LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Chap. Copyright No. Shelf. ...SJ. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, # # The Ayrshire Homes and Haunts of Burns # % % % Bv I ICNRY G^^HCLLCY With Photographs l)v ti^e ?^uthor ^^^ .n ^ 0. P. PUTNT^n^S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON THE KNICf^ERBOChvER PRESS 1597 rr\^vi>'v CorvKiGHT i8q7 BY G. p. PUTNAM'S SONS Entered at Stationers' Hall, London Ube ftnfcherbocfcer f»rcss, Iftcvo SJorl? t k. i- THE AYRSHIRE HOMES AND HAUNTS OF BURNS II.LUSTRATIONS PAGE PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BURNS . . . Frontispiece THE POET'S BIRTHPI^ACE, AI.I.OWAY ... 45 AI.I.0WAY'S AUI,D haunted KIRK .... 49 THE GRAVE OE BURNS'S FATHER . . . . 53^ THE AUI,D BRIG O' DOON 57 MOUNT OI.IPHANT 61 I.OCHI.EA 67 TARBOIvTON 7I ON THE FAII, 75 OIvD MASONIC I^ODGE, TARBOIyTON . . . . 79^ WII,I.IE'S MII.I. 83' BURNS'S SEAT, NEAR WII.I.IE'S MII.I, ... 87 MOSSGIEI, 91 ' THE COWGATE, MAUCHWNE 97 POOSIE NANSIE'S lOI NANCE TINNOCK'S I05 MAUCHI.INE CASTILE I09 THE MORISONS' HOME, MAUCHI^INE . . .113 MARY MORISON'S TOMB II 7 "daddy AUI^D'S" TOMB 121 HOI^Y WII^WE'S TOMB 127 irilustrations PAGE GAVIN HAMILTON'S I.AIR I3I BURIAL PLACE OF' THE ALEXANDERS . . -135 THE ARMOURS' GRAVE I39 THE BRAKS OE BALLOCHMYLE I43 THE BANKS OE AYR I49 THE AYRSHIRE HOMES OF BURNS '* THAN, one limidred years hence, they '11 ^ think mair o' nie than they do now." Burns' s prophecy has been amply fulfilled. The centenary of his birth was celebrated in 1859 with an enthusiasm and universality al- most unrivalled in the annals of literature. " City vied with clachan, peer with peasant, philanthropist with patriot, philosopher with statesman, orator with poet, in honouring the memory of the Ploughman Bard." In the year 1896, which marked the centenary of his death, the commemoration of that event did not lack any of the hero-worship which character- ised the celebration of 1859. But that hero- [3] XLbc a^rsbire Ibomes of JBunis worship has taken a different form. The Burns admirers thirty-seven years ago ex- pressed their feelings through pubhc meetings, dinners, suppers, and balls ; they held their parliament, as Emerson expressed it on the occasion, " with love and poes}^ as men w^ere wont to do in the Middle Ages." But a new method of celebrating the sons of genius has arisen. Every line they wrote is subjected to scrupulous editing ; their lives are studied by the search-light of diligent criticism ; their homes and haunts are delineated by pencil and camera. Personality is the ke3aiote of the method which has replaced that of 1859. Burns lived for thirty-seven years, and he spent twenty-seven of them in Ayrshire. A line drawn on the map of that county from Irvine in the north to Kirkoswald in the south, deflected through Kilmarnock, Mauchline, and [4] Zbe IHgisbire Ibomcs of JGunis Dalo'inple, embraces his homes and haunts prior to the triumphal appearance in Ivdin- burgh. But Irvine, Kihnarnock, and Kirkos- wald only retained the poet for a brief vSeason ; the first was the scene of his disastrous attempt to learn flax-dressing, the second only claimed him while he was seeing his poems through the press, and the third witnessed his brief apprenticeship to the art of mensuration. Hence a more restricted line will include all of Ayrshire associated with the greater portion of Burns' s life. It must start from AUoway, run out to Mount Oliphant, turn back and pass through Tarbolton, touch at Mossgiel, and end in Mauchline. A small theatre for great deeds. Scotland's two greatest peasant writers — • Burns and Carl3de — were both born in houses of their fathers' own building. In the case of [5] ^be B^rsblre Ibomes of JBurns Carl 3^6' s father, inasmuch as he was a mason, this is not particularly remarkable ; but the fact that Burns' s father reared with his own hands the now famous cottage at Alloway is significant of much in the character of the man. From, the days of his early manhood, when poverty drove him from home on his long search after the bare necessaries of life, to the closing scene at lyochlea, William Burns was engaged in a never-ceasing struggle to wrest from the earth a fitting sustenance for himself and family, and the only remaining monument of any conquest he made is to be seen in the ' ' auld clay biggin ' ' where his im- mortal son was born. Alloway was once a separate parish, but tow- ards the end of the seventeenth century it was united with that of Ayr, from the town of which it is some two miles distant. The approach Zhc B^rsbire Ibomes of JBurne from Aj-r to AUowa}^ is characteristically nine- teenth century. Small semi-detached villas line the road on either side, and these fade away only to give place to the larger and more pre- tentious mansions of countj^ magnates, with a race-course for a background. The Burns cot- tage itself has rather too much the air of a commercial show-place, with its conventional turnstile and persistent charge of twopence ad- mission. There are relics in plenty scattered around, from the bed in which the poet was born, to the spinning-wheel of his mother ; but somehow the air seems stifling to the literary pilgrim, and he is glad to escape from the white glare of mediocre sculpture and the vsheen of coffee urns — all duly displayed in the tem- perance refreshment-room attached to the cot- tage — to the freer atmosphere outside. A few hundred yards down the road, in the [7] ZTbe B^rsbiie If^omes of SBimxe direction of the ' ' banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," the gaunt gables of " Alloway's auld haunted kirk ' ' rear