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 WJT'H 1/1% ■MOTKS AND ■CQKkESmWDE'NCE: BY 
 
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y^A^V?^ -j^n^./B^ ^' 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLETE 
 
 0ftical an^ '^r0$c Horks 
 
 ROBERT BUMS: 
 
 LIFE, NOTES, AND CORRESPONDENCE: 
 
 A. CUNNINGHAM, Esq., 
 
 #riginal ^tccts from t^e Collection of ^ir ©gtrtoit ^rgbgos, §Hrt. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY S. A. ROLLO & CO., 
 
 No. 29 PARK ROW. 
 1859. 
 
Gift 
 
 •^R. HUTCHfSON. 
 
^IhtstratinM. 
 
 Frontispiece. Portrait of Burns, 
 
 Vignette Title — " Of a' the Pleasures " . . » to ftiee Title 
 
 Poor Mailie . . " . • • • • 1^1 
 
 Halloween . . ■ . . . « ,114 
 
 The Jolly BEGOAiia ..«••• 128 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night . • « . • 140 
 
 Tam o' Shanter •.•**• ^''-' 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo . . . • i • .164 
 
 Willie brewed a Pkck o' Matjt . . . . • 176 
 
 Duncan Gray ....•••• 188 
 '' When wild Wars' deadly Blast was Blawj*" . • 200 
 
 AvLD Lang Syne . . . • • • • 212 
 
 Oh let Me in this ane Night . . . . • • 224 
 
 The Vision ...••••• 236 
 
 There was a Lass . ...••• 248 
 
 BlNMOCKBViiJM. • "■•,.,.•• 260 
 
CnnM0. 
 
 T\k of Enhfrt %m3. 
 
 Initiatory Bemarks • • • • 
 
 Life 
 
 Letter of a Lady to the Dumfries Journal 
 
 on the Character, &c., of Burns 
 An Enquiry into the Literary Merits of 
 
 Burns •••••• 
 
 1 
 
 8 
 
 68 
 
 71 
 
 Addenda : — 
 Letter of Gilbert Bums to Dr. Carrie 
 Second Letter of Gilbert Burns 
 Widow, Children, and Brother of 
 
 Bums 
 
 Phrenological Development of Bunu . 
 
 :^nttitfll Wmh nf Enhtrt fonm. 
 
 The Death and Dying Words of Poor 
 
 Mailie 101 
 
 Poor Mailie's Elegy . • • ,102 
 
 Epistle to Davie 102 
 
 Address to the Deil . . . .103 
 
 The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning 
 
 Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie 105 
 Halloween . , . • . .106 
 
 A Winter Night 108 
 
 Epistle to J. Lapraik • • . .109 
 To the Same . . . , : 110 
 
 To William Simpson . • • .111 
 Death and Dr. Hornbook . • . J 13 
 
 The Holy Fair 114 
 
 The Ordination 117 
 
 To James Smith 118 
 
 The Jolly Beggars— A Cantata , , 119 
 Maa was Made to Mourn . • • 123 
 To a Mouse .*.... 124 
 
 The Vision : 124 
 
 The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer 127 
 
 Scotch Drink 129 
 
 Address to the Unco Good . • . 130 
 Tarn Samson's Elegy . . • .130 
 Despondency . . . • . 131 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night . . .132 
 To a Mountain Daisy . . • . 134 
 Epistle to a Young Friend . . .135 
 A Dedication to Gavin Hamiltol, Esq. 136 
 
 A Dream 137 
 
 A Bard's Epitaph . • . . 138 
 
 The Twa Dogs 
 
 Lament . . . • • 
 
 Address to Edinburgh ... 
 
 The Brigs of Ayr 
 
 On Captain Matthew Henderson . 
 
 Tarn O' Shanter .... 
 
 Tragic Fragment . . . « 
 
 Winter, a Dirge .... 
 
 A Prayer under the Pressure of Violeni 
 
 Anguish 
 
 A Prayer on the Prospect of Death 
 
 Stanzas on the same Occasion 
 
 Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 
 
 The Calf 
 
 The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie 
 Holy Willie's Prayer .... 
 Epitaph on Holy Willie . 
 Epistle to John Gondie of Kilmarnock 
 Epistle to John Rankine . . 
 
 Third Epistle to John Lapraik . 
 Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math . 
 The American War .... 
 Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poe 
 
 To Ruin 
 
 The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 
 
 Psalm ...... 
 
 The First Psalm .... 
 
 To a Louse ..... 
 
 The Inventory .... 
 
 A Note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
 Willie Chalmers .... 
 
 139 
 141 
 
 142 
 142 
 145 
 146 
 148 
 148 
 
 149 
 149 
 149 
 149 
 150 
 150 
 151 
 152 
 152 
 152 
 152 
 153 
 154 
 154 
 155 
 
 15S 
 155 
 156 
 156 
 157 
 157 
 
viii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Lines Written on a Bank Note . . 158 
 
 To a Kiss 158 
 
 Verses Written under Violent Grief . 158 
 Verses Left at a Friend's House where 
 
 the Author Slept one Night . . 158 
 
 To Mr. M'Adam 159 
 
 Lines on Meetinar with Basil, Lord Oaer 159 
 
 Epistle to Major Logan . . . 159 
 Lament on Leaving Scotland . . ,160 
 
 On a Scotch Bard .... 160 
 
 AVritten on a Blank Leaf of a Copy of Poems 1 6 1 
 
 The Farewell 161 
 
 To a Haggis 161 
 
 To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . 162 
 
 Extempore in the Court of Session . 162 
 
 To the Guidwife of VVauchope House . 162 
 Verses Written under the Portrait of 
 
 Fergusson the Poet . . . 163 
 
 Inscription on the Headstone of Fergusson 163 
 Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Woods on his 
 
 Benefit Night 163 
 
 E|)istle to William Creech ... 164 
 
 On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 165 
 On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch- 
 
 Turit 165 
 
 The Humble Petition of Bruar Water . 166 
 
 The Hermit 166 
 
 Verses written over the Chimney-piece 
 
 of the Inn at Kenmore, Tavmouth . 167 
 
 Elegy on the Death of Lord Dundas . 167 
 
 Verses written by the Full ofj Fyers . 168 
 
 On Reading of the Death of John M'Leod 163 
 
 On William Smellie . . . . )G8 
 
 Address to Mr. William Tytler . . 168 
 
 A Sketch 169 
 
 To Miss Cruikshanks .... 16J 
 An Extempore Effusion, on being Ap- 
 pointed to the Excise . . . 169 
 To Clarinda, with a Present of a Pair of 
 
 Drinking Glasses . . . .169 
 
 To Clarinda, on his Leaving Edinburgii 16 ) 
 
 Epistle to Hugh Parker ... 170 
 Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage, on 
 
 the Banks of Nith .... IVO 
 
 Extempore to Captain Riddel . . 171 
 A Mother's Lament . . . .171 
 
 Elesy on the Year 1783 ... 171 
 Address to the Tooth-Ache . . .172 
 
 Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald 172 
 
 Letter to James Tennant . . . 172 
 A Fragment, Inscribed to the Right Hon. 
 
 C. J. Fox 173 
 
 On Seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me, 
 
 which a Fellow had just Shot . 173 
 
 The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire ... 171 
 To Dr. Blacklock . . . .175 
 
 Delia 17.3 
 
 Sketch, New-Year's Day ... 175 
 
 Prologue, spoken at the Dumfries Theatre 17u 
 Pi'ologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit 
 
 Night, Dumfries 170 
 
 Written to a Gentleman who had sent 
 
 the Poet a New.spaper . . . 177 
 
 Peg Nicholson 177 
 
 ToMvBed 17s 
 
 First JEpistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry . 178 
 
 The Five Carlines 7;i 
 
 Secoi(d Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry 180 
 On Captain Grose's Peregrinations 
 
 through Scotland . . . .181 
 
 Written in an Envelope, enclosing a 
 
 Letter to Captain Grose . . .182 
 Address of Beelzebub to the President of 
 
 the Highland Society . . . 182 
 
 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots . . \s2 
 
 The\Vhistle Is3 
 
 Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . 181 
 
 Lament for James, Earl of Giencairn . 1-4 
 
 Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, Bart. 1 85 
 
 Third Epistle to Mr Graham, of Fintry 1 8 ) 
 
 Fourth Epistle to Mr Graham, of Fintry 186 
 The Rights of Woman . . . .186 
 
 A Vision 187 
 
 Liberty, a Fragment . . . .187 
 
 To Mr. Maxwell, on his Birth-Day . 187 
 On Pastoral Poetry . . . .83 
 
 Sonnet, on Hearing a Thrush Sing . 1 -.8 
 The Tree of Liberty . . . .183 
 
 To General Dumourier . . 18) 
 Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had 
 
 Offended 189 
 
 Monody on a Lady Famed for Her Caprice 18 ) 
 
 Epistle from iKsopus to Maria . . 190 
 
 Sonnet on the Death of Captiin Riddel . 191 
 
 Impromtu on Mrs Riddel's Birth-Day 191 
 
 Verses to Miss Grah.im of Fintry . 191 
 
 The Vowels, a I'ale I'M 
 
 Verses to John Rankine . . , 19 J 
 
 On Sensibility 192 
 
 Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 
 
 her Benefit Night . . . . 192 
 
 ToChloris 193 
 
 Address to the S'nade of Thomson . 193 
 Ballads on Mr. Heron's Elections, Ballad 
 
 First 193 
 
 Ballad Second, The Elect on . . 193 
 
 Ballad Third, An Excellent New Song . 194 
 
 On Life I9.i 
 
 Inscription for an Altar to Independence 19) 
 
 On the Death of a Favourite Child . . 195 
 
 To Mr. Mitchell • . . . . 196 
 Tlie Ruined Maid's Lament . . .196 
 
 The Dean of the Faculty . . . 19o 
 Verses on the Destruction of the Woods 
 
 near Drumlanrig 197 
 
 On the Duke of Queensberry . . 197 
 
 Verses to John M'Murdo . . . 197 
 On .Mr M'.Murdo, Inscribed on a Pane 
 
 of Glass in his House ... 197 
 
 Impromtu on Willie Stewart . . 198 
 
 To Miss Jessy Le wars . . . 193 
 Tibbie, I hae seen the Day . . .198 
 
 Montgomery's Peggy . . . 198 
 
 Bonny Pegsry Alison .... l-'S 
 
 Here's to thy Health, my Bonny Lass 1!I8 
 
 Young Peggy 199 
 
 John Barleycorn 9i 
 
 The Rigs o' Barley .... 200 
 
 The Ploughman 200 
 
 Song composed m August . . . -00 
 
 Yon Wild Mossy Mountains . . . l^Ol 
 
 My Nannie, O 201 
 
 Green Grow the Rashes .... 202 
 
 The Cure for all Care . . . . -0 : 
 
 On Cessnock Banks .... 202 
 
 The Highland Lassie .... 2(i:t 
 
 Powers Celestial ..... 203 
 
 I'rom thee, Eliza . > • . 2 ' i 
 
 iMenie ....... ^03 
 
 The Farewell . . . . 2j1 
 
I 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 I'iie Braes o' Ballochmyle 
 
 The Lass o' Ballochmyle 
 
 The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast 
 
 The Banks o' Doon 
 
 The Birks of Aberfeldy . 
 
 I'm owre Young to Marry Yet . 
 
 M'Pherson's Farewell 
 
 How Long and Dreary is the Night 
 
 Here's a Health to Them that's Awa 
 
 Strathallan's Lament . . . 
 
 The Banks of the Devon . 
 
 Braving Angry Winter's Storms 
 
 Jly Peggy's Face .... 
 
 R iving Winds around her Blowing 
 
 Highland Harry .... 
 
 Musing on the "Uoaring Ocean 
 
 Blythe was She .... 
 
 The Gallant Weaver . 
 
 The Blude-red Kose at Yule may Blaw 
 
 A Rose-bud by my Early Walk . 
 
 Bonnie Castle Gordon . . . 
 
 When Januar' Wind . . . 
 
 The Young Highland Rover . . 
 
 Bonnie Ann . . . • 
 
 Blooming Nelly . . . • 
 
 My Bonnie Mary . • • 
 
 Ane Fond Kiss . . . • 
 
 The Smiling Spring 
 
 The Lazy Mist .... 
 
 Of a' tne Airts the Wind can Blaw 
 
 Oh, were I on Parnassus' Hill . 
 
 The Chevallier's Lament . . 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands . 
 
 John Anderson . . . • 
 
 To JIary in Heaven . • • 
 
 Young jockey .... 
 
 The D.v Returns .... 
 
 Oh, Willie Brew'd 
 
 I Gaed a Wafu' Gate Yestreen . 
 
 The Hanks of Nith 
 
 My Heart is a-breaking, Dear Tittle 
 
 There'll never be Peace 
 
 ^leikle thinks my Love . 
 
 How can I be Blythe and Glad . 
 
 I do Confess thou wt sae Fair . 
 
 Hunting Song .... 
 
 What can a Young Lassie . . 
 
 The lionnie Wee Thing . . 
 
 Lovely Davies ..... 
 
 Oh, tor anc-and-twenty, Tarn . 
 
 Kenraure's on and Awa . . . 
 
 Bess and hei Spinning Wheel . 
 
 Oh Luve will Venture in 
 
 In Simmer, when the Hay was Mawn 
 
 Turn again, thou Fair Eliza . 
 
 Willie Wastle .... 
 
 Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation 
 
 Song of Death .... 
 
 .'■he's Fair and Pause 
 
 F.ow Gently, Sweet Afton . . 
 
 The LovelyLass of Inverness • 
 
 A red, red Rose .... 
 
 Louis, what Reck I by Thee . > 
 
 The Exciseman .... 
 
 Simcbody ..... 
 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon Town . 
 
 Will thou be my Dearie ? . . 
 
 Oh, Wat ye Wha's in yon Town 
 
 But Lately Seen .... 
 
 Could ought of Song ... 
 
 FXQE 
 
 2iu 
 20) 
 
 205 
 203 
 20.) 
 206 
 206 
 206 
 206 
 207 
 207 
 207 
 207 
 208 
 208 
 20S 
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 20x 
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 2 
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 2i0 
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 •v'U 
 ^'11 
 ill 
 
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 2li 
 2lL> 
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 ■iU 
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 2\\ 
 ■J 1 ■) 
 21.) 
 2.5 
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 218 
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 2^1 
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 221 
 
 Oh, Steer her up ... . 
 It was a' for our Rightfu' King . 
 
 Oh, wha is She that Loes me I • 
 
 Caledonia 
 
 Oh, lay thy Loof in Mine, Lasa . 
 Anna, thy Charms .... 
 Gloomy December . . » • 
 Oh, Miilly's meek, Mally's sweet 
 Cassillis' Banks .... 
 My Lady's Gown, there's Gairs upon't 
 The Fete Champetre . . . 
 Tlie Dumfries Volunteers . . , 
 Oh, wert Thou in the Cault Blast . 
 Lo\:ely Polly Stewart .... 
 Yestreen I had a Pint o' Wine 
 The Lea Rig • • • • • 
 
 Bonnie Lesley .... 
 
 Will ye go to' the Indies, my Mary? . 
 .Mv Wile's a Winsome WeeThing . 
 
 Hi-hland Mary 
 
 .Auld Ri)i) Morris .... 
 
 Duncan Gray ..... 
 
 Poort th Caiild .... 
 
 Gila Water ...... 
 
 Lord Gregory ..... 
 
 M iry Morison ..... 
 
 W^mdering Willie .... 
 
 The Soldier's Return . » . • 
 15 ylhe hae I been on yon Hill . 
 
 Logan Braes 
 
 Oh, gin my Love were yon Red Rose 
 
 Bonnie Jean 
 
 Meg o' the Mill .... 
 
 O pen the Door to me, oh . . . 
 
 Young Jessie 
 
 .■\ilown winding Nith 1 did Wander 
 
 H:id I a Cave 
 
 Philhs the Fair . . . ^ . 
 By Allan Stream I chanc'd to Rove 
 Come let me take Thee to my Breast . 
 Whistle and I'll Come to you, my Lad 
 D.iinty Davie ..... 
 
 Bruce's Address .... 
 Behold the Hour .... 
 
 Auld Lang Syne .... 
 Where are the Joys ? . . . , 
 Thou hast Left me Ever . . . 
 Deluded Swain, the Pleasure . . 
 Thine I am, my Faithful Fair . 
 
 My Spou-e, Nancy .... 
 ThS Banks of Cree .... 
 Oa the Seas and Far Away . . 
 
 Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes . . 
 She says she Loes me Best of A' . . 
 Saw ye my Philly ? . 
 How" Long and Dreary is the Night? . 
 Let not Woman e'er Comi)laiu 
 Sleej)'st thou, or Wak'st thou 
 My Chloris, mark how Green the Groves 
 It was the Charia;:3g Month of May 
 Farewell, thou Stream that Winding 
 
 Flows 
 
 Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks 
 
 Philly and Willy .... 
 
 Contented wi' Little 
 
 Lan'>t thou Leave me Thus, my Katyl 
 
 For a' That, and a' That , 
 
 My Nannie's Awa .... 
 
 Craigieburn Wood .... 
 
 Ob Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet 
 
 rAoa 
 222 
 2ii 
 2>i 
 •Zii 
 223 
 223 
 223 
 
 2.'4 
 224 
 22 1 
 •ii^ 
 225 
 •iib 
 2.6 
 2-6 
 2.6 
 226 
 227 
 227 
 227 
 227 
 228 
 228 
 2--8 
 223 
 229 
 22) 
 i30 
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 230 
 230 
 231 
 231 
 231 
 231 
 23 J 
 
 23 i 
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 u33 
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 23 1 
 :i3l 
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 2 '5 
 •23) 
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 236 
 236 
 236 
 •2 6 
 -.^37 
 237 
 •--37 
 237 
 
 237 
 ■-38 
 
 2;;8 
 
 i33 
 239 
 239 
 239 
 240 
 210 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Address to the Woodlark . , 
 
 On Chloris being 111 ... . 
 
 Their Groves o' Sweet Mvrtle 
 
 How Cruel are the Parents . 
 
 "i'was na her Bonnie Ulue Ee was my 
 
 Ruin 
 
 Mark yon Pomp of Costly Fashion * . 
 Oh, this is no my Ain Lassie . 
 Now Spring has Clad the Grove in Green 
 Oh, Bonnie was yon Ilosy Brier . 
 Forlorn my Love, no Comfort near 
 Hey lor a Lass wi' a I'ochcr . , 
 
 Last May a Braw Wooer ...» 
 
 Fragment 
 
 Jessy 
 
 Fairest Maid on Devon Banks . * , * 
 
 Handsome Nell 
 
 My Father was a Farmer . . . ' 
 Up in the Morning Karly . , 
 
 Hey, the Dusty Miller .... 
 Robin • . . . 
 The Bells of Mauchli'ne ,'.*.' 
 Her Flowing Locks .... 
 
 r*]e Sons of Old Killie .... 
 The Joyful Widower ... * 
 O, Whare did you Get t . . . 
 There was a Lass • . , , . 
 Landlady, Count the Lawin , , 
 Rattlin' Koarin' Willie .... 
 Simmer's a Pleasant Time . , . 
 My Love she's but a Lassie yet . 
 The Captain's Lady . . , 
 First when Meggy was my Care . 
 There's a Youth in this City . 
 Oh aye my Wife she Dang me . 
 
 Eppie Adair 
 
 The Battle of Sheriff-Muir 
 The Highland Widow's Lament . 
 Whare hae ye Been I . . . 
 Theniel Menzie's Bonnie Mary . 
 Frae the Friends and Land 1 Love 
 Gane is the Day .... 
 The Tithcr Morn .... 
 Come Boat me o'er to Charlie 
 It is na, Jean, thy Bonnie Face 
 I hae a Wife o' my Ain . , 
 
 Withsdale's Welcome Home . 
 My Collier Laddie . . . 
 As I wiis a-Wandering . , , 
 Ye Jacobites by Name , . 
 
 Lady Mary Ann .... 
 Out over the Forth . . , , 
 Jockey's taen the Parting Kiss . 
 The Carles o' Dysart . . . 
 
 Lady Onlie 
 
 Young Jamie, Pride of a' the Plain , 
 Jennv's a' wat, Poor Body . , 
 The Cardin' o't . . . 
 I'o thee. Loved Nith . , , 
 
 Sae Far Awa . . . , , 
 
 Wae is my Heart • , , . 
 Amang the Trees . . , , 
 
 The Highland Laddie . . . 
 Bannocks o' Barley .... 
 Kobin Shure in Hairst , . , 
 Sweetest Mjiy ..... 
 The Las8 of Ecclefechan , , 
 
 Here's a Bottle and an Honest Friend 
 On a Ploughman . , . , 
 The Weary Pund o' Tow . , , 
 
 PACE 
 
 241 
 
 241 
 
 241 
 
 241 
 
 242 
 
 243 
 
 . 243 
 
 243 
 
 243 
 
 241 
 
 244 
 
 244 
 
 245 
 
 245 
 
 24.J 
 
 14) 
 
 245 
 
 1-46 
 
 246 
 
 210 
 
 2dO 
 
 246 
 
 247 
 
 247 
 
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 248 
 
 24 
 
 248 
 
 248 
 
 249 
 
 249 
 
 249 
 
 2i0 
 
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 2.0 
 
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 iSl 
 
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 s;5i 
 
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 25.' 
 
 25.' 
 
 25.' 
 
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 253 
 
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 253 
 
 '^53 
 
 253 
 
 254 
 
 254 
 
 254 
 
 254 
 
 254 
 
 255 
 
 255 
 
 255 
 
 255 
 
 255 
 
 The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith 
 
 Epigrams, &c 
 
 On Captain Grose . * . 
 
 On a Henpecked Country Squire* . 
 Another on his Widow . . . . 
 On Elphinstone's Translations of Marl 
 
 tial's Epigrams .... 
 On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr . . ' . * 
 On an Illiterate Gentleman 
 Written under the Picture of Miss 
 
 Burns .... 
 
 "Written on the Window of the' Inn at 
 
 Cirron 
 
 Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn 
 
 at Moffat 
 
 Fragment 
 
 On Incivility shown him at Invernary 
 
 Highland Hospitality 
 
 Lines on Jliss Kemble .... 
 
 On the Kirk at Lamington . , 
 
 The Solemn League and Covenant 
 
 On a certain Parson's Looks . 
 
 On Seeing the Beautiful Seat of the 
 
 Earl of » » • • . , , 
 On the Earl of • • • • , . 
 
 On the Same 
 
 To the Same, on the Author being 
 
 threatened with his resentment . 
 On an Empty Fellow .... 
 Written on a Pane of Glass, on the 
 Occasion of a National Thanksgiving 
 The True Loyal Natives . . . 
 Inscription on a Goblet , , , 
 Extempore on Mr. Syme ... 
 To Mr. Syme . . . , , 
 The Creed of Poverty .... 
 Written in a Lady's Pocket Book . 
 To John Taylor . . . . , 
 To Miss Fontenelle . , • . 
 
 The Toast 
 
 Excisemen Universal . , 
 
 To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's 
 
 recovery ..... 
 On Jessy Lewars . . , . . 
 Toast to the Same . ^ , , ' 
 Epitaph on the Same . , , , 
 To the Same • . • , . 
 Graces belore Meat • • • . 
 Epitaphs • . . . , 
 On the Author's Father . , * , 
 On a Henpecked Country Squire . 
 On a Celebrated Ruling Elder . , 
 On a Noisy Polemic .... 
 
 On Wee Johnny 
 
 On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline* 
 For Robert Aiken, Esq. ... 
 On a Friend . . • , , * 
 For Gavin Hamilton ... 
 
 On Wat * 
 
 On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, 
 
 Fifeshire • . , , 
 On Mr. W. Cruikshanks , , * . 
 For AVilliam Nicol . . 
 
 On W . . . • ^ • 
 
 On the Same . . .'.*.* 
 On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer . , 
 On John Busby, Writer, Dumfries 
 On the Poet's Daughter . 
 On a Picture representing Jacob's 
 Dream • . . . . 
 
 rA«i 
 
 255 
 25« 
 256 
 256 
 266 
 
 25S 
 256 
 256 
 
 258 
 
 257 
 257 
 257 
 257 
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 257 
 
 ?57 
 257 
 257 
 
 257 
 253 
 
 258 
 258 
 26S 
 25S 
 i58 
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 25S 
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 259 
 159 
 
 2r9 
 2,59 
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 159 
 2^9 
 259 
 260 
 2G0 
 160 
 260 
 260 
 260 
 160 
 260 
 260 
 260 
 S6U 
 
 261 
 261 
 261 
 261 
 261 
 261 
 261 
 261 
 
 261 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CnrrB0|innhnrB nf fmm. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To Mr. John Murdoch, Schoolmaster . v:6d 
 
 To . [An early Love Letter] . :;66 
 
 To the Same »e6 
 
 To the Same • . « • • '<^G7 
 
 To the Same i()8 
 
 To Mr. James Burness, Writer . . 2(ib 
 
 To Mr. James Burness, Montrose . . v.()9 
 
 To the Same a6'J 
 
 To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline . . 270 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh . i70 
 To Mr. John Kennedy . . . .271 
 
 To Mr. llobertMuir, "Kilmarnock . 271 
 
 To Mr. Aiken 271 
 
 To Mr. M'Whinnie, Writer, Ayr . 272 
 To Mr. John Kennedy . . . ,272 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantine, of Ayr . . 272 
 
 To Mr. David Brice .... 272 
 
 ToMra. Dunlop, of Dunlop . . 273 
 
 To Mr. John Kicbraond, Edinburgh . 273 
 
 To Mr David Brice, Shoemaker . 273 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond .... 274 
 
 To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock . 274 
 
 To Mr. John Kennedy .... :;74 
 
 To Mr. Burness, Montrose . • • 274 
 
 To Mr. Robert Aiken .... i-75 
 
 To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair . , . 27G 
 
 In the name of the Nine . , . 27G 
 
 To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline . ;!77 
 
 To John Ballantine, Esq., Banker, Ayr . 277 
 
 To Mr. William Chalmers, Writer, Ayr :.'78 
 
 To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline . . 278 
 
 To John Ballantine, Esq. , , . i'78 
 
 To the Earl of Eglinton . , . 279 
 
 To John Ballantine, Esq. • • . 279 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 279 
 
 To Dr. Moore 280 
 
 To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmills . •,'.■*! 
 
 To James Dalrymple, Esq., Orangefield . 281 
 
 To Dr. Moore zs-^ 
 
 To John Ballantine, Esq. . . . i?82 
 
 To Mr. William Dunbar . . . 28.' 
 To the Earl of Glencairn* . . .283 
 To Mr. James Candlish, Student in Physic 283 
 
 To , on Fergusson's Headstone . 283 
 
 To the Earl of Buchan ... :i84 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 285 
 
 To the Same ...*.. 28o 
 
 To Dr. Moore ..... 28G 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop i86 
 
 To James Johnson, Editor of the " Scots 
 
 Musical Museum " . . . . 28G 
 
 To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair . . . i87 
 
 To William Creech, Esq , Edinburgh . vS? 
 
 To Mr. James Candlish .... 287 
 
 To Mr. Patison, Bookseller, Paisley . s87 
 To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the High 
 
 School, Edinburgh .... 288 
 
 To William Nicol, Esq 288 
 
 To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the High 
 
 School, Edinburgh .... 288 
 To William Cruikshank, St. James's 
 
 Square, Edinburgh .... 289 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond .... 289 
 
 To Robert Ainslie, Esq. . . . i90 
 
 To the Same •..«.. '^90 
 
 To Mr. Robert Muir . , 
 
 To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
 
 To Mr. Walker,"of Blair Atholo 
 
 To Mr. Gilbert Burns . 
 
 To Miss Margaret Chalmers 
 
 To the Rev. John Skinner 
 
 To James Hoy, 'Esq., Gordon Castio 
 
 To tlie Same 
 
 To Hubert Ainslie, Esq , Edinburgh 
 
 To ihe Earl of Glencairn 
 
 To ClKirles Hay, Esq., Advocate 
 
 To Miss M N. . 
 
 To Miss Chalmers . . 
 To the Same . • . « 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To Sir John Whitefoord . 
 Miss Margaret Chalmers . 
 
 To Miss Williams, on reading her 
 To Mr. Richard Brown, Irvine 
 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton . , 
 To Clarii.da .... 
 To tlie Same • • . . 
 To the Same .... 
 'I'o the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To tlie Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To tlic Same • . • . 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To Mrs Dunlop . . . 
 To Chirinda .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To tlic Same .... 
 To the Same .... 
 To .Mrs Dunlop ... 
 To Clarinda .... 
 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry 
 T J tlie Rev. John Skinner 
 To Richard Brown . . 
 To Mrs. Rose, cf Kilravock 
 To Clarinda .... 
 To Miss Chalmers . . 
 To Richard .Brown . . 
 To Miss Ciislmcrs . . 
 To Clarinda 
 
 To Mr. William Cruikshank 
 To Robert Ainslie, Esq. 
 To Clarinda . . , 
 To Richard Brown . . 
 To Mr. Muir . . • 
 To Clarinda ... 
 
 To Miss . 
 
 To Miss Cha mers . . 
 
 To Mrs. Di/nlop . . 
 
 To Richard Brown . . 
 
 To Mr. Robert Cleghorn 
 
 To Miss Chalmers 
 
 To Mr. William Dunbar, Edinburgh 
 
 rsam 
 
 290 
 
 ;91 
 
 29-' 
 
 a9i 
 
 i:9i 
 
 293 
 
 294 
 
 i94 
 
 293 
 
 •295 
 
 V9G 
 
 -96 
 
 29G 
 
 296 
 
 2;t7 
 
 297 
 
 298 
 
 i98 
 
 299 
 
 3(10 
 
 301 
 
 301 
 
 302 
 
 302 
 
 303 
 
 3iJ4 
 
 30.5 
 
 3115 
 
 30ti 
 
 307 
 
 308 
 
 308 
 
 309 
 
 309 
 
 310 
 
 310 
 
 310 
 
 311 
 
 312 
 
 312 
 
 312 
 
 313 
 
 313 
 
 313 
 
 314 
 
 314 
 
 314 
 
 313 
 
 315 
 
 31G 
 
 316 
 
 3IG 
 
 317 
 
 317 
 
 318 
 
 319 
 
 319 
 
 320 
 
 3:!0 
 
 320 
 321 
 321 
 321 
 32i 
 32i 
 
COM EMS. 
 
 fAOB 
 
 To Mrs Diinlip d-3 
 
 I'o Mr Jiiiifs Smith, Avon I'rintfield . 32. i 
 To I'rolessur Du^akl SLi-ttart . . . ii44 
 To Airs Dunloi)' . . ; . 3. -4 
 
 To Mr Robert Ainslie , . . . 3.'l 
 
 To Mrs. Uiinlop 321 
 
 To the Same . . < • • . 3:'5 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie . • • • 32ti 
 To the Same ...,,, 3-6 
 'J'o the Same ...... 326 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill 327 
 
 To Mr. George Lockhart . . . ^.-.iS 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 328 
 To Mr. William Cruikshanks . . 329 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 32:j 
 
 To the S.ime 33u 
 
 To Mr. BcuRO 33 i 
 
 To Miss Chalmers, E'linburgh . . 332 
 To Mr. Morri.son, Mauchline . . . 333 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . . . 3.i3 
 
 ^o Mr. Peter HiU 334 
 
 To the Editor of " Edinburgh Evening 
 
 Couraiit " 3.35 
 
 To Mrs Dunlop 336 
 
 To Mr James Johnson . . . 33iL 
 To Dr. lihicldock ..... 337 
 
 To Mr.s. Dunlop 337 
 
 To Miss Ddvies ...... 338 
 
 To Mr. John Tennant .... 3.i8 
 
 To the Rev. F. Carfrae .... 339 
 
 To Mr.s. Dunlop . . . . i 3 .9 
 
 To Dr. Moore . . . . . .30 
 
 To Mr. Robert .\inslie .... 341 
 
 To Professor Diigald Stewart . . . .41 
 
 To Bishop Geddes 'U2 
 
 To Mr. James Burness .... 342 
 
 ToiMrs Dunlop 34! 
 
