instrument appeai'd, But all tlie soul of Music's self was lie.ird ; 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 hoiuy 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 h;uid with Spring ; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : AU-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding com ; Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; Next foilow'd Courage with his nwrtial stride, From where the Feal wild-wooHy covets hide ; lienevoience, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Woith in equal measures trode From simple Catri?ie, their long-lov'd abode : Last, white-rob'd Peac«, crown'd with a hazel wreath. To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death : At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their klnd- lina wrath. THE ORDINATION. Fc sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n— To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. 1. KilmaAnock Wabsters, fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations. Swith to the Lau/h Kirk, ane an' a*, An' there tak up your stations ; Then aff to Jiet/hie's in a law, An' pour divine liliations For joy this day. n. Curst Common- sense, that imp o' hell. Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;* But O aft made her yell, An' R sair misca'd her ; This day, M' takes the flail, An' he's the boy will blaud her ! He'll clap a shangan on her tail. An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day III. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; O' double verse come gie us four. An' skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the kn ives shall wrang her For heresj' i< in liei' power, And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day. IV. Come let a proper text be read, An' touch it aff" w' vigour, How graceless Ham * lei.gh it his Dad, Which made Ctuiaan a nige: : Or Phineasf drove the murdering b.adc^ Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah, \ the scaulding jade, Was like a bluidy tiger r the inn that day. V. Tliere, 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 threshiu'. Spare them nae day. VL Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owTe the dale Because thy pasture's scanty ; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An' ru7its o' grace, the pick and wale, No gi'en by way o' dainty, But ilka day. VH. Nae mair by SabeVs 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 see our elhucks wheep. An' a like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' last this day. VIIL Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, Has shored the Kirk's undoin', • Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on •he admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to the Laigh Kirk. • Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. f Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. i Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25. 14 BURNS' WORKS. As lately FemuicJi, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin : Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin' ; An' like a godly elect bairn, He's wal'd us out a true ane, An' sound this day. Now R- IX. harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever ; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they'll think you clever ; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver ; Or to the Niiherton repair, An' turn a carper weaver Aff hand this day. M- X. and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones ; Auld Hnrnie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin' baudrons : Ad' aye he catch'd the tither wretch. To fry them in his caudrons : But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons. Fast, fast, this day. XI. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, She's swingein' through the city; Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! I vow it's unco pretty : There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty : An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. 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 peelin' onions ! Now there — they're packed aff to hell, An' banish'd our dominions. Henceforth this day. XIIL O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find qn'rte; : M' , R. > are the jjys. That heresy ca-' ortu. . They'll gle i. •; on a rape a hoyse, ,' r' cuwe tier mea.-!ure shorter By the head some day. XIV. Come bring the tither ii^atchkin in, An' here's for a conclusion. To cvi^ry Nfir Li(/fit * mother's son, From this time forth, Confusion : If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion. We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some da« THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR- On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. ' And tivi-t shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of he stall. Right Sir I your text I'll prove it tr le. Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, God knows, an unco Calf ! An' should some Patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt nae. Sir, but then we'll find, Ye' re still as great a Stirk. But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, every heavenly Power, Y'ou e'er should be a Slot ! Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns. The like has been that you may wear A noblo head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte. Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head — ' Here lies a famous Bullock !' ADDRESS TO THE DEIL O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Power's, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. — SlUton. O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yn cavern grim an' sootie, Clo 'r^ u. ipt A'' '■, Spair^-es abo'i ^h- - 'uuMtane cootie. To scaud poor wretches Hear me, auld Hanpte, for a wee. An' let poor damned bodies be ; * Nnii Lifffit is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- land, fur tho^e religious opinions wnich Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. 'OEMS. :* I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. Is instant made no worth a louse. E'en to a deil, Just at the bit. To skelp an' scauil poor dogs like me. An' hear us squeel ! Wlien thowes dissolve the snawy hoorc^ An' float thejinglin' icy-boord. Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; Then Wuter-kdpies haunt the foord. ''ar kend and noted is thy name ; By your direction, An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, An' nighted Trav'llers are allured Thou travels far ; To their destruction. An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkiet Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; Wliyles, ranging like a roarin' lionj The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys For prev, a' holes and cornel's tryin' ; Delude his eyes. Whyles on the strong-\vin ;•■• :, " ■ •■ Wv 1 v!- vaik-hiir.e i the liouse. By cantr'T wi'r. Vide Milton, Dook vi. 1 i6 BURNS' WORKS But, fditli ' lie'll turn a corner, jinkin'. And cheat you yet. But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-hen! wad ye tak a thought t.iid men' ! Ye aibliqs mio;ht — I diuna kon — Still hae a stake — 1 m wae to think upon yon t\iii\. Even for your sake ! DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. As Mailh, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her clbot she coost a hitch, An' owre she vvarsled in the ditch ; There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When HughdC* he came doytin by. Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted ban's, Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, wae's my heart I he could na mend it ! He gaped wide, but naething spak ! At length poor Mailie silence brak. ' O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my Master dear. ' Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will : So may his flock inciease, an' grow To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! ' Tell him, he was a master kin', An' aye was guid to me an' mine : An* now my dying charge 1 gie him. My helpless lambs I trust them wi* him. ' O bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an* tods, an' butchers' knives ! But ?ie them guid cow milk their fill. Till they be fit to fend tlieiiisel' ; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. ' An* may they never learn the gaetB Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an* steal. At stacks o' pea^e, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears. For nKjny a year come thro' the sheers : So wives will gie them bits o' l;read. An' biirns greet for them when they're dead ' My ])ooi loop lamb, my son an' heir, bit! him breed him up wi' care ' An' if he live to be a beast, To y)lt some bavins 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 string ■ O, may thou ne'er forgather uf/ Wi' ony blastit moorland toip ; But aye keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! ' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : An' when you think upo' your mither. Mind to be kin' to ane anither. ' Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale ; An' bid him burn this cursed tether. An', fur thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een anians: the dead. • A iieebor herfl-callan. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; Our bardie's fate is at a close. Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; Pour JUailie's dead ! It's no the loss o' warl's gear. That could sae bitter draw the tear. Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead. I Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed ; A friend mair faith fu' ne'er cam nigh hinOf Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o' sense. An' could behave heistl' wi' mense . I'll say't, she never brak a fence. Thro' thievish greed. POEMS. 17 Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sill' Mailie's dead. Or, if ho wanders up the howe, Het living image in her i/oive. Comes bleating to him owre the knowe. For bits o' bread ; An* down the briny pearls rnwe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi* tawted ket, an' hairy hips: For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed! A boimier/eesA ne'er eross'd tlie clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man whu first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape I It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin' dread ; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! Come, join the melancholious croon O lii/bin's reed ! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. TO J. S- Fnendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ' Sweet ner of lift-, and solder of society ! I owe thee much ! Blair -, the sicest, paukie thief, Dear S- That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae .-ome warlock-breef Owre human hearts ; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon. And every star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon. Just gaun to see you : And every ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To inak amends for scrimpit stature. She's tuin'd you aft", a human creature On her Jirst plan, And in her freaks, on every feature. She's wrote, the Man, Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme. My barmie noddle's working prime. My fancy yerkit up sublime Wi' hasty summon ; Hae ye a leisure moment's time To hear what's comin' ? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash, Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din ; For me an aim I never fash ; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot. Has fated me the russet coat, An' damned my fortune to the g-oat : But in requit. Has bless'd me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This while ray notion's taen a skleut, To try my fate in guid l)lack preut ,• But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries ' Hoolie I red you, honest man, tak tent ! Ye'll shaw your folly. ' The»e's ither poets, much your betters. Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors. A' future ages ; Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages. Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. To garland my poetic brows ! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thraug, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed. Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. Forgot and gone ! But why o' death begin a tale ? Just now we're living, sound an' hale, - Then top and maintop crowd the sail, * Heave care o'er side And large, before enjoyment's gale. Let's tak' the tide» This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand. That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand, Dance by fu' light. The magic-wand then let us wield ; For ance that five-an'-foity's speel'd. See crazy, weary, joyless eili»e, Nae ferly tho' ye do despise An' others like your humble servan'. Poor wights nae rules nor roads observin' ; The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. The rattlin' squad : To right or left, eternal swervin'. They zig-zag on ; I see you upward cast your eyes — — Ye ken the road.— Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'. Wliilst I — but I shall baud me there^ They aften groan. Wi' you I'll scarce gang nny where — i Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mafr. But quat my sang, Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — But truce with peevish poor complaining ! Content wi' you to mak a pair, I Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? Whare'er 1 gang. E'en let h^r gang ! Beneath what light she has remaining. Let's sing our sang. A DREAM. My pen I here fling to the door. And kneel, ' Ye pow'rs !' and warm implore. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with ' Tho' I should wander terra o'er. reason ; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more. [On reading, in ttie public papers, the Laureates Odti withi the other parade of June 4, ITSG, the aulhoi Aye rowth o' rhymes. was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined him. • Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds.^ self transported to the birth-day levee; and in hs dreaming fancy, made the following Addre»s.'\ Till icicles hing frae their beards : Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, I. An' maids of honour ; Guic-mornin' to your Majesty 1 An' yill an whisky gie to cairds, May heaven augment your blisses, Until they sconner. On every new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! ^ ' A title, Dempster merits it , My hardship here, at your levee. A gartar gie to Willie Pilt ; On sic a day as this is. 1 -- . 1 POEMS. 19 Is sure an uncoutli siffht to see, Amang the birth- uay dresses Sae fiae this day. 11. I see ye'ie complfmented tlirang, By liiony a lord an' lady, • God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye ; The poets, too, a venal t;ang, Wi' rhymes wcel turn'd an' ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady. On sic a day. III. For ine ! before a monarch's face, Ev'n there 1 winna flatter ; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am 1 vour huinjjle debtor: So nae reflection on your grace, Your kingshi]) to bespatter ; There's nionie waur been o' the race, An* aiblins ane been better Than you this day. IV. Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Mv skill may weel be doubted : But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed : Your royal nest, beneath your wing. Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 4n' now the third part o' the string. An* less, will gang about it Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation ! But, faith ! I muckle doulit, my. Sire, Ye've tiusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day, VI. An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister ; Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester ; For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day VII. Tm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid tallow's get, A name not envy spairges), hat be intends to nay your debt, An' lessen a' your charge* • But, God-sake ! kt nae aai'ing fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek Beneath yoiu' high protection ; An' may ye rax Coiruption's neck, An' gie her for dissection ! But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection ' This great birth-day, IX. Hail, Majesty! Mist Exceiltrit .' While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment A simple ])oet gies ye? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher -nay they heeze ye. In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. X. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell y9ur Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling saui, I'm tauld ye'ie driving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails,^ An' curse your follv sairly, Th«t e'er ye Ijiak JJiunas pales, Or rattled dice wi' Ctuirlie, By night or day. XI. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble uiver : So, ye may doucely fill a throne. For a' their clish-ma-claver : There, him * at Agincotirt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,^ He was an unco shaver For monie a day XII. For you, right rev rend Osnahrug, Nane sets the Linn-.sleei-e sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at jour lug Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith ! an' ^et a wife to hug, Or, trouth, ye'U stain the mitre Some luckless day. XIII. Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learu, Ye've lately come athwart hei ; • King Henrv V. t Sir John Kiilslafl', vhle .STiakcsjieare. 20 BURNS' WORKS. A glorunis galley* stem (in stern, Wtel I'igg'd for Venus' b.irter ; Bit first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Thou heave aboard your grapple airn, An' large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'ii mak you guid as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty ; But sneer iiae Sritish hoys awa*, For kings are unco scant aye; An' German gentles are but sma^, They're better just than ivant aye On onie day. XV. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But, ere the course o' life be thro'. It nijy be bitter sautet ; Au' 1 h le seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that da> THE VISION. DUAN FIRST.