themselves high in the air. At once the apposite remark of Nathaniel Hawthorne flashes across the mind : " Kirk Allowa}' is inconceivabl}^ small, considering how large a space it fills in our imagination before we see it." Its place in literature, as the vScene of the midnight orgies witnessed by Tam O' Shanter, was secured by a mere acci- dent. In the fall of the year 1790, one Captain Grose happened to be travelling through Scot- land intent on antiquarian study. His path crossed that of Burns, who was then trying his last farming experiment at EUisland, and the two soon became " unco pack and thick the- gither." The poet one day pressed the claims of Alloway Kirk on the antiquarian's notice, and Captain Grose agreed to make a drawing [8] trbe B\>r6birc 1f3ome5 of Burns of the building on condition that the poet fur- nished an appropriate witch-stor}^ as comment. A bargain was struck, and the result was Tam O' Shanter. From his childhood to his eighteenth year. Burns had been familiar with the old ruin, and his mind was .stored with gruesome evil- spirit tragedies of which it had been the theatre. It was eavS}^ to draw upon these memories for his share of the bargain with Captain Grose, and not less easy, apparently, to immortalise the exploits of Tam O' Shanter, for the poem is said to have beenr written in a day. And now Kirk AUoway is onl}^ interest- ing for Tam O' Shanter' s sake. All its avssocia- tions with the joys and .sorrows of past genera- tions, its witnessings of baptism, marriage, and funeral, its memories of contrition and aspira- tion under the spell of Christian exhortation [9] Cbe B^rsbtre fbomes of JSurng and promise, have faded awa}^ and the ear of imagination loses the echoes of holy psalm in the skirl of that untoward music which fell upon the astonished ears of Tam O' Shanter. The " winnock-bunker in the east," where sat the beast-shaped musician of that unhol}^ revel, the opened coffins whence w^ere thrust the pallid hands that held aloft the blazing torches, the " span-lang " bairns who gazed with wide-eyed amazement on the swiftly moving dance, the window which framed the absorbed face of Tam O' Shanter — these are the sights the eye seeks in Alloway Kirk. Outside its walls, and among the crowded graves which jostle each other with unseemly obstinacy in this scant God's-acre, the eye wanders in quest of William Burns' s tomb. The father of Robert Burns had a double right to a resting-place in the shadow of Kirk Allo- r lol way ; the right of the man whose son lifted it into the reahn of poesy, and the right of the man who, years before, rebuilt the ruined walls of its graveyard. It was natural, then, that William Burns should wish to be buried in Alloway Church3^ard, and when he at last laid down the burden of life at Lochlea in 1784, his widow and children did not hesitate as to where his dust should rest. The small headstone which was at first reared over the grave has given place to the more substantial memorial of the present da}^, on the back of which the son's affectionate tribute is in- scribed : " O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here He the loving husband's dear remains. The tender father, and the gen'rons friend ; The pitying heart that felt for human woe, The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; Zbc Bi?r6birc Ibomes of JBurns The friend of man — to vice alone a foe ; For ' ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' " It was a lucky chance for Tarn O' Shanter that the river Doon and its ' ' anld brig ' ' were within easy hail of AUoway Kirk. That irre- pressible ' ' Weel done, Cutty-sark ! ' ' started the whole pack of midnight revellers at his horse's heels : " Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane o' the brig : There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross." The Doon has a new bridge now to bear the burden of nineteenth-century traffic, but the ' ' auld brig ' ' still spans the lovely river, an indubitable link between our own time and the stormy night of Tam O' Shanter' s ride. Other memories than those of Tam O' Shanter crowd into the mind while musing by the side [ 12] • ^be B^rsbirc fbomes of JBimis of the clear-running Doon. Here are the shows of nature which were frail and vain to weep a loss that turned their lights to shade. Sacred through all time are these banks and braes to the memory of that disconsolate w^an- derer who reproached the birds for singing and the flowers for blooming, but had no harsh thought for that ' ' fause lover ' ' who had thrown her out of harmony with nature. In Burns' s seventh 3^ear the scene of his life shifted from Alloway to Mount Oliphant, a small seventy-acre farm some two miles distant. This was to be his home for more than ten years. The outward setting of Mount Oli- phant is probably little different from what it w^as in the poet's day, though the farm build- ings have necessarily been considerably re- modelled and enlarged. The new era which opened for Burns with his removal thither [ 13] ^be B^rsbire Ibomes ot JBunis was of far-reaching importance ; he confessed to Dr. Moore that it was during the time he lived on that farm that his story was most eventful. There, indeed, now from the worthy Murdoch, now from the lips of his remarkable father, and anon at the parish school of Dal- rymple, he acquired most of the knowledge which teachers can impart, and there, too, he experienced ' ' the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave." One incident of the Mount Oliphant days re- vealed the deep tenderness of the poet's heart. It happened that Murdoch, the old