 To Mr. ..44 
 
 To Dr Moore 44 
 
 To Mr. Hill i4i 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... .141) 
 
 To Mrs M'Murdo ..... 340 
 
 To Mr Cunninsliam . . . . 3 6 
 
 To Mr. Samuel Brown . . . .317 
 
 To Richard Brown .... 347 
 
 To .\Ir James Hamilton . . , , nti 
 To William Creech,*Esq. . . . 348 
 
 To Mr. M'Auley, oi pumbartou . .W.s 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 349 
 
 To Mr M Murdo . . • . 39 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop .iU 
 
 To Miss Wdliams ..... 3,id 
 To Mr. John Logan .... .'!.31 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 351 
 
 To Captain Riddel, Carse . . . 3.'3i 
 
 To Captain Ridtlel 3.5 i 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 3.)3 
 To Mr Richard Brown .... 333 
 To Robert Graham, Esq. . . . ..54 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 3.i4 
 
 To Lady Winfred Ma.\well Constable . S.'j.) 
 To Provost Maxwell .... ;;.') i 
 
 To Mr. Sutherland, Player , . . 356 
 To Sir John Sinclair . " . . . . 357 
 
 To Mr. GUbert Burns i57 
 
 To Mr. William Dfinbur, W S. . . 35s 
 To Mrs Dunlop . . . . ..rjS 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill, Bookseller, Edui;,.!.^,, ..VJ 
 
 To .Mr. W. Nicol 360 
 
 To Mr Cuiininghaia • • • • 361 
 
 To Mr Hill . , , , 
 To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
 To Mr Collector Mitchell. , 
 To Dr. .Moore 
 
 To Mr. Murdoch, London. , 
 To Mr. .M'.Murdo . 
 To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
 I'o .Mr. Cunningham . , 
 To Dr. Anderson . . . 
 To Craulord Tait, Esq. ; 
 
 To Dr. Blacklock 
 To Mrs Dunlop . . . ' 
 To Charles Sharpe, Esq. , . 
 To Lady VV. M. Constable . 
 ■I'o .Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
 To .Mr. Peter Hill 
 To Mr. Cunningham , , 
 To A F. Tytler, Esq. . 
 
 To tlie Rev G. Baird" . ' . * , 
 To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
 
 To the Rev. Arch. Alison 
 To Dr. Moore .... 
 To Airs Graham . . , , 
 To Mr Cunningham . . 
 
 To Mr. Alexander Dalzicl . , 
 To Mrs Dunlop , . , 
 
 To Mr. Cunniniihaia . ; , 
 To tlie Earl of Buchan . . 
 To Lady E. Cunnin;>liara . . 
 To Mr Thomas Sloan . • 
 To C.ilonel FuUarton • • , 
 I'o .Mis, D ivies. 
 
 To Mis Dunlop . . . • 
 To Mr. .\inslie .... 
 
 To ■ 
 
 To Francis Gro^e, Esq., F.S.A 
 To Mr William S.upllie, Printer 
 To Mr William Nicol 
 To r'lancis (iro.-^e, E.sq., F.S.A. . 
 To .Mr J. Clarke 
 
 To Mis. D.imop . . . . 
 To. Mr Cuiiniiigh.iin . , . 
 Mr. I'hoin-oii to Biii'ns . . 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
 To .Mrs Dunlop . . . . 
 To tlie Saiii(^ .... 
 Mr Tliomson to Burns . , 
 
 Burns to .Mr. Thomson . . 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . . 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . , 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
 
 To .Mrs Dunlop 
 To R Grahan,; Esq , Fiiitry 
 To Mrs. Dunloi) 
 
 To the S.ime 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . 
 Mr 4'hoinson to Burns 
 
 Postcript, from the Hon. A. Er.- 
 Burns to .Mr. Tho'mson 
 To < 'laiiium .... 
 To Mr C'u'iniu^ham . , , 
 Bums to .Mr. Tho'mson . . 
 To Aliss Ben-uu . . . . 
 Burns to .Mr. Thomson . • 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . • 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
 To Patrick Miller, Esq. . . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 To John Francis Erskine,.Esq 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Mr Thomson to Burns 
 To -Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 To Miss Kennedy 
 Burns to Mr. Thcmison 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Mr Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Air. Thomson 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomsoa 
 To Miss Craik 
 To Lady Glencairn . 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 B.irns to Mr. Thomson 
 Mr Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 Burns to Mr Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 
 To Johi\ M'Murdo, Esq. 
 
 To the Same . . . 
 
 To Capt.iin , . 
 
 To Mrs. hiddel . 
 
 To a Lady . 
 
 To the E;irl of Bueh in. 
 
 To Captain Miller . 
 I o M rs llidilel . 
 
 To the Same . . 
 
 To tne Same . . . 
 
 To the Same * « 
 
 To the Same . . , 
 
 To John Syuie, Esq. 
 
 To .Miss . 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 
 To the Earl of Glencairn 
 
 To Uavid MaccuUoch, Esq. 
 
 To .Mrs. Dunloi) . 
 
 To Mr. James Johnson , 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 
 To Mr. Samuel Clarke, Jun 
 
 Mr. Thom.son to Burns 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson , 
 
 lir. TUonibon to Burns 
 
 THOT 
 
 
 ri'31 
 
 ^97 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 423 
 
 309 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson 
 
 . 423 
 
 a'»9 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . 
 
 . . 424 
 
 400 
 
 .Mr Thomson to Burns , 
 
 . 425 
 
 400 
 
 Burns to Jlr Thomson , 
 
 4-5 
 
 400 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . 
 
 . . . 427 
 
 401 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 4.'7 
 
 40.' 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 . 428 
 
 402 
 
 Mr Thomson to Burns , 
 
 429 
 
 402 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 . 4.'9 
 
 403 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 430 
 
 403 
 
 To IVtcr Miller, Jun., Esq. 
 
 . . 431 
 
 404 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns 
 
 431 
 
 404 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 . 432 
 
 404 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 . 432 
 
 40 1 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . 
 
 . 432 
 
 40.) 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . 
 
 432 
 
 4 .5 
 
 -Mr. Thomson to Burns , 
 
 . 433 
 
 40G 
 
 I'.urns to Mr. Thomsoa , 
 
 433 
 
 41-10 
 
 To Airs. Hiddel 
 
 . 433 
 
 40U 
 
 To the Same . . . 
 
 . 434 
 
 400 
 
 To Mr. Heron, of Heron 
 
 . 4:S4 
 
 4117 
 
 To Miss Fontenelle . . 
 
 . 435 
 
 4 Oh 
 
 Mr. Tliomson to Burns . 
 
 . . . 435 
 
 408 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson • 
 
 ■io5 
 
 41 ly 
 
 liurns to Mr Thomson . 
 
 . 435 
 
 4119 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . 
 
 436 
 
 410 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 . 436 
 
 411 
 
 Jlr Thomson to Burns • 
 
 437 
 
 4 2 
 
 Burns to Mr. Tliomson • , 
 
 . 437 
 
 412 
 
 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 
 
 437 
 
 41.i 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns . , 
 
 , .437 
 
 413 
 
 To Mrs Dunlop . 
 
 437 
 
 4 4 
 
 I'o .Mr Alo.xanJcr Findlater 
 
 . 438 
 
 4H 
 
 To the Editor of the "Morning 
 
 Chronicle" 438 
 
 415 
 
 To Mrs. Uunlop . 
 
 439 
 
 4l> 
 
 Address of the Scotch Distiller 
 
 3 . . 44U 
 
 41.i 
 
 To the lion the Provost, Ba 
 
 Hies, and 
 
 410 
 
 Tow n Council of Dumfries 
 
 441 
 
 410 
 
 To Mrs Riddel 
 
 . . 441 
 
 4 
 
 To .Mrs Uunlop . 
 
 441 
 
 410 
 
 .Mr. Thomson to Burns • . 
 
 . 442 
 
 4 7 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . 
 
 442 
 
 417 
 
 Mr. Thomson to Burns , , 
 
 . 442 
 
 417 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson , 
 
 443 
 
 417 
 
 .Mr. Thomson to 13urns . . 
 
 . 443 
 
 4 8 
 
 liurns to Mr Thomson , 
 
 443 
 
 4.S 
 
 Burns to Mr Thomson . , 
 
 . 443 
 
 4i9 
 
 lo .Mrs. Riddel . 
 
 444 
 
 419 
 
 ■I'o .Mr. Clarke . . , 
 
 . 444 
 
 4 
 
 To .Mr James Joh7ison , 
 
 444 
 
 4.0 
 
 I'o Air. Cunningham . , 
 
 . 4i4 
 
 4.'l 
 
 To .Mr. Gilbert' Burns 
 
 415 
 
 4-'l 
 
 lo Airs. Burns . . , 
 
 . 4J5 
 
 421 
 
 To .Mrs. Dunlop , . 
 
 . , 445 
 
 422 
 
 To Mr James Burncss . . 
 
 i 44C 
 
 422 
 
 Burns to Air. Thomson , 
 
 . . 44G 
 
 422 
 
 Air. Thomson to Burns . . 
 
 . 446 
 
 422 
 
 To James Gracie, Esq. . 
 
 . . 447 
 
 423 
 
 To Mr. James Armour • . 
 
 . . 447 
 
 Notes to the Life of Burns • 
 
 Notes to the Poems of Burns 
 
 Notes to the Correspondence of Btirns 
 
 GL0S&AJ1.Y 
 
 449 
 476 
 61S 
 639 
 
i-v-/ X**-*--*-^ 
 
m nf Unlitrt %i\m. 
 
 fttitiatnri] IRrmarks. 
 
 Though tlie dialect in which many of the 
 happiest effusions of Kobert Burns are 
 composed be pecuhar to Scotland, yet his 
 repii^ition has extended itself beyond the 
 liiu.ts of that countrj', and his poetry has 
 been admired as the offspring- of original 
 genius, by persons of taste in every part of 
 the sister islands. It seems proper, there- 
 fore, to write the memoirs of his life, not 
 with the view of their being read by Scotch- 
 men only, but also by natives of England, i 
 and of other countries where the Enghsh I 
 language is spoken or understood. i 
 
 Kobert Burns was, in reality, what he has 
 been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. I 
 To render the incidents of his humble story 
 generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, 
 advisable to preii.K some observations on the 
 character and situation of the order to which 
 he belonged — a class of men distinguished 
 by many peculiarities: by this means we 
 shall for^i a more correct notion of the 
 advantages ^\■ith which he started, and of 
 the obstacles which he surmounted. A few 
 observations on the Scottish peasantry will 
 not, perhaps, be found unworthy of atten- 
 tion in other respects — and the subject is, 
 in a great measure, new. Scotland has 
 
 produced persons of high distinction iii 
 every brancli of philosopliy and literature ; 
 and her history, while a separate and inde- 
 pendent nation, has been successfiJly ex. 
 plored. But the present character of the 
 people was not then formed, the nation then 
 presented features similar to those which 
 the feudal system and the Catholic religion 
 had diflused over Europe, modified, indeed, 
 by the pecidiar nature of her territory and 
 climate. The Reformation, by which such 
 important changes were produced on the 
 national character, was speedily followed by 
 the accession of the Scottish monarchs to 
 the English throne ; and the period which 
 elapsed from that accession to the Union, 
 has been rendered memorable, chiefly, by 
 those bloody convulsions in which both 
 divisions of the island were involved, and 
 which, in a considerable degree, concealed 
 from the eye of the historian the domestic 
 history of the people, and the gradual varia- 
 tions in their condition and manners. Since 
 the Union, Scotland, though the seat of 
 two unsuccessful attempts to restore the 
 house of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed 
 a comparative tranquillity; and it is since 
 this period that the present character of her 
 peasantry has been in a great measure 
 formed, though the political causes affcctiu; 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 it are to be traced to the previous acts of 
 her separate legislature. 
 
 A slig-ht acquaintance with the peasan- 
 try of Scotland will serve to convince an 
 unprejudiced observer, that they possess a 
 degree of intelligence not generally found 
 among the same class of men in the other 
 countries of Europe. In the very humblest 
 condition of the Scottish peasants, every 
 one can read, and most persons are more or 
 less skilled in WTiting and arithmetic ; and, 
 under the disguise of their uncouth appear- 
 ance, and of their peculiar manners and 
 dialect, a stranger will discover that they 
 possess a curiosity, and have obtained a 
 degree of information, corresponding to 
 these acquirements. 
 
 These advantages they owe to the legal 
 provision made by the Parliament of Scot- 
 land in 1646, for the establishment of a 
 school in every parish throughout the 
 kingdom, for the express purpose of educa- 
 ting the poor— a law which may challenge 
 comparison with any act of legislation to 
 be found in the records of history, whether 
 we consider the wisdom of the ends in 
 view, the simplicity of the means employed, 
 or the provisions — made to render these 
 means effectual to their purpose. This ex- 
 cellent statute was repealed on the accession 
 of Charles II. in IGGO, together with all the 
 other laws passed during the Common- 
 wealth, as not being sanctioned by the Royal 
 assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles 
 and James II., but was re-enacted precisely 
 in the same terms, by the Scottish Parlia- 
 ment, in 1696, after the Revolution ; and 
 this is the last provision on the subject. 
 Its effects on the national character may be 
 considered to have commenced about the 
 period of the Union, and doubtless it co- 
 operated with the peace and security arising 
 from that happy event, in producing the 
 extraordinary change in favour of industry 
 and good morals, which the character of the 
 common people of Scotland has since under- 
 gone. 
 
 The church establishment of Scotland 
 happily comcides with the institution just 
 mentioned, which may be called its school 
 establishment. The clergyman, being every- 
 where resident in his particular parish, 
 becomes the natural patron and superinten- 
 dant of the parish school, and is enabled in 
 various ways to promote the comfort of the 
 .teacher, and the proficiency of the scholars. 
 The teacher himself is often a candidate 
 .for holy orders, who, during the long course 
 of study and probation refjuired in the 
 iScottisU church, renders the time wliich can 
 
 be spared from his professional studies useful 
 to others as well as to himself, by assuming 
 the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
 It is common for the established schools, 
 even in the country parishes of Scotland, to 
 enjoy the means of classical instruction; 
 and many of the farmers, and some even 
 of the cottagers, submit to much privation, 
 that they may obtain, for one of their 
 sons at least, the precarious advantage of 
 a learned education. The difficulty to bj 
 surmoimted arises indeed, not from the 
 expense of instructing their children, but 
 from the charge of supporting them. In the 
 country parish schools, the English lan- 
 guage, writing and accounts, are generally 
 taught at the rate of six shillings, and 
 Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings, 
 per annum. In the towns the prices arc 
 somewhat higher. 
 
 It woidd be improper in this place to 
 inquire minutely into the degree of instruc- 
 tion received at these seniiuarics, or to 
 attempt any precise estimate of its effects, 
 either on the individuals who are the sub- 
 jects of this instruction, or on the com- 
 munity to which they belong. That it is, 
 on the whole, favourable to industry and 
 morals, though doubtless with some indi- 
 vidual exceptions, seems to be proved by 
 the most striking and decisive experience ; 
 and it is equally clear, that it is the cause of 
 that spirit of emigration and of adventure 
 so prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge 
 has, by Lord Verulam, been denominated 
 power ; by others it has, \\ith less propriety, 
 been denominated virtue or happiness : we 
 may with contidence consider it as motion. 
 A human being, in proportion as he is 
 informed, has liis wishes enlarged, as well 
 as the means of gratifying those \vishes. 
 He may be considered as taking within the 
 sphere of his vision a large portion of the 
 globe on which we tread, and discovering 
 advantage at a greater distance on its sur- 
 face. His desires or ambition, once excited, 
 are stimulated by his imagination ; and 
 distant and uncertain objects, gn'ing Ircer 
 scope to the operation of this faculty; often 
 acquire, in the mind of the youthful adven- 
 turer, an attractio:i from their very distance 
 and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater de- 
 gree of instruction be given to the peasantry 
 of a country comparati\ ely poor, in the 
 neighbourhood of other countries rich in 
 natural and acquired advantages, and if 
 the barriers be removed that kept them 
 separate, emigration from the former to the 
 latter will take place to a certain extent, 
 by laws nearly as uniform as those by 
 
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION. 
 
 3 
 
 which heat diffuses itself amons: surrounding 
 biidies, or water finds its level when left to 
 its natural course. By the articles of the 
 Union, the barrier was broken down which 
 divided the two British nations, and know- 
 le(li,''e and poverty poured the adventurous 
 natives of the north over the fertile plains 
 of England ; and more especially, over the 
 colonies which she had settled in the east 
 and in the west. The stream of population 
 continues to flow from the north to the 
 south, for the causes that originally impelled 
 it continue to operate ; and the richer 
 country is constantly invigorated by the 
 accession of an informed and hardy race 
 of men, educated in poverty, and prepared 
 for liardship and danger; patient of labour 
 and prodigal of life. 
 
 The preachers of the Reformation in 
 Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and 
 brought with them the temper as well as 
 the tenets of that celebrated heresiarcli. 
 The Presbyterian form of worship and of 
 church government was endeared to the 
 people, from its being established by them- 
 selves. It was endeared to them, also, by 
 the struggle it had to maintain with the 
 Catholic and Protestant episcopal churches 
 
 national church ; and hence the first and 
 most constant exercise of ingenuity among 
 the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in 
 religious disputation. With a strong attach- 
 ment to the national creed, is conjoined a 
 bigoted preference for certain forms of wor- 
 ship ; the source of which would be often 
 altogether obscure, if we did not recollect 
 that the ceremonies of the Scottish Church 
 were framed in direct opposition, in every 
 point, to those of the Church of Rome. 
 
 The eccentricities of conduct, and singu- 
 larities of opinion and manners, which cha- 
 racterised the English sectaries in the last 
 century, afforded a subject for the comic 
 muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their 
 interest since their archetypes are lost. 
 Some of the peculiarities common among 
 the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in 
 Scotland, in the present times, have given 
 scope to the ridicide of Bums, whose 
 humour is equal to Butler's, and whose 
 drawings from living manners are singularly 
 expressive and exact. Unfortunately, the 
 correctness of his taste did not always cor- 
 respond with the strength of his genius. 
 
 The information and the religious educa- 
 tion of the peasantry of Scotland, promote 
 
 over both of which, after a hundred years j sedateness of conduct, and habits of thought 
 of fierce, and sometimes bloody contention, i and reflection. These good quaUties are not 
 it finally triumphed, receiving the counte- 1 counteracted by the establishment of poor 
 nance of government and the sanction of laws. Happily, in Scotland, the same legis- 
 law. During this long period of contention , lature which established a system of instruc- 
 and of sutTering, the temper of the people tion for the poor, resisted the introduction 
 became more and more obstinate and ! of a legal provision for the support of 
 bigoted; and the nation received that deep j poverty; hence it will not appear surprising, 
 tinge of fanaticism which coloured their if the Scottish peasantry have a more than 
 public transactions, as well as their private ! usual share of prudence and reflection, if 
 virtues, and of which evident traces may be I they approach nearer than persons of their 
 found in our o^\ni times. A^'hen the public ; order usually do to the definition of a 
 schools were established, the instruction man — that of "a being that looks before 
 communicated in them partook of the re- | and after." These observations must indeed 
 ligious character of the people. The Cate- i be taken with many exceptions ; the favour- 
 
 cliism of the Westminster Divines was the 
 universal school-book, and was put into the 
 hands of the young peasant as soon as he 
 had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
 and his first exercise in the art of reading, 
 introduced him to the most mysterious 
 doctrines of the Cliristian faith. This prac- 
 tice is continued in our own times. After the 
 Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solo- 
 mon, and the New and Old Testament follow 
 in regidar succession ; and the scholar de- 
 parts, gifted with the knowledge of the 
 sacred writings, and rccei\ing their doctrines 
 according to the interpretation of the AVcst- 
 minster Confession of Faith. Tlius, with the 
 instruction of infancy in the schools of 
 Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the 
 
 2* 
 
 able operation of the causes just mentioned 
 is counteracted by others of an opposite 
 tendency ; and the subject, if fully examined, 
 would lead to discussions of great extent. 
 
 AVhen the Reformation was established iu 
 Scotland, instrumental music was banished 
 from the churches, as savouring too much 
 of " profane nunstrclsy." Instead of being 
 regulated by an mstrument, the voices of 
 the congregation are led and directed by a 
 person under the name of a precentor, and 
 the people ;re all expected to join iu the 
 tune which he chooses for the psalm which 
 is to be sung. Church music is therefore a 
 part of the education of the peasantry of 
 Scotland, in which they are usually in- 
 structed La the long winter nights by the 
 
LIFE OF BURNS, 
 
 parish schoolmaster, who is generally the 
 precentor, or by itinerant teachers, more 
 celebrated for their powers of voice. This 
 branch of education had, in the last reign, 
 fallen into some neglect, but was revi\ed 
 about thirty or forty years ago, when the 
 music itself was reformed and improved. 
 The Scottish system of psalmody is, how- 
 ever, radically bad. Destitute of taste or 
 luiruiony, it forms a striking contrast with 
 the delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. 
 Our poet, it will be foimd, was taught church 
 music, in which, however he attained little 
 proficiency. 
 
 That dancing should also be very gene- 
 rally a part of tlie education of the Scottish 
 peasantry, will surprise those who have only 
 seen this description of men ; and still more 
 those who reflect on the rigid spirit of Cal- 
 vinism, with which the nation is so deeply 
 affected, and to which this recreation is so 
 strongly abhorrent. The winter is also the 
 season when they acquire dancing, and, 
 indeed, almost all their other instruction. 
 They are taught to dance by persons gene- 
 rally of their own number, many of whom 
 work at daily labour during the summer 
 months. The school is usually a barn, and 
 the arena for the performers is generally 
 a clay floor. The dome is lighted by 
 candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, 
 the other end of which is thrust into the 
 wall. Reels, strathspeys, contra-dances, and 
 hornpipes, are here practised. The jig, 
 so much in favour among the English 
 peasantry, has no place among them. The 
 attachment of the people of Scotland of 
 every rank, and particularly of the peasan- 
 try, to this amusement, is very great. 
 After the labours of the day are over, 
 young men and women walk many miles, 
 in the cold and dreary nights of winter, 
 to these country dancing-schools; and the 
 instant that the viohn sounds a Scottish 
 air, fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent 
 rustic becomes erect, his features brighten 
 with sympathy, every nerve seems to thrill 
 with sensation, and every artery to vibrate 
 with life. These rustic performers are 
 indeed less to be admired for grace than 
 for agility and animation, and for their 
 accurate observance of time. Their modes 
 of dancing, as well as their tunes, are com- 
 mon to e\ery rank in Scotland, and are 
 now generally known. In out own day 
 they have penetrated into England, and 
 have established themselves even in the 
 circle of royalty. In another generation 
 they will be naturalised iu every part of 
 the island. 
 
 The prevalence of this taste, or rather 
 passion, for dancing, among a people so 
 deeply tinctured with the spirit and doc- 
 trines of Calvin, is one of those contra- 
 dictions which the philosophic observer so 
 often finds in national character and manners. 
 It is probably to be ascribed to the Scottish 
 music, which, throughout all its varieties, 
 is so full of sensibility, and which, in its 
 livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions 
 that find in dancing their natural solace and 
 relief. 
 
 This triumph of the music of Scotland 
 over the spirit of the established religion, 
 has not however, been obtained, without 
 long-continued and obstinate struggles. The 
 numerous sectaries who dissent from the 
 Establishment on account of the relaxation 
 which they perceive, or think they perceive, 
 in the Church, from her original doctrines 
 and discipline, miiversally condemn the prac- 
 tice of dancing, and the schools where it is 
 taught ; and the more elderly and serious 
 part of the people, of every persuasion, 
 tolerate rather than approve these meetings 
 of the young of both sexes, where dancing 
 is practised to their spirit-stirring music, 
 where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten, 
 and prudence itself is sometmies lulled to 
 sleep. (1) 
 
 The Reformation, which proved fatal to 
 the rise of the other tine arts in Scotland, 
 probably impeded, but coidd not obstruct, 
 the progress of its music — a circumstance 
 that will convince the impartial inquirer, 
 that this music not only existed previously 
 to that era, but had taken a firm hold of 
 the nation, thus affording a proof of its 
 antiquity stronger than any produced by 
 the researches of our antiquaries. (2) 
 
 The impression which the Scottish music 
 has made on the people, is deepened by its 
 tuiion with the national songs, of which 
 various collections of unequal merit are 
 before the public. These songs, like those 
 of other nations, are many of them hu- 
 morous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, 
 and drinking. Love is the subject of the 
 greater proportion. Without displaying 
 the higher powers of the imagination, they 
 exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human 
 heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, and 
 sometimes of delicate and romantic ten- 
 derness, not to be surpassed in modern 
 poetry, and which the more polished strains 
 of antiquity have seldom possessed. 
 
 The origin of this amatory character in 
 the rustic muse of Scotland, or of the 
 greater number of these love-songs them- 
 selves, it would be difficult to trace ; they 
 
SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE SEXES. 
 
 have accuimilated in the silent lapse of 
 time, and it is now perhaps impossible to 
 give an arrangement of them in the order 
 of their date, valuable as such a record of 
 tSste and manners would be. Their present 
 influence on the character of the nation is, 
 however, great and striking. To them we 
 must attribute, in a great measure, the 
 romantic passion which so often character- 
 ises the attachments of the humblest of 
 the people of Scotland, to a degree that, if 
 we mistake not, is seldom found in the 
 same rank of society in other countries. 
 The ))ictures of love and happiness exhibited 
 in their rural songs, are early impressed on 
 the mind of the peasant, and are rendered 
 more attractive from the music with which 
 they are united. Tliey associate themselves 
 with his own youthful emotions ; they ele- 
 vate the object as well as the nature of his 
 attachment ; and give to the impressions 
 of sense the beautiful colours of imagination. 
 Hence, in the course of his passion, a Scottish 
 peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, 
 of which a Spanish cavalier need not be 
 ashamed. After the labours of the day are 
 over, he sets out for the habitation of his 
 mistress, perhaps at many miles' distance, 
 regardless of the length or the dreariness 
 of the \x'ay. He approaches her in secrecy, 
 under the disguise of night. A signal at 
 the door or window, perhaps agreed on, and 
 understood by none but her, gives in- 
 formation of his arrival ; and sometimes it 
 is repeated again and again, before the ca- 
 pricious fair-one wnll obey the summons. 
 But if she favours his addresses, she escapes 
 unobserved, and receives the vows of her 
 lover under the gloom of twilight or the 
 deeper shade of night. Interviews of this 
 kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish 
 songs, some of the most beautiful of whieii 
 Burns has imitated or improved. In the 
 art which they celebrate he was perfectly 
 skilled ; he knew and had practised all its 
 mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed 
 universal, even in the humblest condition 
 of man in every region of the earth. But 
 it is not unnatural to suppose that it may 
 exist in a greater degree, and in a more 
 romantic form, among the peasantry of a 
 country who are supposed to be more than 
 commonly instructed ; — who find in their 
 rural songs expressions for their youthful 
 emotions ; — and in whom the embers of 
 passion are continually fanned by the 
 breatliings of a music full of tenderness 
 and sensibility. The direct influence of 
 physical causes on the attachment between 
 the sexes is comparatively small, but it is 
 
 modified by moral causes beyond any other 
 affection of the mind. Of these, music and 
 poetry are the chief. Among the snows of 
 Laplarul, and under the burning sun of 
 Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his 
 mistress, and everj^vhere he begiules the 
 weariness of his journey with poetry and 
 song. (3) 
 
 In appreciating the happiness and virtue 
 of a community, there is perhaps no single 
 criterion on which so much dependence may 
 be placed, as the state of the intercourse 
 between the sexes. Where this displays 
 ardour of attaciiment, accompanied by purity 
 of conduct, the character and the influence 
 of women rise in society, our imperfect 
 nature mounts in the scale of moral excel- 
 lence ; and, from the source of this single 
 affection, a stream of felicity descends, 
 which branches into a thousand rivulets that 
 enrich and adorn the field of life. AVhere 
 tlie attaclmient between the sexes sinks into 
 an appetite, the heritage of our species is 
 comparatively poor, and man a;iproaches the 
 condition of the brutes that perish. " If we 
 could with safety indulge the pleasing sup- 
 position that Fingal Ined and that Ossian 
 sung" (4), Scotland, judging fi-om this crite- 
 rion, might be considered as ranking high 
 in happiness and virtue in very remote ages. 
 To appreciate her situation by the same 
 criterion in our own times, would be a 
 delicate and a ditticidt undertaking. Afrcr 
 considering the probable influence of her 
 popular songs and her national music, and 
 examining how far the effects to be expected 
 from these are supported by facts, the in- 
 quirer woidd also have to examine the 
 influence of other causes, and particularly 
 of her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, by 
 which the character, and even the manners 
 i of a people, though silently and slowly, are 
 j often powerfully controlled. In the point 
 I of view in which we are considering the 
 subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of 
 j Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- 
 vourable to piu-ity of conduct. The disso- 
 luteness of manners among the Catholic 
 clergy, which preceded, and in some measure 
 produced the Reformation, led to an ex- 
 traordinary strictness on the part of the 
 reformers, and especially in that particular 
 I in which the licentiousness of the clergy 
 j had been carried to its greatest height — • 
 I the intercourse between the sexes. On this 
 I point, as on aH others connected with auste- 
 I rity of manners, the disciples of Calvin 
 assumed a greater severity than those of 
 the Protestant Episcopal church. The 
 punishment of illicit connection between 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a 
 province which the clergy assumed to tliem- 
 selves ; and the church of Scotland, which 
 at the Reformation renounced so many 
 jiowers and privileges, at that period took 
 this crime imder her more especial juris- 
 diction. Where pregnancy takes place with- 
 out marriage, the condition of the female 
 causes the discovery ; and it is on her, 
 therefore, in the first instance, that the 
 clergy and elders exercise their zeal. After 
 examination before the kirk-session, touch- 
 ing the circumstance of her guilt, she must 
 endure a public penance and sustain a 
 public rebuke from the pulpit, for three 
 Sabbaths successively, in the face of the 
 congregation to which she belongs, and thus 
 lia\'e her weakness exposed, and her shame 
 blazoned. The sentence is the same with 
 res])ect to the male, but how much lighter 
 the punishment ! It is well known that 
 this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds 
 of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to 
 consequences, at the very mention of which 
 liuman nature recoils. (H) 
 
 WTiile the punishment of incontinence 
 prescribed by the institutions of Scotland is 
 severe, the culprits have an obvious method 
 of avoiding it, afforded them by the law 
 respecting marriage, the validity of which 
 requires neiliier the ceremonies of the 
 church, nor any other ceremonies, but 
 simply the deliberate acknowledgement of 
 each otlier as husband and wife, made by 
 the parties before witnesses, or in any other 
 way that gives legal evidence of such an 
 acknowledgement having taken place. And 
 as the parlies themselves fix the date of 
 their marriage, an o])portunity is thus given 
 to avoid the punishment, and repair the con- 
 sequences, of illicit gratification. Such a 
 degree of laxity respecting so serious a con- 
 tract might produce mncli confusion in the 
 descent of property without a still farther 
 indulgence ; but the law of Scotland, legi- 
 timating all children born before wedlock, 
 on the subsequent marriage of their parents, 
 renders the actual date of the marriage 
 itself of little consequence. Marriages con- 
 tracted in Scotland without the ceremonies 
 of the church, are considered as irrer/idar, 
 and the parties usually submit to a rebuJce 
 for their conduct, iu the face of their 
 respective congregations, which is not how- 
 ever necessary to render the marriage valid. 
 Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, was 
 irregular, does not seem to have undergone 
 this part of the discipline of the chureli. 
 
 Thus, though the institutions of Scotland 
 are in many particidars favourable to a con- 
 
 duct among the peasantry founded upoa 
 foresight and reflection, on the subject of 
 marriage the reverse of this is true. Irre- 
 gidar marriages, it may be luiturally sup- 
 posed, are often improvident ones, in 
 whatever rank of society they occur. TPhe 
 children of such marriages, poorly endowed 
 by their parents, find a certain degree of 
 instruction of easy acquisition, but the 
 comforts of Ufe, and the gratifications of 
 ambition, they find of more dirticult attain- 
 ment in their native soil ; and thus the 
 marriage laws of Scotland consjiire, with 
 other circumstances, to produce that habit 
 of emigration, and spirit of adventure, for 
 which the people are so remarkable. 
 