-J- The sun had closed the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play. An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards grew While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has be». The thresher's weary flingin-tree The lee-lang day had tired me : And whau the day had closed his e'e. Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggii An' heard the restless rations squeak About the riggin'. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backw lid mus'd on wasted time, IIow I had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done nae-thinff ♦ Alluding to the newspaper account of a cwSain royal sailor's amour. t J)uan, a term of Ossian's for tlie different divisions 3t a digressive poem. See his Cath-Luda, vol. i. of M'Phei'son's translation. But stringin* blethers up in rhyme For fooLs to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market. Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash account : While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkr Is a' th' amount. I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! &,/ And heav'd on high my waukit Icvvf, To swear by a' yon starry rrjf. Or sp-ne ra«li a'cb , That I, henceforth, world 'je j/)y,/ie-/>r6dj' ''"iD M'j la,'/* breatn — When click ! tne at-iin/i, the sneck did dr>» An* jee ! the doo- ^'.ei) to the wa' ; An' by my ins;'.;-' av~ I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight ju .19. .d" .h Hizzie braw, Ckime full in sight Ys ree'^ pi djubt, I held my whisht The i/iftnt aith half-form'd was crush't ; I g'jT f''- asi eerie's I'd been diisht In some wild glen ; ?Ti» 1 '■wfjt, like modest worth, she blush't. And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-houghs. Were twisted gracefu' nuiiid her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token ; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Would soon been broken. A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' Was strongly markeil in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her ; Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with honoui Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean Could only pear it ; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else cam near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue, ISIy gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand ; And seem'd to my astonish'd view, A well know. I fend. Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; There, mountains to the skies were tost ; Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam ; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. The lordly dome. POEMS. 2i ifeiu Dnon pojr'd down his far-fetch'd floods: There, well-fed Iriuine stately tliuds : Auld hermit Ayr staw tliio' his woods. On to the shore ; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread. An ancient borough real 'd her head ; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race. To every nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace. By stately tow'r or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air. Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern ; Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, With featui'e stern. My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race * heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel In sturdy blows ; While bark-recoiling seem'd to reel Their suthron foes. His Country's SAViouR.f maik him well ! Bold Richardton's | heroic swell ; The chief on Sark § who glorious fell, xn high command ; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptred Pictish shade || Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race pourtray'd In colours strong ; Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd They strode along. Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,f Near many a hermit-fancy 'd cove, (Fit haunts for friendship or for love In musing mood). An aged Judge, I saw him rove. Dispensing good. With deep-struck reverential awe,** The learned sire and son I saw. To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore. * The Wallaces. -f William Wallace. % Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- mortal nreserver of .'Scottish independence. § Wallace, Laird of Ciai»ie. who was second in com- mand, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious ccmduct and mtrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action IJCoilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district ot Kyieissaid to take its name, lies buried, as trad i- tion says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coilafield, where his burial place is still shown t il^afskimining, the seat of the late Lord justice- •• Catrine, the sout of th late Debtor, and present Pro&ssor Stewart. This, all its source and end to draw, That, to adore. Brydnn's brave ward * I well could spy. Beneath old Scotia's smilino- eve Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. To hand him on, Where ..:'.any a patriot-name on high, And hero shone. DUAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish 'd stare, I view'd the heav'nly-seeming/r//;- ,. A whisp'ring throb did witness bear. Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air She did me greet. ' All hail ! my own inspired bard ! In me thy native muse regard • Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. Thus poorly low, I come to give thee such reward As we bestow ' Know, the great genius of this land Has many a light, aerial band. Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniouslv, As arts or arms they understand,' Their labours ply ' They Scotia's race among them share ; Some fire the soldier on to dare ; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart : Some teach the bard, a darlino- care The tuneful art. ' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour j Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. They, sightless, stand, lo mend the honest patriot-lore. And grace the hand. ' And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future ai>-e' They bind tlie wild poetic rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. ' Hence Fullartoii, the brave and ycung; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue • Hence sweet harmouiuus Benttie sung His " Minstrel lays ;" Or tore, with noble ardour stung. The sceptic's bays. ' To lower orders are asslgn'd The humbler ranks of human-kmd, * Colonel Fullarton. I ^2 BURNS' WORKS The rustic Bard, the lab'rino; Hind, I taught thee how to pour in song. The Artifrin ; To soothe thy flame. All choose, as various they're inclin'd, The various man. ' I saw thy pulse's maddening play. Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way. ' 'VMien yellow waves the heavy strain, iMisled by Fancy's meteor ray, The threat'ning storm some strongly rein; By Passion driven ; Some teach to meliorate the plain, But yet the light that led astray With tillage skill ; Was light from heaven. And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blithe o'er the hill. ' I taught thy manners-painting strains. The loves, the ways of simple swains ' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; Till now, o'er all my wide domains Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; Thy fame extends ; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil. And some, the pride of Cnila's plains. For humble gains, Become thy friends. And make his cottage scenes beguile His cares and pains. ' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; ' Some bounded to a district-space, Or wake the bosom-melting throe, Explore at large man's infant race. With Shenstotie s art ; To mark the embryotic trace Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Of rustic Bard ; Warm on the heart. And careful note each op'ning grace. A guide and guard. ' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows : ' Of these am I — Coila my name ; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws And this district as mine I claim. His aimy shade, Wliere once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows. Held ruling pow'r : Adown the glade. I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. Thy natal hour. * Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; ' With future hope, I oft would gaze, And trust me, not Potosi's mine. Fond on thy little early ways, Nor king's regard, Thy rudely caroH'd, chiming phrase, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine. In uncouth rhymes, A rustic Bard. Fired at the simple, artless lays ' Of other times. ' To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; ' I saw thee seek the sounding shore. Preserve the dignitg of Man, Delighted with the da>hing roar ; With soul erect ; Or when the north his fleecy store And trust the Universal plan Drove thro' the sky, Will all protect. I saw grim ^Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ' And wear thou this,' — she solemn said And bound the Holli/ round my head ; ' Or when the deep-green mantled earth The polish'd leaves, and berries red. Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, Did rustling play; And jny and music pouring forth And, like a passing thought, she fled In ev'ry grove, In hght away. I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love, ' WTien ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID 1 saw thee leave their ev'ning joys. And lonely stalk, OR THE To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. ' When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. My son, these maxims make r nilo Those accents, grateful to thy tongue. And lump them aye tiie<»itl rj Th adored Name, The Ri^ul llialitenu's is a fool The liiid /rufanithei-.. ' 1 POEMS. -^3 The cleanest corn that e'er was dight VII. May hae some pylcs o' cafT in ; Safc ne'er a fellow-creature slight Then gently scan your brother man, For random fit.s o' datTui. — Still gentler sister woman ; Solomon. — Etcles. eh. vii. ver. 16. Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, I. The moving whi/ they do it ; TE wlia are sae jfuid yoursel, And just as lamely can ye mark, Sae pious an' sae holy, How far perhaps they rue it. Ye've nouijht to ilo but m:nk and tell Your neehour's fauts and folly ! VIII. Whase life is like i weel gaiin mill, Who made the heart, "tis He alone Snpply'd wi' store o' water, Deciiledly can try us, The heapit happer's ebbing still, He knows each chord — its various tone^ And still the clap plays clatter. Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute. 11. We never can adjust it ; Hear me, ye venerable core, What's done we partly may compute, As counsel for poor mortals, But know not what's resisted. That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, ^ Their failings and mischances. III. An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Pope Ye see your state wi' theirs compared. Has auld K seen the Deil ! An' shudder at the nifFer, Or great M" + thrawn his heel ? But cast a moment's fair regard, Or R 1 again grown weel What niaks the mighty differ .' To preach an' read ? Discount what scant occasion gave, ' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, That purity ye pride in. ' Tarn iSa?}iso7i's dead ! An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. K lang may grunt an' grane. An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, IV. An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean. Think, when your castigated pulse In mourning weed ; ' Gies now and then a wallop. To death, she's dearly paid the kane. What ragings must his veins convulse, Tarn Samson's dead That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, The brethren of the myotic level. Right on ye scud your sea-way; May hing their head in woefu' bevel, But iu the teeth o' baith to sail, While by their nose the teais \^ill revel, It maks an unco lee-way. Like ony bead ! Death's gien the lodge an unco devel. V. Tam Samson's dead ' See social life and glee sit down. All joyous and unthinking, When winter muffles up his cloak, Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown And binds the mire like a rock ; Debauchery and drinking: When to the lochs the curies flock. O would they stay to calculate Wi' gleesoine speed ; Th' eternal consequences ; Wha will they statiim at the cock ? Or your more dreaded hell to state, Tam Samson's dead ! Danmation of expenses ' He was the king o' a' the core, VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Ty'd up in godly laces. Before ye gie poar frai/ti/ names, • When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian'« phrase, ' the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug. 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 i'aVomite with the mil- A treacherous inclination — lion. KWf the Ordma.tiou, Stanza 1 1. But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins :jn temptation. i Another preacher, an eipial favourite with the few who was at that time ailing. For him see also Uie Or. dination Stanza IX. 24, BURNS' WORKS. l)r up the rink, like Jehu roar, In time o* need ; Hut now he lags on death's hog-srore, Turn Samson's dead ! Now safe the stately sawmont sail. And trniits bedrojjp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kenn'd for soiiple tail, And geds for greed. Since dark in death's _/?.>7(-cree/ we wail, Tarn Samson dead ! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; \ e cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, Withouten dread ; Your mortal fae is now awa', Tain Samson's dead ■ That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd, Saw him in shootin' graith arhirnM, While pointers rounii impatient Imrn'd, Frae couples freed ! But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! Tani Samson's dead ! In vain auld age his body batters ; In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns cauie down like waters, An acre braid ! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetln', clatters. Tarn Samson's deac 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 ! Wlien at his heart he felt the diigger. He reel'd his wcuited l)ottlc-swagger, lint yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; L — il, five I' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger Tam Samson's dead I ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; nk s|)ortsnian youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane, aniang the heather, Jlarks out his head, Whare Buns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead ! There low he lifs, in lasting rest : Perhajis upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed Alas ! nae malr he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead ! When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave. Three \olleys let his mem'ry crave O pouther an' lead, I Till Echo answer frae her cave, ' Tam Samson's dead ! Heav'n rest his sanl, whare'er he be I Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : He had twa fauts, or may he three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man, want we ; Tam Samson's dead THE EPITAPH. Tam Sajison's weel-worn clav here lies, Ye canting zealots, sjiare him ! If honest worth \n heaven rise, Ye'll mend or ye won near him. PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, and canter Hke a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' KiUie,* Tell every social, honest billie, To cease his grievin For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie. Turn Samson's lirin HALLOWEEN, t [The following poem will, by many renders, be well enough understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacqiiainted with the manners and traditionsol the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give some airount of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with ))rophecy to the pea- santry in the West of Soot land. Thej)assion of pry. ing into futurity: makes a striking part o{ the history of human nature in its rurte state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entcrtainioent to a philosophic mind, if any such should hdiiour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it a mong the more unenlightened in our own.] Yes ! let the rieh deride, the proud disdain. The sim.ple pleasures of tlie lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to niy heart. One native charm, than all the glees of art. Goldsmith Upon that night, when fairies light, On Cassills Downans ^ dance. Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. On sprightly coursers prances; Or for Cnlean the route is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams ! • KWie is a phrase the country folks sometimes u»e for Kilmarnock. + Is thought to be a niglit when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands: particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary. X Certain little romartic, ro"kv, green hills, in thf neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cas- sills. ■wr"'*B(nria.i:r-. ^LILL KlAILILCSJXfyS lK^'£o POEMS. 25 Tljere, up the cove,* to stray an' nive Amang the rocks and streams, To sport that night II. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doun rins, vviniplin', clear, Where Bruce f ance rul'd the martial ranks An' shiiok his Ccurick spear, Some merry, friendly, couutra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' baud their Ualtoueen Fu' blithe chat night. III. The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when their fine; Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : The lads sae trig, wi' wuoer-babs, Weil knotted on their garten. Some unco blate, an' >ome wi' ga >>, Gar lasses' hearts gang- startin' Whyles fast at night. IV. Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, Their xtocks^ maun a' be sought ance; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, For muckle anes and straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. An' wander'd thro' the b.w-kail, An' pou't, lor 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' thruu'ther ; The vera wee things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; An' gif the ctistucs sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them To lie that ni^ht. * A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove of Ciilean ; which, asCassilis Downans, is famed in country stuiy for bemp; a favourite haunt for fairies. tThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of RoBiiRT, tlie great dehverer of his country, were Earl* of Carrick. t 'Ihe first ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each a stuck, 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 ci-ooked, is projihetic of the size ami shape of the gninil object of all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, ihat is tucher, or fortune; and the tasie of the custuc, that is the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition.— Lastly, the stems, or, to give ihem their ordinary ap- pellation, the Hints, are |)laced somewhere above the head of the door; and the Oirisiian names of iho peo- ple whom chance brings mto the house, arc, accoiding to the priority of placing the rutUs, the names m ques- tion. VI. The lasses staw frae 'mang tliem \ To pou their stalks o' corn ;* But Rab slips out, and jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn : He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud skirl 'd a' the lasses; But her tup-pickle niaist was lost. When kiuttlin' in the fause-house^ Wi' him that night VII. The auld guid wife's weel-hnordet nits^ Are round an' ri;und divided, And monie lads and lasses' fates. Are there that night decided : Some kindle, couthy, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly ; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride. An' jump out-uwre the chimlie Fu' high that night. VIII. Jean slips in twa wi' teiitie e'e ; Wlia 'twas, she wadna tell; But this is Jock, an' this is me. She says in to hersel' : He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, As they wad never mair part ; Till futf ! he started up the lum. An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that night. IX. Poor Willie, wi' his how-kail runt. Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; ' An' Mallie, nae doulit, took the druut, To be coiiipar'd to Willie : Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling:, An' her ain fit it brunt it ; While Willie lap, and swoor hyjing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. Nell had the fause-house in her min'. She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, Till white in ase they're sobbin' : Nell's heart was dancin' at the view. She whi.sper'd Rob to look for't : * They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third «*.i,k wanti the tiip-piclc/e, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the parly in question will come to the maiTiage-bed any thing but a maid. •f When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old tim- ber, &c. makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the viimi ; this he calls a fause-house t Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. Theyname the lad and 1;hs toe;ich particular nut. as they Uy thera in the fire, and aciordingiy as they burn quietly toge. ther, or start from besule one another, the coursi and issue of the courtship will be. ~ 25 BURNS' WORKS. Rnl), siawlins, prie'd her bonnie niou, ] The si iiiner h.iil been cauld an' wat. Fu' cDzie in the ueuk for't, An' stuff was unc-o green ; Unseen tliat night. Vn' ay a laiitin kirn we gat. An' just ou Halloween XI. It fell tklt nigh*- But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; XVL She lea'es them ga>hin' at theii cracks, " Our sribble-rig was Rab M'Graen, And slips out by hersel' : A clever, sturdy fallow ; She thro' the yard the nearest taks, He's sin gtt Epjiie Sim wi' wean, An' to the kiln she goes then, That liv'd in Achmacalla : An' daiklins graipit fm the bauks, He gat hc7np-feed,* I mind it weal, And in the blue clue* throws then, An' he made unco light o't ; Right fear't that night But mony a day was 6.;/ himsel', He was sae sairly frighted XII. That vera night.' An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat. I wat she made nae jaukin ; XVII. Till something held within the pat, Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, Guld L — d ! but she was quakin' ! An' he swoor by his conscience, But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, ^ For it was a' but nonsense ! Or whether it was Andrew Bell, The auld guid-man raught down the pock She did na wait on talkin' An' out a handfu' gied him ; To spear that night. Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk. Sometime when nae ane see'd him, XIII. An' try't that night. Wee Jenny to her Graunie says, " Will ye go wi' me, graunie? XVIII. i'll eat the apple-i- at the glass, He marches thro' amang the stacks. I gat frae uncle Johnie :" The' he was something sturtin, She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt. The gralp he for a harrow taks, In wrath she was sue vap'rin', An' haurls at his curpin : She notic't na, an aizle brunt An' ev'ry now an' then he says. Her braw new worset apron " Hemp-seed I saw thee. Out thro' that night. An' her that is to l)e my lass. Come after me, and draw thee. XIV. As fast this night." " Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! How daur ye try sic sportin'. XIX. As seek the foul Thief ony place. He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, For him to spae your fortune : To keep his courage cheery ; Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Altho' his hair began to arch, Great cause ye hae to fear it; He %vas sae fley'd an' eerie : For monie a ane has gotten a fright, Till presently he hears a squeak, An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret An' then a grane an' gruntle ; On sic a night. He by his shouther gae a keek, Au' tiniibl'd wi' a wintle XV. Out-owre that nigbt. " Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind 't as weel's yestreen. XX. I was a gilpey then, I'm sure He roar'd a horrid murder shout, I was na past fyfteen : In dreadfu' despeiation ! An' youiig an' auld cam rinnin' out, To hear the sad narration : ^ „,, ,j ___.^,_ , ^^. ,, . . strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone. iolhe kilti, and, darkling, throw imo the pot a clue of * Steal out unperceived and sow a handful of hemp- blue varn ; wind it in a new clue off the i Id one: and, seed; harrowing it with any thing you can convenient- towafds the latter enii, something will hold the thread, 'V draw after you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp-seed demand whu hav4s't i. e. who holds? an answer will I *aw thee; hemp-seed 1 saw thee; and him (or her) be returned »"rom the i.-ft shoulder, ar^d you will se« t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you of pulling hemp. .Some traditions say, ' come after shoulil comb your hair all the time; the face of your me, and shaw thee,' that is, show thyself: in which conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as case it simply ai)pears. Others omit the harrowing, if peeping over your shoulder. and say, ' come after me, and harrow thee.' _j »OEMS. He swoor 'twas hllchin Jem M'Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; Aa' vvha was it but Gruniphie Asteer that night ! XXt. Meg fain wad to the ham hae gane, To win three wec/it.s o' nnethiiig ; * But for to meet the deil hei- lane, She pat but little faith in : She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa reil clieekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tarn Kipples That vera night. XXII. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw An' owre the threshold ventures; But first 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 tine braw ane; It chanc'd the stack hu fur/dam' d thrice,^ Was timmer-prapt for thrawin' ; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak. For some black, grousonie carlin ; An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke. Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Atf's nieves that night. XXIV. A wanton widow Leczie was, As canty as a kittien ; But Ocli ! that night, amang n shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin' I She thro' the whins, au' by the cairn. An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', Whare three lairds' lands met at a bur7i,^ To dip her left sark-sleeve in. Was bent that night. • This charm must likewise be performed uiiper- ceived, and iiloiie. V'ou go to the barn, ami open botii doors, taking Ihem off the hinges, if possible; for theie is danger, that the being about to appear, may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht, and go through all tlu' attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Re- peat it three times; and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employ- ment, or station in \\f£. t Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-stiic/c, and tathom it three times round. ' '] he last fathom of the last lime you will catch'in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke- fellow. J fe J I Vou fo out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south 'nniiig spring or rivulet, where • three lairds' lands meet,' and dii) your left shirt sleeve. Uo XXV. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickciing, 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 croon ; Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; Ne'er lavrock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an' in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plninpit, Wi' a plunge that night< XXVII. In order, on the clean hearth- stane, The liigyies 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' Mar' s-year did desire. Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, He heav'd them on the fire, In wrath that night. XXVIII. Wi' 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,j- wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aflfcareerin' Fu' blithe that night. to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- fore it to dry. Lie awake; and some time near mid- night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve as if to dry the other side of it. * T:!ke 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 Cy,ir.e lo the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretfl's, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangemert of the dishes is altered. t Sowens, with butter instead of milk tc them, is always the Halloween Supper. 28 BURNS' WORKS. THE '^VHien thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. We took the road aye like a swallow ; AULD FARMER'S At lirooses thou had ne'er a fellow, NEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS For pith an' speed ; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, AULD MARE MAGGIE, Whare'er thou gaed. ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPPOF CORN The sma', droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle, 1 TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, j A Gvid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! An' gar't them whaizle ; Hae, there's a ri/ip to thy auld baggie : Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle \ Tho' thou's howe-hackit, m>\v, an' knaggie, O' saugh or hazel. ; I'vn seen the (lay, 1 Thou could hae gaen like i>nie staggie Thou was a noble Jittie-lan, \ Out-owre the lay. As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; ' Aft thee an' I, in aught liours gaun, | Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, On guid March weather, j An* thy auld liide's as white's a daisy, Hae turn'd sux rood beside our ban', I've seen thee dappl't. sleek, an' glaizie, For days thegither. | A boiiiiie gray : 1 He should been tLght that daur't to ruize thse, Thou never brainilg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskili Ance in a day. But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. An' spread abreed thy weel til I'd brisket. Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, Wi' pith an' puw'r, A Jilli/ buirdly, steeve, an' swank, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, An' set weel down a shapely shank An' slypet owre. As e'er tred yird ; An* could hae flown out-owie a stank, 'WHien frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, Like onie bird. An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Aboon the timmer : Sin' thou was my guid father's metre ; I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 1 He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. For that, or simmer. An' fifty mark ; Tho* it was sma*, "twas weei-won gear, In cart or car thou never reestit ; An* thou was stark. The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; Thou never lap, and sten t, and breastit. When fir«t I gaed to woo my Jenny, Theu stood to blaw ; ^ Ye then was trottm' wi' your minnie : But just thy step a wee thing hastit, ' ' Tho' ye was tnckie, slee, an' funnie. Thou snoov't awa. ; Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie. My plcug/i is now thy bairn-time a . | An' unco sousie. Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; j Forbye sax niae, I've sell't awa, j That day, ye pranc'd wi* muckle pride. That thou hast nurst : j When ye bure hanie my bonnie bride : They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, Au' sweet an' giacefii' she did ride. The vera w-arst. Wi' maiden air ! Kyh Stewart I could bragged wide, Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, j For sic a pair. An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! An' monie an anxious day, I thought j Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble. We wad be beat ! ! An' wintle like a samount-coble. Yet here to crazy age we're brought, j That day ye was a jinker noble, Wi' something yet. Fi;r heels an* win' ! An' ran them till the) a' did wiiuble, And think na, my auld, trusty servan , Far, far behin'. That now perhaps thou's le>s deservin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin'. When thou an* I were young and skeigh, For my hist fou, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, A heapit stinipart, I'll reserve ane How thou wad prance, an' snore, an* skreigh, Laid by for you. An' tak the road ! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, We've worn to crazy years thegither ; An' ca't thee mad. We'll toyte about wi' ane anither : 1 1 POiSMS. 29 Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tetlier, But, Och : I backward cast my e'e To some hain'd rig, On prospects drear : Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, An' forward, though I canna see. Wi' sina' fatigue. I guess an' fear. TO A MOUSE, A WINTER NIGHT. OK TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THK — ~-™ FLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. Poor naked wretches, vvheresoe'er you are, That birte the pelting of this pitiless storm ! How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides Your ioop'd and window'd raf;f,'edness, defend yov Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie. From seasons such as these f—Shaksepean. O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle ! When biting Boreas, fell and doure, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; . Wi' murd'ring puttie ! WTieu Phabus gi'es a short-liv'd glower Far south the lift, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Dim-dark' ning through the flaky show'r Has broken Nature's social union, Or whirling drift : An' justities that ill opinion Which makes thee startle Ae night the storin the steeples rocked. At rae, thy poor earth-born companion Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, An' fdlow-mortal ! While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, Wild -eddying swirl. I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; Or through the mining outlet bocked, What then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! Down headlong burl. A daimen -^cktr in a titrave 'S a sma' request : List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle. I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. I thought me on the ourie cattle, An' never miss't ! Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! And through the drift, dcep-lairing sprattle Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! Beneath a scar. An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 0' foggage greeu ! Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. An' bleak December's winds eiisuin', That in the merry month o' spring, Baith snell an' keen ! Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee .> Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wastt, Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' weary winter comin' fast, An"' close thy e'e? ^ An' cozie here, beneath the l)last, 1 Thou thought to dwell, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Till crash ! the cruel ojiilter past Lone from your savage homes exil'd, Out thro' thy cell. The blood- stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'ii My heart forgets. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, While pitiless the tempest wild Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Sore on you beats. Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, lUit house or liald. Now Phcebe, in her midnight reign, To thole the winter's sleety drlbljle. Dark luulfled, view'd the dreary plain; An' craiireuch cauld ! Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul. But, Mousie, thou art no thy laue. When on my ear this plaintive strain. In proving foresiyht may be vain : Slow, solemn stole — The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft agley, * Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, Anil freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; For promis'd joy. Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ; Not all your rage, as now, united, show* Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me 1 IMore hard unkindness, unrelenting. The present only touchetli thee : Vengeful malice unrepenting, 30 BURNS' WORKS. Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man bestows ! See stern 0))pression's iron srip' Or mad Aiubition's ^ory hand, Sending, bke blooil-hounds from the slip. Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weepinu', tells the mournful tale, How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side. The parasite empoisoning her ear. With all the servile wretches in the rear. Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, , A creature of another kind. Some courser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour's lofty brow. The powers you proudly own ? Is there, beneath Love's noble nan.e, 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 ! ni-satisfy'd keen Nature'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 Bv cruel Fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !' I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hail'd the morning with a cheer, A cottage-rousing craw. But deep this truth impressed my laind — Thro' all his works abroad. The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God. EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. January • L While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw< And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, Tn 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 : ' Mair speir na, nor fear na'-j* Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only for to beg. IIL To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes aie 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 fiee frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba'. Has aye some cause to smile ; And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma' : Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. IV. Wliat 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, Aie free alike to all. In days whet, daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds wlvstle clear, • David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a vohune of poems m the Scottish dia<'ecl> t Ramsay. 1 POEMS. 31 With honest joy our hearts will bound, It warms me, it charms rr.e. To see the coming year : To mention but her name ; On braes when we please, then, i It heats me, it beets me. We'll sit and sowth a tune ; And sets me a' on flame ! Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done. IX. all ye Power,s who rule above ! V. O Thou whose very self art love! It's no in titles nor in rank ; Thou knowest my words sincere ! It's no in wealth like Lnn'on bank, The life-blood streaming thro* my hearti To purchase peace and rest ; Or my more dear immortal part. It'8 no in making muckle mair : Is not more fondly dear ! It's no in books ; it's no in lear, When heart-corroding care and grief 1 To hiak us truly blest ! Deprive ray soul of rest, If happiness hae not her seat Her dear idea brings relief And centre in the breast, And solace to my breast. We may bs vvotmct itsell' And sweet Affection prove the spiiiig of woe ! — Horn There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien' ; I. Ve hae your Mei/, your dearest part, thou pale orb, that silent shines. And I uiy darlini; Jean 1 While care-uutroubled mortals sleep 1 S2 BURNS' WORKS. Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep ! With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan iinwarming beam ; A.nd mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. II. ( 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 still ! Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! Ah I must the agonizing 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 may be unsmooth ! Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth? Her sorrows share and make them less ? VI. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptm'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 deistroy'd. And nut a wish to gild the gloom ! VII. The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe : I see the hours in long array. That I must suffer, lingering, slow. P'uU many a pang, ami many a thmc, K.eeu recollection's direful train. Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the ilistant, westerr main. VIII. And when my nif;htly couch I try, Sore-harass'd out with c ire and grief. My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eve, Keep vvatchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : Ev'n day, a!!-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night, IX. O ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' ex])anse Now highest reign'st, with Vmundless sway Oft has thy silent-marking glance Ob^erv'd us, fondly wandering, stray : The time, unheeded, sped away, While love's luxurious pulse 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 I. 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 ! II. Happy ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd. Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted uith an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same ; POEMS. 33 You, bustling, anil justllng. Forget each pfiief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless, Find ev'ry prospect vain. III. Haw blest the solitary's lot, Who, aJl-forgetting, ail-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 : Wliile 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, W'th self-respecting art : But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Wliich 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 iugrate ! Oh ! enviable, early days. When duncing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To ciire, to guilt unknown ! How ill-exchanged for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes. Of others, or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush. Ye little know 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 declinmg age ! And bird and beast in covert rest. And pass the heartless day. IL " The sweepmg blast, the sky o'ereast," • 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, ]My griefs it se«ins to join. The leafless trees my fancy please. Their fate resembles mine ! in. Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thi/ Will ! Then ;dl I want ( O, do thou grant This one request of mine !) Since to enjoi/ thou dost deny, Assist me to resiyn. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, ami dfstiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a ilistiainfiil smile, The short and simple annals of tJie poor. — Gray. WINTER I. Tw E wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw ; Or, the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw • WhiU' tuinbliii'^ lirown, rln- burn comes down, A ud ruar^ frae, bank to brae 5 I. My 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 "'a}s ; [been ; What Aitken in a cottage would have Ah ! tho his worth unknown, far happier there^ I weett ! 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 lalw)ur goes, This niyht his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the morii in ease and rest to spend. And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 12 * Dr. Young. 34 BURNS' WORKS. ITT. At length liis lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th* expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher thro' [an* glee. To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise His wee bit ingle, hlinkin' bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wijie^s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, A id makes him quite forget his labour aa' his toil. IV. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping ii). 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, wi' her needle an' her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 'l\ie father mixes a' wi' admonition due. VI. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And miud their labours wi' an eyedent hand. And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : • An' O ! he sure to fear the Lord alway ! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. Implore l;is counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !' VIL But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door- ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; •^ Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, Wliile Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the m(itl'?r hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. VIIL Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappin youth ; lie taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. [joy. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel b-ihave ; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' »d* grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her bairns 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 wearv 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 ! lose to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring ar». Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ! Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ! Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- tion wild ? XL But now the supper crowns their simple board, Thehalesomep^zrr/rse. and shame ! And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourc BURNS' WORKS. VIIL 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, Unmiiiiiful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. IX. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- By Nature's law design'd, Wlij was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why h IS man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? X. Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last ! The poor, oppressed, honest man. Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! XI. O Death ! the poor man's dearest friei ' The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy bloWt From pomp and ple;isure torn ; But, Oh ! a blest relief to those That, weary-laden, mourn ! A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. I. O THOU unknown. Almighty' Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour. Perhaps I must appear ! II. If I have wander'd in those patlfl Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done ; III. Thou knnw'st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. POEMS. sr IV. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do thou, Ali Good ! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err'd. No other plea I have, But, TJiou art gnod ,- aud goodness still Delighteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- tween : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed storms : Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; Or death's unlovely, dreary, daik abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in aims ; I tremble to approach an angry Gon, And justly smart beneath his sin-aveaging rod. Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dis- pense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; Again in folly's path might go astray ; Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; Then how shoii'id I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran ? O Thou, great Governor of all below ! If I may dare a lilted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. Those headlong furious passions to con- fine ; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! O aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine I LYING AT A REVEREND FRIENd's HOUSE ONE MGHT, THE AUTHOR. LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES, When for this scene of peace and ove, I make my prayer sincere. II. The hoary sire — the mortal sti^ ke^ Long, long be pleased to spatie, To bless his little filial flock. And show what good men are. III. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears ! IV. Their hope, their stay, their darling youti^ In manhood's dawning blush ; Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish ! V. The beauteous, seraph sister-band. With earnest tears I pray. Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide thou their steps alway ! VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heav'n ! IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, THE FIRST PSALM. The man, in life wherever placed, Hath happiness in store. Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore ! Nor fi-om the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad. But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees WTiich by the stieamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high. And firm ihe root below. But he who• simple tale. I w'ave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing ; i Our sex wi^h guile and faithless love But och ! it hardens a' within, j Is crharg'd, perhaps, too true ; And petrifies the feeling ! .3ui may, dear maid, each lover prove VIL To catch dame Fortune's golden smii^ An Edwin still to you ! Assiduous wait upon her; • i 40 BURNS' WORKS And gather gear by ev'iy wib That's justified liy honour ; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the gloiious privilege Of being independent. VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To hand the wretch in order ; But where ye feel your hnniiiir grip, Let that aye he your border : Its sbghte>t 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 com])laisance extended ; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended ! X. When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may he blinded; Or, if she gle a random xtinff, 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 grow wiser ; And may you better reck the rede. Than ever did th' adviser ! ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' TE wha live by soups o' drin-k, A' ye wha .ive by cranibo-clink,* A' ye wha live and never think, Come mourn wi' me ! Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, Wha deaily like a randoni-splore, Nae mair he'll join the mtrry roar, In social key ; For now ha'n ta'en tnither shore, An' owre tht tea. The bonnie lassies weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him ; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless hlniy 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 dr(>wsy bumniel, 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 ;veepers wear. An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; Twill mak' her poor aulr."ant then, ye're me deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch behever. O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, For gvmlie dubs of your ain delvin ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath ; When ruin, with his sweeping besom. Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him: While o'er the hurp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me. My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works 1 did review, To dedicate them. Sir, to You .• Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronise them wi' your favour, And vour petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said tver pray. But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm haith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r. That kens or hears about you, Sir — " May ne'er misfortune's gowliag bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk I May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! IMdV 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' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the evening o' his days ; Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow ! " I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion ; But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) That iron-heaited carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances, Wliile hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant the;i no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor ! But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ' While recollection's power is given. If, in the vale of humble life. The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognize my master dear. If friendless, low, we meet together. Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNST A CHURCH. , Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarel)', Owre gauze and lace; Tho* faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Y? 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 hafi'et squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, In shoals and nations ; Whare horn nor hane ne'er dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud 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 noa? CiStf As plump and grey as ony grozet ; for some rank, mercurial rozet. Or fell, red sineddum, I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. Wad dress your drodi* im ! 1 wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; Or aiblins some bit diiddle boy, On's wyliecoat ; But IMiss'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* 1 POEMS. 43 Thae winks anil finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takiu' ! O wad some power the giftie gie U3 To see oiirsel.i as otiiers see us ! It wad frae raonie a blunder free us, And foolish notion : What airs in dresa an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n Devotion ! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. I. Edi"na ! Scotin^s darlins; seat ! All luiil thv palaces and towers, Wheie once beneath a monarch's feet S.it lei^i>liition's sovereign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy'trade his labours plies ; There archjtecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her uative skies. High wields her balance and her rod; • There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. Ill Thy sons, Edina, social, kind. With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And uever envy blot their name. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! Gay as the gilded summer sky. Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. Heaven's beauties on my fancy 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 niauy 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 yeai-s. Famed heroes, had theii 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 Scofia's bloody lion bore • E'en / who sing in rustic lore, Haply mi/ sires have Wt <.heir shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar. Bold-following where your fathers led I VIII. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter 'd in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL Ist, 1784 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 vnknotvn frien' I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin' . To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; And there was muckle fun and jokin'. Ye need ua doubt : At length we had a hearty yokin' At sane/ 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 brsM*^ A to the life. I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, ' Can this lie Fope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spiert) 44 BQRNS' WORKS. rhen a' that ken't him round declarea He had ingliie, That nane excell'd it few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, An" either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes au' sangs he'd made himsel', Or wittv catches, *Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches Then up I f^at, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I shoulil pawn my pleugh an' graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To bear your crack. But, first an' foremo'^t, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude and rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An* hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, wliat 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 )r)u e'er piopose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose. To muk a sang ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; If honest nature made you fools. What sail's your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools. Or knappio-hanimers. 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 as 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 Laprath's. my friend to be, If I can hit it ' Tliat 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, Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your list. I winna bliw iiiout raysel ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends, and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me Tho' 1 maun own, as nionie still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair ; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or 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' rhgming-ware Wi' ane anither The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. To cheer our heart ; An' faith we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish warly race, Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love and friend>hip, should give plar« To catch the plack I I dinna like to see your face. Nor hear your cracJj. But ye whom social pleasure charms. Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who holn your being on the terms, ' Each aid the others,* Come to my bowl, come to my »rms, My friends, my brother* . But, to conclude my lang epistle. As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, ^Vlio am, most fervent, While I can either sing, or whissle. Your friend and servaob POEMS. TO THE SAME. APRIL 21, 1785. Whue new-ca'd ky« 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 Lnpraik For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' atnang the naigs Their ten hours bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and hegs, I would na write. The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie. She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo* she, ' Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair, . That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair.' Her dowfiF excuses pat me mad ; ' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night ; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. ' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye'U 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 tliegither. Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time m;ik proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff loof. My worthy friend, ne*er grudge an' carp Tho' fortune use you hard an' shaip ; Come, kittle up your monrland harp Wi' gleesome touch ! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; She's but a b-tch. She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, Sin 1 could striddle owre a rig ; But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, Wi' lyart pow. I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow ' Now comes the sax and twentieth simmei} I've seen the bud upo' the timnier, Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year ; But yet, despite the kittle kinimer, /, Rob, am here Do ye envy the city Gent, Behint a ki>t to lie and sklent. Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muckle wame. In some bit brugh to represent A Jiailies name ? Or is't the paughty feudal thane, Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps an' bonnets aff are taen. As by he walks ? ' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thon please, adrift Thro' Scotland wide • Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. In a' their pride !' Were this the charter of our state, ' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' Damnation then would be our fate. Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran, 'WTien first the human race began, ' The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. An' none but heP O mandate glorious and divine ! The ragged followers o' the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons of Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' ^rowl. Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul May in some future carcase howl , The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl iNIay shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. To reach their native, kindled skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, In some mihl sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year. 46 BURNS' WORKS. TO W. S- -N, OCHILTREE. May 1785. I GAT your letter, winsome Willie : Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; The' I maun say't, I wad be silly, An' uneo vain, Should I believe, niy coaxin' billie. Your flatteiin' strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor musie ; Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce ex<'.use ye. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan or wi' Gilhertfield, The biaes of fame ; Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, A deathless name. (O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts. Ye E'librugh Gentry ! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, Wad stow'd his pantry !) Yet when a tale comes i' my head. Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my dead, ( O sad disease ! ) T kittle up my rustic reed ; It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain. But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style ; She lay like some unkenned of isle Beside New- Holland, Or whare wild- meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. ttamsay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tag a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings. Whilst Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Nae body sings. Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! But, Willie, set your fit to mine. An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Cuila's plains an' fells. He" moors red- brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an* braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallact Aft bure the gree, as story tells, ' Frae southern billies. At Wallace^ name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod. Or glorious died. O sweet are Coila s haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant among the buds, An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat crouds With wailfu' cry ! Ev'n winter bleak has charms t6 me When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary grey ; Or blindmg drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day ! O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! Whether the summer kindly warms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms. The lang, dark night ! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang ; O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder A heartfelt sang ! The warly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. Let me fair Nature's face descrive. And I, wi' pleasure. Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum o'er their treasure^ Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing brither! We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : Now let us lay our heads thegither. In love fraternal : May Envy wallop in a tethic. Black fiend, infem&l ! Whiic highlandmen hate tolls and taxe«; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxitfl ; V>'"hile terra fiinia on her axis Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith and practice, III Robert Burns. POEMS. 47 POSTSCRIPT. Mt memory's no worth a preen ; I had araaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this netu-Uyht, * Bout which our herds sae aft hae l)een Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gi'e, But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallane. Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, til! her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done. They gat -a new ane. This past for certain, undisputed ; It nj'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, Buith loud an' lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; For 'twas the auld inoun turn'd a ntuk. An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; The herds and kissels were alarm'd ; The rfv'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform 'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt ; An' some, to learn them for their tricks. Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' aiild-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands, W^i' nimble shanks. Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cnwt, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now aciist on ev'ry knowe, Ye'U find ane plac'd ; An' some, theli new-light fair avow. Just quite barefao'd. • See Note, p. 14. Nae doubt the auld-Ught flocks are bleatb"* Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; INJysel, I've even seen them greetin' Wi' giinin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd oti By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-ligkt herds in neebor towns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, To ta'k' a flight. An' stay a month amaiig the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them ; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e thenij The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' theai. 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' ddll prose- folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope, we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME POKMS. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! There's mony godly folks are thiukin'. Your dreams * an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', Straight to auld NickV Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cant^ And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts. An' fill them fou ; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it. The lads in black ! 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' daithing O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naethiug To ken them by. * A certain humorous dream nf his was then mtf ing a noise in the country-^iUe. «8 Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. BURNS WORKS I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargaioM for an' mair ; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,* ye'Il sen't wi' cannie care, And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! My muse (low scarcely spread her wing ! I've play'd niysel a bonnie spring. An' danc'd my fill ! I'd better gaen and sair'd the king At HuTiker's Hill, 'Twas ae night lately in niy 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 I'ttle hurt ; I straikit it a wee for sport. Ne'er thinkio' they wad fash me for't ; But, dell-ma care I Somebody tells the poacher-ronrt 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 theyee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail. An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear ! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin' time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. For my gowd guinea : Tho* I should herd the bvckskin kye For't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 'Twas neither lirokeu wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame. Scarce thro' the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; So 1 can rhyme nor write nae mair. But pennyworths again is fair. When time's expedient : Meanwhile 1 am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. WRITTEN IN > A tong he had promised the Author. FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE. ON NITH-SIDE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deekt in silken stole. Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hojje not sunshine every hour. Fear not clouds will always lour. As youth and love with sprightly dancB, Beneath thy morning star advance. Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair ; Let prudenci; bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh. Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-piuion'd, bold. Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose : As life it!. thy trusty quondtim mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. She, tardy, hell -ward plies, EPODE. And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? In other woilds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here ? O, liitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, k GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IJIMEDATELY FROM AL- MIGHTY GOD ! But now his radiant course Is run. For Matthew's eouric wiis bright! His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Hea\^nly hghtl O Death ! thou tyraiit fell and bloody; The meikle devil wi a woudie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. O'er hurcheon hides. And like stcck-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides ! He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn. The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn By woore.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Noi'; so the idle muses' mad-cap train. Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear; Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencdirn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon apjiears, And left us darkling in a world of tears) : O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'rl Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare J 52 BURNS' WORKS. rhro' a long life his topes a id wishes crown, \nd bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! '»Iay bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, W^ith many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd (in the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle paiu, In loiiil lament bewail'd his lord. Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; His locks were bleached white wi' time. His hoaiy cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he toucli'd his trenil)liug harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang. The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. *' Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, The relics of the vernal quire ! Y^e woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the ajfed year ! A few short months, and giad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht i;i all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a Ciuel blast. And my last hald of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. " I've seen sac mony thangefu' years, On earth I am a stranger grown j I wander in the ways of men. Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 1 bear alaiie my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust. Lie a' that would my sorrows sharet " And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).' My noble master lies in clay ; The flow'r amaiig our barons bold. His country's priile, his country's stay: In weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken. On forward wing for ever fled. " Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ■ The voice of woe and wild despair ! Awake, resound thy latest lay. Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only frienci, That tillest an untimely tomb. Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloonc " In poverty's low barren vale. Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thnu found'st me like the morning suo That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song, Became alike thy fostering are. " O ! why has worth so short a date ? While villains ripen grey with time ! Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! Why did 1 live to see that day ? A day to me so full of woe ! O ! had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! " The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me !" LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFORB, BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, " The teirful tiiliiite of a broken heart." The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark wond unknown. TAM O' SHANTER: Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Btke. Gawin Dougfatt When chapman billies leave the street} I And drouthy neeburs, aeeburs meet. POEMS. 59 As market-days are wearing late, An' fdlk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou and unco liappy, 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 warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses). O 7am / had'st thou but been sae wise. As ta'en thy ain wife Kates advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellura ; That t'rae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L — rl's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesy 'd, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep diown'd in Doon , Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet. How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Turn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E'en drowii'd himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame xvi' lailes o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Turn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread, Vou seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment wh'«« — then melts for ever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. — • Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour apjiroaches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-8^ane. That dreary hour he mounts his beast iu: And sic a night he taks the road in. As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg-^ A better never lifted leg — 7'am skelplt on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk- Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry — By this time he was cross the ford, Whai e in the sn:iw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters find the miiider'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Alungo's mither hanged hersel.