teacher of Robert and Gilbert, visited the farm one night to take farewell of his friends ere leaving for another part of the country, and brought with him a copy of Tifus Androniais as a part- ing present to his pupils. When the day's work was done, and the family gathered to- [ M] Cbc Bvrabire 1bome6 ot Ji3urn6 getlier, Murdoch began to read the play aloud. He had got to the fifth scene of the second act, where Lavinia appears with her hands cut off and her tongue cut out, but when he reached the taunting words of Chiron, '' Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands," the entire family besought him, with tears, to cease read- ing. The father remarked that if they would not hear the end of the tragedy it would be useless to leave the book, whereupon Robert at once vStruck in with the threat that if it were left he would burn it ! It was not without good cause that the poet complained of the hermit-like existence that fell to his lot on this farm. Gilbert says : ' ' Nothing could be more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any- bod}^ but the members of our own family. There were no boys of our own age or near it in the [ 15 ] XLbc Bsrsbirc Ibomes of JSurns neighbourhood." This was not altogether a disadvantage. Burns was thus driven in upon himself, and to the study of such books as the family possessed or could borrow. But it was a hard life he lived at Mount Oliphant. He had to labour in the fields to an extent far beyond his strength, and to subsist on food of the poorest description. This continued to his fifteenth autumn, and then he awoke to love and poetry — henceforth the dual consola- tion of his life. It was harvest-time. In his work amid the golden grain it was the fortune of Burns to have for partner a ' ' bewitching creature ' ' a year younger than himself ; " a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." The hour had come which was to awaken the singing soul of Burns, and unseal that fount of lyric love in which all after-time was to rejoice. The story is best given in his own words •. "In [ i6] ^be B^rebirc Ibomcs ot JQixxrxB short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, in- itiated nie in that delicious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- dence, and book- worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below. How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the same touch, etc. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know ni}- self why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when return- ing in the evening from our labour ; why the tones of her voice made ni}^ heart-strings thrill like an ^olian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ' rat-tan,' when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. "Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly ; and it was her favourite L 17 1 CTbe B^rsbire Ibomes of JBurns reel to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme, I was not so presumptnous as to imagine that I could make verses like the printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin, but my girl sang a song which was vSaid to be composed by a small country laird's son, oil one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love, and I vSaw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for excepting that he could smear sheep and cut peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Tints zvith me began love and poetry.'' Still, Mount Oliphant cannot have been a happy home for the Burns family. The poor and hungry vSoil of the farm entailed constant labour on every member of the family able to do a hand's turn, and with all their efforts no adequate recompense was forthcoming. Hence [ i8] Jibe Bvivsbiic 1f3ome6 of jeimis it must have been with a sigh of reUef that they turned their back upon the scene of such hardships to make a new trial of hfe on the farm at I^ochlea. This new home of Burns — where the next seven years of his Hfe were spent — was vsituated in the upper part of the parish of Tarbolton. It lies in a hollow and took its name from a small loch, now no longer in existence. Take it for all in all, lyochlea was perhaps the happiCvSt home the poet ever had. lyife never moved more smoothly for him than during the first few years in Tarbol- ton parish, and as yet his ungovernable pas- sions had not brought him into contact with kirk-sessions and the severer reprimands of his own conscience. Gilbert Burns used to speak of this per.od as the brightest in his brother's life, and was wont to recall wdth delight the happ}^ days the\' spent [ '9] Zbc Bgrsbire 1bome6 of :fiSurns together in farm work, when Robert was sure to enliven the tedium of labour with his unriv- alled conversation. It was at I^ochlea that the incident occurred which prompted T/ie Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailic, and in a low-lying field near the house the spot where that famous ewe nearly committed suicide is still pointed out. Other first-fruits of poesy were gathered during these peaceful days, and many of the seeds planted which were to yield such a prolific harvest at Mossgiel. The village of Tarbolton, some two miles distant from lyochlea, naturally figures largely in this period of Burns' s life. Its chief street still retains some continuity with the past. Sandwiched in here and there between houses of recent date may be seen man}^ of the rough- cast, thatch-covered cottages common in the poet's time. Among modern buildings, the [ 20] ^be Bgrsbirc fl^omcs of JBurns most conspicuous are a public library and a masonic hall. The latter, which contains