 The manners and appearance of the Scot- 
 tish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger 
 the degree of their cidtivation. In their 
 own country, their industry is inferior to 
 that of the same description of men in the 
 southern division of the island. Industry and 
 the usefid arts reached Scotland later than 
 England ; and though their advance has 
 been rapid there, the effects produced are 
 as yet far inferior both in reality and in 
 appearance. The Scottish farmers have in 
 general neither the opulence nor the com- 
 forts of those of England, neither vest the 
 same capital in the soil, nor receive from 
 it the same return. Their clothing, their 
 food, and their habitations, are almost 
 everywhere inferior. (6) Tlieir appearance iu 
 these respects corresponds with the appear- 
 ance of their comitry ; and under the 
 operation of patient industry, both are im- 
 proving. Industry and the useful arts came 
 later into Scotland than into England, be- 
 cause the security of property came later. 
 AVith causes of internal agitation and warfare, 
 similar to those which occurred to the more 
 southern nation, the people of Scotland were 
 exposed to more imminent hazards and to 
 more extensive and destructive spoliation, 
 from external war. Occupied in the mainte- 
 nance of their independence against their 
 more powerful neighbours, to this purpose 
 were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, 
 and, at certain periods, the flower of their 
 population. And when the union of the 
 crowns produced a security from national 
 wars with England, for the century suc- 
 ceeding, the ci\il wars common to both 
 divisions of the island, and the dependence, 
 perhaps the necessary dependence, of the 
 Scottish councils on those of the more 
 powerful kingdom, counteracted this disad- 
 vantage. Even the union of the British 
 nations was not, from obvious causes, im- 
 meihately followed by all the beneljts which 
 
PATRIOTISM OF THE SCOTCH. 
 
 it was ultimately destined to produce. At 
 length, however, these benefits are distinctly 
 felt, and generally acknowledijed. Property 
 is secure; manufactures and commerce in- 
 creasinj; ; and agriculture is rapidly improv- 
 ing in Scotland. As yet indeed, the farmers 
 arc not, in general, enabled to make improve- 
 ments out of their own capitals, as in 
 England ; but the landliolders who have 
 seen and felt the advantages resulting from 
 them, contribute towards tliemwitha liberal 
 hand. Hence property, as well as population, 
 is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; 
 and the nation, enjoying a great part of the 
 blessings of Enghshmeu, and retaining 
 several of their own hapjiy institutions, 
 might be considered, if contidence could be 
 placed in human foresight, to be as yet only 
 in an early stage of their progress. Yet 
 there are obstructions in their way. To 
 the cultivation of the soil are opposed the 
 extent and the strictness of the entails ; to 
 the improvement of the people, the rapidly 
 increasing use of spirituous liquors, a de- 
 testable practice, which includes in its con- 
 sequences almost every evil, physical and 
 moral. (7) The peculiarly social disposition 
 of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to 
 this practice. This disposition, which is 
 fostered by their national songs and music, 
 is perhaps characteristic of the nation at 
 large. Though the source of many 
 pleasures, it counteracts, by its conse- 
 quences, the efTects of their patience, in- 
 dustry, and frugality, both at home and 
 abroad, of which those especially who have 
 witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in 
 other countries must have known many 
 striking instances. 
 
 Since the Union, the manners and language 
 of the people of Scotland have no longer a 
 standard among themselves, but are tried by 
 the standard of the nation to which they are 
 united, niough their habits are far from 
 being flexible, yet it is evident that their 
 manners and dialect are undergoing a rapid 
 change. Even the farmers of the present 
 day appear to have less of the peculiarities of 
 their country in their speech than the men 
 of letters of the last generation. 15urns, who 
 never left the island, nor penetrated farther 
 into Englaiul than Carhsle on the one hand, 
 or Newca.stle on the otiier, had less of the 
 Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived tor 
 many years iu the best society of Englaiul 
 and France — or perhaps than llobertson, who 
 wrote the English language in a style of 
 such purity ; and if he had been in other 
 respects litted to take a lead in the Briti.sh 
 House of Commons, his prouiuiciation 
 
 would neither have fettered his eloquence^ 
 nor deprived it of its due effect. 
 
 A striking particular in the character of 
 the Scottish peasantry, is one which it is 
 hoped will not be lost — the strength of 
 their domestic attachments. The priva- 
 tions to which many parents submit for the 
 good of their children, and particularly to 
 obtain for them instruction, which they con- 
 sider as the chief good, has already been 
 noticed. If their children live and ])rosper, 
 they iiave their certain reward, not merely 
 as witnessing, bnt as sharing of their pros- 
 perity. Even in the humblest ranks of the 
 peasantry, the earnings of the children may 
 generally be considered as at the disposal 
 of their parents : perhaps in no country is 
 so large a portion of the wages of labour 
 applied to the support and comfort of those 
 whose days of labour are past. A similar 
 strength of attachment extends through all 
 the domestic relations. Our poet partook 
 largely of this amiable characteristic of his 
 humble compeers : he was also strongly 
 tinctured with another striking feature which 
 belongs to them — a partiality for his native 
 country, of which many proofs may be found 
 in his wTitings. This, it must be confessed, 
 is a very strong and general sentiment 
 among the natives of Scotland, differing, 
 however, in its character, according to the 
 character of the different minds in which 
 it is fotmd — in some appearing a selfish 
 prejudice, in others a generous affection. 
 
 An attachment to the land of tlieir birth 
 is, indeed, common to all men. It is found 
 among the inhabitants of every region of 
 the earth, from the arctic to the ant-arctic 
 circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of 
 surface, and of civilisation. To analyse this 
 general sentiment, to trace it through the 
 mazes of association up to the primary affec- 
 tion in which it has its source, would neither 
 be a dirticult nor an unpleasing labour. On 
 the first consideration of the subject, we 
 should perhaps expect to find this attachment 
 strong in proportion to the physical advan- 
 tages of the soil ; but inquiry, far from 
 confirming this supposition, seems rather to 
 lead to an opposite conclusion. In those 
 fertile regions where beneficent nature yields 
 almost spontaneo>isly whatever is necessary 
 to hiunan wants, patriotism, as well as every 
 other generous sentiment, seems weak and 
 languid. In comitries less richly endowed, 
 where the comforts, and even necessaries of 
 life, must be purchased by patient toil, the 
 all'ections of the mind, as well as the faculties 
 of the imderstanding, improve under exertion, 
 and patriotism flourishes amidst its kindred 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 virtues. WTiero it is necessary to combine 
 fur mutual defence, as well as fur the supply 
 of common wants, mutual good-will springs 
 from mutual difficulties and labours, the 
 social affections unfold themselves, and extend 
 from the men with whom we live to the soil 
 on which we tread. It will perhaps be 
 found, indeed, that our affections cannot 
 be originally called forth, but by objects 
 capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our 
 sentiments, and of returning them ; but 
 when once excited, they are strengthened by 
 exercise ; they are expanded by the powers 
 of imagination, and seize more especially on 
 those inanimate parts of creation, which 
 form the theatre on wliich we have first felt 
 the alternations of joy and sorrow, and first 
 tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. 
 If this reasoning be just, the love of our 
 country, although modified, and even ex- 
 tinguished m individuals by the chances and 
 changes of life, may be presumed, in our 
 general reasonings, to be strong among a 
 people, in proportion to their social, and more 
 especially to their domestic affections. Under 
 free governments it is found more active 
 than under despotic ones, because, as the 
 individual becomes of more consequence in 
 the commimity, the community becomes of 
 more consequence to him. In small states it 
 is generally more active than in large ones, 
 for the same reason, and also because the 
 independence of a small community being 
 maintained with difficulty, and frequently 
 endangered, sentiments of patriotism are 
 more frequently excited. In mountainous 
 countries it is generally found more active 
 than in plains, because there the necessities 
 of life often require a closer union of the 
 inhabitants ; and more especially, because 
 in such countries, though less popidous than 
 plains, the inhabitants, instead of being 
 scattered equally over the whole, are usually 
 divided into small communities on the sides 
 of their separate vallies, and on the banks 
 of their respective streams — situations well 
 calculated to call forth and to concentrate 
 the social affections, amidst scenery that acts 
 most powerfully on the sight, and makes 
 a lasting impression on the memory. It 
 may also be remarked, that mountainous 
 countries are often peculiarly calculated to 
 nourish sentiments of national pride and 
 independence, from the influence of history 
 on the affections of the mind. In such 
 countries from their natural strength, inferior 
 nations have maintained their independence 
 against their more powerful neighbours, and 
 valour, in all ages, has made its most success- 
 ful efforts against oppression. Such countries 
 
 present the fields of battle where the tide of 
 invasion was rolled back, and wliereon the 
 ashes rest of those who have died in defence 
 of their nation ! 
 
 The operation of the various causes we 
 have mentioned is doubtless more general 
 and more permanent, where the scenery of 
 a country, the peculiar manners of its in- 
 habitants, and the martial achievements of 
 their ancestors, are embodied in national 
 songs, and united to national music. By 
 this combination, the ties that attach men to 
 the land of their birth are multiplied and 
 strengthened, and the images of infancy, 
 strongly associating with the generous affec- 
 tions, resist the influence of time, and of 
 new impressions ; they often survive in 
 comitries far distant, and amidst far different 
 scenes, to the latest period of life, to soothe 
 the heart with the pleasures of memory, 
 when those of hope die away. 
 
 If this reasoning be just, it will explain 
 to us why among the natives of Scotland, 
 even of cultivated minds, we so generally find 
 a partial attachment to the land of their 
 birth, and why this is so strongly dis- 
 coverable in the writings of Burns, who 
 joined to the higher powers of the under- 
 standing the most ardent affections. Let 
 not men of reflection think it a superfluous 
 labour to trace the rise and progress of a 
 character hke his. Born in the condition 
 of a peasant, be rose, by the force of his 
 mind, into distinction and influence, and in 
 his works has exhibited what are so rarely 
 found, the charms of original genius. With 
 a deep insight into the humaii heart, his 
 poetry exhibits high powers of imagination 
 — it displays, and as it were embalms, the 
 peculiar manners of his country ; and it 
 may be considered as a monument, not to 
 his own name only, but to the expiring 
 genius of an ancient and once independent 
 nation. In relating the iucidents of his life, 
 candour wiU prevent us from dwelling 
 invidiously on those faihngs which justice 
 forbids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly 
 over liis yet warm ashes, and respect the 
 laurels that shelter liis imtimely grave. 
 
 Robert Burns was, as is well known, the 
 son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
 himself a farmer there ; but, having been 
 unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to 
 Jamaica. He had previously, however, at- 
 tracted some notice by his poetical talents 
 in the vicinity where he hved ; and having 
 pubhshed a small volume of his poems at 
 
U URNS' SKETCH OF HIS OWN Lll'Ji 
 
 Kilmarnock, this drew upon him more 
 general attention. In consequence of the 
 encouragement he received, lie repaired to 
 Edinburgh, and there published, by sub- 
 fcription, an improved and enlarged edition 
 of his poems, which met with extraordinary 
 success. By the profits arising from the 
 sale of this edition, he was enabled to 
 enter on a farm in Dumfries- shire ; and 
 havuig married a person to whom he had 
 been long attached, he retired to devote the 
 remainder of his life to agriculture. He 
 was again, however, unsuccessfid ; and, 
 abandoning his farm, he removed into the 
 town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior 
 office in the Excise, and where he termi- 
 nated his life in July 1796, in liis thirty- 
 eighth year. 
 
 The strength and originality of his genms 
 procured him the notice of many persons 
 distinguished m the repubUc of letters, and, 
 among others, that of Dr. Moore, well 
 knowni for his Views of Society and Manners 
 on the Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, 
 and various other works. To this gentle- 
 man our poet addressed a letter, after his 
 first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of 
 his Ufe, up to the period of his ■mriting. 
 In a composition never intended to see the 
 light, elegance, or perfect correctness of 
 composition, will not be expected. These, 
 however, wLU be compensated by the oppor- 
 tunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the 
 incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities 
 of his character with all the careless ngour 
 and open sincerity of liis mind. 
 
 " Maucldine, 2nd August, 1787. 
 "Sir. — For some months past I have 
 been rambling over the coimtry, but I am 
 now confined with some lingering complaints, 
 originating, as I take it, in the stomach. 
 To divert my spirits a Uttle in this miser- 
 able fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to 
 give you a history of myself. My name 
 has made some little noise in this country 
 • — you have done me the honour to interest 
 yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I 
 tlmik a faitliful account of what character 
 of a man 1 am, and how I came by that 
 character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle 
 moment. I will give you an honest narra- 
 tive, though I know it will be often at my 
 own expense ; for I assure you sir, I ha\ e, 
 like Solomon, whose character, excepting in 
 the trifling affair of ivisiloin, I sometimes 
 think I resemble — I have, I say, like him 
 turned my eyes to behold mndiiess and fully, 
 and, hke him, too frequently shaken hands 
 with their intoxicatmg friendship. • • • 
 
 After you have perused these pages, should 
 you think them trifling and impertinent, I 
 only beg leave to tell you, that the poor 
 author wTOte them under some twitcliing 
 qualms of conscience, arising from sus])icion 
 that he was doing what he ought not to 
 do — a predicament he has more than once 
 been in before." 
 
 " I have not the most distant pretensions 
 to assume that character which the pye- 
 coated guardians of escutcheons call a 
 gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter 
 I got acquainted in the Herald's Office ; 
 and, looking through that granary of 
 honours, I there found almost every name 
 in the kingdom 1 but for me, 
 
 ' My ancient but ignoble blood 
 Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the 
 
 flood.' 
 Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c., quite disowned 
 me." 
 
 My father was of the north of Scotland, 
 the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early 
 misfortunes on the world at large, where, 
 after many years' wanderings and sojourn- 
 ings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of 
 observation and experience, to which 1 am 
 indebted for most of my little pretensions 
 to wisdom. I have met with few who im- 
 derstood men, their manners, and their ways, 
 equal to him ; but stubborn, migainly 
 integrity, and headlong ungovernable irasci- 
 bility, are disqualifying circumstances, con- 
 sequently I was born a very poor man's son. 
 For the first six or seven years of my life, my 
 father was gardener to a worthy gentleman 
 of small estate in the neighbourhood of 
 Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I 
 must have marched off to be one of the little 
 underlings about a farm-house ; but it was 
 his dearest wish and prayer to have it in 
 his power to keep his children under his 
 own eye till they could discern between 
 good and evil ; so, with with the assistance 
 of his generous master, my father ventured 
 on a small farm on his estate. At those 
 years I was by no means a favourite with 
 any body. I was a good deal noted for a 
 retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy some- 
 thing in my disposition, and an enthusiastic 
 idiotic piety. I say idiotic piety, because I 
 was then but a child. Though it cost the 
 schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an 
 excellent English scholar, and by the time 
 I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a 
 critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. 
 In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 
 much to an old woman who resided in the 
 family, remarkable for her ignorance, ere- 
 I duhty, and superstiliou. bhc had, I sup- 
 
10 
 
 LIFE OF BUBNS. 
 
 pose, the largest collection in the country 
 of tales and songs conceniiiig devils, ghosts, 
 fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, siiuukies, 
 kelpies, elf-candles, dead-liglits, wraiths, 
 apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
 towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This 
 cultivated the latent seeds of poetry, but had 
 80 strong an effect on my imagination, that 
 to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
 sometimes keep a sharp look-out in sus- 
 picious places ; and though nobody can be 
 more sceptical than I aui in such matters, 
 yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to 
 shake off these idle terrors. The earliest 
 composition that I recollect taking pleasure 
 in was The ^ ision of Rlirza, and a hymn 
 of Addison's, beginning, " llow are thy 
 servants blest, oh Lord ! " I particularly 
 remember one half-stanza, which was music 
 to my boyish ear : — 
 
 ' For thou^xh on dreadful whirls we hung 
 
 High on the broken wave.' 
 I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
 Collection, one of my school-books. The 
 two first books I ever read in private, and 
 which gave me more pleasure than any 
 two books I ever read smce, were the Life 
 of Hannibal, and TheHistory of Sir William 
 Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas 
 such a turn, that I used to strut in rap- 
 tures up and down after the recruiting drum 
 and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough 
 to be a soldier ; while the story of \^"allace 
 poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, 
 which will boil along there till the flood- 
 gates of life shut in eternal rest." 
 
 " Polemical di^•inity about this time was 
 putting the country half mad ; and I, ambi- 
 tious of shining in conversation parties on 
 Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c., 
 used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle 
 Calvinism with so much heat and indiscre- 
 tion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy 
 against me, wliich has not ceased to this 
 hour." 
 
 " My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- 
 tage to me. My social disposition, when 
 not checked by some modifications of spirited 
 pride, was, like our Catechism definition of 
 infinitude, without bounds or limils. I 
 formed several coimections with other 
 younkers who possessed superior advan- 
 tages, the yountjUng actors, who were busy 
 in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
 were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
 where, alas ! I was destined to drudge 
 behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
 this green age that our young gentry have 
 a just seuse of the immense distance be- 
 tween them and their ragged playfellows. 
 
 It takes a few dashes into the world, to giro 
 the young great man that proper, decent, 
 unnoticing disregard for the poor insigni- 
 ficant, stupid devils, the mechanics and 
 peasantry around him, who were perhaps 
 born in the same village. My young supe- 
 riors never insulted the clouterly appearance 
 of my plough-boy carcase, the two extremes 
 of which were often exposed to all the in- 
 clemencies of all seasons. They would give 
 me stray volumes of books : among them, 
 even then, I could pick up some observa- 
 tions ; and one, whose heart I am sure not 
 even the Manny Becjum scenes have tainted, 
 helped me to a little French. Parting with 
 these my young fiiends and benefactors, as 
 they occasionally went off for the East or 
 West Indies, was often to me a sore aflSic- 
 tion ; but I was soon called to more serious 
 evils. My father's generous master died ; 
 the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and to 
 clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands 
 of a factor, who sat for the picture I have 
 drawn of one in my tale of Twa Dogs. 
 My father was advanced in Ufe when he 
 married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; 
 and he, worn out by early hardships, was 
 unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon 
 irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
 a freedom in his lease in two years more ; 
 and to weather these two years, we re- 
 trenched our expenses. "We lived very 
 poorly. I was a dexterous ploughman, for 
 my age ; and the next eldest to me w as a 
 brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough 
 very well, and help me to thrash the corn. 
 A novel-writer might perhaps ha\e viewed 
 these scenes with some satisfaction, but so 
 did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the 
 recollection of the scoundrel factor's inso- 
 lent, threatening letters, which used to 
 set us all in tears." 
 
 " This kind of life — the cheerless gloom 
 of hermit, with the unceasmg toil of a 
 galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth 
 year ; a little before which period I first 
 committed the sin of rhyme. You know 
 our country custom of coupling a man 
 and woman together as partners in the 
 labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn 
 my partner was a bewitcliiiig creature a 
 year younger than myself. jMy scarcity of 
 English denies me the power of doing her 
 justice in that language ; but you know 
 the Scottish idiom — she was a honnie, 
 sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altoge- 
 ther unwittingly to herself, initiated me m 
 that delicious passion which, in spite of acid 
 disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
 book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first 
 
BURNS' LIBRARY. 
 
 II 
 
 of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
 below! IIijw she caught the contagion, I 
 cannot tell ; you medical people talk much 
 of infection from breathing the same air, the 
 touch, &c., but I ne\ er expressly said 1 lovtd 
 her. Indeed I did not know myself why I 
 liked so much to loiter behind with her 
 when returning iu the evening from our 
 labours ; ^\ hy the tones of her voice made 
 my heart-strings thrill like an •■Eolian harp ; 
 and particidarly, why my pidse beat such a 
 furious ratan 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 reel to which I at- 
 tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 
 (8) I was not so presumptuous as to imagine 
 that I coiUd make verses like printed ones, 
 composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; 
 but my girl sang a song, which was said 
 to be composed by a small comitry laird's son, 
 on one of his father's maids, with whom he 
 was in love, and I saw no reason why I might 
 not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that 
 he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his 
 father living in the moor-lands, he had no 
 m>re scliolar -craft than myself." 
 
 " Thus w ith me began love and poetry ; 
 which at times have been my only, and till 
 w.thin the last twelve months, have been my 
 highest enjoyment. jMy father struggled on 
 t.ll he reached the freedom in his lease, 
 when he entered on a larger farm, about ten 
 miles farther in the comitry. I'he nature of 
 the bargain he made was such as to throw 
 ft little ready money into his hands at the 
 coramenccnient of his lease ; otherwise the 
 affair would have been impracticable. For 
 four years we lived comfortably here ; but a 
 difference commencing between him and his 
 landlord as to terms, after three years' tossing 
 and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my 
 father was just saved from the horrors of 
 a jail by a consumption, which, after two 
 years' promises, kindly stepped in, and 
 carried him away, to where the wicked cease 
 from trouhlbuj, and the xveary are at rest." 
 
 " It is during the time that we lived on 
 this farm that my little story is most 
 eventfid. I was, at the beginning of this 
 period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward 
 boy in the parish — no solitaire was less 
 acquainted with the ways of the world. 
 What I knew of ancient story was gathered 
 from Salmon's and Guthrie's geographical 
 grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of 
 modern manners, of literature and criticism, 
 1 got from the Spectator. These, with 
 Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
 
 Tnll and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pan- 
 theon, Locke's Essay on the Human Under- 
 stanrling, Stackhouse's History of the Bible, 
 Justice's British Gardener's Directory, 
 Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
 Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
 A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
 Hervey's Jleditations, had formed the whole 
 of my reading. The collection of songs was 
 my vade mecum. I pored over them driving 
 my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, 
 verse by verse — carefidly noting the true, 
 tender or sublime, from affectation and 
 fustian. I am convinced I owe to this 
 practice much of my critic craft, such as it 
 is." 
 
 "In my seventeenth year, to give my 
 manners a brush, I went to a country 
 dancing school. My father had an unac- 
 countable antipathy against these meetings, 
 and my going was, what to this moment I 
 repent, in opposition to liis wishes. My 
 father, as I said before, was subject to 
 strong passions; from that instance of dis- 
 obedience in me he took a sort of dislike to 
 me, which I believe was one cause of the 
 dissipation which marked my succeeding 
 years. I say dissipation, comparatively with 
 the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity, 
 of Presbyterian country hfe; for though 
 the Will o' ^^'isp meteors of thoughtless 
 whim were almost the sole lights of my 
 path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue 
 kept me for several years afterwards within 
 the line of innocence. The great misfortune 
 of my life was to want an aim. I had felt 
 early some stirrmgs of ambition, but they 
 were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
 round the walls of his cave. I saw my 
 father's situation entailed on me perpetual 
 labour. The only two openings by which 
 I could enter the temple of fortune, was 
 the gate of niggardly economy, or the path 
 of httle, chicaning bargain-making. The first 
 is so contracted an ajierture, I never coidd 
 squeeze myself into it; the last I always 
 hated — there was contamination in the very 
 entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view 
 in hfe, with a strong appetite for sociability, 
 as well from native hilarity as from a pride 
 of observation and remark — a constitutional 
 melancholy or hypochondriasm that made 
 me fly to sohtude ; add to these incentives 
 to social life, my reputation for bookish 
 knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, 
 and a strength of thought, something like 
 the rudiments of good sense, and it will not 
 seem surprising that I was generally a 
 welcome guest where I visited, or any great 
 wonder that, always w here two or three met 
 
12 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 together, there was I among them. But 
 far bej^ond all otlier impulses of my heart, 
 was un penchant a V adorable moltie du genre 
 humain. My heart was completely tinder, 
 and was eternally lighted up by some goddess 
 or other ; and as in every other warfare in 
 this world, my fortune was various, sometimes 
 I was received with favour, and sometimes 
 I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, 
 scythe, or reaphook, I feared no competitor, 
 and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; 
 and as I never cared farther for my labours 
 than while I was in actual exercise, I spent 
 the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
 A country lad seldom carries on a love- 
 adventure without an assisting confidant. 
 I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid 
 dexterity, that recommended me as a proper 
 second on these occasions ; and, I dare say, 
 I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret 
 of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
 as ever did statesman in knowing the in- 
 trigues of half the courts of Europe. (9) 
 The very goose-feather in my hand seems 
 to know instinctively the well-worn path of 
 my imagination, the favourite theme of my 
 song, and is with difficulty restrained from 
 giving you a couple of paragraphs on the 
 love-adventures of my compeers, the humble 
 inmates of the farm-house and cottage ; but 
 the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, 
 baptise these things by the name of follies. 
 (10) To the sons and daughters of labour and 
 poverty, they are matters of the most serious 
 nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen 
 interview, the tender farewell, are tlie 
 greatest and most delicious parts of their 
 enjoyments." 
 
 " Another circumstance in my life which 
 made some alteration in my mind and man- 
 ners was, that I spent my nineteenth sum- 
 mer on a smuggling coast, a good distance 
 from home, at a noted school, to learn 
 mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in 
 which I made a pretty good progress. But 
 I made a greater progress in the knowledge 
 of mankind. The contraband trade was at 
 that time very successful, and it sometimes 
 happened to me to fall in with those who 
 carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot 
 and roaring dissipation were till tliis time 
 new to me ; but I was no enemy to social 
 Ufe. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, 
 and to mix without fear in a drunken 
 squabble, yet I went on with a high hand 
 with my geometry, till the sun entered 
 Virgo, a month which is always a carnival 
 in my bosom, when a charming filette, who 
 lived next door to the scliool, overset my 
 trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 
 
 I from the sphere of my studies. I, however, 
 I struggled on with my sines and co-sines for 
 i a few days more ; but, stepping into the 
 : garden one charming noon to take the sun's 
 I altitude, there I met my angel, 
 j ' Like Proserpine, gatliering flowers, 
 
 Herself a fuirer flower ' 
 
 I It was in vain to think of doing any more 
 good at school. The remauiing week I 
 staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
 my soul about her, or steal out to meet 
 her ; and the two last nights of my stay in 
 the coimtry, had sleep been a mortal sin, 
 the image of this modest and innocent girl 
 had kept me guiltless." 
 
 " I returned home very considerably im- 
 proved. My reading was enlarged with the 
 very important addition of Thomson's and 
 Shenstone's Works. I had seen human 
 nature in anew phasis ; and I engaged several 
 of my school-fellows to keep up a literary 
 correspondence with me. This improved me 
 in composition. I had met with a collection 
 of letters by the wits of Ciueen Anne's reign, 
 and I pored over them most devoutly ; I 
 kept copies of any of my own letters that 
 pleased me ; and a comparison between 
 them and the composition of most of my 
 correspondents, flattered my vanity. I 
 carried this whim so far, that though I had 
 not three farthings' worth of business in 
 the world, yet almost every post brought me 
 as many letters as if I had been a broad 
 plodding son of day-book and ledger." 
 
 " My life flowed on much in the same 
 course till my twenty-third year. Vit^e 
 I' amour, et vive la hu(jntellc, were my sole 
 principles of action. The addition of two 
 more authors to my library gave me great 
 pleasure ; Sterne and M'Kenzie — Tristram 
 Shandy and The Man of Feeling — were 
 my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a 
 darling walk for my mind, but it was only 
 indulged in according to the humour of the 
 hour." 
 
 " I had usually half a dozen or more pieces 
 on hand ; I took up one or other, as it 
 suited the momentary tone of the mind, and 
 dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
 My passions, when once lighted up, raged 
 like so many devils, till they got vent in 
 rhjTne ; and then the conning over my 
 verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
 None of the rhymes of those days are in 
 print, except ^\'inter, a Dirge, the eldest of 
 my printed pieces ; The Death of Poor 
 Mailie, John Barleycorn, and songs first, 
 second, and third. (11) Song second was 
 the ebullition of that passion which eudud 
 the fore-mentioned school-business." 
 
LUCKLESS FAR5IING SPECULATION. 
 
 13 
 
 " My twenty-third year was to me an im- 
 portant era. Partly tlirough whim, and partly 
 that I wished to set about doing some- 
 thing in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a 
 neighbouring tonn (Irvine) to learn his 
 trade. This was an unlucky affair. ]\Iy * * * ; 
 and, to finish the whole, as we were giving 
 a welcome carousal to the new-year, the shop 
 took fire, and burnt to ashes,and I was left, 
 like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 
 
 " I was obliged to give up this scheme : 
 the clouds of misfortune were gathering 
 thick round my father's head; and, what 
 was worst of all, he was visibly far gone ui 
 a consumption ; and, to crown ray distresses, 
 a belle file whom I adored, and who had 
 pledged her soul to meet me in the field of 
 matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circum- 
 stances of mortification. Tlie finishing evil 
 that brought up the rea) of this infernal file, 
 was my constitutional melancholy being in- 
 creased to such a degree, that for three 
 months I was in a state of mind scarcely to 
 be envied by the hopeless wretches who have 
 got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye ac- 
 Cu rsed ! " 
 
 " From this adventure I learned something 
 of a town life ; but the principal thing « Inch 
 gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I 
 formed with a young fellow, a very noble 
 character, but a hapless son of misfortune. 
 He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but 
 a great man in the neighbourhood taking 
 him imder his patronage, gave him a genteel 
 education, with a view of bettering his situa- 
 tion in life. The patron dying just as he 
 was ready to launch out into the world, 
 the poor fellow in despair went to sea, 
 where, after a variety of good and ill for- 
 tune, a little before I was acquainted with 
 him, he had been set on shore by an Ame- 
 rican privateer, on the wild coast of Con- 
 naught, stripped of everything. I cannot 
 quit this poor fellow's story without adding, 
 that he is at this time master of a large 
 '\\'est-Indiaman belonging to the Thames." 
 
 " His mind was fraught with indepen- 
 dence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. 
 I loved and admired him to a degree of 
 enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate 
 him. In some measure I succeeded — I had 
 pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
 proper channels. His knowledge of the 
 world was vastly superior to mine, and I 
 was all attention to learn. He was the oidy 
 man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
 myself, where woman was the presiding star ; 
 but he spoke of illicit love with the levity 
 of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 
 with horror. (12) Here his friendship did 
 
 me a mischief; and the consequence was 
 that, soon after I resumed the plough, I 
 WTOte the Poet's AVelcome. (13) JMy read- 
 ing only increased, while in this towTi, by 
 two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of 
 Ferdinand Count Ealhom, which gave me 
 some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
 religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
 up ; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish 
 Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding 
 lyre with emulating vigour. When my 
 father died, his all went among the hell- 
 hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; 
 but we made a shift to collect a little money 
 in the family amongst us, with which to 
 keep us together; my brother and I took a 
 neighbouring farm. ]\Iy brother wanted 
 my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
 social and amorous madness ; but, in good 
 sense, and every sober qualification, he was 
 far my superior." 
 
 " I entered on this farm with a full reso- 
 lution. Come, go to, I loill be wise ! I read 
 farming books — I calculated crops — I at- 
 tended markets — and, in short, in spite of 
 the devil, and the world, and the fesh, I 
 beheve I should have been a wise man ; 
 but the first year, from unfortunately 
 buying bad seed, the second, from a late 
 harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
 set all my wisdom, and I returned, like the 
 dor) to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, 
 to her wallowing in the mire." 
 