^ Before him Do m pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Allowny seeni'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing — Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil The swats sae ream'd in Tammie^s noddleg Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astouish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light ; And, vow ! Tain 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 east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large. To gie them music was his charge : He sciew'd his pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — b* BURNS' WORKS. Coffins stood round like open presses. That sliiiwM tlie dead in their Ust dresses ; And by some devilish cantrip slight, E:ich in its cauld hand held a light, — By which heroic Tarn was able , To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairus ; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gisp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; Five scymitar.s 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' niair o' horrible and awfu' Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. Till ilka earlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans A' plump an* strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hiinder lineu ' 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 Tarn 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 barn, Tliat 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, \nd thought his very een enritih'd : Even Satan glowr'd, and ^dg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main . Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tarn tint his reason a' tliegither. And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! * And in an instant all was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market crowd. When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tarn I Ah, Tarn! thou'U get thy fairi* In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ^ In vain thy Kate awaits thy corain ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane * of the brig , There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tale she had to shake ' For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Turn wi' furious ettle , But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spiing brought aff her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The earlin claught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. Ilk man and mother's son take heed : Whene'er to diink you are inclin'd. Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think ye mav buy the joys o'er dear. Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains : * It is a «ell known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any far. tner than the middle of the next runiiiiii; stream. — It may be proper likewise to meiiticm to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bmr/ef:, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is muisi more hazard in turning back. _ _ • _ 1 POEMS. 5l> No more the thickening brakes and verd.int ON A NOISY POLEMIC. plains, To thee shall home, or food, or jvi>tiine yield. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's biines : Death, its my opinion, Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch rest, Into thy dark dominion ! No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! I. The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. ON WEE JOHNNY. Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait The sober eve, or h lil the cheerful dawn, Hicjacet wee Johnny. I'll miss tliee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, Whoe'er thou art, reader, know. And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy That death has murder'd Johnny .' An' here his body lies fu' low hapless fate. For saul, he ne'er had ony. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. Unfolds her tender mantle green, • Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; Or tunes Eolian strains between : The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; Wliile Summer, with a matron grace. The friend of man, to vice alone a foe j Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. " For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue's Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace side."* The progress of the spiky blade ; While Autumn, benefactor kind. FOR R. A. Esq. By Tweed erects his aged head. And sees, with self-approving mind, Know thou, O stranger to the fame Each creature on his bounty feed : Of this much lov'd, much honour'd nait£ (For none that knew him need be told) While maniac Winter rages o'er A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : FOR G. H. Esq. fe.o long, sweet Poet of the year. Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast wou ; The poor man weeps here G n sleepi, Whom canting wretches blani'd : While Scotia, with exulting tear. Proclaims that Thomson was her son. But with such as lie, where'er he be, 1 May I be saved or I d ! A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool. EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING Owre fast for thought, owre hot for ru'.e, ELDER, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool. Let him diaw near ; Here souter John in death does sleep ; To hell, if he's gane thither. And owre this grassy heap sing dool. And (Irap a tear. Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. He'll hand it weel thegither. Is there a bard of rustic song. Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, • Goldsmith. 56 BURNS' WORKS. That weekly this area throng, O, ]iass not by ! But, with a fratei-feeliiig strong. Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. Wild as the wave ; litre pause — and, throuffh the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below. Was quick to leani aud wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow. And softer flame. But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name ! Reader, attend — whether thy soul Soars fancy's fliglits beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs tiiis eaithly hole. In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, Is wisdom's root. ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PERECiRlNATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COL- LEC'TINC THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGOOjiI. Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it : A chield's amang you, taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 0' stature short, but genius bright. That's he, mark weel — And wow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk, deserted by its riggin. It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin* At some black art. — Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, Ye gipsey-gaug that deal in glamor. And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches j Ye'll qu;ike at his con)\iiing hammer, Ye midnight bitches. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; Bat now he's quat the spurtle blade Ami dog-skin wallet) And ta'en the — Anfi'jiinriaii trade, I think the) call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : Rusty airn caps and jingliu' jackets,* Wad had the Lothians three in tackets^ A towmont guiil : And parritch pats, and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubal Cain's firc-slmol ami fender; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg ; The knife that nicket Aliel's craig, He'll prove you fully. It was a faulding jncfelcg, Or iang-kail gullle.— But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he. Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him , And port, O port ! Shine thou a wee, Aud then ye'll see him i Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, O Giose ; — Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. They sair misca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose. Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! Vide his Antiqaities of Scotland. TO MISS CEUIKSHANKS, a very young lady, WRITTRNON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PHESENTED lO HE* BT THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. Blooming on thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; Never Boreas' ho.iry path, Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, Never baleful stellar lights. Taint thee with untimely blights! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin le.if ! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew ' May'st thou long, sweet crimson gera, Richly deck thy native stem ; • Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons. POEMS. 67 Til] some ev'ning sober, calm, Dioppini:; dews, and oreathing balm. While all aroiiiid the vvooilland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, lunid the dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round. And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esa. BROTHEK TO A YOdNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy ahiruis : Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow ; But, cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's mori) The sun propitious smil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung : So Isabella's heart was form'd. And so that heart was rung. Dread Omnipotence, alone. Can heal the wound he gave ; Can point the biimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, Anrl fear no withering bl ist ; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR-WATER.* TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. My Lord, I knov/ your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain ; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, riow saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, • Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful ; but their efl'ect is muck impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. J Dry-withering, waste my foaming stream*, And drink my ciystal tide. The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, w.inton spouts. They near the margin stray ; If, hajjless chance ! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, As poet B came l)y, That, to a bard I should be seen, Wi' half my channel dry : A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was he shor'd me : But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. In twisting strength I rin ; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o'er a litm : . Enjoying large each spring and well As nature gave them me, I am, although I say't mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes ; Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild. Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir : The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis wild and mellow ; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In aU her locks of yellow. This too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm ; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form. Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flowers ; Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat, From prone descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing stealth. Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their charmi The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. 2 bS BURNS' WORKS. Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. In these savage, liquid plains. Some niusiug bard may stray, Only known to wand'ring swiins. And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, Where the mossy riv'let strays ; And misty moiiiitain, grey ; Far from human haunts and ways ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, All on nature you depend. Mild chequering through the trees. And life's poor season peaceful «pend. Rave to my dirkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Or, if man's superior might, Dare invade your native right, Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, On the lofty ether borne. My lowly bimks o'erspread. Man with all his pow'rs you scorn: And view, deep-bending in the pool. Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Their shadows' watery bed ! Other lakes and other springs; Let fragrant l)irks in woodbines drest, And the foe you cannot brave, • My craggy cliffs adorn ; Scorn at least to be his slave. And, for the little songster's nest, The close embow'ring thorn. So may old Scotia's darling hope. Your little angel band. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL Spring, like their fithers, up to prop Their honour'd native land ! jVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUB So may thro' Albiou's farthest ken. OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. To social-rtowmg glasses. The grace be — " Athole's honest men, Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, And Athole's bonuie lasses !" These nojthern scenes with weary feet I trace ; O'er many a winding da'e and painful steep, , Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue. ON SCARING SOME WATER- Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to mv view — The meeting difs each deep-sunk glen divides. FOWL, The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'raong tbi» IN LOCH-TURIT ; A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF hills. OCHTEllTYRE. The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 1 Why, ye tenants of the lake. The palace rising on his verdant side, For me your watery haunt forsake? The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; Tell me, feilow-creatures, why The hillocks dropt in Natnre's careless haste ! i At my presence thus you fly ? The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; i Why disturb your social joys. The village, glittering in the moontide beam- Parent,, filial, kindred ties ? — Conmion friL-ud to you and me, Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. Nature's gifts to ail are free : Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; Busy feed, or wanton lave ; The incessant roar of headlong tumbling Or, beneath the sheltering rock. floods — Bide the surging billoiv's shock. 1 Couscious, blushing for our race. Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre. And look through nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below ; Misfortune's hghten'd steps might wander Plumes himself iu Freedom's pride, wild ; And disappointment, in 'hese lonely bounds. Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : Tyrant stern to all beside. ( The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward stretch her scan. Marking you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells. And injur'd worth forget ard Dardon man. Strong necessity compels. But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from |)ityug heav'n. Glorious in his heart humane — And creatures for his pleasure slain. — 1 POEMS. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BV THE FALL OF FYEKS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 59 Among the heathy hills am) ra;;ged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mo^sy floods; Till t'uli he (lashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges f<.am below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- scends, And viewless echo's ear, astor.ish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising niists, and ceaseless showers. The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. StiL tnro tne gap the struggling river toils. And still below, the horrid caldron boils THE WHISTLE A BALLAD. ON THE BIRTH OF A ' POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' niony a prayer, M-hat heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! November hirples o'er the lea, Chili on thy lovely form ; And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw. Protect thee frae the driving shower. The bitter frost and snaw ! May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds. Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the summer morn : Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and fuilorn. Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gaci Uuscath'd by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land ! As the authentic prose history of the Whistle :s cu- rious, I shall here give it.— In the train of Ame of Denmark, when she came to .Scotland with our .James the -Mxth, there came over also a Danish tjentknian of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a uiatchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle whu'h at the commencement of the orgis he laid <«i the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body ehe being disabled bv the luitency of the bottle was to carry oft' ihe Whistle as a trophy of victory: 1 he Dane jiroduced credentials of his victories without a single dcteat, at the courts of Copenhagen, .Stock- holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the ne,ty courts in Germany; and challenyed ihe Scots Baccha- nalians to the aUernative of trving his prowess, or else of acknowledging their infci ioritv. A fter many over- throws on the part of the .Scots, the D.ane was eiicoun. tered by .Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of tite present worthy baronet of that name; who after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, AttJ blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af. terwards Inst the Whistle t., Waller Ri.ldel, of Glen, riddel, who li:id married a sister of Sir Wa.'er's — Or Friday the 16ih of October 1790. at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel ton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel. lineal de- scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it h.ul conti- ■Hied; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch likewise descended of tlie greai Sir Rc^iert; which ;ast gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of tne field I SING of a Whistle, a Whisth of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the yride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king. And long with this Whistle all Scotland shal. ring. Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— " This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er. And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" Old poets have sung, and old dironicles tell, What champions veutur'd, what champioua fell ; The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as tlie sea. No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker thau he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy hai guin'd ; Which now in his house has ^br ages lemain'd ; • See Ossian' Caricthura. 60 BURNS' WORKS. Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have lenew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; \nd trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; ind gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil. Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; Or else he wnuld muster the heads of the clan. And once more, in claret, try which was the man. " By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel replies, " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, ril c(ini'.ire the ghost of the great Roiie More," And bun. per his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, ao speech would pre- tend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair. So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dume. A bard was selected to witness the fray. And tell future ages the feats of the day ; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply. And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred S( set. And the bands grew the tighter the more the\ were wet. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn. Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out thi night. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, • See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor* did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage. No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high-rulinr EJder to wallow in wine I He left the (oul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- tend ? Though fate said — a hero should perish in light; So uprose biisfht Phcebus — and down fell the knight. Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — " Craigdarroch, thou 'It soar when creation shall sink ; But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- lime ! " Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce, f5hall heroes and patriots ever produce ; So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; The field thou hast Won, by yon bright god of day !" SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET, f Alll.n NEKBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your aulil-fairent, frien'ly letter; riio' 1 maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak so fair : For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter. Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. To cheer you through the weary \viddle O' war'ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs. But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae uegleckit ; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke ; Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit. Be hain't wha like. t This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub Hsheil at Kiliiiarnoc'li, 1 89, and has not before appear ed in our author's printed poems. i^ic^e-' soj-Zv da.:'-s" POEMS. 61 Fot me, I'm on Parnassus brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jdds or masons ; An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Conimen' me to the bardie clan ; Except It be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink. The devil-haet, that I sud ban. They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of llvin' ; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' while ought's there. Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin'. An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, My chief, araaist my only pleasure. At hame, a-fiel', at waik or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie ! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae poor, Na, even tho' lirapin' wi' the spavie Frae door tae door. ON MY EARLY DAYS. I. I MIND it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn. Or hand a yokin o' the pleugh. An' tho' forfiiughten sair eneugh, Yet unco pioud to learn — Wh?n first aniarig the yellow corn A man 1 retkon'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 ]ioor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or book could make. Or sing a sang, at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wid» Araang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-ciips aside, An' spared the symbol dear : No nation, no station, IMy envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. III. But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' rang, Wild floated in my brain : 'Till on that har'st I said before, My partner in the merry core, She lous'd the forming strain : I see her yet, the sousie quean. That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky e'en That gart my heart-strings tingle ' I filed, inspired, At every kindling keek. But bashing, and da>hing, I feared aye to speak.* ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air. And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliflF and dell, Ouce the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ; f Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd well4 Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. § Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks. The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky. The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east. And 'mong the cliff., disclosed a stately form. In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, Aud niix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophitd shield I view'd ; Her form majestic droop'd in pen.^ive woe. The lightning of her eye in te.irs imbued. * The reader will find some explanation of thli poem in p. viii. t The King's Park at HoljTOod-house. i St. Anthony's Well. i St. Anthony s Well. 9 St. Antiionv'.'i Chapel. 62 BURNS' WORKS. Reversed that spear, redoubtnble in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful inet^'or gleam 'd afar, And braved the mighty monarchs of the world. — " My pitriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; •' Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! ' A weeping country joins a widow's tear. The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; The drooping arts around their patron's bier. And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. " I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow! But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has lai^ the guardian low. — " My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthJess name ! No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. " And 1 will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues la.st, That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE P0E5IS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.* Once vondly Inv'd, and still remember'd dear. Sweet early object of my youthful vows, Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty aow allows. — And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. THE JOLLY BEGGARS: A CANTATA. RECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,-j- Bedim cauld Borexs' blast ; * Ttie girl mentioned in the leiter to Dr. Moore. ' i The old Scotc) name lor the Sat. ^^Hien liailstanes d.ive wi' bitter skyte^ And infant frosts hegin to bite, In lioai y cranj'euch drest ; Ae night at e'en a merry core, O' randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Najisie's held the splore, To diink their orra duddies : Wi' quaffing and laughing. They ranted and they sang | Wi' jujTiping and thunipiug, The very girdle rang. First, niest the fire, in aidd red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. And knapsack a' in order ; His doxy lay withm his a.rm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm^ She blinket on her sodger ; An' aye he gies the tousie drab The tither skelpin' kiss. While she held up her greedy gab Just like an a'mous dish. Ilk smack did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up — AIU. Tune — " Soldiei's Joy. I. I AM a son of Mars who have been in m»af wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench. When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. 11. My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last. When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. III. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries. And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, rd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. IV. And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg. And many a tatter'd r ig hanging over my bum POEMS. 63 Fm U tappy with my wallet., my iiottle and my callet. As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Lai de duud.e, &c. What tho' with hoary lucks, I must stand the Winter shocks, Beueath the woods and rocks often times for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tL41, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lai de daudle, &c. BECITATIVO. He ended ; and the keburs sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattans backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore ; A fairy tiddler frae the neuk. He skirl'd out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, And laid the loud uproar- AIR. Tunt—" Soldier Laddie." I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. And still my delight is in proper young men ; Some one of a troop of dragoous was my daddie. No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, &c. n The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Iransported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. HL But the godly old chaplain left him in the /urch. The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body, Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. IV. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. The regiment at large for a husband I got ; From tlie gilded spontoon to the fife I was leady, I :isk('cl no more but a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. Hut the peace it reduc'd me to beg in des|)air, I'll) I met uiv old buy at Cunningham fair ; His rag reghjifntal they fliitter'd so gaudy, My heart it rcjoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. VL- And now I have liv'n — I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup or a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady. Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent sae weel to deek the sterling, For monie a pursie she had hooked, And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! Wi' sighs and sobs she thu« began To wail her braw John Highlandraan. Tune—" O an' ye were dead, Gudeman " I. A HIGHLAND lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw .John Highlandman. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman [ Sing, ho my braw John Highlandraan! 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 dowu by his side, The ladies hearts he did trepan. My galla"' braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. III. We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lalland face he feared none. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. IV. They banish'd him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on t'ne tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. V. But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 64 BURNS WORKS. My curse upon them every one, They've hang'd my hraw John Higlandman. Sing, hey, &c. VI. And now a widow, T must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return ; No coml'ort 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 strappiu limb and gausy middle He reach'd nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie I'ke a riddle, An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an Arioso key. The wee Apollo Set oflf wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. Time—" Whistl ■ 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 eare and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. I am a fiddler to my trade. An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. The sweetest still to wife or maid, Was whistle owre the lave o't. II. At kirns and weddings we'se be there, An' (> ! sae nicelj's we will fa;e; We'll bouse about till Daddie Care Sings whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. III. Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, An' suu oursel.s about the dyke, kxi at our leisure, when we like. We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. IV. But bless me wi' your heaven o' charma, And while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, caiild, an a sick harms, Way whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c RECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdj Caird* As weei as poor Gutscraper: He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a rusty rapier — He swoor by a' was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver. Unless he would from that time forth. Relinquish her for ever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, And sae the quarrel ended. But though his little heart did grieve. When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve. When thus the caird address'd her Tune—" Clout the Caldron," I. Mv 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 enroU'd In many a noble squadron : But vain they search'd, when off I marchHj To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, (r*> II. Despise that shrimp, that wither 'd imp, Wi' a his noise an' caprin'. An' tak' a share wi' those that bear The budget an' the apron. An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, An' bg that dear Keilbagie,* If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. May I ne'er weet my craigle. An' by tha* stowp^ Stc RECITATIVO. The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair In his embraces sunk. Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, An' partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unhon between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that niglifc, 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. Ilei- 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-Nancie's cluhs. • Homer is allowed to be the oldest balled-singer ob record. i 65 ■^ti hirpl'd up, and lip like daft, They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds, An' shor'd them Daintie Davie They scarcely left to co'er their fuda, boot that night. To quench tneir lowan drouth. He was a care-defying blade Then owre again, the jovial thrang, As ever Bacchus listed. The poet did request, Though Fortune sair u])on him laid, To loose his pack au' wale a sang, His heart she ever niiss'd it. A ballad o' the best : He had no wish but — to be glad. He rising, rejoicing, Nor want Imt — when he thirsted ; Between his twa Deborahs, He hated nought but — to be sad. Looks round hiiv, an' found them And thus the Muse suggested. Impatient fur the chorus. His sang that night. AIK. AIR. Tune—" For a* that, an' a' that.* Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your GlaMcs." I- See ! the smoking bowl before us, I. [ I AM a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks, au' a' that ; But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that. Mark our jovial r.tgged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. i CHORUS. ' CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected' For a' that, an' a that ; Liberty's a glorious feast ! An' twice as meikle's a' that ; Courts for cowards were erected. I've lost but ane, I've twa behin*, Churches built to please the priest I've wife enough for a' that. IL What is title ? what is treasure ? II. I never drank the Muse's stank. What is reputation's care ? Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; If we lead a lite of pleasure. But there it streams, and richly reams, 'Tis no matter how or where f My Helicon I ca' that. A fig, &c. For a' that, &c. in. III. With the ready trick and fable. Great love I bear to a' the fair. Round we wander all the day ; Their humble slave, an' a' that ; And at night, in barn or stable. But lordly will, I hold it still Hug our doxies on the hay. A mortal sin to thraw that. A tig, &c. 1 For a' that, &c. IV. 1 IV. Does the train-attended carriage j In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Through the country lighter rove ? Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; Does the solier bed of marriage But for how l.mg thejlie may stang. Witness brighter scenes of love ? Let inclination law that. A fig, &c. For a' that, &c. V. Life is all a variorum, V. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, We regard not how it goes ; j They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; Let them cant about decorum But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! Who have characteis to lose. 1 I like the jads i'ur a' that. A fig, &c. " For a' that, an' a' that. VL Au' twice as meikle's a' that ; Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets * My dearest bin id, to do them guid. Here's to all the wandering train ! They're welcome till't for a' that. Here's our ragged brats and cutlets ! One and all cry out, Amen ! RECITATIVO. A fig fiu' those by law protected \ So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Lil)eii}''s a glorious feast ' 1 Shook with a tiuinder of applause. Courts for cowards were erected, Re-echo'd from each mouth ; Churches built to please the priest 6G BURNS' WORKS, THE KIRK'S ALARM:* A SATIRE. Orthodox, 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 is no sense must be nonsense. Dr. Mac, f Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack. To strike evil doers wi' terror ; To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- clare. To meddle wi* mischief a-brewing ; Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, And orator Bob | is its ruin. D'rymple mild, § D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw. Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye. For preaching that three s ane an twa. Rumble John,^ Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; Theu lufr out your ladle, de?l brimstone like adle. And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James, || Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, There's a holier chace in your view ; I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few. Singet Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye herd- ing the penny. Unconscious what evils await ; Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul. For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld,f f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And if ye cunna bite ye may bark. Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster. The cor])s is no nice of recruits ; Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye raigUl boast. If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamie Goose,f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But tlve Doctor's your mark, for the L — d'» haly ark ; He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. Poet Willie, \ Poet Willie, gie the Doctor » volley, Wi' your liberty^s chain and your wit ; O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. Andro Gouk, ^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. Barr Steenie, {{ Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye ? If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. Ye may ha'e some pretence to bavins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine side,** Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride. Of manhood but sma' is your share ; Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock,ff Muirland Jock, when the L-^d makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will, II Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, When ye ])ilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; The timiner is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saint, Mlia should swing in a rape for an hour. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp' ritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough. And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. * This poem was written a short time after the pub- scatioii of Mr. M'Gill's Essay. j Mr. M' 11. + R 1 A n. S Dr. D — e. «! Mr. R U. l| Mi. M' V. ** Mr. M y. tt Mr. A (1. • Mr. G , O c. t Mr. V g, C k. J Mr. 1> s, A-r. n Or. A. M- — 11. II Mr. S V , B— r. »* Mr. S h, G n. tt Mr. S il. it All E r in M — e. re EMS. 67 Poet Bums, Pnet Burns, wi* ycur priest-skelp- ing tm'ns, Why desert ye your auld native shire ; your muse is a gipsie, e'ea tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are. THE TWA HERDS.* O a' ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or woiryiug tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes ? The twa iest herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five-and-twenty simmers past, O ! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel. O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'U see how new-liglit herds will whistle. An' think it fine ! The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, Sin' I ha'e min'. O, Sirs ! wliae'er wad hae expeckit, Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. Ye wha were ne'er by laiid respeckit. To wear the plaid, But by the ijrutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide. What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poisnn'd soor Arminian stank. He let them taste, Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, O sic a feast ! The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood. He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in. And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height. And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. Or nnhly fling the gospel club, • This piece was among the first of our Author's pro- ductions which he subinittpd to the pubhc; and was occasiuned by a dispute between two clergymen, near Kilmarnock. And new-light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin; Could sh:ike them o'er the burning dub. Or heave them in. Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't. Sic famous twa should disagreet. An' names, like villain, hypocrite. Ilk ither gi'en. While new-light herds wi' laughin' spice. Say neither's lieiw' ! A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. There's D n, deep, and P — — s, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle A — d We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. Till they agree* Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. There's scarce a new herd that we get, But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, I winna name, I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame. D e has been lang our fae, M' 11 has wraught us meikle wae, And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e. And baith" the S s, That aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief. We thought aye death wad bring relief. But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel. There S — h for ane, I doubt he's but a grey nick quill. And that ye'll fin'. O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells. Come join your counsel and your skills, To cow the lairds. And get the brutes the power themsels, To choose their heidt Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. And learning in a woody dance. And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair. Be banish'd o'er the sea to France ; Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, AI' U's close nervous excellence. 68 RI'Q. BURNS WORKS. 's patbetic manly sense, And guid M' h, Wi S — th, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff. THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life. The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 'Who has no will but by her high permission ; Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. For lords or kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die — for that they're born ! But, oh, prodigious to reflect, A Towmunt, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! O Eiyhty-ei(/ht, in thy sma' space What dire events ha'e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! In what a pickle thou hast left us ! The Spanish empire's tint ahead, An' my auld teethlcss Bawtie's dead ; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; The taue is game, a bluidy devil. But to the hen-birds unco civil ; The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin'. But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit. An* cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; For Eighty-eiyht he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; E'eu mony a plack, an' mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, For some o' you hae tint a frien' : In Eiyhty-eiyht, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. O'jserve the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro* wells are grutteu dry. O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn, An' no owre au'.d, I hope, to learn ! Thou beariiless boy, I pjay tak' care, Thou now has get thy daddy's chair, ^ Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-shackl'd Regent% But, like himsel', a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ' As meikle better as you can. January 1, 1789. VERSES WRITTEN OK A WINOOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. We cam na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise. But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise : But when we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us ; Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us ! LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K N AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME- DIATELY AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. He who of R — k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers, held to commemorate the anniversary of Roonev's victory, April iJth 17H2, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the follow- ing Lines: Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ; — That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we found. For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The nest in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betray him on high may he swing And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- tution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny d.mm'd ; And who would to Libeity e'er prove disloyal. May his son be a hangman, and he lis firit trial 1 1 POEMS. 69 STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. The stream adown its hazelly path. Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Thickest night o'eihangs my dwelling ! Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround ray lonely cave ! The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Athort the lift they start and shift. Busy haunts of base mankind. Like fortune's favours, tint as win. Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,f And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see Tn the cause of right engaged, A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Wrongs injurious to redress, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. i Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me ; Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, And on his bonnet grav'd was plaja. Not a hope that dare attend, The sacred posie — Liberty ! The wide world is all before us^ But a world without a friend ! * And frae his harp sic strains did flew. Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear ! CLARINDA. He sang wi' joy his former day. He weeping wail'd his latter times ; Clarinda, mistress of my soul. But what he said it was nae play. The measur'd time is run ! I winna ventur't in my rhymes.^ The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. The sun of all his joy. TO We part, — but by these precious drops, MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps. WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. Till thy bright beams arise. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, She, the fair sun of all her sex, Of Stuart, a name once respected, Has blest my glorious day : A name, which to love was the mark of a tru« And shall a glimmering planet fix heart, My worship to its ray ? But now 'tis despised and neglected : * fariation. To join yon river on the Strath. t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. A VISION. Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd ; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. As I stood by you roofless tower. X This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, ed in Johnson's Museum, is here £;iven from the poet'f MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, de.seribed is taken from nature. The puet is supi)osed And tells the midnight moon her care. to be mushig by night on the banks cf tlie river Chi.. u livedst unloved Loves, graces, and viitues. 1 call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. And flowers let us cull for Eliza's ct.l bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower. We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly gay iu life's beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. ANSWER TO A MANDATE SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FARMER, ORDER- ING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, Sr.RVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C. AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN THEY HAD. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, My horses, servants, carts, and graith, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle. As ever drew before a pettle. My liand-af re," a guid auld has been, And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; My hand-ii-liin,\ a guid brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; \ • Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very wor- | thy character, and one to whom our bard thought U.inself uuUer many obligations. 1 • The fore-horse on the lert-hand, in the plougl*. t The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. i Kilmarnock. POEMS. 73 And your auld borough mony a time, In days when riding wis nae crime : My fur-a-hin,* a guid, grey beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced : The fourth, a Highliiid Donald hasty, A d-inn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastit. For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale. As ever ran before a tail ; An' he be spared to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen puud at least. Wheel carriages I hae but few, Three carts, and twa are feckly new. An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, A.e leg and baith the trams are broken ; [ made a poker o' the spindle, 4nd my auld mither brunt the trundle. For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 4 gadsman ane, a thresher t'other. Wee Davoc hands the nowt in fother. 5 rule them, as I ought, discreetly, ind often labour them completely, ind aye on Sundays duly nightly, jj on the questions tairge them tightly, 'Till, faith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, (Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) He'll screed you atf effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station. Lord keep me aye fiae a* temptation ! I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; Fiji weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddie in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace. But her, my bcmny, sweet, wee lady, I've s;id enough for her alreanv, And if ye tux her cr her mither, By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! And now, remember, Jlr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm taking. Thro' dirt and dub for lile I'll paidie, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. This list vvi' my ain hand I've wrote it. The day and date as under notet ; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic, ROBERT BURNS. IMPROMPTUv ON JIRS S BIUTH-DAT, 4 th November, 1793. Old Winter with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; " What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe .' My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil j To counterbalance all this evil ; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day ! That brilliant gift will so enrich me. Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me i " 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story. And Winter once rejoiced in glory. ADDRESS TO A LADY. Oh wert thou in the cauhl blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were 1 -Jionarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY L- -, OF DUMFRIES ; WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARE PRESENTED BK&i Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. And with them take the poet's prayer ; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth, and spotless fame^ And wakeful caution, still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare; All blameless joys on earth we find, And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward , So prays thy faithfal friend, the bard. 74. BURNS' WORKS. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE ?.OTH JANUARY, 1793 THE JJIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR. ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon tlie leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I Hsten to thy strain. See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away ! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S E; ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OP COM- PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, ] 7th DECEMBER, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cookery the first in the nation ; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. Is proof to all other temptation. TO MR. S— E. WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. O HAD the malt thy strength of mind, Or hops the flavoui of thy wit ; 'Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for S — e were fit. Jebusalem Tavern, Dumfries. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. pRlfcND of the poet, tried and leal, Wha, wan»^ing thee, might beg or steal ; Alake, alake, the meikle dell, XVi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. I, modestly, fu' fain wad nint it, That one pound one, 1 sairly want it ; If wi' the hizzie ^own ye send it. It would he kind ; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come ladei). groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning To thee and thine ; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hail design. POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been licket And by fell death was nearly nicket : Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk ; But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life I'm promised niair o't. My hale and weel I'll tak' a care o't A tentier way : Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. For ance and aye. SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Wine was th' insensate frenzied part. Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSIKR, DUMFRIES, 1796. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal ; j Ah ! how sma' heart h;ie I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty world were it, Would p