some valuable Burns relics, has not been erected many years, but is alread}' permeated with dry rot and is in" a filthy condition. The library contains about two thousand volumes, and the onl}^ Burns literature visible is an odd volume of a three- volumed edition of the poems ! It is not surprising, then, to hear the Tarbolton people frankly confess that they * * take no in- terest in Burns." There are various links connecting Burns with Tarbolton, one being recalled by that sentence in his autobiography which runs : " At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and set want at defiance ; and as I never cared further for any labours than while I was in actual exercise, / spent the evening in the way after viy own heart. ' ' The [ 21 ] ^be Bgrsbirc Ibomes of JBunis beginning of this appears to have been attend- ance at a dancing-school in Tarbolton. Such institutions are still the common introductions to courtship in rural Scotland, and in the case of Burns there can be no doubt that his danc- ing-school experiences led to those innumer- able love episodes which now began to bulk so largely in his history. Gilbert Burns, writing of this period, says his brother " was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver, ' ' and David Sillar, a boon companion of the poet, remarks that he was frequently struck with Burns' s facility in addressing the fair sex. The lyochlea loves have left their impress on his poems. The mansion house of Coilsfield — transformed b}^ the poet to, and now known as, Montgomery Castle — is in the vicinity of Tarbolton, and two of its servants were fated to find imnior- [22] ^bc Bsrsbirc 1bomc5 ot J6urn6 tality through the young fanner of lyOchlea. The first was the heroine of ^fontgomcrk' s ^\k'X''J'' She was housekeeper at Coilsfield, and Burns says of her that she was his deity for six or eight months. He adds : " She had been bred in a st3de of hfe rather ele- gant, but (as Vanbrugh saA-s in one of his plays) my ' damned star found me out ' there too ; for although I began the affair nierel}^ in a gaicte dc arnr, it will scarcely be believed that a vanity of showing nn- parts in courtship, particularly ni}^ abilities at a billet-doux (wdiicli I alwa3\s piqued mj^self upon), made me lay siege to her. When — as I alwa3\s do in my foolish gallantries — I had battered m3\self into a very w^arm affection for her, she one day told me, in a flag of truce, that her fortre.ss had been for some time before the rightful property of another. I found out afterwards, that what r^3] she told me of a pre-eiigagemeiit was really true ; but it cost me some heartaches to get rid of the affair. ' ' There is a tradition that Highland Mary — i. c\, Mary Campbell — was at one time dair^^- maid at Coilsfield, and it is not improbable that Burns finst made her acquaintance there. At any rate, the lovely rivulet Fail, which runs through the grounds of Montgomer}^ Castle, mingles with the nature-background of his most famous song to Mary's memory : '* Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery ! Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Ycur waters never drumlie : • There Simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last Farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary." But there was another side to Burns' s even- [ 24] Cbe Bv>r^birc 1bomc6 ot JBiinia mgs from home. Sociable by nature, he availed himself of every opportiiiiit\' of con- vivial intercourse with young men of his own age and station. Hence the creation of that Bachelor's Club, where the topics for discus- sion seem to have been selected on the principle of consoling its members for their temporary- absence from the fair sex. Hence, too. Burns' s action in becoming a freemason. His initia- tion took place on July 4, 17S1, and the old thatched cottage in which the ceremony took place still stands at the corner of the Mauch- line road. It was at a meeting of the lodge that the idea of Death and Dr. Hornbook took shape. John Wilson, the Tarbolton school- master, who eked out his scholastic earnings by amateur physicking, one evening paraded his medical knowledge in such an ostentatious manner that Burns resolved, on his way home, [25 ] XLbc B^rsbire Ibomes of :©urn6 to hold the dominie-medico up to ridicule. With what result the world knows. The scene of the dialogue between Burns and Death is laid just outside Tarbolton. Leaving the old Masonic Lodge on the right, the road winds ' ' round about ' ' a high mound, and then descends toward Willie's Mill. In the bank by the roadside, under the shadow of a hedge, local tradition points to a few rough, project- ing stones as the seat where the poet and his gaunt friend " eased their shanks " while dis- cussing the skill of Dr. Hornbook. When William Burns died in 1784, the last link was snapped which held his family at Lochlea. Prior to that event, however, Robert and Gilbert had taken the farm of Mossgiel, " as an asylum for the family in case of the worst." With the removal to Mossgiel, the poet took a resolve to mend his ways and [ 26] address himself seriously to the work of life. " I read fanning books," he said, " I calcu- lated crops, I attended markets, and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the secotid, from a late har- vest, we lost half our crops. This overset all ni}^ wisdom, and I returned like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wal- lowing in the mire." It is impossible to doubt that Burns really desired to settle down for himself. Already he had made several efforts in that direction, each of which had been remorselessly