 " I now began to be known in the neigh- 
 bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first 
 of my poetic offspring that saw the light, 
 was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel 
 between two reverend Calviuists, both of 
 them dramatis ■persona; in my Holy Fair. 
 I had a notion myself that the piece had 
 some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave 
 a copy of it to a friend who was very fond 
 of such things, and told him that I coiUd 
 not guess who was the author of it, but that 
 I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
 description of the clergy, as well as laity, it 
 met with a roar of applause. (14) Holy 
 Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, 
 and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that 
 they held several meetings to look over their 
 spirituiil artillery, if haply any of it might 
 be pointed against profane WTiters. Un- 
 luckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
 another side, within point-blankshot of 
 their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- 
 tunate story that gave rise to my printed 
 poem — The Lament. This was a most me- 
 lancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to 
 reflect on, and had very nearly given me 
 one or two of the principal quaMcutiuus for 
 
14 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 a place amonj those who have lost the 
 chart, and mistaken the reckoning, of 
 rationality. I gave up my part of the farm 
 to my brother — in truth it was only nomi- 
 nally mine — and made what little prepara- 
 tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, 
 before leaving my native country for ever, I 
 resolved to publish my poems. I weighed 
 my productions as impartially as was in ray 
 power: I thought they had merit, and it 
 was a delicious idea that I should be called 
 a clever fellow even though it should never 
 reach my ears — a poor negro-driver ; or per- 
 haps a victim to that inhospitable clime, 
 and gone to the world of spirits ! I can 
 truly say, that pauvre inconnu 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 pubUc has decided in their favour. 
 It ever was my opinion, 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 ignorance of 
 themselves. To know myself had been all 
 along my constant study. I weighed myself 
 Jilone — I balanced myself with others — I 
 watched 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 my character were intended. 
 I was pretty confident my poems would 
 meet with some applause (15) ; 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 neg- 
 lect. I threw off six hundred copies, of 
 which I had got subscriptions for about 
 three hundred and fifty. My vanity was 
 highly gratified by the reception I met with 
 from the pubhc; and, besides, I pocketed, 
 all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. 
 This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
 thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
 money to procure my passage. As soon 
 as I was master of nine guineas, the price 
 of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a 
 steerage-passage in the first ship that was 
 to sail from the Clyde ; for 
 
 'Hungry ruin had 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 un- 
 coupled the merciless pack of the law at my 
 heels. I had taken the last farewell of my 
 few friends ; my chest was on the road to 
 Greenock ; I had composed the last song I 
 shoidd ever measure in Caledonia — The 
 Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast — when a 
 letter firom Dr. Blacklock to a friend of 
 
 mine overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
 new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
 doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose 
 applause I had not dared to hope. His 
 opinion, that I would meet with encourage- 
 ment in Edinburgh for a second edition, 
 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 influ- 
 ence in my zenith, for once made a revolu- 
 tion to the nadir; and a kind Providence 
 placed me under the patronage of one of 
 the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. 
 Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si jamais je 
 I'oublie ! " 
 
 "1 need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 
 I was in a new world ; I mingled among 
 many classes of men, but all of them new to 
 me, and 1 was all attention to catch the 
 characters and the maimers Uoinrj as they 
 rife. Whether I have profited, tune will 
 show. * » * " 
 
 "My most respectful compliments to 
 Miss ^V. (16) Her very elegant and friendly 
 letter I cannot answer at present, as my 
 presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I 
 set out to-morrow." (17) 
 
 At the period of our poet's death, his 
 brother, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that 
 he had himself written the forgoing narra- 
 tive of his life while in Ayrshire ; and 
 having been applied to by Mrs. Dunlop for 
 some memoirs of his brother, he complied 
 with her request in a letter, from which the 
 following narrative is chiefly extracted. 
 When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the 
 letter of our poet to Dr. Moore, he made 
 some annotations upon it, which shall be 
 noticed as we proceed. 
 
 Robert Burns was bom on the 2.ith day 
 of January 1759, in a small house about 
 two miles from the town of Ajt, and wthin 
 a few hundred yards of AUoway church, 
 which his poem of Tam o' Shanter has 
 rendered immortal. (18) The name, which 
 the poet and his brother modernised into 
 Burns, was originally Bumes or Burness. 
 Their father, William Bumes, was the son 
 of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and had 
 received the education common in Scotland 
 to persons in his condition of life ; he could 
 read and write, and had some knowledge of 
 arithmetic. His family having fallen into 
 reduced circumstances, he was compelled to 
 leave his home in his nineteenth year, and 
 turned his steps towards the south, in quest 
 of a Uvelihood. The same necessity attended 
 his elder brother Kobert. " I have often 
 
WILLIAM BURNES OR BURNS. 
 
 15 
 
 heard my father" (says Gilbert Bums, in 
 his letter to Mrs. Dunlop) "describe the 
 anguish of mind he felt when they parted 
 on the top of a hill on the confines of their 
 native place, each going oflf his several way 
 ill searcli of new adventures, and scarcely 
 knowing whither he went. My father un- 
 dertook to act as a gardener, and shaped 
 his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 
 hard when he could get work, passing 
 through a variety of difficulties. Still, how- 
 ever, he endeavoured to spare something 
 for the support of his aged parent ; and 1 
 recollect hearing him mention his having 
 sent a bank-note for this purpose, when 
 money of that kind was so scarce in Kin- 
 cardineshire, that they scarcely knew how 
 to employ it when it arrived." From Edin- 
 burgh, William Burnes passed westward 
 into the county of Ayr, where he engaged 
 himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, 
 with whom he lived two years ; then chang- 
 ing his serxice for that of Crawford of 
 Doonside. At length, being desirous of 
 settling in life, he took a perpetual lease of 
 seven acres of land from Dr. Campbell, 
 physician in Ajt, with the view of com- 
 mencing niirserjanan and public gardener; 
 and, having built a house upon it with his 
 own hands, married, in December, 1757, 
 Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who 
 stiU survives. (19) The first fruit of this 
 marriage was Robert, the subject of these 
 memoirs, born on the 25th of January, 1759, 
 as has already been mentioned. Before 
 William Burnes had made much progress 
 in preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn 
 from that undertaking by !Mr. Ferguson, 
 who purchased the estate of Doonholm, in 
 the immediate neighbourhood, and engaged 
 hira as his gardener and overseer ; and this 
 was his situation when our poet was born. 
 Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he 
 lived in his own house, his wife managing 
 her family and her little dairy, which con- 
 sisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three 
 milch-cows ; and this state of unambitious 
 content continued till the year 1706. His 
 son Robert was sent by him in his sixth year 
 to a school at Alloway Miln, about a mile 
 distant, taught by a person of the name of 
 Campbell ; but this teacher being in a few 
 months appointed master of the workhouse 
 at A>T, ^^'illiam Burnes, in conjunction \vith 
 some other heads of families, engaged John 
 Murdoch in his stead. The education of our 
 poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in com- 
 mon ; and of their proficiency under Mr. Mui- 
 doch, we have the following accoimt : — 
 " With him we learnt to read EngUsh 
 
 3 
 
 tolerably well (20), and to write a little. 
 He taught, us, too, the English grammar. 
 I was too young to profit much from his 
 lessons in grammar, but Robert made some 
 proficiency in it — a circumstance of con- 
 sisiderable weight in the unfolding of his 
 genius and character; as he soon became 
 remarkable for the fluency and correctness 
 of his expression, and read the few books 
 that came in his way with much pleasure 
 and improvement : for even then he was a 
 reader when he could get a book. Murdoch, 
 whose library at that time had no great 
 variety in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, 
 which was the first book he read (the school- 
 books excepted), and almost the only one 
 he had an opportunity of reading while he 
 was at school; for 'ITie Life of Wallace, 
 which he classes with it in one of his letters 
 to you, he did not see for some years after 
 wards, when he borrowed it from the black- 
 smith who shod our horses." 
 
 It appears that William Burnes approved 
 himself greatly in the ser\ice of Air. Fer- 
 guson, by his intelligence, industry, and 
 integrity. In consequence of this, with a 
 view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson 
 leased him a farm, of which we have the 
 following account : — 
 
 "The farm was upwards of seventy 
 acres (21) (between eighty and ninety, En- 
 glish statute measure), the rent of which 
 was to be forty pounds annually for the 
 first six years, and afterwards forty-five 
 pounds. My father endeavoured to sell his 
 leasehold property, for the purpose of stock- 
 ing this farm, but at that time was unable, 
 and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pouuds 
 for that purpose. He removed to his new 
 situation at Whitsuntide, 17(16. It was, I 
 think, not above two years after this, that 
 Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part 
 of the country ; and there being no school 
 near us, and our little serNTces being useful 
 on the farm, my father undertook to teach 
 us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by 
 candle-light ; and in this way my two eldest 
 sisters got all the education they received. 
 I remember a circumstance that happened 
 at this time, which, though trifling in 
 itself, is fresh in my memory, and may 
 serve to illustrate the early character of my 
 brother. Murdoch came to spend a night 
 with us, and to take his leave when he 
 was about to go into Carrick. He brought 
 us, as a present and memorial of him, a 
 small compeudiura of Enghsh Grammar, and 
 the tragedy of Titus Andronicus. and, by 
 way of passing the evening, he began to 
 read the play aloud. We were all attention 
 
16 
 
 LIFE OF BUKNS. 
 
 for some time, till presently tlie whole party 
 was dissolved in tears. A female in the 
 play (I have but a confused remembrance of 
 it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongrue 
 cut out, and then was insultindy desired to 
 call for water to wash her hands. At this, 
 in an agony of distress, we with one voice 
 desired he would read no more. My father 
 observed, that if we woidd not hear it out. 
 it would be needless to leave the play with 
 us, Robert replied, that if it was left he 
 would burn it. My father was going to 
 chide him for this ungrateful return to his 
 tutor's kindness; but Murdoch interfered, 
 declaring that he liked to see so much 
 sensibility; and he left the School for Love, 
 a comedy, translated 1 think from the 
 French, in its place." (22) j 
 
 " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, ] 
 " could be more retired than our general | 
 manner of living at iMount Oliphant ; we I 
 rarely saw any body but the members of our 
 own family. There were no boys of our i 
 own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. | 
 Indeed, the greatest part of the land in the 
 vicinity was at that time possessed by ' 
 shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who 
 had retired from business, or who kept their | 
 farm in the coimtry, at the same time that I 
 they followed business in town. M y father i 
 was for some time almost the only com- i 
 panion we had. He conversed familiarly on 
 all subjects with us, as if we had been 
 men ; and was at great pains, while we i 
 accompanied him in the labours of the i 
 farm, to lead the conversation to such I 
 subjects as might tend to increase our I 
 knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. | 
 He borrowed Salomon's Geographical Gram- I 
 mar for us, and endeavoured to make us I 
 acquainted with the situation and history I 
 of the different countries of the world ; 
 while, from a book-society in Ayr, he pro- 
 cured for us the reading of Durham's Physico i 
 and Astro-Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of [ 
 God in the Creation, to give us some idea | 
 of astronomy and natural history. Robert ! 
 read all these books with an avidity and { 
 industry scarcely to be ecpudled. My [ 
 father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's j 
 History of the Bible, then lately pub- 
 lished by James Meuros in Kilmarnock : 
 from this Robert collected a competent 
 knowledge of ancient liistory ; for no book 
 was so voluminous as to slacken his in- 
 dustry, or so antiquated as to damp his 
 researches. A brother of my mother, who 
 had lived with us some time, and had learned 
 some arithmetic by our winter evening's 
 caiiiUe, went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr^ 
 
 to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or 
 Tradesman's Sure Guide, and a book to 
 teach him to WTite letters. Luckily, in 
 place of The Complete Letter- Writer, he got 
 by mistake a small collection of letters by 
 the most eminent writers, with a few 
 sensible directions for attaining an easy 
 epistolary style. This book was to 
 Robert of the greatest consequence. 
 It inspired him with a strong desire to 
 excel in letter-writing, while it furnished 
 him with models by some of the first writers 
 in our language." 
 
 " My brother was about thirteen or 
 fourteen, when my father, regretting that 
 we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during 
 a summer quarter, to the parish school of 
 Dalrymple, which, though between two or 
 three miles distant, was the nearest to us, 
 that we might have an opportunity of 
 remedying this defect. About this time 
 a bookish acquaintance of my father's pro- 
 cured us a reading of two volumes of 
 Richardson's Pamela, which was the first 
 novel we read, and the only part of Richard- 
 son's works my brother was acquainted with 
 till towards the period of his commencing 
 author. Till that time, too, he remained 
 unacquainted with Fielding, with Smollett 
 (two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
 and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle, ex- 
 cepted), with Hume, with Eobertson, and 
 almost all our authors of eminence of the 
 later times. I recollect, indeed, my father 
 borrowed a volume of English history from 
 Mr. Hamilton of BourtreehiU's gardener. 
 It treated of the reign of James I., and his 
 unfortunate son Charles, but I do not know 
 who was the author ; all that I remember 
 of it is something of Charles's conversation 
 with his children. About this time, Mur- 
 doch, our former teacher, after having been 
 in ditferent places in the country, and having 
 taught a school some time in Dumfries, 
 came to be the established teacher of the 
 English language in Ayr, a circumstance of 
 considerable consequence to us. The re- 
 membrance of my father's former friend- 
 ship, and his attachment to my brother, 
 made him do every thing in his power for 
 our improvement. He sent us Pope's 
 works, and some other poetry, the first 
 that we had an opportunity of reading, 
 excepting what is contained in the English 
 Collection, and in the volume of the 
 Edinburgh Magazine for 1772; excepthig 
 also those excellent new songs that are 
 hawked about the country in baskets, or 
 exposed on stalls in the streets." 
 
 "The summer after we had been at 
 
BURNS STUDIES LATIV. 
 
 17 
 
 DalrNTiiple school, my father sent Robert 
 to Ayr, to revise his Enghsh grammar, 
 with his former teacher. He had been 
 there only one week, when he was oblijced 
 to retnrn to assist at tlie harvest. AMieu 
 the harvest was over, he went back to 
 school, where lie remained two weeks ; 
 and tliis completes tlie account of his 
 school education, excepting one summer 
 quarter, some time afterwards, that he 
 attended the parish school of Kirkoswald 
 (wliere he lived with a brother of my 
 mother's), to learn surveying." 
 
 " During tlie two last weeks that he 
 was with Murdoch, he himself was engaged 
 in learning French (23), and he communi- 
 cated the instructions he received to my 
 brother, who, when he returned, brought 
 home with him a French dictionary and 
 grammar, and the Adventures of Telemachus 
 iu the original. In a little while, by the 
 assistance of these books, he had acquired 
 such a knowledge of the language, as to 
 read and understand any French author iu 
 prose. This was considered as a sort of 
 prodigy, and through the medium of Mur- 
 doch, procured him the acquaintance of 
 several lads in Ayr, who were at that 
 time gabbling French, and the notice of 
 some families, particularly that of Dr. 
 Malcolm, where a knowledge of French 
 was a recommendation." 
 
 " Observing the facility with which he 
 had acqmred the French language, Mr. 
 Kobinson, tlie established writing-master 
 in AjT, and INIr. Murdoch's particular 
 friend, having himself acquired a con- 
 siderable knowledge of the Latin language, 
 by his own industry, without ever having 
 learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
 the same attempt, promising him every 
 assistance iu his power. Agreeably to this 
 advice, he purchased the Rudiments of the 
 Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry 
 and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. 
 He frequently returned to his Ruchments 
 on any little chagrin or disappointment, 
 particularly in his love affairs ; but the 
 Latin seldom predominated more than a 
 day or two at a time, or a week at most. 
 Observing, himself, the ridicule that would 
 attach to this sort of conduct if it were 
 known, he made two or three humorous 
 stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now 
 rccuUcct, but they all ended, 
 
 ' So I'll to my Latin again.' 
 
 "Thus you see ^Ir. Murdoch was a 
 
 principal means of my brother's improve- 
 
 incMt. Worthy man! though foreign to 
 
 my present purpose, I cannot take leave 
 
 
 
 of him without tracing his future history. 
 He continued for some years a respected 
 and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening 
 that he had been overtaken in hquor, he 
 happened to speak somewhat disresi)cctfully 
 of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, wiio 
 had not paid him that attention to which 
 he thought himself entitled. In Ayr he 
 might as well have spoken blasphemy. He 
 found it proper to give up liis appoint- 
 ment. He went to London, where he still 
 lives, a private teacher of French. He 
 has been a considerable time man-ied, and 
 keeps a shop of stationery wares." (24) 
 
 "The father of Dr. Paterson, now phy- 
 sician at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of 
 Aberdeenshire, and was one of the estab- 
 lished teachers in Ayr when my father 
 settled in the neighbourhood. He early 
 recognised my father as a fellow native of 
 the north of Scotland, and a certain degree 
 of intimacy subsisted between them during 
 Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his 
 widow, who is a very genteel woman, and 
 of great wortli, delighted in doing what she 
 thought her husband would have wished 
 to have done, and assiduously kept up her 
 attentions to all his acquaintances. She 
 kept alive the intimacy with our family, by 
 frequently inviting my father and mother 
 to her house on Sundays, when she met 
 them at church." 
 
 " When she came to know my brother's 
 passion for books slie kindly ofi'ered us the 
 use of her husband's library, and from her 
 we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of 
 Homer, and several other books that were 
 of use to us. Mount Oliphant, the form 
 my father possessed in the parish of Ayr, 
 is almost the very poorest soil I know of 
 in a state of cultivation. A stronger 
 proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
 notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in 
 the value of lands in Scotland, it was let, 
 after a considerable sum laid out in im- 
 proving it by the proprietor, a few years 
 ago, fi\e pounds per annum lower thau the 
 rent paid for it by my father, thirty years 
 ago. i\ly father, in consequence of this, 
 soon came into ditiicidties, which were 
 increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
 by accidents and disease. To the buffet- 
 iugs of misfortune, we could only oppose 
 hard labour and the most rigid economy. 
 AAe lived very sparingly. For several years 
 butcher's meat was a stranger iu the house, 
 while all the members of the family exerted 
 themselves to the utmost of their strength, 
 and rather beyond it, in the labours of the 
 farm. My brother, at the age of tliirteen 
 
18 
 
 LIFE OF BUKNS. 
 
 assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and 
 at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
 farm, for we had no hired servant, male 
 or female. The anguish of mind we felt 
 at our tender years, under these straits 
 and ditiiculties, was very great. To think 
 of our father growing old (for he was now 
 above fifty), broken down with the long- 
 continued fatigues of his life, with a wife 
 and five other children, and in a declining 
 state of circumstances — these reflections 
 produced in my brother's mind and mine 
 sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt 
 not but the hard labour and sorrow of this 
 period of his life, was in a great measure 
 the cause of that depression of spirits with 
 which Robert was so often afflicted through 
 his whole life afterwards. At this time he 
 was almost constantly afflicted in the even- 
 ings with a dull headache, which, at a future 
 period of his life, was exchanged for a 
 palpitation of the heart, and a threatening 
 of fainting and suffocation in his bed in 
 the night-time. 
 
 "By a stipulation in my father's lease, 
 he had a right to throw it up, if he thought 
 proper, at the end of every sixth year. He 
 attempted to fix himself in a better farm 
 at the end of the first six years, but failing 
 in that attempt, he continued where he was 
 for six years more. He then took the 
 farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the rent 
 of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of 
 
 Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in 
 
 Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liver- 
 pool. He removed to this farm on Whit- 
 sunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
 years. No writing had ever been made out 
 of the conditions of the lease ; a mis- 
 understanding took place respecting them ; 
 the subjects in dispute were submitted to 
 arbitration, and the decision involved my 
 father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know 
 of this decision, but not to see any execution 
 in consequence of it. He died on the 
 13th of Tebniary, 1784." 
 
 " The seven years we lived in Tarbolton 
 parish (exteudhig from the 19th to the 
 2Gth of my brother's age), were not marked 
 by much literary improvement ; but during 
 this time, the foundation was laid of certain 
 habits in my brother's character, which 
 afterwards became but too prominent, and 
 which mahce and envy have taken delight 
 to enlarge on. Tliougli when young he 
 was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
 with women, yet, when he approached man- 
 hood, his attachment to their society became 
 very strong, and he vyas constantly the 
 wctim of r.ome fair enslaver. The symp- 
 
 toms of his passion were often such aa 
 nearly to equal those of the celebrated 
 Sappho. I never indeed knew that he 
 fainted, sunk, and died away; but the 
 agitations of his mind and body exceeded 
 anything of the kind I ever knew in real 
 life. He had always a particular jealousy 
 of people who were richer than himself, or 
 who had more consequence in life. His 
 love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of 
 this description. When he selected any 
 one out of the sovereignty of his good 
 pleasure, to whom he should pay his par- 
 ticular attention, she was instantly invested 
 with a sufl!lcient stock of charms, out of 
 the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; 
 and there was often a great dissimilitude 
 between his fair captivator, as she appeared 
 to others, and as she seemed when invested 
 in the attributes he gave her. One generally 
 reigned paramount in his affections ; but as 
 Yorick's affections flowed out toward Ma- 
 dame de L — at the remise door, while the 
 eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
 Robert was frequently encountering other 
 attractions, which formed so many under- 
 plots in the drama of his love. As these 
 connections were governed by the strictest 
 rules of virtue and modesty (from which 
 he never deviated till he reached his 23rd 
 year), he became an.vious to be in a situa- 
 tion to marry. This was not likely soon to 
 be the case while he remained a farmer, as 
 the stocking of the farm required a sum of 
 money he had no probability of being 
 master of for a great while. He began, 
 therefore, to think of trying some other line 
 of life. He and I had for several years takea 
 laiifl of my father for the purpose of raising 
 flax on our o«ti account. In the course 
 of selling it, Robert began to think of turning 
 flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his 
 grand view of settling in life, and as subser- 
 vient to the flax raising. He iiccordingly 
 WTOught at the business of a flax-dresser in 
 Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at 
 that period, as neither agreeing with his 
 heallh nor inclination. In Irvine he had 
 contracted some acquaintance of a freer 
 manner of thinking and living than he had 
 been used to, whose society prepared him 
 for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue 
 which had hitherto restrained him. To- 
 wards the end of the period under review 
 (in his 26tli year), and soon after his fathei's 
 death, he was furnished with the subject 
 of his epistle to John Rankin. Durnig 
 this period also he became a freemason, 
 which was his first introduction to the life 
 of a boon companion. Yet, uotwithstaud- 
 
BURNS AT MOSSGIEL. 
 
 19 
 
 ing the circumstances and the praise he 
 has bestowed on Scotch drink (which seems 
 to have misled his historians), I do not 
 recollect, duriiis: these seven years, nor till 
 towards the end of his conimenciuf^ author 
 (when his growing celebrity occasioned his 
 being often in company), to have ever 
 seen him intoxicated; nor was he at all 
 given to drinking. A stronger proof of the 
 general sobriety of his conduct need not 
 be required than what I am about to give. 
 Paring the whole of the time we lived in 
 the farm of Lochlea with my father, he 
 allowed my brotlier and me such wages for 
 our labour as he gave to other labour- 
 ers, as a part of which, every article of 
 our clothing manufactured in the fami!)', 
 was regularly accounted for. MTien my 
 father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
 and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting 
 of 118 acres, at the rent of £90 per annum 
 (the farm on which I live at present), from 
 Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the 
 family in case of the worst. It was stocked 
 by the property and individual savings of 
 the whole family, and was a joint concern 
 among us. (25) Every member of the fomily 
 was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he 
 performed on the farm. (2G) My brother's 
 allowance and mine wa? seven pounds per 
 anninn each. And during the whole time 
 this family concern lasted, which was for 
 four years, as well as during the preceding 
 period at Lochlea, his expenses never in 
 any one year exceeded his slender income. 
 As I was entrusted with the keeping of 
 the family accounts, it is not possible that 
 there can be any fallacy in this statement 
 in my brother's favour. His temperance and 
 frugality were every thing that could be 
 wished." 
 
 " The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
 mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first 
 four years that we were on the farm were 
 very frosty, and the spring was very late. 
 Our crops in consequence were very un- 
 protitable ; and, notwithstanding our utmost 
 diHgence and economy, we fomid ourselves 
 obliged to give up our bargam, with the loss 
 of a considerable part of our original stock. 
 It was during these four years that Robert 
 formed his connexion with Jean Armoiu-, 
 afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connexion 
 cuidd no longer be concealed about the time 
 we came to a final determination to quit 
 the farm. Robert durst not engage with 
 u. family in his poor unsettled state, but was 
 anxious to shield his partner, by every 
 means in his power, from the consequences 
 of their imprudence. It was agreed, there. 
 
 fore, between them, that they should make 
 a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
 private marriage ; that he should go to 
 Jamaica to push his fortune ; and that she 
 should remain with her father till it might 
 please Providence to put the means of sup- 
 porting a family in his power." 
 
 " Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her 
 father's. The intimation of a marriage was 
 the first suggestion he received of her real 
 situation. He was in the greatest distress, 
 and fainted away. The marriage did not 
 appear to him to make the matter better. 
 A husband in Jamaica appeared to him 
 and his wife little better than none, and 
 an effectual bar to any other prospects of 
 a settlement in life that their daughter 
 miglit have. They therefore expressed a 
 wish to her, that the wTitten papers which 
 respected the marriage should be cancelled, 
 and thus the marriage rendered void. In 
 her melancholy state, she felt the deepest 
 remorse at having brought such hea\'y attlic- 
 tion on parents that loved her so tenderly, 
 and submitted to their entreaties. Their 
 wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt 
 the deepest anguish of mind. He offered 
 to stay at home and provide for his wife and 
 family in the best manner that his daily 
 labours could pronde for them, that being 
 the only means in his power. Even this 
 offer they did not approve of; for humble 
 as Miss Armour's station was, and though 
 great her imprudence had been, she still, in 
 the eyes of her partial parents, might look 
 to a better connection than that with my 
 friendless and imhappy brother, at that time 
 without house or hiding-place. Robert at 
 length consented to their wishes ; but his 
 feehngs on this occasion were of the most 
 distracting nature ; and the impressi<jn 
 of sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular 
 man-iage they were iuthssolubly united. In 
 the state of mind which this separation pro- 
 duced, he wished to leave the country as 
 soon as possible, and agTced with Dr. 
 Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant 
 overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a book- 
 keeper on his estate. As he had not suffi- 
 cient money to pay his passage, and the 
 vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure 
 a passage for him was not expected to sail 
 for some time, ^Ir. Hamilton advised him to 
 publish his poems in the mean time by sub- 
 scription, as a likely way of getting a little 
 money, to provide him more liljerally in 
 necessaries for Jamaica. Agrcably to thid 
 advice, subscription-bills were printed imme- 
 diately, and the printing was commenced al 
 Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at the 
 
20 
 
 LIFE OF BUILNS. 
 
 same time for his voyage. (27) The recep- 
 tion, however, whicli liis poeiiia met mth in 
 the world, and the friends they procured 
 him, made liira change his resoUition of 
 going to Jamaica, and lie was advised to go 
 to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. 
 On his return, in happier circumstances, he 
 renewed his conuection with Mrs. Burns, 
 and rendered it permanent by a union for 
 life." 
 
 Thus, madam, have I endeavoured to 
 give you a simple narrative of the leading 
 circumstances in my brother's early life. 
 The remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, 
 or in Dumfries-shire, and its incidents are as 
 well known to you as to me. His genius 
 having procured him your patronage and 
 friendship, this gave rise to the correspond- 
 ence between you, in which, I beUeve, his 
 sentiments were delivered with the most 
 respecttVd, but most imreservcd confidence, 
 and which only terminated with the last 
 days of his life." 
 
 This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
 as a commentary on the preceding sketch 
 of our poet's life by himself It will be 
 seen that the distraction of mind which he 
 mentions arose from the distress and sorrow 
 in which he had involved his future wife. 
 The whole circumstances attending this 
 connexion are certainly of a very singular 
 nature. (23) 
 
 The reader will perceive, from the fore- 
 going narrative, how much the children of 
 William Burnes were indebted to their 
 father, who was certainly a man of uncom- 
 mon talents, though it does not appear that 
 he possessed any portion of that vivid 
 imagination for w'hich the subject of these 
 memoirs was distinguished. In page 13, it 
 is observed by our poet, that his fatiier had 
 an unaccountable antipathy to dancing- 
 schools, and that his attending one of these 
 brought on him his displeasure and even 
 dishke. On this observation Gilbert has 
 made the follo\ving remark, which seems 
 entitled to implicit credit :-^-" I wonder how 
 Eobert could attribute to our father that 
 lasting resentment of his going to a danc- 
 ing-school against his will, of wliich he was 
 incapable. 1 believe the truth was, that he, 
 about this time, began to see the dangerous 
 impetuosity of my brotlier's passions, as well 
 as his not being amenable to comisel, which 
 often irritated my father, and which he 
 would naturally think a dancing-school was 
 not likely to correct. But he was proud of 
 Robert's genius, which he bestowed more 
 expense in cnltivating than on the rest of 
 the family, in tlie instances of semling liim 
 
 to A)T and Kirkoswald schools; and he waa 
 greatly delighted with his warmth of heart 
 and his conversational powers. He had, 
 indeed, that dislike of dancing-schools which 
 Robert mentions, but so far overcame it 
 during Robert's first month of attendance, 
 that he allowed all the rest of the family that 
 were fit for it to accompany him during 
 the second month. Roljert excelled in 
 dancing, and was for some time distractedly 
 foud of it." 
 
 '• In the original letters to Dr. Moore, our 
 poet described his ancestors as "renting 
 lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and 
 having had the honour of sharmg their 
 fate." " I do not," continues he, " use the 
 word honour with any reference to political 
 principles ; loi/al and ditiloi/al, I take to be 
 merely relative terms, in that ancient and 
 formidable court, known in this country 
 by the name of Club-law, where the right 
 is always with the strongest. But those 
 who dare welcome ruin, and shake hands 
 with infamy, for what they scarcely believe 
 to be the cause of their God, or their 
 king, are, as J\iark Antony says in Shaks- 
 pcare of Brutus and Cassius, honourable 
 itien. I mention this circumstance, because 
 it threw my father on the world at large." 
 
 This paragraph has been omitted in print- 
 ing the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns; 
 and it would have been mmecessary to 
 have noticed it on the present occasion, 
 had not several manuscript copies of that 
 letter been in circulation. " I do not know," 
 observed Gilbert Burns, "how my brother 
 could be misled in the account he has given 
 of the Jacobitism of Ids ancestors. I believe 
 the Earl Marischal forfeited his title and 
 estate in 1715, before my father was born; 
 and, among a collection of parish-certificates 
 in his posession, I have read one, stating 
 that the bearer had no concern in the late 
 wicked rebellion." On the information of one, 
 who knew William Burnes soon after he 
 arrived in the country of A)t, it may be 
 mentioned, that a report did prevail that he 
 had taken the field with the young Cheva- 
 lier — a report which the certificate mentioned 
 by his son was, perhaps, intended to counter- 
 act. Strangers from the north, in the low 
 country of Scotland, were in those days liable 
 to suspicions of having been, in the 
 familiar phrase of the comitry, "Out in 
 the forty-five" (1745), especially when they 
 had any stateliness or reserve about them, 
 as was the case with \Mlliam Burnes. It 
 may easily be conceived, that our poet 
 would cherish tlie belief of his father's hav- 
 ing beeu engaged in the daring enterprise 
 
TUE ORIGINAL OF THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 21 
 
 of Prince Charles Edward. The g-enerous 
 attaclinient, tlie heroic \ almir, and the final 
 misfortimes of the adherents of the house 
 of Stuart, touched with sympathy his youth- 
 ful and ardent mind, and influenced his 
 orisrinal political opinions. (29) 
 
 Tlie father of oiur poet is described by 
 one who knew him towards the latter end 
 of his life, as above the common stature, 
 thin, and bent with labour. His counte- 
 nance was serious and exprcssi\e, aud the 
 scanty locks on his head were grey. He 
 was of a religious turn of mind, and, as 
 is usual amon^' the Scottish peasantry, a 
 good deal conversant in speculative theology. 
 There is, in Gilbert's hands, a little mamial 
 of religious belief, in tlie form of a dialogue 
 between a father and his son, composed 
 by him for the use of his children, in 
 tt hich the benevolence of his heart seems to 
 have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism 
 of the Scotch church, into something ap- 
 proaching to Arminianism. He was a 
 devout man, and in the practice of calling 
 his family together to join in prayer. It is 
 known that the following exquisite picture, 
 in the Cotter's Saturday Night, represents 
 \Villiam Burnes and his family at their 
 evening devotions: — 
 
 "The cheerful supper done, with serious 
 
 face, [wide ; 
 
 They, round the incrle (30\ form a cirolo 
 
 The sii-e turns o'er, with i<atriarchal grace, 
 
 The biLT hal/-lVMe, once his father's pride: 
 
 Ilis bonnet rcv'rently is laid aside, [bare ; 
 
 Ilis lyart haft'cts ("31) wearing: thin and 
 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
 
 glide, , [care ; 
 
 lie wales (32) a portion with judicious 
 
 And ' Let us worship God ! " he says with 
 
 solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple 
 STuise ; [aim : 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
 rerhaps Dundee's (33) wild warblina: mea- 
 sures rise, [name ; 
 Orjdaintive ]\rf)rf)/rs {Zi\ worthy of the 
 Or noble F/yiii (35) beets (3G) the heavenly 
 flame, 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
 Compav'd with these Italian trills"are"tame, 
 Tiie tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 
 raise ; [praise. 
 No unison have they with our Creator's 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 (37) 
 Itow.Vbram was the friend of God on high: 
 Or Moses bade eternal welfare wage 
 
 With Anialek's unaracious proi^eny ; 
 Or how the royal bard did irroaniiii; lie, [ire; 
 liencath the strolie of Ileaven's avenging 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 Or rapt Isaiah wild seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man wad 
 shed ; [name. 
 
 How he who bore in heaven the second 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head, 
 How his first followers and servants sped ; 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
 land ; 
 How he, who lone in Patinos banished. 
 Saw in the sun a uiiyhty angel stand. 
 And heard in'eat Babylon's doom pronounced, 
 by Heaven's conmiand ! 
 Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal 
 King, [prays ; 
 
 Tlie saint, the father, and the husband, 
 ' Hope springs exulting on triumphant 
 wing,' [days ; 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
 
 Together hymning their Creator's jiraise, 
 
 111 such society, yet still more dear ; 
 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal 
 
 sphere. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Then homeward all take off their several 
 way; 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent pair their secret homage pay. 
 
 And offer up to Heaven the warm request: 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
 nest, 
 And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
 preside!" 
 
 Of a family so interesting as that which 
 inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
 particularly of the father of the family, the 
 reader will perhaps be ^villing to listen to 
 some farther account. What follows is given 
 by one already mentioned with so much 
 honour in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, 
 Sir. Murdoch, the preceptor of our poet, 
 who, in a letter to Josepli Cooper ^^'alker, 
 Esq., of Dublin, author of tlie Historical 
 ^Memoirs of the Irish Bards, and of tiie His- 
 torical Jlemoir of the Italian Tragedy, thus 
 expresses himself : — 
 
 "SiK. — I was lately favoured with a letter 
 from our worthy friend, the Rev. ^^'m. 
 Adair, in which he requested me to com- 
 municate to you whatever particulars I 
 could recollect concerning Robert Burns, 
 the AvTshire poet. My business being at 
 present multifarious and harassing, my 
 attention is consequently so much di\ided, 
 and I am so little in the habit of express- 
 ing my thoughts on paper, that at this 
 distance of time I can give but a very im- 
 perfect sketch of the early part of the life 
 of that extraordinary genius, with which 
 alone I am acquainted. 
 
 ^\'illiaIn Burnes, the father of the poet, 
 
9.'> 
 
 LIFE OF BUKNS. 
 
 was bom in the shire of Kincardine, and 
 bred a gardener. He liad been settled in 
 Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I 
 knew him, and had been in the service of 
 Mr Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards 
 employed as a gardener and overseer by 
 Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in the parish 
 of AUoway, which is now united with that 
 of Ayr. In this parish, on the roadside, a 
 Scotch mile and a half from the towir of Ayr, 
 and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, 
 Willian Burnes took a piece of land, consist- 
 ing of about seven acres ; part of which he 
 laid out in garden groiuid, and part of 
 which he kept to gTaze a cow, &c., still 
 continuing in the employ of Provost Fer- 
 guson. Upon this little farm was erected 
 a humble dwelling, of which William Burnes 
 was the architect. It was, with the excep- 
 tion of a httle straw, literally a tabernacle 
 of clay. In this mean cottage, of which 
 I myself was at times an inhabitant, I 
 really believe there dwelt a larger portion 
 of content than in any palace in Europe. 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night wU] give some 
 idea of the temper and manners that pre- 
 vailed there." 
 
 "In 1705, about the middle of March, 
 Mr. W. Burnes came to A>t, and sent to 
 tlie school where I was improving in writ- 
 ing, under my good friend Mr. liobinson, 
 desiring that I would come and speak to 
 him at a certain inn, and bring my writing j 
 book with me. This was immediately com- i 
 plied with. Having examined my writing, 
 he was pleased with it — you will readily I 
 allow he was not ditticidt — and told me 
 that he had received very satisfactory infor- 
 niiuion of jNIr. Tennant, the master of the 
 English scliool, concerning my impro\cuient 
 in English, and in his method of teach- 
 ing. In the month of ilay following, I was 
 engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of his 
 neighbours, to teach, and accordingly began 
 to teach the school at Allow'ay, which was 
 situated a few yards from the argillaceous 
 fabric above-mentioned. My live employers 
 undertook to board me by turns, and to 
 make up a certain salary, at the end of the 
 year, provided my quarterly payments from 
 the difl'erent pupils did not amount to that 
 sum." 
 
 " My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- 
 tween six and seven years of age ; his 
 preceptor about eighteen. Robert, and his 
 younger brother, Gilbert, had been grounded 
 U little in English before they were put 
 under my care. They both made a rapid 
 progress in reading, and a tolerable progress 
 in writing. In reading, dividing words into 
 
 syllables byrule, spelling without book, pass- 
 ing sentence, &c., Robert and Gilbert 
 were generally at the upper end of the class, 
 even when ranged with boys by far their 
 seniors. The books most commonly used 
 in the school were the Spelling Book, the 
 New Testament, the Bible, Mason's Collec- 
 tion of Prose and Verse, and Fisher'3 
 English Grammar. They committed to 
 memory the hymns, and other poems of 
 that collection, with uncommon facility. 
 This facility was partly owing to the method 
 pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
 ing them, which was, to make them tho- 
 roughly acquainted with the meaning of 
 every word in each sentence that was 
 be committed to memory. By the bye, this 
 may be easier done, and at an earlier 
 period, than is generally thought. As soon 
 as they were capable of it, I taught them 
 to turn verse into its natural prose order ; 
 sometimes to substitute synonymous ex- 
 pressions for poetical words, and to supply 
 all the ellipses. These, you know, are the 
 means of knowing that the pupil understands 
 his author. These are excellent helps to the 
 arrangement of words in sentences, as well 
 as to a variety of expression." 
 
 " Gilbert always appeared to me to pos- 
 sess a more lively imagination, and to be 
 more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted 
 to teach them a httle church-mu^ic. Here 
 they were left far behind by all the re=t 
 of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, 
 was remarkably dull, and his voice ua- 
 tunable. It was long before I could get 
 them to distinguish one tune from another. 
 Robert's comiteuance was generally grave, 
 and expressive of a serious, coutemjilative, 
 and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said. 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to lice ; and cer- 
 taiidy, if any person who knew the two boys 
 had been asked which of them was the 
 most likely to court the muses, he woidd 
 surely never have guessed that Robert had 
 a propensity of that kind." 
 
 "In the year 17(37, Mr. Burnes quitted 
 his mud edifice, and took possession of a 
 farm (Mount Oliphant), of Ins owii improv- 
 ing, while in the service of Provost Fergu- 
 son. This farm being at a considerable 
 distance from the school, the boys could 
 not attend regularly ; and some changes 
 taking place among the other supporters of 
 the school, I left it, having continued to 
 conduct it for nearly two years and a half." 
 
 "In the year 1772, I was appointed 
 (being one of five candidates who were 
 exammed) to teach the English school at 
 Ayr; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to 
 
BURNS STUDIES FRFNCIl. 
 
 23 
 
 board and lodsje with m?, for the purpose of alwiiys rational information in view, had 
 
 revising English urarainar, &c., that he still some questions to projiose to my 
 
 might be better qnaliiied to instrnct his more learned friends, upon moral or natural 
 
 brothers and sisters at home. He was now philosophy, or some sucii interesting subject, 
 
 with me day ami night, in school, at all Mrs. Burnes, too, was of the party as much 
 meals, and in all my walks. At the end of i as possible; 
 one week, I told him, that, as he was now 
 
 pretty much master of the parts of speech, 
 &c., I should like to teacli him something 
 of Fi'cnch pronunciation ; that when he 
 shoidd meet wtli the name of a French 
 town, ship officer, or the like, in the news- 
 papers, he might be able to pronounce it 
 something like a French word. Robert was 
 glad to hear this proposal, and immedi- 
 ately we attacked the French wth good 
 courage." 
 
 " Now there was little else to be heard 
 but the declension of noims, the con- 
 jugation of verbs, <S:c. When walking 
 together, and even at meals, 1 was con- 
 stantly telling him the names of different 
 objects, as they presented themselves, in 
 
 French ; so that he was hourly laving in i „ ■ i ■, n-n- r, v. r f 
 
 „ ,' , , , ;• r ..1 ' considered U illiara Burnes as by far tl 
 
 a stock or words, and sometmies little i i ,. ^ »i, i *i ^ r i 
 
 I 'But still the house affairs would draw her 
 j thence, [iiatch, 
 
 ; Which ever as she could with haste dis- 
 ! Slie'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
 I Devour up their diocour>e' — 
 
 \ and particularly that of her husband. At 
 
 ; all times, and in all companies, she listened 
 
 j to him with a more marked attention than 
 
 ; to any body else. When luider the neces- 
 
 I sity of being absent wliile he was speak- 
 
 ' ing, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that 
 
 ; she had missed what the good man had 
 
 I said. Tliis worthy woman, Agnes Brown, 
 
 I had the most thorough esteem for her hus- 
 
 I band of any woman I ever knew. I can 
 
 i by no means wonder that she highly 
 
 i esteemed him ; for I myself have always 
 
 , T 1 i 1 » 1 1. 1 1 I'cst ot the human race that ever I had 
 
 phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in L,, , ^ i • • i • , 
 
 1 • 1 T • ^ 1 ■ It ^ -A. ■ \ the pleasure of being acouamted with — 
 
 learning, and I m teaching, that it is , ' ., ,' ' . , , 
 
 J-,,; ,?\ 1 ■ 1 ,? 1 T i. i"id many a worthy character 1 have known, 
 
 difhcult to say which of the two was most i ■' ■' 
 
 zealous iu the business ; and about the end of | 
 
 the second week ofaur study of the French, | 
 
 we began to read a little of the Adventures 
 
 of Telemachus, in Fenelon's owii words." 
 
 "But now the plains of Jlouiit Oliphant 
 began to whiten, and > Robert was sum- 
 moned to relimpiish the pleasing scenes that 
 surround the grotto of Calypso, and, armed 
 with a sickle, to seek glory by signalising 
 himself ill the field of Ceres — and so he 
 did ; for, although but about fifteen, I was 
 
 many a worthy 
 I can cheerfully join with Robert ia the last 
 line of his epitaph (borrowed from Gold- 
 smith), 
 ' And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 
 
 •' lie was an excellent husband, if I may 
 judge from his assiduous attention to the 
 ease and com'brt of his worthy partner, 
 and from her affectionate behaviour to 
 him, as well as her unwearied attention tu 
 the duties of a mother." 
 
 " lie was a tender and affectionate father ; 
 
 told that he performed the work of a man." he took pleasure in leading his children in 
 " Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, I the path of virtue, not in driving them, as 
 and consequently agTceable comjianion, at ; some parents do, to the performance of 
 tiic end of three weeks, one of which was : duties to which they tliemselves are averse, 
 spent entirely in the study of English, and | He took care to find fault but very seldom; 
 tlie other two chiefiy in that of French. '• and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
 I did not, however, lose sight of him, but i listened to with a kind of reverential awe. 
 was a frequent visitant at his father's house, ; A look of disapprobation was felt ; a re- 
 when I had my half holiday ; and very proof was severely so ; and a strip with 
 often went, accompanied with one or two > the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, 
 persons more intelligent than myself, that ■ gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lameii- 
 good William Burnes might enjoy a mental i tation, and brought forth a flood of tears." 
 feast. Then the labouring oar was shifted I " He had the art of gaining the esteem 
 to some other hand. The father and the ' and goodrtill of those that were labourers 
 Bon sat down with us, when we enj.)yed a ' under liim. I think I never saw him angry 
 conversation, wherein solid reasoning, seiisi- > but twice ; the one time, it was with tiie 
 ble remark, and a moderate seasoning of i foreman of the band, for not reaping the 
 jocularity, were so nicely blended, as to i field as he was desired ; and the other 
 render it palatable to all parties. Robert i time, it was with an old man, for using 
 had a hundred questions to a^k me about smutty inucudocs and double enlendres. 
 the I'Veiich, &c. ; and the father, who had \ ^^'ere every foul-mouthed old man to receive 
 
24 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 a reasonable elirck in this way, it would be , 
 to the advantage of the rising generation. 
 As he was ac no time overbearing to i 
 inferiors, lie was equally incapable of that j 
 passive, pitifid, paltry spirit, that induces . 
 8orae people to keep booing and booing in the ] 
 presence of a greac man. He always treated 
 superiors with a becoming respect ; but he j 
 never gave the smallest encouragement to ^ 
 firistocratical arrogance. But i must not | 
 pretend to give you a description of all the i 
 manly qualities, the rational and Christian ' 
 virtues, of the venerable William Burncs. j 
 Time would fail me. I shall only add i 
 that he carefully practised every knosvn j 
 duty, and avoided every thing that was i 
 criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. Herein 
 did he exercise himself, in livinrj a life void 
 of ojj'ence toward.^ God and towards men. 
 .Oh for a world of men of such dispositions 1 i 
 We should then have no wars. I have often i 
 wished, for the good of mankind, that it i 
 were as customary to honour and i)erpetuate 
 the memory of those who excel in moral | 
 rectitude as it is to extol what are called \ 
 heroic actions : then would the mausoleum | 
 of the friend of ray youth overtop and 
 surpass most of the monuments I see in 
 Westminster Abbey." 
 
 " Althuugh I cannot do justice to the cha- 
 racter of this worthy man, yet you will 
 perceive, from these few particulars, what 
 kind of person had the principal hand in the 
 education of our poet. He spoke the 
 English language with more propriety (both 
 with respect to diction and pronunciation) 
 than any man I ever knew with no greater 
 advantages. This had a very good effect 
 on the boys, who began to talk, and reason 
 like men, much sooner than their neighbours. 
 I do not recollect any of their contempo- 
 raries, at my httle seminary, who afterwards 
 made any great degree as literary charac- 
 ters, except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain 
 to C(jlonel f ullartou's regiment, and who is 
 now in the East Indies. He is a man of 
 genius and learning ; yet affable, and free 
 from pedantry." 
 
 " Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that 
 he had overrated Mount Oliphant, and 
 th.at he could not rear his numerous family 
 upon it. After being there some years, he 
 removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tar- 
 bolton, where, 1 believe, Robert wrote most 
 of his poems." 
 
 " But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 
 I can teU you but little more relative to our 
 poet. 1 shall, however, m my next, send 
 you a cony of oue of his letters to me, 
 about the year 1783. 1 received one since. 
 
 but it is mislaid. Please remember me, in 
 the ijest manner, to my worthy friend Mr. 
 Adair, when you see him, or write to him." 
 "Hart Street, Bloomsbury Square, 
 London, Feb. 22, 1799." 
 
 As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was 
 written at a time when he was ignorant of 
 the existence of the preceding narrative of 
 his brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdoch 
 was written without his having any know- 
 ledge that either of his pupils had been 
 employed on the same subject. The three j 
 relations serve, therefore, not merely to 
 illustrate, but to authenticate each other. 
 Though the information they convey might 
 have been presented within a shorter com- 
 pass, by reducing the whole into one 
 unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be 
 doubted, that the intelligent reader will be 
 far more gratilied by a sight of these original 
 documents themselves. 
 
 [The poet mentions in his own narrative 
 his visit in his nineteenth summer to Kirk- 
 oswald parish, and his mingling in scenea 
 of dissipation there amongst the Carrick 
 smugglers. The following additional par- 
 ticulars respecting this period of his life will 
 probably be interesting : they were col- 
 lected by the present editor, but appeared 
 originally in Chambers Edinburgh Journal. 
 
 If Burns be correct in stating that it was 
 his nineteenth summer which lie spent in 
 Kirkoswald parish, the date of his residence 
 there must be 1777. 'What seems to have 
 suggested his going to Kirkoswald school, 
 was the connection of his mother with 
 that parish. She was the daughter of 
 Gilbert Brown, farmer of Craigenton, in 
 this parochial division of Carrick, in which 
 she had many friends still living, par- 
 ticularly a brother, Samuel Brown, who 
 resided, in the miscellaneous capacity of 
 farm-labourer, iisherman, and dealer in wool, 
 at the farm-house of Ballochneil, above a 
 mile from the village of Kirkoswald. This 
 Brown, though not the farmer or guidman 
 of the place, was a person held to be 
 in creditable circumstances in a district 
 where the distinction between master and 
 servant was, and still is, by no means great. 
 His wife was the sister of Niven, the 
 tenant ; and he lived in the " chamber " 
 or better portion of the farm-house, but 
 was now a widower. It was with Brown 
 that Burns lived during his attendance at 
 Kirkoswald school, walking every morning 
 to the village where the little seminary 
 of learning was situated, and retm-ning at 
 night. 
 
HUGH RODGER THE SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 25 
 
 The district into wliirh the yoiinsr poet of 
 Kyle was thus thro^^ai, lias many features of 
 a "remarl(able kind. Thoujcli situated on the 
 shore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers 
 are every hour to be seen on their passage 
 between eulii;htcned and busy cities, it is to 
 tliis day the seat of simple and patriarchal 
 usages. Its laud, composed of bleak green 
 uplands, partly cultivated and partly pas- 
 toral, was, at the time alluded to, occupied 
 by a generation of primitive small farmers, 
 many of whom, while preserving their native 
 simplicity, had superadded to it some of 
 the irregular habits arising from a concern 
 in the trade of introducing contraband 
 goods on the Carrick coast. (38) Such 
 dealings did not prevent superstition from 
 flourishing amongst them iu a degree of 
 vigour of which no district of Scotland 
 now presents any example. The parish 
 has six miles of sea coast ; and the village, 
 where the church and school are situated, is 
 in a sheltered situation about a couple 
 of miles inland. 
 
 The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, 
 enjoyed great local fame as a teacher of 
 mensuration and geometry, and was much 
 employed as a jiractical land surveyor. On 
 the day when Burns entered at the school, 
 aiioti er youth, a little younger than himself, 
 also entered. This was a native of the 
 neighbouring towni of Maybole, who having 
 there comiileted a course of classical study, 
 was now sent by his father, a respectable 
 shopkeeper, to acquire arithmetic and men- 
 suration under the famed mathematician 
 of Kirkos\^ald. It was then the custom, 
 when pupils of their age entered at a 
 school, to take the master to a tavern, and 
 implement the engagement by treating him 
 to some liquor. Burns and the JIa.\bole \ 
 youth, accordingly united to reirale Rodger 
 with a potation <if ale, at a public house in 
 the village, kept by two geiulewomanly sort 
 of persons named Kennedy — Jean and 
 Anne Kennedy— the former of whom was I 
 destined to be afterwards married to im- i 
 mortal verse, under the appellation of [ 
 Kirklon Jean, ajid whose house, in con- [ 
 sidcration of some pretensions to birth or | 
 style above the common, was always called I 
 " the Leddies' House." From that time, i 
 Burns and the iSIaybole youth became ' 
 intiiiiate friends, insomuch, that, during this | 
 summer, neither had any companion with | 
 whom he was more fret|nently in company | 
 than with the other. Burns was only at the 
 village during school hours ; but v hen his | 
 friend Willie returned to the paternal dome 
 M. Saturday nights, the poet would accom- | 
 
 pany him, and stay till it was time for both 
 to come back to school on Monday morning. 
 There was also an interval between the 
 morning and afternoon meetings of the 
 school, which the two youths used to siiend 
 together. Instead of amusing themselves 
 with ball or any other sport, like the rest of 
 the scholars, they would take a walk by 
 themselves in the outskirts of the village, 
 and converse on subjects calculated to im- 
 prove their minds. By and bye, they fell 
 upon a plan of holding disputations or argu- 
 ments on speculative questions, one taking 
 one side, and the other the other, without 
 much regard to their respective opinions on 
 the point, whatever it might be, the whole 
 object being to sharpen their intellects. 
 They asked several of their companions to 
 come and take a side in these debates, but 
 not one would do so ; they only laughed at 
 the young philosophers. The matter at 
 length reached the ears of the master, whoj 
 however skilled in mathematics, possessed 
 but a narrow understanding and little gene- 
 ral knowledge. A\'ith all the bigotry of the 
 old school, he conceived that this superero- 
 gatory employment of his piqiils was a piece 
 of absurdity, and he resolved to correct them 
 in it. One day, therefore, when the school 
 was fully met, and in the midst of its usual 
 business, he went up to the desk where 
 Burns and Willie were sitting opposite to 
 each other, and began to advert in sarcastic 
 terms to what he had heard of them. They 
 had become great debaters, he understood, 
 and conceived themselves tit to settle afl'airs 
 of importance, which wiser heads usually let 
 alone. He hoped their disputations would 
 not ultimately become quarrels, and that 
 they would never think of coming from 
 words to blows ; and so forth. The jokes of 
 schoolmasters always succeed amongst the 
 boys, who are too glad to find the awful 
 man iu any thing like good humour, to 
 question either the moral aim or the j)oint 
 of his wit. They therefore, on this occa- 
 sion, hailed the master's remarks with hearty 
 peals of laughter. Nettled at this, "W iihe 
 resolved he w onld " speak up " to Rodger ; 
 but first he asked Burns in a whisper if he 
 would support him, which Burns promised 
 to do. lie then said that he was sorry to 
 find that Robert ami he had given olTcnre ; 
 it had not been intended. And uideed he 
 had expected that the master would have 
 been rather pleased to know of their endea- 
 vours to improve their minds. He could 
 assure him that such improvement was the 
 sole object they had in view. Rodger 
 sneered at the idea of their improving their 
 
26 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 minds by nonsensical discussions, and con- 
 temptuously asked what it was they disjjuted 
 about. Willie replied, that generally there 
 was a new subject every day ; that he could 
 not recollect all that had come under their 
 attention ; but the question of to-day had 
 been — " Whether is a great general or a re- 
 spectable merchant the most valuable mem- 
 ber of society ? " The dominie laughed 
 outrageously at what he called the silliness 
 of such a question, seeing there could be no 
 doubt for a moment about it. " Well," said 
 Burns, " if you think so, I will be glad if you 
 take any side you please, and allow me to 
 take the other, and let us discuss it before 
 the school." Rodger most unwisely assented, 
 and commenced the argument by a flourish 
 ill favour of the general. Burns answered 
 by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of 
 the merchant, and soon had an evident su- 
 periority over his preceptor. The latter 
 replied, but without success. Ilis hand was 
 observed to shake; then his voice trembled; 
 and he dissolved the house in a state of 
 vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote, 
 who can fail to read a prognostication of 
 future eminence to the two disputants? The 
 one became the most illustrious poet of his 
 cmntry; and it is not unworthy of being 
 mentioned in the same sentence, that the 
 oher advanced, through a career of success- 
 ful industry in his native town, to the pos- 
 session of a large estate in its neighbourhood, 
 and some share of the honours usually 
 reserved in this country for birth and aristo- 
 cratic coimection. 
 
 The coast in the neighbourhood of Burns's 
 residence at Ballochneil presented a range of 
 rustic characters upon whom his genius was 
 destined to confer an extraordinary interest. 
 At the farm of Shanter, on a slope overlook- 
 ing the shore, not far from Turnberry Castle, 
 lived Douglas Graham, a stout hearty speci- 
 men of the Carrick farmer, a little addicted 
 t3 smuggling, but withal a worthy and 
 upright member of society, aiul a kiud- 
 natured man. He had a wife named Helen 
 M'Taggart, who was unusually addicted to 
 superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading , 
 where this good couple lived is now no more, 
 for the farm has been divided for the in- 
 crease of two others in its neighbourhood ; 
 but genius has given them a perennial ex- 
 istence in the tale of Tam o'Shantcr, where 
 their characters are exactly delineated under 
 the respective appellations of Tam and 
 Kate. * * * * 
 
 At Ballochneil, Burns engaged heartily in 
 the sports of leaping, dancing, WTesthng, 
 putting (throwing) the stone, aiid others of 
 
 the like kind. Ilis innate thirst for distinc- 
 tion and superiority was manifested in these 
 as in more important afl'airs ; but though he 
 was possessed of great strength, as well aa 
 skill, he could never match bis young bed- 
 fellow, John Niven. Obliged at last to 
 acknowledge himself beat by this person in 
 bodily warfare, he had recourse for amends 
 to a spiritual mode of contention, and would 
 engage young Niven in an argument about 
 some speculative question, when, of course, 
 he invariably floored his antagonist. His 
 satisfaction on these occasions is said to 
 have been extreme. One day, as he was 
 walking slowly along the street of the village 
 in a manner customary to him, with his eyes 
 bent on the ground, he was met by the 
 Misses Biggar, the daughters of the parish 
 pastor. He would have passed without 
 noticing them, if one of the young ladies 
 had not called him by name. She then 
 ralhed him on his inattention to the fair 
 sex, in preferring to look to\iards the inani- 
 mate ground, instead of seizing the oppor- 
 tunity afforded him of indulging in the 
 most invaluable privilege of man, that of 
 beholding and conversing with the ladies. 
 " Madam," said he, " it is a natural and 
 right thing for man to contemplate the 
 ground, from whence he was taken, and for 
 woman to look upon and observe man, from 
 whom she was taken." This was a conceit, ' 
 but it was the conceit of " no vulgar boy." 
 There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in the 
 beginning of August — on the same day, we 
 believe, with a like fair at Kirkoswald iu 
 Northumberland, both places having taken 
 their rise from the piety of one jierson, 
 Oswald, a Saxon king of the heptarchy, 
 whose memory is probably honoured in 
 these observances. During the week pre- 
 ceding this fair in the year 1777, Burns 
 made overtures to his Maybole friend, 
 Willie, for their getting up a dance, on the 
 evening of the approaching festival, in one 
 of the public -houses of the village, and in- 
 viting their sweethearts to it. Willie knew 
 little at that time of dances or sweethearts ; 
 but he liked Burns, and was no enemy to 
 amusement. He therefore consented, and it 
 was agreed that some other yoiuig men 
 should be requested to join in the under- 
 taking. The dance took place, as designed, 
 the requisite music being supplied by a 
 hired band ; and anout a dozen couples par- 
 took of the fun. \A'hen it was proposed to 
 part, the reckoning was called, and found to 
 amount to eighteen shillings atul fourpenee. 
 It was then discovered that almost every 
 one present had lo<>ked to liis neighboui'S toi 
 
BURNS m LOVE WITH PEGGY THO^rSON. 
 
 27 
 
 the means of settling tliis claim. Burns, 
 the orin-inator of the scheme, was in the 
 poetical con(htion of not being master of a 
 single penny. The rest were in the like 
 condition, all except one, whose resources 
 araoimted to a groat, and ISIaybole Willie, 
 who possessed about half-a-crown. The 
 last indi\'idual, who alone boasted any 
 worldly wisdom or experience, took it njion 
 him to extricate the company from its ditti- 
 cidties. By virtue of a candid and sensible 
 narration to the landlord, he induced that 
 indivichial to take what they had, and give 
 credit for the remainder. The payment of 
 the debt is not the worst part of the story. 
 Seeing no chance from begging or borrow- 
 ing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, 
 
 bewildering passion of the poet. Peggy 
 was the theme of his " Song composed in 
 August," beginning, 
 
 " Now westlin winds and slaui^hterinsr guns 
 Brings Autumn's pleasant weather." 
 
 Slie afterwards became Mrs. Neilson, and 
 lived to a good age in the town of Ajt, 
 where her cliildren still reside. 
 
 At his departure from Kirkoswald, he 
 enejiged his INJaybole friend and some other 
 lads to keep up a correspondence with him. 
 His object in doing so, as we may gather 
 from his owi\ naiTative, was to improve 
 himself in composition. "I carrie<l this 
 whim so far." says he, "that, though I had 
 not three farthings' worth of business in the 
 
 by 'merchandise. Observuig thit stationery I ^wl'l >-ct almost every post brought me as 
 articles for the school were procured at many letters as if I had been a broad plodd 
 
 procured 
 
 Kirkoswald with difficulty, he supplied him- 
 self «nth a stock from his father's warehouse 
 at Maypole, and for some weeks sold pens 
 and paper to his companions, with so much 
 advantage, that at length he realised a suffi- 
 cient amount of protit to liquidate the ex- 
 pense of the dance. Burns and he then 
 went in triumph to the inn, and not only 
 settled the claim to the last penny, but 
 gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of thanli 
 
 ing son of day-book and ledger." To 
 ^^'illie, in particular, he wrote often, and in 
 the most friendly and confidential terms. 
 ^A'hen that individual was commencing 
 business in his native town, the poet ad- 
 dressed him a poetical epistle of appropriate 
 advice, headed with the well-known Imcs 
 from Blair's Grave, beginning — 
 " Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul. 
 Sweetener of life and solder of society." 
 
 into the bargain. Willie, however, took This correspondence continued till the period 
 care from that time forth to engage in no of the publication of the poems, when 
 schemes for country dances without looking | Burns wrote to request his friend's good 
 carefully to the probable state of the pockets ] offices in increasing his list of subscribers. 
 of his fellow adventurers. » The young man was then possessed of little 
 
 Burns, according to his own account, con- influence ; but what little he had, he ex- 
 cluded his residence at Kirkoswald in a erted with all the zeal of friendship, and 
 blaze of passion for a fair fdelte who lived with considerable success. A considerable 
 next door to the school. At this time, ! number of copies was accordingly trans- 
 owing to the destruction of the proper I mitted in proper time to his care, and soon 
 school of Kirkoswald, a chamber at the end after the poet came to Maybole to receive 
 of the old church, the business of parochial j the money. His friend collected a few 
 instniction was conducted in an apartment i choice spirits to meet him at the King's 
 on the ground floor of a house in the main j Arms Inn, and they spent a happy niglit 
 street of the village, opposite the church- | together. Burns was on this occasion par- 
 yard. From behnid this house, as from j ticularly elated, for ^Vi^ie, in the midst of 
 behind each of its neighbours in the same I their conviviality, handed over to him above 
 row, a small stripe of kail-yard (Avf/Uce, I seven pounds, being the first considerable 
 Idtchen garden) runs back about fifty yards, I sum of money the poor hard had ever pos- 
 along a rapidly ascending slope. Mhen sessed. In the pride of his heart, next 
 Burns went into the particular jiatch behind | morning, he determined that he should not 
 the school to take the sun's altitude, he had walk home, and accordingly he hired from 
 only to look o^•er a low enclosure to see the j his host a certain poor hack mare, wel' 
 similar patch connected with the next house, i known along the whole road from Glasgow 
 Here, it seems, Peggy Thouison, the i to Portpatrick — in all probability the first 
 daughter of the rustic occupant of that j hired conveyance that Poet Burns had ever 
 house, was walking at the time, though | enjoyed, for even his subsequent journey to 
 more probably engaged in the business of , Edinburgh, aspicious as were the prospects 
 cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, i under which it was undertaken, was per- 
 than imitating the flower-gathering Proser- , formed on foot, '^^■illie and a few otlur 
 pine, or her prototype Eve. Hence the | youths who had been in his company on the 
 
28 
 
 LIFE OF BURXS. 
 
 preceding night, walked ont of town before 
 him, for tlie purpose of tuking leave at a 
 particular spot ; and before he came up, 
 they had prepared a few mock-heroic verses 
 in wliich to express their farewell. 'Wheu 
 Burns rode up, accordingly, they saluted 
 him in tliis formal manner, a little to his 
 surprise. He thanked them, however, and 
 instantly added, " AVhat need of all this 
 fine parade of verse ? It would have been 
 quite enough if you had said — 
 
 Hero comes Burns, 
 On Kosinante ; 
 
 She's (I — ■ poor, 
 But he's d — canty." 
 
 The company then allowed Burns to go on 
 liis way rejoicing. (.39.) 
 