thwarted. He groped about for the clue which should enable him to nnravel his life in an orderly fashion, but it was his misfortune always to lay hold of a loop in the skein, and b}^ vio- [ 27] lent tugging at that to reduce the whole to a hopeless tangle. " The great misfortune of my life," he confesses, "was to want an aim." At first, Mossgiel promised to pro- vide that aim. His father was dead ; on him and his brother Gilbert had devolved the care of the widowed mother and her other fatherless children. But the trinity of evil proved too strong for the poet. The world, in the shape of convivial companions ; the devil, in the form of bad seed and late harvests ; the flesh, in the enchantments of love — these met Burns' s resolution in a stern stand-up fight, and speedily won a complete victory. Hence it came to pass that the Mossgiel period was of crucial importance in the life of Burns ; it made his weakness as a man and his powers as a poet patent to the world. The farm of Mossgiel is situated in the parish [28 J Cbc B\?r6bire Iboincs of 3Qmm of Mauchliiie, from the town of which name it is about a mile distant. Whatever it ma}^ have been in the poet's time, it strikes the visitor in these da3'S as a most desirable home. Although writtt^n more than sixty 3^ears ago, Words- worth's sonnet is still accurate in its chief out- lines : " ' There,' said a Stripling, poiuting with meet pride, Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, ' Is Mossgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy.' Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose : And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath ' the random dield of clod or stone ' Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away ; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love." The house stands on a high ridge, some [29] XLbc 'B))vebix'c IfDomes of :i6iun0 sixt}^ yards back from the road, and is screened with a stalwart thorn hedge, which the poet and his brother are said to have planted. Its walls have been considerably raised vSince it was Bnrns's home, and the roof of thatch has given place to one of slates. When Haw- thorne visited it in 1857, ^^^^ forced his way inside in the absence of the famil}', he fonnd it remarkable for nothing so much as its dirt and dunghill odour. There is neither dirt nor odour to-day. The goodwife of the present occupant of Mossgiel, Mr. Wyllie, keeps her house spotlessly clean, notwithstanding the demands made upon her time by innumerable inquisitive visitors. On the parlour table lies a copious visitors' book, and in the same room hang the manuscript of T/ir Lass 0' Balloch- viyle, and the letter in which Burns asked Miss Alexander's permission to publish the song. [30] Cbe a^rsbirc Ibomes of JiSuins At the back of the house lies the field where Burns turned down the daisy, and the soil ' ' seems to have been consecrated to daisies by the song which he bestowed on that first im- mortal one." Over the hedge, there, is the other field where the poet's ploughshare tore up the mouse's nest. The neighbouring town of Mauchline is a central spot in the history of Burns. In its dancing-hall he finst met Jane Armour, the inspirer of man}- of his deathless songs, and the destined wifely companion of his fortunes ; under the roof of Poosie Nansie's hostel he saw the tattered vagrants whom his imagination transferred to the pages of literature in The JoUy Beggars ; outside the old church he often witnessed those unseemly incidents so unsparingl}' satirised in The Holy Fair ; Mauchline Castle was the home of his warm- [31 1 ^be B^rsbirc If^omes of Burns hearted friend, Gavin Hamilton, and the scene of several interesting events in his own life ; and in the churchyard sleep many whom he marked as targets for invective or subjects for eulogy. Perhaps because it is not quite such a rural outpost, Mauchline has changed more than Tarbolton. Still, there are many build- ings which take the mind back to the poet's time, and in the main the topography of the place is practically unchanged. The Cowgate illustrates both facts. Here there are several houses which have changed but little during the past hundred years, and the position of the street, with the church at the end, provides an illuminating comment on that verse of The Holy Fair which records how "... Peebles, frae the water-fit Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he 's got the word o' God, [ 32 ] (Tbc Bv>r6bire Ibomcs of .tSurns An' meek an' mini has view'd it. While Common-sense has ta'en the road, An' afF, an' up the Cowgate Fast, fast that day." At the corner of the Cowgate stands Poosie Nansie's hostel, bearing upon its gable-end the legend that it is " The Jolly Beggars' Howf. ' ' In the time of Burns this cottage was a lodg- ing-house for vagrants, and it seems that the poet and some of his companions were wont to drop in occasionally late at night to vSee the maimed and the blind in their undress of sound limbs and opened eyes. '* Ae night, at e'en, a merry core O' randie, gaugrel bodies, In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies. Wi' quaffing an' laughing They ranted an' they sang ; Wi' jumping an' thumping, The vera girdle rang." [ 33] tTbe n^xsbivc Ibomes of JBurns Another resort of Burns in these Mauchline days has honourable mention in one of his early poems. Towards the close of T/ie Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer, he ex- claims : " Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bonconnock's, I '11 be his debt twa mashlum boniiocks, Au' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's Nine