 Uncier the humble roof of his parents, it 
 appears that our poet had great advantages; 
 but his opportunities of information at 
 school were more limited as to time than 
 they usually are among his countr3anen in 
 his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
 which he made, and the poetical talent 
 which he exerted, under the presMire of early 
 and incessant toil, and of inferior, and per- 
 haps scanty nutriment, testify at once the 
 extraordinary force and activity of his mind. 
 In his frame of body he rose nearly to live 
 feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions 
 that indicate agihty as well as strength. In 
 the various labours of the farm he excelled 
 all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares 
 tliat in mowing, the exercise that tries all 
 the muscles most severely, Robert was the 
 only man that, at the end of a summer's 
 day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as 
 his ijfiaster. But though our poet gave the 
 powers of his body to the labours of the 
 farm, he refused to bestow on them his 
 thoughts or his care. While the plough- 
 share under his guidance passed tlurough the 
 sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of 
 his scythe, he was humming the songs of 
 his country, musing on the deeds of ancient 
 V dour, or wrapt ui the illusion of fancy, as 
 h T enchantments rose on his view. Happily 
 t le Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man 
 and beast rest from their labours. On this 
 day, therefore. Burns coidd indulge in a free 
 intercourse with the charms of nature. It 
 was his delight to wander alone on the 
 banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now im- 
 m.ortal, and to listen to the song of the 
 blackbird at the close of the sunnner's day. 
 But still greater was his pleasure, as he 
 himself uiforms us, in walking on the 
 sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter 
 day, and hearing the storm rave among the 
 trees ; and more elevated stiU his deiight 
 
 to ascend some eminence during the agita- 
 tions of nature ; to stride alcmg its summit, 
 while the lightning flashed around him ; and, 
 amidst the howhngs of the tempest, to apos- 
 trojihise the spirit of the storm. Such 
 situations he declares most favoural)le to 
 devotion : — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem 
 to ascend towards Him i«Ao walks on the 
 wings of the loinds! " If other proofs were 
 wanting of the character of his genius, this 
 might determine it. The heart of the poet 
 is peculiarly awake to every impression of 
 beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher 
 order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive 
 than the sublime. 
 
 The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, 
 and the lixely and even cheerful colouring 
 with which he has portrayed his own cha- 
 racter, may lead some persons to suppose, 
 that the melancholy which hung over him 
 towards the end of his days was not an ori- 
 ginal part of his constitution. It is not to 
 be doubted, indeed, that this melancholy 
 acquired a darker hue in the progress of his 
 life ; but, independent of his own and of his 
 brother's testimony, evidence is to be found 
 among his papers, that he was subject very 
 early to those depressions of mind, which 
 are perhaps not wholly separable from the 
 sensibility of genius, but which in him arose 
 to an uncommon degTce. The following 
 letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a 
 proof of this observation. It was written at 
 'the time when he was learning the business 
 of a iiax dresser, and is dated 
 
 " Irvine, December 27, I7S1. 
 "Honoured Sir. — I have purposely de- 
 layed writing, in tiie hope that I should have 
 the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's- 
 day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that 
 I do not choose to be absent ou that account, 
 as well as for some other little reasons, whic h 
 I shall tell you at meeting. ]\Iy health is 
 nearly the same as when you were here, only 
 my sleep is a little sounder ; and, on tlie 
 whole, I am rather better than otherwise, 
 though I mend by very slow degrees. The 
 weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
 mhid, that I dare neither review past events, 
 nor look forward into futurity ; for the least 
 anxiety or perturbation in my breast, pro- 
 duces most unhappy effects on my whole 
 frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour 
 or two my spirits arc a little lightened, I 
 glimmer a little into futurity ; but my prin- 
 cipal, and indeed my only pleasurable em- 
 ployment, is looking backwards and forwards 
 in a moral and religious way. I am quite 
 transported at the thought, that ere long. 
 
BURNS'S DETIATIXG CLUB. 
 
 29 
 
 Tory soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all 
 the pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes 
 of this Mcary 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 resijjn it. 
 •The soul, uneasy and confiu'd at home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 
 
 " It is for this reason I am more pleased 
 with the 15 th, IGth, and 17th verses of the 
 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any 
 ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, 
 and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
 with which they hispire me, for all that this 
 world has to oft'er. (40) As for this world, I 
 despair of ever making a tigure in it. I am 
 not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor 
 the flutter of the gay. I shall never again 
 be capable of entering into such scenes. In- 
 deed, I am altogether unconcerned at the 
 thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty 
 and obscurity proljably await me ; I am in 
 some measure prepared, and daily preparing, 
 to meet them. 1 have but just time and 
 paper to return you my grateful thanks for 
 the lessons of virtue and piety yon have given 
 nie, which were too much neglected at the 
 time of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
 been rememljered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
 sent my dutifid respects to my mother, and 
 my compliments to Mr. and Jlrs. Muir ; and 
 with wishing you a merry New-year's-day, I 
 shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your 
 dutiful son, " Robert Burns. 
 
 " P. S. — My meal is r.early out ; but I am 
 going to borrow, till 1 get more." 
 
 lliis letter, written several years before 
 the publication of his poems, when his name 
 was as obscure as his condition was humble, 
 displays the philosophic melancholy which so 
 generally forms the poetical temperament, 
 and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which 
 indicates a mind conscious of its strength. 
 At Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a 
 single room for his lodging, rented perhaps at 
 the rate of a shilling a-week. He passed liis 
 days in constant labour as a flas-dressw, and 
 his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent to 
 him from his father's family. The store of 
 this humble, though wholesome nutninent, 
 it appears was nearly exhausted, and he was 
 about to borrow till he shoidd obtain a sup- 
 ply. (41) Yet even in this situation, his 
 active imagination had formed to itself jiic- 
 tures of eminence and distinction. His de- 
 spair of making a figure in the world, shows 
 how ardently he ^vishcd for hononralile fame ; 
 and his contempt of life, founded on this 
 aespair, is the genuine expression of a youth- 
 
 ful and generous mind. In such a state of 
 reflection, and of suffering, the imagination 
 of Burns naturally passed the dark bounda- 
 ries of our earthly horizon, and rested ou 
 those beautiful representations of a better 
 world, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- 
 ger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall 
 be in proportion to the capacity of happiness. 
 
 Such a disposition is far from being at va- 
 riance with social enjoyments. Those who 
 have studied the afiinities of mind, know that 
 a melancholy of this description, after a while, 
 seeks reUef in the endearments of society, and 
 that it has no distant connection with the 
 flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance 
 of mirth. It was a few days after the writing 
 of this letter that our poet, "in giving a wel- 
 come carousal to the new year, with his gay 
 companions," suffered his flax to catch fire, 
 and his shop to be consumed to ashes, (-i'i) 
 
 The energy of Burns's mind was not ex- 
 hausted by his daily labours, the effusion of 
 his muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary 
 meditations. Some time previous to his en- 
 gagement as a flax-dresser, having heard that 
 a debating club had been established in Ayr, 
 he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
 succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About 
 the end of the year 17S0, our poet, his bro- 
 ther, and five other young peasants of the 
 neighboiu'hood, formed themselves into a so- 
 ciety of this sort, the declared objects of 
 which were to relax themselves after toil, to 
 promote sociahty and fi'iendship, and to im- 
 prove the mind. The laws and regulations 
 were furnished by Burns. The members 
 were to meet after the labours of the day 
 were over, once a week, in a small public- 
 house in the village, where each should offer 
 his opinion on a given question or subject, 
 supporting it by such arguments as he 
 thought proper. The debate was to be con- 
 ducted with order and decorum ; and after 
 It was finished, the members were to choose 
 a subject for discussion at the ensuing meet- 
 ing. The sum expended by each was not to 
 exceed threepence ; and, with the humble 
 potation that this could procure, they were 
 to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate 
 friendship with each other. This society 
 continued its meetings regularly for some 
 time; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing 
 to preserve some account of their proceed- 
 ings, they purchased a book, into which their 
 laws and regulations were copied, \\ith a 
 preamble, containhig a short history of ilieir 
 transactions do\m to that period. 'I'his 
 curious document, which is evidently the 
 work of our poet, has been discovered, audit 
 deserves a place in his memoirs. 
 
80 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 " HISTORY or THE niSE, PROCEETIIN'GS, AND 
 REGULATIONS OF THE BACHELOUs' CLUB. 
 
 • Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
 
 Nor gentry does our cUib afford ; 
 
 But ploughman and mechanics we 
 
 In Nature's simple dress record.' 
 
 "As the grea.t end of human society is to 
 become wiser and better, this ought there- 
 fore to be the principal view of every man in 
 every station of hfe. But as experience has 
 taught us, that such studies as inform the 
 head and mend the lieart, when long con- 
 tinued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the 
 mind, it has been found proper to relieve 
 and unbend the mind by some employment 
 or another, that may be agreeable enough to 
 keep its powers in exercise, but at the same 
 time not so serious as to exhaust them. But 
 superadded to this, by far the greater part of 
 mankind are under the necessity of earning 
 the sustenance of human life by the lahour of 
 their bodies, whereby, not only the faculties 
 of mind, but the nerves and sinews of the 
 body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely 
 necessary to have recourse to some amuse- 
 ment or diversion, to 'relieve the wearied man, 
 worn down with the necessary labours of 
 life. 
 
 " As the best of things, however, have been 
 perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under 
 tlie pretence of amusement and diversion, 
 men have plunged into all the madness of 
 riot and dissipation ; and, instead of attend- 
 ing to the grand design of human life, they 
 have begun witli extravagance and folly, and 
 ended with guilt and wretchedness. Im- 
 pressed with these considerations, we, the 
 following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, 
 vie. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, 
 Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
 Wright, and William iM'Gavin, resolved, for 
 our mutual entertainment, to unite ourselves 
 into a club, or society, under such rules and 
 regulations, that while we should forget our 
 cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we 
 might not transgress the bounds of inno- 
 cence and decorum ; and after agreeing on 
 these, and some other regulations, we held 
 our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house 
 of John Richard, upon the evening of the 
 11th November, 1780, commonly called 
 Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns 
 president forthe night, we proceeded todebate 
 on this question : ' Suppose a young man, 
 bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has 
 it in his power to marry either of two women, 
 the one a girl of large fortune, but neither 
 handsome in person nor agreeable in conver- 
 sation, but who can manage the household 
 all'airs of a farm well enough ; the other of 
 
 them a girl every way agreeable in person 
 conversation, and behaviour, but witliout any 
 fortune : which of them shall he choose ?* 
 Finding ourselves very happy in our society, 
 we resolved to continue to meet once a 
 month in the same house, in the way and 
 manner proposed, and shortly thereafter we 
 chose Robert Ritchie for another member. 
 In May, 1781, we brought in Uavid Sillar, 
 (43) and in June, Adam Jamaison, as mem- 
 bers. About the beginning of the year 1782, 
 we admitted Matthew Patterson and John 
 Orr, and in June following we choose James 
 Patterson as aproper brother for such a society. 
 The club being thus increased, we resolved to 
 meet at Tarbolton on the race night, the July 
 following, 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 pleasure and delight." 
 To this preamble are subjoined the rules and 
 regulations. 
 
 The philosophical mind will dwell with 
 interest and pleasure on an institution that 
 combined so skilfully the means of instruc- 
 tion and of happiness ; and if grandeur looks 
 down with a smile on these simple annals, 
 let us trust that it will be a smile of benevo- 
 lence and approbation. It is with regret 
 that the sequel of the history of the Bache- 
 lors' Club of Tarbolton must be told. It 
 survived several years after our poet removed 
 from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained by 
 his talents, or cemented by his social affec- 
 tions, its meetings lost much of their attrac- 
 tion ; and at length, in an evil hour, dissen- 
 sion arising amongst its members, the insti- 
 tution was given up, and the records com- 
 mitted to the flames. Happily, the preamble 
 an(f the regulations were spared ; and, as 
 matter of instruction and of example, they 
 are transmitted to posterity. 
 
 After the family of our bard removed from 
 Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of JNIauch- 
 line, he and his brother were requested to 
 assist in forming a similar institution there. 
 The regulations of the club at Mauchliiie 
 were nearly the same as those of the club at 
 Tarbolton ; but one laudable alteration was 
 made. The fines for non-attendance had at 
 Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their 
 scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed, 
 that the money so arising should be set 
 apart for the purchase of books, and the first 
 work procured in this manner was the iMir- 
 ror, the separate numbers of which were at 
 that time recently collected and published in 
 volumes. After it, followed a number of 
 
TEE PECULIAR TASTES OF BURNS. 
 
 31 
 
 ; Other works, chiefly of the same nature, 
 and amoiiij thr'-=e the I.ounircr. The so- 
 ' ciety of Mauclihne still [18t)0] suhsists, and 
 J appeared in tlie list of subscribers to the 
 / first edition of the works of its celebrated 
 J associate. 
 
 The members of these two societies were 
 orifrinally all youns: men from the country, 
 and chiefly sons of farmers — a description of 
 persons, in the opinion of our poet, more 
 agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in 
 their conduct, and more susceptible of im- 
 provement, than the self-sufficient mechanics 
 of country towns. With deference to the 
 Conversation Society of Mauchline, it may 
 be doubted, whether the books which they 
 purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
 promote the interest and happiness of per- 
 sons in this situation of life. The Mirror 
 and the Louuirer, though works of great 
 merit, mav be said, on a general view of their 
 contents, to be less calculated to increase the 
 knowledge than to refine the taste of those 
 who read them; and to this last object their 
 morality itself, which is, however, always per- 
 fectly pure, may be considered as subordi- 
 nate. As works of taste, they deserve great 
 praise. They are, indeed, refined to a high 
 degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance 
 it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little 
 or nothing of the peculiar manners of the 
 age or country in which they were produced. 
 But delicacy of taste, though the source of 
 many pleasures, is not without some disad- 
 vantages ; and, to render it desirable, the 
 possessor shoidd, perhaps, in all cases, be 
 raised above the necessity of bodily labour, 
 unless, indeed, we should include under this 
 term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
 which taste immediately presides. Delicacy 
 of taste may be a blessing to him who has 
 the disposal of his own time, and who can 
 choose what book he shall read, of what di- 
 Tersion he shall partake, and what company 
 he sliall keep. To men so situated, the cul- 
 tivation of taste affords a gratefnl occupation 
 in itself, and opens a path to many other 
 gratifications. To men of genius, in the 
 possession of opulence and leisure, the culti- 
 vation of the taste may be said to be essen- 
 tial ; since it aff'ords employment to those 
 faculties, which without employment woidd 
 destroy the happiness of the possessor, and 
 corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
 the expressions of Mr. Hume, that delicacy 
 of passion, which is the bane of the temper- 
 ament of genius. Happy had it been for our 
 bard, after he emerged from the condition of 
 a peasant, had the delicacy of his taste 
 equalled the sensibility of his passions, regu- 
 
 lating all the effusions of his muse, and pre- 
 siding over all his social enjoyments. But to 
 the thousands who share the original condi- 
 tion of Burns, and who are doomed to pass 
 their lives in the station in which they were 
 born, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy 
 attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be 
 at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of 
 taste may make many necessary labours irk- 
 some or disgusting ; and should it render the 
 cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situa- 
 tion, it presents no means by which that 
 situation may be improved. Taste and lite- 
 rature, which diffuse so many charms through- 
 out society, which sometimes secure to their 
 votaries distinction while living, and which 
 still more frequently obtain for them pos- 
 thumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or 
 even independence, when cultivated with the 
 utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- 
 sued with advantage by the peasant in tiiK 
 short intervals of leisure which his occupa- 
 tions allow. Those who raise themsehes 
 from the condition of daily labour, are usually 
 men who excel in the practice of some useful 
 art, or who join habits of industry and so- 
 briety to an acquaintance with some of the 
 more common branches of knowledge. The 
 penmanship of Butterworth, and the aritn- 
 metic of Cocker, may be studied by men in 
 the humblest walks of life ; and they will 
 assist the peasant more in the pursuit of in- 
 dependence than the study of Homer or of 
 Shakespeare, though he could comprehend, 
 and even imitate, the beauties of those im- 
 mortal bards. 
 
 These observations are not offered with- 
 out some portion of doubt and hesitation. 
 The subject has many relations, and would 
 justify an ample discussion. It m.ay be 
 observed, on the other hand, that the first 
 step to improvement is, to awaken the 
 desire of improvement, and that this will be 
 most effectually done by such reaihng as 
 interests the heart and excites the imagina- 
 tion. The greater part of the sacred 
 writings themselves, which in Scotland are 
 more especially the manual of the poor, 
 e irae under this description. It may be fur- 
 ther observed, thatevery human being is the 
 proper judge of his own happiness,and, within 
 the path of innocence, ought to be per- 
 mitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of 
 the Scottish peasantry to give a preference 
 to works of taste and of fancy (44), it may 
 be presumed they find a superior gratifica- 
 tion in the perusal of such works ; and it. 
 may be added, that it is of more con- 
 sequence they should be made happy m 
 their original condition, than furnished 
 
S2 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 vrith the means, or with the desire, of rising 
 above it. Such considerations are, doubt- 
 less, of much weiglit ; nevertheless, the 
 prexious reflections may deserve to be 
 examined, and liere we shall leave the subject. 
 Though the records of the society at 
 Tarboltun are lost, and those of the society 
 at ilauchline have not been transmitted, 
 yet we may safely affirm, that our poet was 
 a distinguished member of both these 
 associations, which were well calculated to 
 excite and to develope the powers of his 
 mind. From seven to twelve persons con- 
 stituted the society of Tarbolton, and such 
 a number is best suited to the purposes of 
 information. Where this is the object 
 of these societies, the number should be 
 such, that each person may lia\e an oppor- 
 tunity of imparting his sentiments, as well 
 as of receiving those of others ; and the 
 powers of private conversation are to be 
 employed, not those of public debate. A 
 limited society of this kind, where the 
 subject of conversation is fixed beforehand, 
 so that each meml)er may revolve it pre- 
 viously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
 happiest contrivances hitherto discovered 
 for shortening the acquisition of knowledge, 
 and hastening the evolution of talents. 
 Such an association requires indeed some- 
 what more of regulation than the rules of 
 politeness, establislied in common conversa- 
 tion, or rather, perhaps, it requires that the 
 rules of politeness, which in animated conver- 
 sation are liable to perpetual violation, should 
 be vigorously enforced. The order of speech 
 established in the club at Tarbolton, ap- 
 pears to have been more regular than was 
 re(|uired in so small a society ; where ail 
 that is necessary seems to be the fixing on 
 a member to whom every speaker shall 
 address himself, and who shaU in return 
 secure the speaker from interruption. Con- j 
 versation, which among men whom intimacy | 
 and friendship have relieved from reserve j 
 and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, | 
 to 30 many inequalities, and which, as it j 
 becomes rapid, so often diverges into sepa- 
 rate and collateral branches, in which it is ; 
 dissipated and lost, being kept within its j 
 charuiel by a simple limitation of this kmd, j 
 wliich practice renders easy and familiar, | 
 flows along in one full stream, and becomes 1 
 smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it ! 
 flows. It may also be observed, that in 
 this way the acquisition of knowledge 
 becomes more pleasant and more easy, from 
 the gradual improvement of the facidty 
 employed to convey it. Though some i 
 attention has been paid to the eloquence of i 
 
 the senate and the bar, whicii in this, as 
 in all other free governments, is productive 
 of so much influence to the few ^ ho excel iu 
 it, yet little regard has been paid to the 
 humbler exercise of speech iu private con- 
 versation— an art that is of consequence to 
 every description of persons under every 
 form of goxernment, and on whicli eloquence 
 of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 
 
 The first requisite of every kind of elocu- 
 tion, a distinct utterance, is the offspring of 
 much time and of long practice. Children 
 are always defective in clear articulation, 
 and so are young peojile, though in a less 
 degree. What is called slurruig iu speech, 
 prevads with some persons through lite, 
 especially in those who are taciturn. Ar- 
 ticulation does not seem to reach its utmost 
 degree of distinctness in men before the 
 age of twenty, or upwards ; in women it 
 reaches this point somewhat earlier. Fe- 
 male occupations require much use of 
 speech, because they are duties in detail. 
 Besides, their occupations being generally 
 sedentary, the respiration is left at liberty. 
 Their nerves being more delicate, their 
 sensibility as well as fancy is more lively ; the 
 natural consequence of which is, a mure 
 frequent utterance of thought, a greater 
 fluency of speech, and a distinct articulation 
 at an earher age. But in men who have 
 not mingled early and familiarly with tiie 
 world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, 
 and clear in apprehension, it is often 
 painful to observe the difficulty v^dth which 
 their ideas are commiuiicatcd by speech, 
 through the want of those habits that con- 
 nect thoughts, words, and sounds together : 
 which, when established, seem as if tliey had 
 arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, 
 are the result of long and painful practice ; 
 and when analysed, exhibit the phenomena 
 of most curious and complicated association. 
 
 Societies then, such as we have been 
 describing, while they may be said to put 
 each member iu possession of the know- 
 ledge of all the rest, improve the powers of 
 utterance ; and by the collision of opinion, 
 excite the faculties of reason and reflection. 
 To those who wish to improve their uiiiuls 
 in such intervals of labour as the condition 
 of a peasant allows, this method of abbre- 
 viating instruction, may, vuider projicr 
 regulations, be highly useful. To the 
 student, whose opinions, springing out of 
 solitary observation and meditation, are 
 seldom in the first instance correct, and 
 which have, notwithstanding, while confined 
 to himself, an increasing tendency to assume 
 in his own eye the character of deuionstrn- 
 
JEAN AEMOUR. 
 
 33 
 
 tintis, an association of this kind, where 
 they may be examined as they arise, is of 
 the utmost importance ; sin(;e it may pre- 
 vent those illusions of imagination, by which 
 genius being bewildered, science is often 
 debased, and error propag-ated through 
 successive generations. And to men who 
 having cultivated letters, or genersd science, 
 in the course of their education, are en- 
 gaged in the active occupations of life, and 
 no longer able to devote to study or to 
 books tbe time requisite for improving or 
 preserving their acquisitions, associations of 
 this kind, where the mind may unbend 
 from its usual cares in discussions of 
 literature or science, afford the most pleas- 
 ing, the most useful, and the most rational 
 of gratifications. 
 
 Whether in the humble societies of which 
 he was a member, Burns acquired much 
 direct information, may perhaps be ques- 
 tioned. It cannot, however, be doubted, 
 that by collision the faculties of his mind 
 would be excited ; that by practice his 
 habits of enunciation would be established ; 
 and thus we have some explanation of that 
 early command of words and of expression 
 which enabled him to pour forth his 
 thoughts in language not unworthy of his 
 genius, and which, of all his endowments, 
 seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, 
 the most extraordinary. For associations 
 of a literary nature, our poet acquired a 
 considerable relish ; and happy had it been 
 for him, after he emerged from the con- 
 dition of a peasant, if fortune had permitted 
 him to enjoy them in the degree of which 
 he was callable, so as to have fortified his 
 principles of virtue by the purification of his 
 taste; and given to the energies of his 
 mind, habits of exertion that might have 
 excluded other associations, in which it 
 must be acknowledged they were too often 
 wasted, as well as debased. 
 
 [The allusions in Burns's letter, and that 
 of his brother, to his connection with Jean 
 Armour, afford but a vague account of 
 that affair ; and it seems necessary that 
 some farther and clearer particidars should 
 now be given. 
 
 John Blane reports the follo\\'ing in- 
 teresting circumstances respecting the 
 attachmvit of the poet to Miss Annour : — 
 There was a singing school at Mauchline, 
 which Blane attended. Jean Armour was 
 ulso a pupil, and he soon became aware of 
 her talents as a vocalist. He even con- 
 tracted a kind of attachment to this young 
 woman, though only such as a country lad 
 of his degTce might entertain for the 
 
 daughter of a substantial country masou. 
 One night, there was a rocicing at Mossgiel, 
 where a lad named Ralph Sillar sang a 
 number of songs in what was considered a 
 superior style. AVhen Burns and Blane 
 were retired to their usual sleeping place in 
 the stable-loft, the former asked the latter 
 what he thought of Sillar's singing, to which 
 Blane answered that the lad tliought so 
 much of it himself, and had so many airs 
 about it, that there was no occasion for 
 others expressing a favourable opinion — yet, 
 he added, "I would not give Jean Armour 
 for a score of him." " You are always 
 talking of this Jean Armour," said Bums ; 
 " I wish you could contrive to bring me to 
 see her." Blane readily consented to do so, 
 and next evening, after the plough was 
 loosed, the two proceeded to Mauchline for 
 that purpose. 13urns went into a public- 
 house, and Blane went into the singing- 
 school, which chanced to be kept in the 
 floor above. When the school was dis- 
 missing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she 
 would come to see Robert Burns, who was 
 below, and anxious to speak to her. Having 
 heard of his poetical talents, she said she 
 would like much to see him, but was afi'aid 
 to go without a female companion. This 
 difficulty being overcome by the frankness 
 of a Miss jMorton — the Miss Morton of the 
 Six Mauchline Belles — Jean went down to 
 the room where Burns was sitting. " From 
 that time," Blane adds very naively, " I had 
 little of the company of Jean Armour." 
 
 Here for the present ends the story of 
 Blane. The results of Burns's acquaint- 
 ance ■n-ith Jean have been already in part 
 detailed. AVhen her pregnancy could be no 
 longer concealed, the poet, under the in- 
 fluence of honourable feeling, gave her a 
 written pajier, in which he acknowledged 
 his being her husband — a document surti- 
 cient to constitute a marriage in Scotland, 
 if not in the eye of decency, at least- in that 
 of law. But her father, from a dislike to 
 Burns, whose theological satires had greatly 
 shocked him, and from hopelesness of his 
 being able to support her as a husband, 
 insisted that she shoidd destroy this paper, 
 and remain as an unmarried woman. 
 
 Some violent scenes ensued. The parents 
 were enraged at the imprudence of their 
 daughter, and at Burns. The daughter, 
 trembling beneath their indignation, could 
 ill resist the command to forget and 
 abandon her lover. He, in his turn, was 
 filled with the extremest anguish when 
 informed that she had given him up. Ano- 
 ther event occurred to add to tbe torments 
 
84 
 
 LIFE OF BUENS. 
 
 of the unhappy poet. Jean, to avoid the 
 immediate pressure of her father's dis- 
 pleasure, went about the month of ]\Iay 
 (1786) to Paisley, and took refuge with a 
 relation of her mother, one Andrew Purdie, 
 a Wright. There was at Paisley a certain 
 Robert Wilson, a good-looking young 
 weaver, a native of Mauchline, and who was 
 realising wages to the amount of perhaps 
 • three pounds a-week by his then flourishing 
 profession. Jean Armour had danced with 
 this "gallant weaver" at the Mauchline 
 dancing-school balls, and, besides her 
 relative Purdie, she knew no other person 
 in Paisley. Being in much need of a 
 small supply of money, she found it neces- 
 sary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who received 
 her kindly, although he did not conceal that 
 he had a suspicion of the reason of her visit 
 to Paisley. When the reader is reminded 
 that village life is not the sphere in which 
 high-wrought and romantic feelings are 
 most apt to flourish, he will be prepared 
 in some measure to learn that Robert 
 Wilson not only relieved the necessities 
 of the fair applicant, but formed the wish to 
 possess himself of her liand. He called for 
 her several times at Purdie's, and informed 
 her, that, if she shoidd not become the wife 
 of Burns, he would engage himself to none 
 while she remained unmarried. Mrs. 
 Burns long after assured a female friend 
 that she never gave the least encourage- 
 ment to Wilson; but, nevertheless, his 
 visits occasioned some gossip, which soon 
 found its way to Mauchline, and entered the 
 soul of the poet like a demoniac possession. 
 He now seems to have regarded her as lost 
 to him for ever, and that not purely through 
 the objections of her relations, but by her 
 own cruel and perjured desertion of one 
 whom she had acknowledged as her hus- 
 band. It requires these particulars, Httle 
 as there may be of pleasing about them, to 
 make us fuUy understand much of what 
 Burns wrote at this time, both in verse and 
 prose. Long afterwards, he became con- 
 vinced that Jean, by no part of her conduct 
 with respect to Wilson, had given him just 
 cause for jealousy: it is not improbable 
 that he learned in time to make it the sub- 
 ject of sport, and wrote the song, " ^Vhere 
 Cart rins rowing to the sea," in jocular 
 allusion to it. But for months — and it is 
 distressing to think that these were the 
 months during which he was putting his 
 matchless poems for the first time to press 
 — he conceived himself the victim of a 
 faithless woman, and life was to him, as he 
 himself describes it. 
 
 ' a weary dream. 
 
 The dream of ane that never wanks." 
 In a letter dated June 12, 1786, he says 
 " Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came 
 home on Friday last. You have heard all 
 the particulars of that affair, and a black 
 affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct 
 now, I don't know ; one thing I do know, 
 she has made me completely miserable. 
 Never man loved, or rather adored, a wo- 
 man more than I did her; and, to confess a 
 truth between you and me, I do love her 
 stiU to distraction, after all, though I 
 won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
 which I don't want to do. * * May 
 Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and 
 perjury to me, as I from my very soul 
 forgive her." On the 9th July he writes— 
 " I have waited on Armour since her return 
 home, not from the least view of reconcilia- 
 tion, but merely to ask for her health, and — to 
 you I will confess it — from a foolish hanker- 
 ing fondness — very ill-placed indeed. The 
 mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean 
 show the penitence that might have been 
 expected. However, the priest, I am in- 
 formed, will give me a certificate as a single 
 man, if I comply with the rules of tlie 
 church, which, for that very reason, 1 intend 
 to do. I am going to put on sackcloth and 
 ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to 
 appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater, 
 miserere mei." 
 
 In a letter of July 17, to Mr. David 
 Brice of Glasgow, the poet thus continues 
 his story: — I have already appeared pub- 
 licly in church, and was indulged m the 
 liberty of standing in my own seat. Jean 
 and her friends insisted much that she 
 should stand along with me in the kirk, but 
 the minister would r.ot allow it, which bred 
 a great trouble, I assure you, and I am 
 blamed as the cause of it, though I jim sure 
 I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, 
 for all that, not to have had her company," 
 And again, July 30 — •" Armour has got a 
 warrant to throw nie in jail till I find secu- 
 rity for an enormous sum. This they keep 
 an entire secret, but I got it by a channel 
 they little dream of ; and I am wandering 
 from one friend's house to another, and, 
 like a true son of the gospel, ' have no 
 where to lay my head.' I know you wUl 
 pour an execration on her head, but spare 
 the poor iU-advised girl, for my sake; 
 though may all the furies that rend the 
 injured, enraged lover's bosom, await her 
 mother until her latest hour ! I write in a 
 moment of rage, reflecting on my miscrablu 
 situations-exiled, abandoned, forlorn," 
 
JEAN ARMOUR'S TWIN CHILDREN. 
 
 B9 
 
 In this dark perijrl, or immediately before 
 it (July 22), the poet siirned an instrument, 
 in anticipation of his immediately leavinj; 
 the kingdom, by which he devised all 
 property of whatever kind he might leave 
 behind, including the copyright of his 
 poems, to his brother Gilbert, in considera- 
 tion of the latter having undertaken to 
 •upport his daughter EUzabeth, the issue of 
 "Elizabeth Paton in Largiesidc." Intima- 
 tion of this instrument was publicly made 
 at the Cross of Ayr, two days after, by 
 William Chalmers, writer. If he had been 
 upon better terms with the Armours, it 
 seems unlikely that he would have thus 
 devised his property without a respect for 
 the claims of his offspring by Jean. 
 
 After this we hear no more of the legal 
 severities of !Mr. Armour — the object of 
 which was, not to abridge the liberty of the 
 unfortunate Burns, but to drive him away 
 fi"om the country, so as to leave Jean more 
 effectually disengaged. The Poems now 
 appeared, and. probably had some effect in 
 allaying the hostility of the old man to- 
 wards their author. It would at least 
 appear that, at the time of Jean's accouche- 
 ment, September 3, the " skulking " had 
 ceased, and the parents of the young woman 
 were not so cruel as to forbid his seeing her. 
 We now resume the story of John Blane. 
 
 At this time, Blane had removed from 
 Mossgiel to IMauchline, and become servant 
 to Mr. Gavin Hamilton ; but Burns still 
 remembered their old acquaintance. When, 
 in consequence of information sent by the 
 Armours as to Jean's situation, the poet 
 came from Mossgiel to \isit her, he called 
 in passing at Mr. Hamilton's, and asked 
 John to accompany him to the house. 
 Blane went with him to Mr. Armour's, 
 wlicre, according to his recollection, the 
 bard was received with all desirable civility. 
 Jean held up a pretty female infant to 
 Burns, who took it affectionately in his 
 arms, and, after keeping it a little while, 
 returned it to the mother, asking the bless- 
 ing of God Almighty upon her and her 
 infant. He was turning away to converse 
 with the other people in the room, when 
 Jean said, archly, "But this is not all— here 
 is another baby," and handed hiiu a male 
 child, which had been born at the same 
 time. He was greatly surprised, but to<ik 
 that child too for a little into his arms, and 
 repeated his blessing upon it. (Tliis child 
 was afterwards named Robert, and still 
 lives : the girl was named Jean, but only 
 bved fourteen mouths.) The mood of the 
 melancholy poet theu changed to the mirth- 
 
 ftil, and the scene was conchidcd by his 
 giving the ailing lady a hearty caress, and 
 I'allying her on this promising beginning of 
 her history as a mother. 
 
 It would appear, from the words used by 
 the poet on this occasion, that he was not 
 without hope of yet making good his matri- 
 monial alliance with Jean. This is rendered 
 the more likely by the evidence which exists 
 of his having, for some time during Sep- 
 tember, entertained a hope of obtaining an 
 excise appointment, through his friends 
 Hamilton and Aiken ; in which case he 
 woidd have been able to present a respect- 
 able claim upon the countenance of the 
 Armours. But this prospect ended in dis- 
 appointment ; and there is reason to con- 
 clude, that, in a very short time after the 
 accouchement, he was once more forbidden 
 to visit the house in which his children and 
 all hut wife resided. There was at this time 
 a person named John Kennedy, who tra- 
 velled the district on horseback as mercan- 
 tile agent, and was on intimate terms with 
 Burns. One day, as he was passing Moss- 
 giel, Burns stopped him, and made the 
 request that he would return to Mauchline 
 with a present for " his poor wife." Kennedy 
 consented, and the poet hoisted upon the 
 pommel of the saddle a bag fiUed with the 
 delicacies of the farm. He proceeded to 
 ilr. Armour's house, and requested per- 
 mission to see Jean, as the bearer of a 
 message and a present from Robert Burns. 
 ]\Irs. Armour violently protested against his 
 being admitted to an interview, and be- 
 stowed upon him sundry unceremonious 
 appellations for being the friend of such a 
 man ; she was, howe\er, overruled in this 
 instance by her husband, and Kennedy was 
 permitted to enter the apartment where 
 Jean was lying. He had not been there 
 many minutes, when he heard a rushing 
 and screaming in the stair, and, immediately 
 after. Burns burst into the room, followed 
 closely by the Armours, who seemed to have 
 exhausted their strength in endeavouring to 
 repel his intrusion. Burns flew to the bed, 
 and putting his cheek to Jean's, and then in 
 succession to those of the slumbering 
 infants, wept bitterly. The Armours, it is 
 added by Kennedy, who has himself re- 
 ported the circumstances (45), remamed un- 
 affected by his distress ; but whether he 
 was allowed to remain for a short time, or 
 immediately after expelled, is not mentioned. 
 After hearing tliis affecting anecdote of 
 Burns, the Lament may verily appear to ua 
 as arising from 
 
 " No idly feigned poetic pains." (40) 
 
36 
 
 LIFE OF BUENS. 
 
 The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but 
 the banks of that river, as it bends to the 
 eastward above Maiichline, are singularly 
 beautiful, and they were fi'equented, as may 
 be imagined, by our poet in his solitary 
 walks. Here the muse often visited him. 
 In one of these wanderings, he met among 
 the woods, a celebrated beauty of the west 
 of Scotland — a lady, of whom it is said that 
 the charms of her person correspond with 
 tlie character of her mind. (47) This inci- 
 dent gave rise, as might be expected, to a 
 poem, of which an account will be found in 
 the following letter, in which he enclosed it 
 to the object of his inspiration : — 
 
 •To Miss 
 
 "Mossffiel, ISth November, 1786. 
 
 * Madam. — Poets are such outre beings, 
 80 much the the children of wayward fancy 
 and capricious whim, that I believe the 
 world generally aUows them a larger latitude 
 in the laws of propriety, than the sober sous 
 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 pre- 
 sent 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 produce : and what to a 
 good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, 
 it is equally sincere as fervent. 
 
 " The scenery was nearly taken from real 
 life, though I dare say, madam, you do not 
 recollect it, as I beheve 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 sim was 
 flaming over the distant western hills ; not 
 a breath stirred the crimson opening 
 blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It 
 was a golden moment for a poetic heart. 
 I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring 
 their harmony on every hand, with a con- 
 genial kindred regard, and frequently 
 turned out of ray path, lest I should disturb 
 their little songs, or frighten thenl to 
 another station. Surely, said I to myself, 
 he must be a wretch indeed, who, regard- 
 less of your harmonious endeavours 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 nesthngs. 
 Even the hoary hawthorn tuig that shot 
 across the way, what heart at such a time 
 but must have been interested in its wel- 
 
 fare, and wished it preserved firom the 
 rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering east- 
 ern blast? Such was the scene, and such the 
 hour, when, in a corner of ray prospect, I 
 spied one of the fairest pieces of natiire's 
 workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
 landscape, or met a poet's eye ; those vision- 
 ary 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 it but poorly 
 answers what might have been expected 
 fi'om such a scene. (48) * * * 
 
 "I have the honour to be, madam, your 
 most obedient, and very humble servant, 
 "Robert Burns." 
 'Twas even— the dewy fields were green, 
 
 On every blade the pearls hang : (49) 
 The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
 In every glen the mavis sang, 
 
 All nature listening seemed the while. 
 Except where greenwood echoes rang, 
 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 With careless step I onward strayed, 
 
 My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
 When, musing in a lonely glade, 
 
 A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
 Her look was like the morning's eye, 
 Her hair like nature's vernal sniile. 
 Perfection whispered passing by, 
 
 Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! (50) 
 Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
 
 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 bony lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 Oh had she been a country maid, 
 
 And I the happy country swain ! 
 Though sheltered in the lowest shed 
 That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
 Through weary winter's wind and rain. 
 With joy, with rapture I would toil ; 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 Then pride might climb the slippery steepi, 
 
 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 bony lass o' Ballochmyle." 
 
 In the manuscript book in which our poet 
 has recounted this uicideut, and into which 
 the letter and poem are copied, he complains 
 that the lady made no reply to liis effusions. 
 
SUSCEPTIBILITY OF BURNS. 
 
 87 
 
 and this appears to have wounded his self- 
 love. It is not, however, difficult to find an 
 excuse for her silence. Burns was at this 
 time little known ; and, wliere known at all, 
 noted rather for the wild strength of his 
 humour, than for those strains of tenderness 
 in which he afterwards so much excelled. To 
 the lady herself his nwne had, perhaps, never 
 been mentioned, and of such a poem she 
 might not consider herself as the proper 
 jiulg-e. Her modesty might prevent her 
 from perceiving that the muse of TibuUus 
 breathed in this nameless poet, and that her 
 beauty was awakening strains destmed to im- ! 
 mortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may 
 be conceived, also, that supposing the verse 
 duly appreciated, delicacy might find it diffi- 
 cult to express its acknowledgments. The 
 fervent imagination of the rustic bard pos- 
 sessed more of tenderness than of respect. 
 Instead of raising himself to the condition of 
 the object of his admiration, he presumed to 
 reduce her to his ovra, and to strain this 
 high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It is ' 
 true. Burns might have found precedents for 
 such freetloms among the poets of Greece 
 and Rome, and, indeed, of every country. 
 And it is not to be denied, that lovely wo- i 
 men have generally submitted to this sort of ] 
 profanation with patience, and even with 
 good humour. To what purpose is it to re- 
 pine at a misfortune which is the necessary 
 conseqiience of their own charms, or to re- 
 monstrate with a description of men who are 
 incapable of control ? 
 
 " The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
 Are of imagination all compact." 
 
 It ".nay be easily presumed, that the beau- 
 tiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she 
 may have been, did not reject with scorn the 
 adorations of our poet, though she received 
 them with silent modesty and dignified 
 reserve. 
 
 The sensibility of our bard's temper, and 
 the force of his imagination, exposed him, in 
 a particular manner, to the impressions of 
 beauty ; and these qualities, united to his 
 impassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a 
 powerful influence over the female heart. 
 The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of 
 youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, 
 the history of which it would be improper to 
 reveal, were it even in our power ; and the 
 traces of which will soon be discoverable only 
 in those strains of nature and sensibility to 
 which they gave birth. Tlie song entitled 
 Highland Mary is known to relate to one of 
 these attachments. " It was written," says 
 our bard, " on one of the most interesting 
 passages of my youthful days." The object 
 
 of this passion died early in life, and the im- 
 pression left on the mind of Burns seems to 
 have been deep and lasting. (51) Several 
 years afterwards, when he was removed to 
 Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of 
 his recollections in the following impassioned 
 lines. In the manuscript book from which 
 we extract them, they are addressed To Mary 
 in Heaven ! 
 
 " Thou linp:orinp: star, with less'ning ray, 
 
 Tliat lov'st to greet the curly moru, 
 Ageiin thou usher'st in the clay 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 Oh, Mary ! dear deiiarted shartc ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breasbl 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget, 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 AVhcre by the winding Ayr we met 
 
 To live one day of parting love ! 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 
 Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ninj, 
 green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twin'd amorous I'ound the raptured scene. 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray, 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 I'roclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ; 
 Time but tlie impression stronger makes. 
 
 As streams their channels di'eper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ' 
 
 Whore is thy place of blissful rest t 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? [breast ?" 
 
 Hear'bt thou the groans that rend his 
 
 To the delineations of the poet by himself, 
 by his brother, and by his tutor, these addi- 
 tions are necessary, in order that the reader 
 may see his character in its various aspects, 
 and may have an opportunity of forming a 
 just notion of the variety, as well as of the 
 power of his original genius. (52) 
 
 We have dwelt the longer on the early 
 part of his life, because it is the least known, 
 and because, as has already been mentioned, 
 this part of his history is connected with 
 some views of the condition and manners of 
 the humblest ranks of society, liitherto little 
 observed, and which will perhaps be found 
 neither useless nor uninteresting. 
 
 About the time of his leaving his native 
 county, his correspondence commences ; and 
 in the scries of letters given to the world, 
 the chief incidents of the remaining part of 
 his life will be found. This authentic, 
 though melancholy record, will supersede ia 
 
38 
 
 LIFE OF EUKiXS. 
 
 I'lLure the necessity of any extended narra- 
 tive. 
 
 Burns set ont for Edinburgh in the month 
 of November, 1 786. He was furnished with 
 a letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock 
 (5.3), from the gentleman to whom the doctor 
 had addressed the letter which is represented 
 by our bard as the immediate cause of his 
 visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was 
 acquainted with iMr. Stewart, Professor of 
 Jloral Philosophy in the university, and 
 had been entertained by that gentleman at 
 Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had 
 been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzeil 
 (54) to the Earl of Glencairn, who had ex- 
 pressed his high approbation of his poetical 
 talents. He had friends, therefore, who 
 could introduce him into the circles of lite- 
 rature as well as of fashion, and his own 
 manners and appearance exceeding every 
 expectation that could have been formed of 
 them, he soon became an object of general 
 curiosity and admiration. (55) The following 
 circumstance contributed to this in a con- 
 siderable degree : — At the time when Burns 
 arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, 
 entitled The Lounger, was publishing, evei-y 
 Saturday producing a successive nunilter. 
 His poems had attracted the notice of the 
 gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and 
 the ninety-seventh number of those unequal, 
 though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted 
 to An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire 
 Ploughman, with extracts from his Poems, 
 written by the elegant pen of ]Mr. Mackenzie. 
 The Lounger had an extensive circulation 
 among persons of taste and literature, not 
 in Scotland only, but in various parts of 
 England, to whose acquaintance, therefore, 
 our bard was immediately introduced. The 
 paper of Jlr. Mackenzie was calculated to 
 introduce him advantageously. The extracts 
 are well selected ; the criticisms and reflec- 
 tions are judicious as well as generous ; and 
 in the style and sentiments there is that 
 happy delicacy, by which the writings of the 
 author are so eminently distinguished. The 
 extracts from Burns's poems in the ninety- 
 seventh number of The Lounger, were copied 
 into the London as well as into many of the 
 provincial papers, and the fame of our bard 
 spread throughout the island. Of the 
 manners, character, and conduct of Burns at 
 tills period, the following account lias been 
 given by Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral 
 Pliilosophy in the University of Edinburgh, 
 in a letter to the editor, which he is particu- 
 larly happy to have obtained permission to 
 insert in these memoirs : — 
 
 " The first time I saw Robert Burns -vas 
 
 on the 2.3rd of October, 1736, when he dined 
 at my house in Ayrshire, together with our 
 common friend Mr. John ^lackenzie, surgeon 
 in Manchline. to whom I am indebted for the 
 pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled 
 to mention the date particularly, by some 
 verses which Burns wrote after he returned 
 home, and in which the day of our meeting 
 is recorded. My excellent and much lamented 
 friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened 
 to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by 
 the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
 left an impression on the mind of the poet 
 which was never effaced. (56) The verses I 
 allude to are among the most imperfect of 
 his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps 
 be an object of curiosity to you, both oa 
 account of the character to which they relate, 
 and of the light which they throw on the 
 situation and feelings of the writer, before 
 his name was known to the public. 
 
 I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
 time, whether, at the period of our first 
 acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
 poems had been just published, or was yet 
 in the press. I suspect that the latter was 
 the case, as I have still in my possession 
 copies in his own handwriting of some (jf his 
 favourite performances ; particularly of his 
 verses On Turning up a Mouse with his 
 Plough ; on the Mountain Daisy ; and Tlie 
 Lament. On my return to Edinburgh, I 
 showed the volume, and mentioned what I 
 knew of the author's history to several of 
 my friends ; and among others to iNIr. Henry 
 Mackenzie, who first recommended him to 
 public notice in the 97th number of The 
 Lounger. 
 
 " At this time Burns's prospects in life 
 were so extremely gloomy, that he had 
 seriously formed a plan of going out to 
 Jamaica in a very humble situation, not 
 however without lamenting that his want of 
 patronage should force him to think of a 
 project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
 his ambition aimed at no liigher an object 
 than the station of an exciseman or ganger 
 in his own country. 
 
 "His manners were then, as they continued 
 ever afterwards, simple, manly, and inde- 
 pendent; 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 de- 
 prived him of the means of information. If 
 there had been a little more of gentlenesa 
 I and accommodation in his temper, he would. 
 
BURNS VISITS EDINBUllGII. 
 
 39 
 
 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 thin? approaching to mean- 
 ness or servility, rendered his manner some- 
 what decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, 
 was more reniarkable among his various at- 
 tainments, than the fluency, and precision, 
 ftnd originality of his language, when he 
 spoke in company ; more particularly as he 
 aimed at purity in his turn of expression, 
 and avoided more successfully than most 
 Scotchmen the peculiaricies of Scottish 
 phraseology. 
 
 " He came to Edinburgh early in the ^tnnter 
 following, and remained there for several 
 months. By whose advice he took this 
 step, I am unable to say. Perhaps it was 
 suggested only by his own curiosity to see a 
 little more of the world ; but, I confess, I 
 dreaded the consequences from the first, 
 and always wished that his pursuits and 
 habits should continue the same as in the 
 f.>rmer part of life — with the addition of, 
 what I considered as then completely within 
 his reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in 
 a part of the country agreeable to his taste. 
 
 " The attentions he received during his stay 
 in town from all ranks and descriptions of 
 persons, were such as would have turned 
 any head but his own. I cannot say that I 
 could perceive any unfavourable effect 
 which they left on his mind. He retained 
 the same simplicity of manners and ap- 
 pearance which had struck me so forcibly 
 when I first saw liim in the country ; nor 
 did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
 portance from the ninnbcr and rank of his 
 new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly 
 suited to his station, plain and unpretend- 
 iiiir, with a snrticient attention to neatness. 
 If 1 recollect riirht, he always wore boots ; 
 and, when on more than usual ceremony, 
 buck?kin breeches. 
 
 ■' Tlie variety of his engagements, while in 
 Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him 
 io often as I could have wished. In the 
 course of the spring, he called on me once 
 or twice, at my request, early in the morn- 
 ing, and walked with me to Braid Hills, in 
 the neighbourhood of the town, when he 
 charmed me still more by his private con- 
 versation than he had ever done in company. 
 He was passionately fond of the bcanties of 
 nature ; and I recollect once he told me, 
 when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
 one of our morning walks, that the sight of 
 so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure 
 to his mind, which none could understand 
 who had not witnessed, hke himself, the 
 
 5 
 
 happiness and the worth which they con- 
 tained. 
 
 " In his political principles he was then a 
 Jacobite ; which was perhaps owins: partly 
 to tliis, that his father was originally fronj 
 the estate of Lord Mareschal. Iniieed, he 
 did not appear to have thought much on 
 such subjects, nor very consistently. He 
 had a very strong sense of religion, and ex- 
 pressed deep regret at the levity with which 
 he had heard it treated occasionally in some 
 convivial meetings which he frequented. I 
 speak of him as he Mas in the winter of 
 1 78(i-7 ; for afterwards we met but seldom, 
 and our conversations turned chielly ou his 
 literary projects, or his private affairs. 
 
 " I do not recollect whether it ajipears or 
 not from any of your letters to me, that 
 you had ever seen Burns. (57) If you have, 
 it is superfluous for me to add, that the 
 idea which his conversation conveyed of the 
 powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, 
 that which is suggested by his writings. 
 Among the poets whom I have happened to 
 know, I have been struck, in more than one 
 instance, with the unaccountable disparity 
 between their general talents, and the occa- 
 si(mal inspirations of their more favoured 
 moments. But all the faculties of Burns's 
 mind, were, as far as I could judge, equally 
 vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry 
 was rather the residt of his own enthusiastic 
 and impassioned temper, than of a genius 
 exclusively adapted to that s])ecies of com- 
 position. From his conversation I shoidd 
 liave pronounced him to be fitted to excel in 
 whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to 
 exert his abilities. 
 
 "Among the subjects on which he was 
 accustomed to dwell, the characters of tlie 
 individuals with whom he happened to meet, 
 was plainly a favourite one. The remarks 
 he made on them were always shrewd and 
 pointed, though frequently inclining too 
 much to sarcasm. His praise of those he 
 loved was sometimes indiscriminate and 
 extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded 
 rather rather from the caprice and humour 
 of the moment, than from the effects of 
 attachment in bUnding his judgment. His 
 wit was ready, and always impressed with 
 the marks of a vigorous understanding ; but, 
 to my taste, not often pleasing or happy, 
 His attempts at epigram, in his printed 
 works, are the only performances, perhaps, 
 that he has produced totally unworthy of 
 his genius. 
 
 "In summer 1737, 1 passed some weeks 
 in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. 
 I think that he made a pretty long eicwe- 
 
40 
 
 LIFE OF BURXS. 
 
 sion that season to the Highlands, and that 
 he also visited what Beattie calls the Arca- 
 dian ground of Scotland, upon the banks of 
 the Teviot and the Tweed. 
 
 " I should have mentioned before, tliat, not- 
 withstanding various reports I heard daring 
 the preceding mnter, of Burns's predilection 
 for convivial, and not very select society, I 
 should have concluded in favour of his 
 habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever 
 fell under my own observation. He told me 
 indeed himself, that the weakness of his 
 stomach was such as to deprive him entirely 
 of any merit in his temperance. I was, 
 however, somewhat alarmed aljout the etfect 
 of his now comparatively sedentary and 
 luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the 
 first niglit he spent in my house after his 
 winter's campaign in town, tliat he had 
 been mucii disturbed when in bed, by a 
 palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was 
 a complaint to which he had of late become 
 subject. 
 
 " In the course of the same season, I was 
 led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two 
 u Slaion Lodge in JMauchline, where Burns 
 presided. He had occasion to make some 
 short unpremeditated compliments to differ- 
 ent individuals from whom he had no reason 
 to expect a visit, and everything he saiil 
 was happdy conceived, and forcibly as well 
 as liiieiitly expressed. If I am not mistaken, 
 he toll me, that in that village, before going 
 to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small 
 club of such of the inhabitants as had a 
 taste for books, when they used to converse 
 and debate on any interesting questions that 
 occurred to them in the course of their 
 reading. His manner of speaking in puljlic 
 had evidently the marks of some practice in 
 e.xLe.iipore elocution. 
 
 " 1 must not omit to mention, what I have 
 always considered as characteristical in a 
 high degree of true genius, the extreme 
 facility and good-nature of his taste, in 
 judging of the compositions of others 
 where there was any real ground for praise 
 1 repeated to him many passages of Englisii 
 poetry with which he was imacquaiiited, ami 
 have more than once witnessed the tears of 
 admiration and rapture with which he heard 
 them. The collection of songs by Dr. 
 Aikin, which I first put into his hands, he 
 read «ith unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
 his former efforts in that very dirticulc 
 species of wriciug ; and I have little doubt 
 that it had some effect in polishing his sub- 
 sequent compositions. 
 
 •' In judging of prose, I do not think his 
 taste wai equally sound. I oace read to 
 
 hiro a passage or two in Franklin's works, 
 which I thought very happily executed, 
 upon the model of Addison ; but he did not 
 appear to rehsh, or to perceive the beauty 
 which they derived from their ex([uisite 
 simplicity, and spoke of tliein with indiffe- 
 rence, when compared with the point, and 
 antithesis, and quaiutness of Junius. Thi 
 influence of this taste is very perceptible in 
 his own prose compositions, although their 
 great and various excellences render some 
 of them scarcely less objects of wonder 
 than his poetical performances. The late 
 Dr. Robertson used to say, that considering 
 his education, the former seemed to him the 
 more extraordinary of the two. 
 
 " His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
 at least for poetry, of which he recited to me, 
 frequently long compositions with the most 
 minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
 and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; 
 great part of them, he told ine, he had 
 learned in his childhood from his mother, 
 who delighted in such recitations, and whose 
 poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, 
 it is presumable, the first direction to her 
 son's genius. 
 
 " Of the more polished verses which acci- 
 dentally fell into his hands in his early 
 years, he mentioned particularly the recom- 
 mendatory poems by different authors, pre- 
 fixed to Hervey's Meditations ; a book 
 which has always had a very wide circula- 
 tion among such of the country people of 
 Scotland as affect to unite some degree of 
 taste with their religious studies. And 
 tiiese poems (although they are certainly 
 below mediocrity) he continued to read with 
 a degree of rapture beyond expression. He 
 took notice of this fact himself, as a proof 
 liow much the taste is liable to be influ- 
 enced by accidental circumstances. 
 
 " His father appeared to me, from the 
 account he gave of him, to have been a 
 respectable and worthy character, possessed 
 of a mind superior to what might have been 
 expected from his station in life. He as- 
 cribed much of his own principles and feel- 
 ings to the early impressions he had received 
 from his instructions and example. 1 recol- 
 lect that he once applied to him (and, he 
 added, that the passage was a literal state- 
 ment of the fact) the two last lines of the 
 following passage in the Minstrel, the whole 
 of which he repeated with great enthusiasm : 
 
 ' Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
 When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive; 
 
 Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
 Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
 live! 
 
LITERARY RECEPTION OF BURNS. 
 
 41 
 
 Is it *■'■ 'his fair virtue oft Trm=t strive 
 
 Witli (lisappointincnt, ptnurv, nnd p;iin ? 
 Ko ! Heaven's immortal spring sliall yet 
 arrive ; 
 Anil man's majestic beauty bloom ajjain, 
 Bright thro' th' eternal year of love's tri- 
 umphant reisjn. [taught: 
 This truth sublime his simple sire had 
 In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd 
 knew.' 
 
 "With respect to Bnms's early education, 
 I cannot say anything with certainty. He 
 always spoke witli respect and gratitude of 
 the schoolmaster who had tau;;ht him to 
 read Ens;lish, and who, tindinsr in his scholar 
 a more tlian onhnary ardour for knowlediie, 
 had been at pains to instruct him in the 
 grammatical principles of the lans;na£;e. He 
 beg'an the study of I^atin, but dropt it 
 before he had finished the verbs. I liave 
 sometimes heard him quote a few Latin 
 words, such as omnia vincit amor, &c., but 
 they seemed to be such as he had caught 
 from conversation, and which he repeated 
 by rote. I think he had a project, after he 
 came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the 
 study under his intimate friend, the late 
 Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the gram- 
 mar-school here ; but I do not know that 
 he ever proceeded so far as to make the 
 attempt. 
 
 " He certainly possessed a smattering of 
 French ; and if he had an affectation in 
 anything, it was in introducing occasionally 
 a word or phrase from that languaire. It is 
 possible that his knowledge in this respect 
 might be more extensive tlian I suppose it 
 to be ; but this you can learn from his more 
 intimate acquaintance. It would be worth 
 while to inquire, whether he was able to 
 read the French authors with such facility 
 as to receive from thera any improvement 
 to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it 
 much ; nor would I believe it, but on very 
 strons: and pointed evidence. 
 
 " If my memory does not fail me. he was 
 well instructed in arithmetic, and knew 
 something of practical geometry, particti- 
 larly of surve\ang. All his other attaui- 
 ments were entirely his o\ra. 
 
 " The last time I saw him was during the 
 winter 1788-89,(59) when he passed an 
 evening with me at Drumseugh, in the 
 neighbottrhood of Edinburgh, where I was 
 then living. My friend, .Mr. Alison, was 
 the only otlicr person in company. I never 
 saw him more agreeable or interesting. ^ 
 present which Mr. Alison sent him after- 
 wards of his Essays on Taste, drew from 
 Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which I 
 remember to have read with some degree of 
 
 surprise, at the distinct conception he ap 
 pearcd from it to have formed of the general 
 principles of the doctrine of associntion." (GO) 
 
 The scene that opened on our bard in 
 Edinl)urgh was altogether new, and in a 
 variety of other res))ects highly interesting, 
 especially to one of his disposition of mind. 
 To use an expression of his own, he found 
 himself "suddenly translated from the 
 veriest shades of life," into the presence, 
 aiul, indeed, into the society, of a number 
 of persons, previously known to him by 
 report as of the highest distinction in his 
 country, and whose characters it was natural 
 for him to exaimne with no common ciu"i- 
 osity. (61) 
 
 From the men of letters, in general, his 
 reception was particidarly flattering. The 
 late Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, 
 Mr, Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and IMr. Fraser 
 Tytler, may be mentioned in the list of 
 those who perceived his imcommon talents, 
 who acknowledged more especially his 
 powers in conversation, and who interested 
 themselves in the cultivation of his 
 genius. (62) In Edinburgh literary and 
 fashionable society are a good deal mixed. 
 Our bard was an acceptable guest in the 
 gayest and most elevated circles, and fre- 
 quently received from female beauty and 
 elegance those attentions above all others 
 most grateful to him. (G3) At the table of 
 Lord Jlonboddo he was a freqtient guest ; 
 and while he enjoyed the society, and par- 
 took of the hospitalities of the venerable 
 jiidge, he experienced the kindness and C(m- 
 desceusion of his lovely and accomplished 
 daughter. The singidar beauty of this 
 young lady was illuminated by that happy 
 expression of comitenance which results 
 from the union of cultivated taste and 
 superior understanding with the finest affec- 
 tions of the mind. The influence of such 
 attractions was not unfelt by our poet. 
 "Tliere has not been anything like IMiss 
 Burnet," said he in a letter to a friend, " in 
 all the combination of beauty, grace, and 
 goodness, the Creator has formed since 
 Milton's Eve on the first day of her exist- 
 ence." In his Address to Edinburgh, she 
 is celebrated in a strain of stiU greater 
 elevation : — 
 
 " Fair Piurnet strikes th' adomincr eye, 
 Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine I 
 I sec the Sire of Love on high, 
 And own his work indeed divine !" 
 
 Tliis lovely woman died a few years after- 
 wards in the flower of youth. Our bard 
 expressed his sensibility on that occasion, 
 in verses addressed to her memory. 
 
43 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 Amon;5 the men of rank and fashion, 
 Burns was particularly distinguished by 
 James, Earl of Glencairn. ((54) Oa the 
 motion of this nobleman, tlie Caledonian 
 Hunt, an association of the principal of the 
 uobility and gentry of Scotland, extended 
 their patronage to our bard, and admitted 
 him to their gay orgies. He repaid their 
 notice by a dedication of the enlarged and 
 improved edition of his poems, in which he 
 has celebrated their patriotism and indepen- 
 dence in very animated terms. 
 
 "I congratulate my country that the blood 
 of her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated, 
 and that, from your courage, knowledge, and 
 public spirit, she may expect protection, 
 wealth, and liberty. ******* 
 May corruption shrink at your kindling in- 
 dignant glance ; and may tyranny in the 
 ruler, and licentiousness in the people, 
 equally find in you an inexorable foe." 
 
 It is to be presumed that these generous 
 sentiments, uttered at an era singularly 
 propitious to indejiendence of character and 
 conduct, were favourably received by the 
 persons to whom they were addressed, and 
 that they were echoed from every bosom, as 
 well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. 
 This accomplished nobleman, a scholar, a 
 man of taste and sensibdity, died soon 
 afterwards. Had he lived, and had his 
 power equalled his wishes, Scotland mig~'t 
 stiU have exulted in the genius, instead of 
 lamenting the early fate of her favourite 
 bard. 
 
 A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
 with hal)its of temperance and regularity ; 
 and Edinburgh, at the period of which we 
 speak, contained, perhaps, an uncommon 
 proportion of men of considerable talents, 
 devoted to social excesses, in which their 
 talents were wasted and debased. 
 
 Burns entered into several parties of this 
 description, with the usual vehemence of his 
 character. His generous affections, his 
 ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring 
 imagination, fitted him to be the idol of such 
 associations ; and accustoming himself to 
 conversation of unlimited range, and to festive 
 indulgences that scorned restraint, he gra- 
 dually lost some portion of his relish for tiie 
 more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be 
 found in the circles of taste, elegance, and 
 literature. This sudden alteration in his 
 habits of life operated on him physically as 
 well as morally. The humble fare of an 
 Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the 
 luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
 effects of this change on his ardent constitu- 
 tion could not be inconsiderable. But 
 
 whatever influence might be produced on his 
 conduct, his excellent understanding suffered 
 no coiTesponding debasement. He estimated 
 his friends and associates of every descrip- 
 tion at their proper value, and appreciated 
 his own conduct with a precision that might 
 give scope to much curious and melancholy 
 reflection. He saw his danger, and at times 
 formed resolutions to guard against it ; but 
 he had embarked on the tide of dissipation, 
 and was borne along its stream. 
 
 Of the state of his mind at this time, an 
 authentic, though imperfect, document re- 
 mains, in a book which he procured in the 
 spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he himself 
 informs ns, of recording in it whatever 
 seemed worthy of observation. The following 
 extracts may serve as a specimen : — 
 
 "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, I 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 with me, making my remarks is by no 
 means a solitary pleasure. 1 want some one 
 to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, 
 some one to please me and help my discrimi- 
 nation, with his or her own remark, and at 
 times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and 
 penetration. The world are so busied with 
 selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or 
 pleasure, that very few think it worth their 
 while to make any observation on what 
 passes aroimd them, except where that ob- 
 servation is a Slicker, or branch of the darling 
 plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor 
 am I sure, notwithstanding all the senti- 
 mental flights of novel-wTiters, and the sage 
 philosophy of moralists, whether we are 
 capable of so intimate and cordial a coalition 
 of fiiendship, as that one man may pour out 
 his bosom, his every thought and floating 
 fancy, his very inmost soul, with unreserved 
 confidence to another, without hazard of 
 losing part of that respect which man deserves 
 from man ; or, from the unavoidable imper- 
 fections attending human nature, o£ one day 
 repenting his confidence. 
 
 " For these reasons I 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, tfiV/iuu/ 
 
iiURNS AND HIS CONTEMPORAKIES. 
 
 43 
 
 feud or favour. "Where I hit on any thing 
 clever, my o\ni applause will in some measure 
 feast my vanity ; and, beir;;iiig Patroclus' 
 and Achates' pardon, 1 think a lock and key 
 a secnrity, at least equal to the bosom of any 
 friend whatever. 
 
 " 3Iy own private story likewise, my love 
 adventures, my rambles; the frowns and 
 smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems 
 and fragments, that must never see the light, 
 shall be occasionally inserted. In short, 
 never did four shiliins-s purchase so much 
 friendship, since confidence went first to 
 market, or honesty was set up to sale. 
 
 "To these seemingly invidious, but too 
 just ideas of Imraau friendship, I would 
 cheerfully make one ex('ei)U(jn — the connec- 
 tion between two persons of different sexes, 
 when their interests are united and absorbed 
 by the tie of love — 
 
 ' When thousrht meets thought, ere from the 
 
 lips it part, [heart.' 
 