times a week, If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, Wad kindly seek." In a footnote to the name of Nanse Tinnock the poet explained that she was " a worth }^ old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studied politics ov^er a glass of guid, auld Scotch drink." Nanse Tin- nock's house ma}' still be seen down a narrow lane leading towards the churchj^ard, and op- posite is the cottage where Burns is said to have " taken up house " with Jean Armour. [34] ^be BK>r0birc fbomes ot JBurns From the windows of this cottage a good view is obtained of Mauchline Castle, in the busi- ness room of which Burns is reputed to have been married. The castle has undergone little or no change these hundred years, and it is easy to recall that Sabbath morning when the worthy Gavin Hamilton, petitioned by his children for some new potatoes for dinner, in- structed his gardener to dig a few, little think- ing that the eyes of the ' ' unco guid ' ' were upon him and that the Mauchline kirk-session would bring him to book for such sacrilegious fatherly indulgence. Facing the head of the main street the visitor observes a building- block divided into several houses, and his interest in it is quickened when he learns that the house at the near corner was the home of the Morrisons. From this hou.se to the churdhyard is but a few steps, and one of the [35 ] ^be Bsrsbire Ibomes ot JBuriis first tombstones to arrest his attention reads thus : "In memory of Adj. John Morrison, of the 104th Regiment, who died at Mauchhne, 1 6th April, 1804, in the 8oth year of his age ; also his daughter Mary — the Poet's Bonnie Mary Morrison — who died 29th June, 1791, aged 20." Other tombstones bear names or are linked with memories of men and women just as familiar. In a far-off corner, with a white- washed wall for background, stands the memorial of the Rev. William Auld, better known to fame as the ' * Daddie Auld ' ' of T/ie Kirk' s Alarm. By its side lie the ashes of Johnnie Richmond, that Mauchline friend of Burns who was his first host in Edinburgh. A time-worn slab marks the grave of William Fisher, that village Pharisee whose after life and death justified the Prayer Burns put in his mouth. The inscription has faded away, [36] ^be B^rsbirc Ibomes of :fl3uin6 but every reader of Burns can supply the epitaph : *' Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode ; His saul has ta'en some other way, — I fear, the left-hand road." Not far away from Holy Willie's grave is the lair of Gavin Hamilton, enclosed with a simple iron railing, but devoid of any memorial stone. Such was the wish of that worthy lawyer, and hence his epitaph must be sought in the pages of Burns : *' The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd ; But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damn'd ! " Adjoining the end of the church is the burial- place of the Alexanders of Ballochmjde, the top marble tablet on the left hand commemorat- [37] ^be Bgrsblre Ibomes ot :©uni6 ing the laird of the poet's time. One other grave of interest is that of the Armours, from whose family Burns chose his wife, and under the prostrate stone within these railings the infant daughters of the poet are buried. One of the favourite walks of Burns was among the braes of Ballochmyle, some two miles distant, and no poet could have made a better choice in the Mauchline country- side. Close by, the river Ayr runs its turbu- lent course, and between the two he had copious material for poetic thought. But, somehow, it is humanity rather than nature which asserts its supremacy while wandering among the Ayrshire homes and haunts of Burns. It is fit it should be .so, for a large part of the world's debt to Burns consists in the fact that he made common life classical. To coin quotable couplets out of the ordinary [38] trbc B^rebirc If^onica ot JBiirns incidents of lowliest lives was his prerogative. The world sadly needed teaching to make an ideal out of its actual, and that lesson he taught. The annals of the poorest peasant's life are now as immortal as the exploits of Hector or the victories of Achilles. Little things have become great things since Burns sang of them. The mouse is a demi-god now ; the dais}^ a flower of paradise. The oft- returning Saturday night of the cottar is no longer the common thing it was ; it is a sacra- ment of life. Fresh links of sympathy and love between man and beast have been forged by the pen of Burns, and even the food on our tables — the ''halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food," and haggis, " great chieftain o' the pudding race," — is as the ambrosia of the immortals. Burns achieved the apotheosis of [ 39] Zbc B^rgbire Ibomes ot JBunis common life, and tlie height of that achieve- ment can nowhere be better measured than among his Ayrshire homes. [40] THE AYRSHIRE HOMES OF BURNS [41 1 THE POET'vS BIRTHPIvACE, ALLOW AY. W ITH secret throes I marked that earth, That Cottage, witness of my birth. There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o' whatna style, I doubt it 's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' Robin. Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-tweuty days begun, 'T was then a blast o' Jan war win' Blew hansel in on Robin." I 43] the; pokt's birthpi^ace, ali^oway. [44 ALLOWAY'vS AUIvD HAUNTED KIRK. WHEN, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. " But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light ; And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance : Nae cotillon 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 screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl." [47 'AI,I,OWAY'S AUI.D HAUNTED KIRK. [48] THE GRAVE OF BURNS' S FATHER. OH, ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend ; The pitying heart that felt for human woe, The dauntless heart that feared no human pride ; The friend of man — to vice alone a foe ; For ' ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' " [ 51 ] THE GRAVE OF BURNS'S FATHER. [ 52 ] THE AUIvD BRIG O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thon minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doou, To see the rose and woodbine twine And ilka bird sang o' its Luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine." [55] THE AUIvD BRIG O' DOON. [ 56] MOUNT OLIPHANT. OH, ouce I loved a bonie lass, Ay, and I love ber still ; And wbilst tbat virtue warms my breast, I '11 love my baudsome Nell. " Sbe dresses aye sae clean and neat, Botb decent and genteel : And tben tbere 's somctbing in ber gait Gars onie dress look weel. " A gaudy dress and gentle air May sligbtly toucb tbe beart. But it 's innocence and modesty That polisbes tbe dart." The above stanzas are from Burns 's first love song, written at Mount Oliphant. [ 59] MOUNT OUPHANT. [60] LOCHIvEA. MY father was a farmer Upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me In decency and order, O ; He bade me act a manly part. Though I had ne'er a farthing, O, For without an honest manly heart, No man was worth regarding, O. " No help, nor hope, nor view had I, Nor person to befriend me, O ; So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, And labour to sustain me, O, To plough and sow, to reap and mow, My father bred me early, O ; For one, he said, to labour bred, Was a match for Fortune fairly, O. [ 63 ] Xocblea Thus, all obscure, unknown, and poor, Thro' life I 'm doomed to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay, In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate'er Might breed me pain or sorrow, O ; Alive to-day as well 's I may. Regardless of to-morrow, O." [65] IvOCHLKA. [66] TARBOLTON. FROM scenes like these, old Scotia's grandenr springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, ' An honest man 's the noblest work of God '; And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly 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 refin'd ! " [69] TARBOI.TON. [7o] ON THE FAIL. YE bauks, aiul braes, and streams around The Castle o' Montgomery ! Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drunUie : There Simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last Farewel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the ga}- green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden Hours, on angel wings. Flew o'er me and my Dearie ; For dear to me, as light and life. Was my sweet Highland Mary." [73] ON THE FAII, [ 74] OLD MASONIC LODGE, TARBOLTON. " A DIKU ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ; /^ Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'' d few, Compariions of my social joy ; 'iho' I to foreign lands must hie. Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I '11 mind you still, tbo' far awa'. " Oft have I luet your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night ; Oft, honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but Craftsmen ever saw ! Strong Mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa." [ 77 ] OIvD MASONIC I.ODGE, TARBOI^TON. [78] WILLIE'S MILL. THE clachan yill bad made me canty, I was ua fou, but just bad plenty ; I stacber'd wbiles, but yet took tent aye To free tbe ditcbes ; An' billocks, stanes, and busbes, kenn'd aye Frae gbaists an' witcbes. Tbe rising moon began to glowre Tbe distant Cumnock bills out-owre : To count ber borns, wi' a' my pow'r, I set mysel'; But wbetber sbe bad tbree or four, I cou'd na tell. I was come round about tbe bill, An' todlin down on Willie's mill. Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, To keep me sicker ; Tbo' leeward whiles, against my will, I took a bicker." [8i ] WIIvWE'S MII,I.o [82 ] A SEAT NEAR WILLIE' vS MILL. WEEL, weel ! ' says I, ' a bargain be 't ; Come, gie 's your band, an' sae we 're gree 't ; We '11 ease our sbanks an' tak a seat^ Come, gie's your news ; Tbis wbile ye bae been mony a gate, At mony a bouse.' " Ay, ay ! ' quo' be, an' sbook bis bead, It 's e'en a laug, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick tbe tbread, An' cboke tbe breatb : Folk maun do sometbing for tbeir bread, An' sae maun Death.' " [85 1 BURNS'S SEAT, N^AR WII^IylE'S Mllyl^. [86 ] MOSSGIKIv. O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye 're safer at your spinning wheel Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel. Beware a tongue that 's smoothly hung, A heart that warmly seems to feel ; That feeling heart but acts a part — 'T is rakish art in Rob Mosso;iel." [89] MOSSGIEIv. [90] THE COWGATE, MAUCHLINE. NOW a' the congregatiou o'er Is sileut expectation ; For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation : Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' Moodie's face, To 's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. But hark ! the tent has changed its voice There 's peace an' rest nae langer : For a' the real judges rise. They canna sit for anger, Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals ; An' affthe godly pour in thrangs. To gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. [93 ] XLbc Cowciate, ^aucblinc In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum ; For Peebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he 's got the Word o' God, An' meek an' mim has viewed it, While Common Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate, Fast, fast that day." [95 ] the; cowgate;, mauchune;. [96] POOSIE NANSIE'S. WHEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest ; Ae night, at e'en, a merry core O' randie, gangrel bodies. In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies ; Wi' quaffing and laughing. They ranted an' they sang, Wi' jumping an' thumping, The vera girdle rang." [99] POOSIE NANSIE'S. [ lOO J NANCE TINNOCK'S. TEIvIv yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, I '11 be his debt twa masblum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's, Nine times a week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks. Wad kindly seek." r TOT ] nance: TINNOCK'S. [ T04 ] MAUCHLINE CAvSTLE. (The Home of Gavin Hamilton.) IWIIvIy not wind a lang conclusion, With 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 Powers above prevent !) That iron-hearted carl. Want, Attended, in his grim advances By sad mistakes, and black mischances, "While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am. Your, humble servant, then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor? But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! While recollection's pow'r is giv'n, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. Should recognise my master dear ; If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, Sir, your hand— my friend and brother [ 107] MAUCHUNE; CASTILE. [ 108 ] THE MORISONS' HOME, MAUCHLINE. OMARY, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stour, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison." [ "I ] THE MORISONS' HOME, MAUCHLINE. [ 112] i- tniii-i ^ V 'A .--.f^ wis \fer«r-. V ' \\ , Y="-^:^r'Kr \k^.'~ "A.. '1«,'^ . V^^ p^,.- - lis- .' ^-' ^ \^ . ,p^.--. \—-r.j r-:.;;r- s ee M . TO MARY IN HEAVEN. STILL o'er these scenes my mern'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser-care ! Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear, My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? [ "5 ] MARY MORISON'S TOMB. [ ii6] "DADDY AUIvD'S" TOMB. D ADDY AUIvD ! Daddy Auld, There 's a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; Though ye do little skaith, Ye '11 be in at the death, For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. Daddy Auld ! Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark." [ 119] DADDY AUIvD'S" TOMB. [ I20 ] "HOIvY WILLIE'vS" TOMB. HERB Holy Willie's sairworn clay Taks up its last abode ; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear, the left-hand road. Stop ! there he is, as sure 's a gun. Poor, silly body, see him ; Nae wonder he 's as black 's the grun, Observe wha's standing wi' him. Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye ; But baud your nine-tail cat a wee. Till ance ye 've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore, For pity yc have nane ; Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er. And mercy's day is gane, [ 123 ] **1bols "Millie's" XLomb But here me, Sir, de'il as 3'e are, Look something to your credit ; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it." [ 125] Hoi^Y wii,ue;'S" tomb. [ 126] m^ GAVIN HAMILTON'S LAIR. THB poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd ; But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damned ! " [ T29 ] GAVIN HAMILTON'S I.AIR. [ 130 ] •r BURIAIv-PIvACK OF THE ALEXANDERS. (The heroine of The Lass o' Ballochmyle was a Miss Alexander.) " 1~~^ AIR is the nioru in flowery May, j^^ And sweet is night in autumn mild ; When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring 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 bouie lass o' Ballochmyle. " O ! had she been a country maid. And I the happy country swain, Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle." [ 133] BURIAI,-PI.ACE OF TH^ AI.EXANDKRS. 134 DEATH. AND thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! Nor more I shriuk appail'd, afraid ; I court, I beg thy friendly aid. To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's joyless day — My weary heart its throbbings cease, Cold mould'ring in the clay ? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face, Enclasped and grasped. Within thy cold embrace ! " [ 137 ] THE ARMOURS' GRAVK. [ 138] THE BRAES OF BALLOCHMYLE. THE Catriue woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrlne lee, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sickened on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while ; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle ! lyow in your wintry beds, ye flowers. Again ye '11 flourish fresh and fair ; Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. Again ye '11 charm the vocal air. But here, alas ! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm or floweret smile ; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle ! L MI ] THE HRAES OF BAI.I.OCHMYI,E. [M2] THE BANKS OF AYR. THE Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn By early Winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave ; I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 'T is not the surging billow's roar, 'T is not that fatal, deadly shore ; Tho' death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear : But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. [ 145 J Cbc :fi3anf?0 of Bgr Farewell, old Coila's bills aud dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those The bursting tears my heart declare — Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr ! " [ 147] the: banks of AYR. r 148 1 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 389 936 6