 And each warm wish springs mutual from the 
 
 There confidence, confidence that exalts them 
 the more in one another's opinion, that en- 
 dears them the more to each other's hearts, 
 unreservedly ' reigns and revels.' But this 
 is not my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am 
 wise (which, by the bye, I have no great 
 chance of being), my fate should be cast 
 with the Psalmist's sparrow, ' to watch alone 
 on the house tops.' Oh the pity ! 
 • «**«• 
 
 "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 
 every where, with the reception which a 
 mere ordinary character, decorated with the 
 trappings and futile distinctions of fortinie, 
 meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his 
 breast glowing with honest pride, conscious 
 that men are born equal, still giving honour 
 to wliom honour is due; he meets at a great 
 man's table, a Squire something, 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 w ill it mortify 
 him to see a fellow whose abilities would 
 scarcely have made an eif/htpenny 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 
 tbe soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
 respect, and love him. lie showed so much 
 attention, engrossing attention, one day, I 
 to the ouly blockhead at table (the whole 
 
 company consisted of his lordship, dnnder- 
 pate, and myselfj, that I was witliiu half a 
 point of throwing down my gage of con- 
 temptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, 
 and looked so benevolently 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. 
 
 " ^\'lth Dr. likiir 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 liking. Wlien he neg- 
 lects me for the mere carcase 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 hiia 
 or his pomp either ? " 
 
 The intentions of the poet in procuring 
 this book, so fully described by himself, 
 were very irajjerfectly executed. He has 
 inserted in it few or no incidents, but seve- 
 ral observations and reflections, of which 
 the greater part that are proper for the 
 public eye will be found interwoven in his 
 letters. The most curious particulars iu 
 the book are the delineations of the charac- 
 ters he met with. These are not numerous; 
 but they are chiefly of persons of distinc- 
 tion in the republic of letters, and nothing 
 but the delicacy and respect due to li\iiig 
 characters prevents us from committing 
 them to the press. Though it appears that 
 in his conversation he was sometimes dis- 
 posed to sarcastic remarks on the men with 
 whom he lived, nothing of this kind is dis- 
 coverable in these more deliberate efforts of 
 his understanding, which, while they exhibit 
 great clearness of discrimination, manifest 
 also the wish, as well as the power, to 
 bestow high and generous praise. 
 
 As a specimen of these delineations, we 
 give the character of Dr. Blair, who has 
 now paid the debt of nature, in the full 
 confidence that this freedom will not be 
 found inconsistent with the respect and 
 veneration due to that excellent man, the 
 last stir in the literary constellation, by 
 which the metropolis of Scotland was, ia 
 the earlier part of the present reign, so 
 beautifully illuminated. 
 
 " It is not easy forming an exact judg- 
 ment of any one ; but, in my o|)inion. Dr. 
 Blair is merely an astonishing proof of 
 what industry and ai)plication can da 
 Natur d parts like his are frequently to be 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 met with ; his viinity is proverbially known ■ 
 among^ his acquaintance ; but he is justly at i 
 the head of what may be called tine writiusr ; : 
 and a critic ot the tirst, the very first, rank ' 
 ill prose ; even in poetry, a bard of Nature's 
 making can only take the pas of hi.« He 
 has a heart not of the very finest water, but 
 far from being an ordinary one. In short, 
 he is truly a worthy and. most respectable 
 character." 
 
 [iMr. Cromek informs us that one of the 
 poet's remarks, when he first came to Edin- 
 burgh, was, that between the men of rustic 
 life and the polite world, he observed little 
 difference ; tliat in the former, though un- 
 polished 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. Mr. Lockhart 
 adds, that there is reason to believe that 
 Burns was much more a favourite amongst 
 the female than the male part of elevated 
 Edinburgh society to which he was intro- 
 duced, and that in consequence, in all pro- 
 bability, of the greater deference he paid to 
 the gentler sex. " It is sutticiently apparent," 
 adds Mr. L., " that there were many points 
 in Burns's conversational habits, which 
 men, accustomed to the delicate observances 
 of refined society, might be more willing 
 to tolerate under the first excitement of 
 personal curiosity, than fi-om any very de- 
 liberate estimate of the claims of such a 
 genius, under such circumstances developed. 
 He by no means restricted his sarcastic 
 observations on those wliom he encountered 
 in the world to the confidence of his note- 
 book, but startled ears polite with the 
 utterance of audacious epigrams, far too 
 witty not to obtain general circulation in 
 so small a society as that of the northern 
 capital, far too bitter not to produce deep 
 resentment, far too numerous not to spread 
 fear almost as widely as admiration." An 
 example of liis unscrupulousness is thus 
 given by Mr. Cromek. " At a private 
 breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, 
 the conversation turned on the poetical 
 merit and pathos of Gray's Elegy, a poem 
 of which he was enthusiastically fond. A 
 clergyman present, remarkable for his love 
 of paradox, and for his eccentric notions 
 upon every subject, distinguished himself 
 by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on 
 this exquisite poem, which Burns, with 
 generous warmth for the reputation of 
 Gray, manfully defended. As the gentle- 
 man's remarks were rather general than 
 
 specific. Burns urged him to bring forwarfl 
 the passages whicfihe thought 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 forbear- 
 ance, till at length, goaded by the fastidious 
 criticisms and wretched quibblings of his 
 opponent, he roused himself, and with an 
 eye flasliing contempt and indignation, and 
 with great vehemence of gesticulation, he 
 thus addressed the cold critic : ' Sir, I now 
 perceive a man may be an excellent judge 
 of poetry by square and rule, and after all, 
 be a d — d blockhead.' " " To pass from 
 these trifles," says Mr. Lockart, " it needs 
 no effort of imagination to conceive what 
 the sensations of an isolated set of scholars 
 (almost all either clergymen or professors) 
 must have been in the presence of this big- 
 boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with 
 his great flashing eyes, who having forced liis 
 way among them from the plough-tad, at a 
 single stride, manifested, 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 en- 
 tided to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them 
 by exhibiting even an occasional symptom 
 of being flattered by their notice ; by turns 
 calmly measured himself against the most 
 cidtivated understandings of his time in 
 discussion ; overpowered the bo)i mots of 
 the most celeljrated convivialists by broad 
 floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
 the burning life of genius ; astounded 
 bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice- 
 plied folds of social reserve, by compelling 
 them to tremble, nay, to tremble visibly, 
 beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; 
 and all this without indicating the smallest 
 willingness to be ranked among those pro- 
 fessional ministers of excitement, who are 
 content to be paid in money and smiles for 
 doing what the spectators and auditors 
 would be ashamed of doing 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 eulv 
 vening societies which they would have 
 scor^.ed to approach, still more frequently 
 than their own, with eloquence no less 
 magi-ificent; 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."] 
 
 " By the new edition of his poems, (65) 
 
THE DIARY. 
 
 45 
 
 Burns acquired a sxim of money that 
 enabled him not only to partake of the 
 pleasures of Edinburgh, but to j^ratify a 
 desire he had long entertained, of visiting 
 those parts of his native country most at- 
 tractive by their beauty or their grandeur ; 
 a desire which the return of sunnner natu- 
 rally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
 the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, 
 strongly interested his fancy ; and accord- 
 ingly he left Edinburgh on the Gth of May, 
 1787, on a tour thro\igh a country so much 
 celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland. 
 He travelled on horseback, and was accom- 
 panied, during some part of his journey, by 
 Mr. Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a 
 gentleman who enjoyed much of his friend- 
 ship and of liis confidence. Of this tour a 
 journal remains, which, however, contains 
 only occasional remarks on the scenery, and 
 which is chiefly occupied with an account of 
 the author's different stages, and with his 
 observations on the various characters to 
 whom he was introduced. In the course of 
 this tour he visited Mr. Ainslie of Berrywell, 
 the father of his companion ; Mr. Brydone, 
 the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried 
 a letter of introduction from Mr. jMacken- 
 zie ; the Rev. Dr. SomerviUe of Jedburgh, 
 the historian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott of 
 Wauchope; Dr. Elliott, a physician, retired 
 to a roa intic spot on the banks of the 
 Pioole ; Sir .Alexander Don; Sir James Hall 
 of Dunglass ; and a great variety of other 
 respectable characters. Every where the 
 fame of the poet had spread before him, 
 and every where he received the most hos- 
 pitable and flattering attentions. At Jed- 
 burgh he continued several days, and was 
 honoured by the magistrates with the free- 
 dom of their borough. The following may 
 serve as a specimen ot this tour, which the 
 perpetual reference to lining characters pre- 
 vents our giving at large : — 
 
 " Saturday, May tjth. Left Edinburgh — 
 Lammer-muir- hills, miserably dreary in ge- 
 neral, but at times very picturesqtie. 
 
 " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the 
 Merse. Reach Berrywell. • » « 
 The family meeting with my compaf))ion de 
 voyage, very charming ; particularly the 
 •ister. » « « 
 
 "Sunday. Went to Church at Dunse. 
 Hearil Dr. Bowmaker. 
 
 "Monday. Coldstream — glorious river 
 Tweed— clear and majestic— tine bridge — 
 dine at Coldstream with ]Mr. Ainslie and 
 Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a 
 dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lenel- 
 Housc with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. * * * 
 
 Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
 Coldstream. 
 
 " Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charm, 
 ing situation of the town — fine bridge over 
 the Tweed. Enchanting views and pros- 
 pects 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 II. was accidentally 
 killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small 
 old religious ruin, and a fine old garden 
 planted by the religious, rooted out and 
 destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hotel 
 of the duke's — chmate and soil of Ber- 
 wickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior 
 to .Vyrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep 
 husbandry, their great improvements. * * * 
 Low markets, consequently low lands — mag- 
 niiicence of farmers and farm-houses. Come 
 up the Teviot. and up the Jed to Jedburgh 
 to lie, and so wish myself good-night. 
 
 " Wednesday. Breakfast with iMr. Fair. 
 * * * * Channing romantic situation 
 of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, 
 intermingled among the houses and the 
 ruins of a once magniticicent cathedral. All 
 the towiis here have the appearance of old 
 rude grandeur, but extremely idle. Jed, a 
 fine romantic little river. Dined \nth 
 Captain Rutherford, * • * return to 
 Jedburgh. Walk up the Jed with some 
 ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Black- 
 burn, two fairy-scenes. Introduced to Mr. 
 Potts, writer, and to Mr. SomerviUe, the 
 clergyman of the parish, a man and a 
 gentleman, but satUy addicted to punning. 
 (GUj. » » » » » 
 
 " Jedburfjh Saturday. Was presented by 
 the magistrates with the freedom of the 
 town. 
 
 " Took farewell of Jedburgh with some 
 melancholy sensations. 
 
 "Monday, May litk, Kelso. Dine with 
 the farmers' club — all gentlemen talking of 
 high matters — each of them keeps a hunter 
 from £30 to £50 value, and attends the fox- 
 hunting club in the county. Go out with 
 Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of 
 Jlr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and 
 manners, ]\Ir. Ker is astonishingly like my 
 dear old friend Robert Muir — every thing 
 in his house elegant. He oilers to accom- 
 pany me in my English tour. 
 
 " Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander 
 Don — a very wet day. • • * Sleep at 
 Jlr. Kcr'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 
 
4S 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 there, and visit that far-famed glorious 
 nun — come to Selkirk up the banks of 
 Kttrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
 both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably 
 stony." 
 
 Having spent three weeks in exploring 
 this interesting scenery, Burns crossed over 
 into Northumberland. Mr. Ker, and Mr. 
 Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had 
 become acquainted in the course of his tour, 
 accompanied him. He visited Alnwick 
 Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of 
 Northumberland ; the Hermitage and Old 
 Castle of Warkworth ; Morpeth and New- 
 castle. In this last town he spent two 
 days, and then proceeded to the south-west 
 by Ilexam and Wardrue, to Carlisle. After 
 spending a day at Carlisle with his friend 
 Jlr. Mitchel, he returned into Scotland, and 
 at Annan his journal terminates abruptly. 
 
 Of the various persons with whom he 
 became acquainted in the course of this 
 journey, he has, in general, given some ac- 
 count, and almost always a favourable one. 
 That on the banks of the Tweed, and of 
 the Teviot, our bard shoiUd find nymphs 
 that were beautiful, is what might be con- 
 fidently presumed. Two of these are par- 
 ticularly described in his jmrnal. But it 
 does not appear that the scenery, or its in- 
 habitants, produced any effort of his muse, 
 as was to have been wished and expected. 
 From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, 
 and thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
 near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he 
 arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after a 
 long absence of six busy and eventful 
 months. It will easily be conceived with 
 what pleasure and pride he was received by 
 his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He 
 had left them poor, and comparatively 
 friendless ; he returned to them high in 
 public estimation, and easy in his circum- 
 stances He returned to them unchanged 
 in his ardent alfections, and ready to share 
 with them to the uttermost farthing, the 
 pittance that fortune had bestowed. (67) 
 
 Having remained wth them a few days. 
 he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and im- 
 mediately set out on a journey to the 
 Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have 
 been found among his manuscripts. A 
 letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Airo- 
 cliar, hy Lochlong, June 28, 1787, commeucea 
 as follows : — 
 
 " I write you this on my tour through a 
 country where savage streams tumble over 
 savage motmtains, thinly overspread with 
 savage flocks, which starvingly support as 
 savage inhabitants. My last stage was 
 
 Inverary — to-mnrrow night's stage, Dum- 
 barton. I ought sooner to have answered 
 your kind letter, but you know I am a man 
 of many sins." 
 
 Part of a letter from our bard to a friend 
 (68), giving some account of his joiumey, has 
 been communicated to the editor. The 
 reader wiU be amused with the following 
 extract : — 
 
 "On our return, at a Highland gentl©. 
 man's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a 
 merry party, and danced till the ladies left 
 us, at three in the morning. Our dancing 
 was none of the French or English insipid 
 formal movements ; the ladies sang Scotch 
 songs like angels, at intervals : then we flew 
 at Bub at the bewster, Tallochcjorum, Loch 
 Enoch side (69), &c., like midges sporting 
 in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating 
 a storm in a hairst day. When the dear 
 lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl till 
 the good-fellow hoiu: of six ; except a few 
 minutes that we went out to pay our devo- 
 tions to the glorious lamp of day peering 
 over the towering top of Benlomond. We 
 all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held 
 the bowl, each man a full glass in his hand ; 
 and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming non- 
 sense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies I 
 suppose. After a small refreshment of the 
 gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend tho 
 day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton 
 in the evening. We dined at another good 
 fellow's house, and consequently pusli'd the 
 bottle ; when we went out to mount our 
 horses, we found ourselves ' No vera fou but 
 gaylie yet.' My two friends and I rode 
 soberly down the Loch side, till by came 
 a Highlandmati at the gallop, on a tolerably 
 good horse, but which had never known the 
 ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned 
 to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off 
 we started, whip and spur. My companion % 
 though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly 
 astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, 
 one of the Rosinante family, she strained 
 past the Highlandman in spite of all his 
 eflforts, with the hair-halter : just as I was 
 passing him, Donald whcd^^d his horse, as if 
 to cross before me to mar my progress, %\ hen 
 down came his horse, and threw his breekless 
 rider in a dipt hedge; and down came 
 Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship 
 between her and the Highlandman's horse. 
 Jenny Geddes trode over me with such 
 cautious revtrenc3, that matters were not so 
 bad as might well have been expected ; so I 
 came oif with a few cuts and bruises, and a 
 thorough resolution to be a pattern of so- 
 briety for the future. 
 
BURNS AND NICOL. 
 
 47 
 
 "I have yet 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 some- 
 where have a farm soon. I was going to say, 
 a wife too; but that must never be my 
 blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the 
 house of Parnassus, and, like other younger 
 sons of great families, I may mtrigue, if I 
 choose to nm all risks, but must not marry. 
 
 "I am afraid I have almost ruined one 
 source, the princii)al one, indeed, of my 
 former happiness — that eternal propensity I 
 always had to fall in love. My heart no 
 more glows with feverish rapture. I have no 
 paradisiacal evening interviews stolen from 
 the restless cares and prying inhabitants of 
 this weary world. I have only * * * *. 
 This last is one of your distant acquaintance, 
 has a fine figure, and elegant manners, and, 
 in the train of some great fulks whom you 
 know, has seen the politest quarters in 
 Europe. I do like her a good deal; but 
 what piques me is her conduct at the com- 
 mencement of our acquaintance. I frequently 
 
 visited her when I was in , and after 
 
 passing regularly the intermediate degrees 
 between the distant formal bow and the 
 familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, 
 in my careless way, to talk of friendship in 
 rather ambiguous terms ; and, after her 
 
 return to , I wrote to her in the same 
 
 style. Miss, construing my words farther I 
 suppose than I intended, flew oflf in a tangent 
 of female dignity and re serve, like a moim tain- 
 lark in an April morning ; and wrote nie an 
 answer which measured me out very com- 
 pletely what an immense way I had to travel 
 before I could reach the climate of her favour. 
 But 1 am an old hawk at the sport ; and 
 WTote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent 
 reply, as brought my bird from her aerial 
 towerings, pop down at my foot hke corporal 
 Trim's hat. (70j 
 
 " As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, 
 and all my wise sajings, and why my mare 
 was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be 
 recorded in a few weeks hence, at Liidithgow, 
 in the cluronicles of your memory, by 
 
 "Robert Burns." 
 
 From this journey Bums returned to his 
 friends iu Ayrshire, with whom he spent the i 
 month of July, renewing his friendships, and 
 extending his acquaintance throughout the 
 country, where he was now very generally j 
 known and aduiired. In August he again ! 
 visited Eduiburgh, whence he undertook i 
 another journey towards the middle of this , 
 moiuh, in company with Mr. M. Adair, now ' 
 
 6 
 
 i)r. Adair, of Ilarrowgate (71), of which tbn 
 gentlemau has favoured us with the follinvin;^ 
 account : — 
 
 '■ Burns and I left Edinburgh together i?i 
 August, 1737. We rode by Liuglithgow 
 and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron 
 works at Carron, with which the poet was 
 forcibly struck. The resemblance between 
 that place and its inhabitants, to the caxe of 
 the Cyclops, which must have occurred to 
 every classical reader, presented itself to 
 Burns. At Stirhug tiie prospects from tlie 
 castle strongly interested him ; in a foiincr 
 visit to which, his national feelings had liceu 
 powerfidly excited by the ruinous and riX^Siss 
 state of the hall in which the Scottish par- 
 liaments had frequently been held. His 
 indignation had vented itself in some imjini- 
 deiit, butnotunpoetical lines, which had given 
 much offence, and which he took this opportu- 
 nity of erasing, by breaking the pane of tlie 
 window at the inn on which they were written. 
 
 " At Stirling we met with a company of 
 travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
 a character in many respects congenial with 
 that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of th 
 teachers of the High Grammar School at 
 Edinburgh — the same wit and power ol 
 conversation, the same fondness for convivial 
 society, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, 
 characterised both. Jacobitical principles in 
 politics were common to both of them ; 
 and these have been suspected, since tlie 
 revolution of France, to have given place 
 in each to opinions apparently opposite. (72) 
 1 regret that I have preserved no iiiem- 
 orahilia of their conversation, either on 
 tliis or on other occasions, when I happened 
 to meet them together. Many songs were 
 sung ; which I mention for the sake of ob 
 serving, that when Burns was called on in 
 his turn, he was accustomed, instead of 
 singing, to recite one or other of his ow& 
 shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis 
 which, though not correct or harmonious, 
 were impressive and pathetic. This he did 
 on the present occasion. 
 
 "From Stirling we went next morning 
 through the romantic and fertile vale of 
 Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
 then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton (73), with 
 the younger part of whose family Burns had 
 been previously acquainted. He introduced 
 me to the family, and there was formed my 
 first actiuaiiitaiice with Mrs. HamUtoii'a 
 eldest daughter, to whom I have been 
 married for nine years. Thus was 1 in- 
 debted to Burns for a connection from 
 which I have derived, and expect farther tw 
 derive, much happiness. 
 
48 
 
 LIFE OP BURNS. 
 
 "Duriii!? a residence of about ten days at 
 Ilarviestoii, we made excursions to visit 
 various parts of the surrounding scenery, 
 inferior to none in Scotland in beauty, 
 Bubliniity, and romantic interest; par- 
 ticularly Castle Campbell, the ancient seat 
 of the family of Argyle ; and the famous 
 cataract of the Devon, called the Caldron 
 Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, a single 
 broad arch, tlirow^i by the devil, if tradition 
 is to be believed, across the river, at about 
 the lieight of a hundred feet above its bed. 
 1 am surprised that none of these scenes 
 should have called forth an exertion of 
 Burns's muse. But I doubt if he had much 
 taste for the picturesque. I well remember, 
 that the ladies at Harvieston, who accom- 
 panied us on this jaunt, expressed their 
 disappointment at his not expressing, in 
 more glowing and fervid language, his im- 
 pressions of the Caldron Linn scene, cer- 
 tainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 
 
 "A visit to Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, 
 a lady abo\ e ninety, the lineal descendant of 
 that race which gave the Scottish throne its 
 brightest ornament, interested his feelings 
 more powerfully. This venerable dame, with 
 characteristical dignity, informed me, on my 
 observing that I believed she was descended 
 from the family of Robert Bruce, that 
 Robert Bruce was sprung from her family, 
 Tliough almost deprived of speech by a 
 paralytic aflection, she preserved her hospi- 
 tality and urbanity. She was in possession 
 of the hero's helmet and two-handed sword, 
 with which she conferred on Burns and 
 myself the honour of knighthood, remarking, 
 that she had a better right to confer that 
 title than some people. * * You 
 will, of course, conclude, that the old lady's 
 political tenets were as Jacobitical as the 
 poet's, a conformity which contributed not a 
 little to the cordiality of oiu: reception and 
 eniertainment. She gave, as her first toast 
 after dinner, Aica' Uncos, or Away with the 
 Strangers. Who these strangers were, you 
 will readily understand. Mrs. A. corrects 
 me by saying it should be Hooi, or Jlooi 
 Uncos, a sound used by shepherds to direct 
 their dogs to drive away the sheep. (74) 
 
 " We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
 (on the shore of Lochleven) and Queeusferry. 
 I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing 
 of poor Michael Bruce, who was then ali\e 
 at Kinross, or had died there a short while 
 before. A meeting between the bards, or a 
 visit to the deserted cottage and early grave 
 of poor Bruce, would have been highly 
 interesting. (75) 
 
 " At Dunferudine we visited the ruined 
 
 abbey, and the abbey-church, now cou« 
 secrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I 
 mounted the cutty stool, or stool of re- 
 pentance, assuming the character of a 
 penitent for fornication ; while Burns, from 
 the pulpit, addressed to me a ludicrous 
 reproof and exhortation parodied from that 
 wliich had been dehvered to himself in 
 Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
 once been one of seven who mounted the 
 seat of shame together. 
 
 " In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
 marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
 memory Burns had more than common 
 veneration. He knelt and kissed the stone 
 with sacred fervour, and heartily (suus ut 
 mos erat) execrated the worse than Gothic 
 neglect of the first of Scottish heroes." (76) 
 
 'J'he surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in 
 his excellent letter, that the romantic 
 scenery of the Devon should have failed 
 to call forth any exertion of the poet's muse, 
 is not in its nature singular ; and the dis- 
 appointment felt at his not expressing 
 in more glowing language his emotions on 
 the sight of the famous cataract of that 
 river, is similar to what was felt by the 
 friends of Burns on other occasions of the 
 same nature. Yet the inference that L'r. 
 Adair seems inclined to draw from it, that 
 he had little taste for the picturesque might 
 be questioned, even if it stood uncon- 
 troverted by other evidence. The muse of 
 Burns was in a high degree capricious ; she 
 came uncalled, and often refused to attend 
 at his bidding. Of all the numerous sub- 
 jects suggested to him by his friends and 
 correspondents, there is scarcely one that he 
 adopted. The very expectation that a par- 
 ticular occasion would excite the energies 
 of fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed 
 in liim, as in other poets, destructive of the 
 effect expected. Hence perhaps may be 
 explained, why the banks of the Devon and 
 of the Tweed form no part of the subjects 
 of his song. 
 
 A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
 explain the want of emotion with which he 
 viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly there 
 are no affections of the mind more deadened 
 by the influence of previous expectation, 
 tlian those arising from the sight of natural 
 objects, and more especially of objects of 
 grandeur. Minute descriptions of scenes, 
 of a sublime nature, should never be given 
 to those who are about to view them, par- 
 ticularly if they are persons of great strength 
 and sensibility of imagination. Language 
 seldom or Ile^ er conveys an adequate idea of 
 such objects, but m the mind of a great poi^t 
 
LINES ON THE DEVON. 
 
 4» 
 
 it may excite a picture that far transcends 
 them. The iniiijiiiiation of Burns might 
 form a cataract, in comparison with which 
 the Caldron Linn shoidd seem the purling 
 of a rill, and even the mighty falls of Niagara 
 a humble cascade. (77) 
 
 Whether these suggestions may assist in 
 explaining our bard's dcl'.ciency of impres- 
 sion on the occasion referred to, or whether 
 it ought rather to be imputed to some 
 pre-occupation, or indisposition of mind, we 
 presume not to decide : but that he was in 
 general feelingly alive to the beautiful or 
 sublime in scenery, may be supported by 
 irresistible evidence. It is true this pleasure 
 was greatly heightened in his mind, as might 
 be expected, when combined with moral 
 emotions of a kind with which it happily 
 unites. That under this association Burns 
 contemplated the scenery of the Devon with 
 the eye of a genuine poet, the following lines 
 written at this very period may bear 
 witness : — 
 
 ♦•on a young lady, (78) kesidinq on the 
 banks op the small km:r devon, in 
 clackmannanshire, but whose infant 
 years were spent in ayrshire. 
 How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 
 Devon, [blooming fair ; 
 
 With green-spreacling bushes, and flowers 
 But the bonniest flower on the 13anks of the 
 Devon [Ayr. 
 
 Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
 Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing 
 flower [dew ! 
 
 In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the 
 And gentle the fail of the soft vernal shower, 
 That steals on the evening each leaf to 
 renew. 
 Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
 AVith chill hoary wing as ye usher the 
 dawn ! 
 And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
 The verdure and pride of the garden and 
 lawn ! 
 Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
 And England triumphant display her proud 
 rose ; 
 A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 
 Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
 flows." 
 
 The different journies already mentioned 
 did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. 
 About the beginning of September, he again 
 Bet out from Edinburgh on a more extended 
 tour to the highlands, in company with 
 Jlr. Nicol, with whom he had now con- 
 tracted a particular intimacy, which lasted 
 during the remainder of his Ufe. IMr. Nicol 
 was of Dumfries-shire, of a descent equally 
 humble with our poet. Like him he rose 
 by the strength of his talents, and fell by 
 E 
 
 the strength of his passions. He died in the 
 summer of 1797. Having received tlie 
 elements of a classical instruction at his 
 parish-school, Mr. Nicol made a very rapid 
 and singular proficiency; and by early 
 undertaking the office of an instructor him- 
 self, he acquired the means of entering him- 
 self at the University of Edinburgh. There 
 he was first a student of theology, then a 
 student of medicine, and was afterwards 
 employed in the assistance and instruction 
 of graduates in medicine, in those parts of 
 their exercises in which the Latin language 
 is employed. In this situation he was the 
 contemporary and rival of the celebrated 
 Dr. Brown, whom he resembled in the 
 particulars of his history, as well as in the 
 leading features of his character. The 
 office of assistant-teacher in the High School 
 being vacant, it was as usual filled up by 
 competition ; and in the face of some pre- 
 judices, and perhaps of some well-foiuided 
 objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, 
 carried it from all the other candidates. 
 This office he filled at the period of which 
 we speak. 
 
 It is to be lamented, that an acquaintance 
 with the WTiters of Greece and Rome does 
 not always supply an original want of taste 
 and correctness in manners and conduct; 
 and where it fails of this effect, it sometimes 
 inflames the native pride of temper, which 
 treats with disdain those delicacies in which 
 it has not learnt to excel. It was thus with 
 the fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed by 
 nature in a model of great strength, neither 
 his person nor his manners had any tincture 
 of taste or elegance ; and his coarseness was 
 not compensated by that romantic sensi- 
 bility, and those towering flights of imagi- 
 nation, which distinguished the conversation 
 of Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all 
 the deficiencies of his manners were ab- 
 sorbed and disappeared. 
 
 Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a 
 post-chaise, which they engaged for the 
 journey, and passing through the heart of 
 the Highlands, stretched northwards, about 
 ten miles beyond Inverness. There they 
 bent their course eastward, across the island, 
 and returned by the shore of the German 
 sea to Edinburgh. In the course of this 
 tour, some particulars of which will be found 
 in a letter of our bard, they visited a number 
 of remarkable scenes, and the imagination of 
 Burns was constantly excited by the wild 
 and sublime scenery through which he 
 passed. Of tliis several proofs may be found 
 in the poems formerly printed. (79) Of the 
 history of one of these poems, the Huiublr 
 
60 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 Petition of Bruar Water, and of the bard's 
 visit to Athole-house, some particulars will 
 be found in his correspondence ; and by the 
 favour of Mr. Walker, of Perth, then residing 
 in the family of the Duke of Atliole, we 
 ure enabled to give the following additional 
 account : — 
 
 " On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
 his arrival (as I had been previously ac- 
 quainted with him), and I hastened to meet 
 him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he 
 brought a letter of introduction, was from 
 home ; but the Duchess, being informed of 
 his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup 
 and sleep at Athole-house. He accepted 
 the invitation ; but as the hour of supper 
 was at some distance, begged I would in the 
 interval be his guide through the grounds. 
 It was already growing dark; yet the 
 softened though faint and uncertain view of 
 their beauties, which the moonlight afforded 
 us, seemed exactly suited to the state of his 
 feelings at the time. I had often, like 
 others, e:-:perienced the pleasures which arise 
 from the sublime or elegant landscape, but 
 I never saw those feehngs 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 
 waterfall, he threw himself on the heathy 
 seat, and gave himself up to a tender, 
 abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of 
 imagination. I cannot help thinking it 
 might have been here that he conceived the 
 idea of the following lines, which he after- 
 wards introduced into his poem on Bruar 
 Water, when only fancying such a combina- 
 tion of objects as were now present to his 
 eye. 
 
 ' Or by the reaper's nightly beam, 
 Mild, chequermg through the trees, 
 
 Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
 Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.' 
 
 It was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
 him to quit this spot, and to be introduced 
 ia proper time to supper. 
 
 " ily curiosity was great to see how he 
 would conduct himself in company so 
 different from what he had been accustomed 
 to. (80) His manner was unembarrassed, 
 plain, and firm. He appeared to have com- 
 plete 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 forget a proper respect for the 
 separate species of dignity belonging to 
 each. He did not arrogate conversation, 
 but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
 propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert 
 
 his abilities, because he knew it was ability 
 alone gave him a title to be there. The 
 Duke's fine young family attracted much of 
 his admiration; he drank their healths as 
 honest men and bonnie lasses, an idea which 
 was much applauded by the company, and 
 with which he has very fehcitously closed 
 his poem. (81) 
 
 "Next day I took a ride with him 
 through some of the most romantic part of 
 that neighbourhood, and was highly grati- 
 fied 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 feUow-traveller, who was 
 walking at the time a few paces before us. 
 He was a man of a robust but clumsy 
 person ; and while Burns was expressing to 
 me the value he entertained for him, on 
 accomit of his vigorous talents, although 
 they were clouded at times by coarseness of 
 manners ; ' in short,' he added, ' his mind is 
 like his body — he has a confounded strong 
 in-knee'd sort of a soul.' 
 
 " Much attention was paid to Burns both 
 before and after the Duke's return, of which 
 he was perfectly sensible, without being 
 vain ; and at his departure I recommended 
 to him, as the most appropriate return he 
 could make, to wTite some descriptive verses 
 on any of the scenes with which he had 
 been so much delighted. After leaving 
 Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the 
 Falls of Bruar, and in a few days I received 
 a letter from Inverness, with the verses 
 enclosed." (82^ 
 
 It appears that the impression made by 
 our poet on the noble family of Athole, was 
 in a high degree favourable; it is certain he 
 was charmed with the reception he received 
 from them, and he often mentioned the two 
 days he spent at Athole-house as among 
 the happiest of his life. He was warmly 
 invited to prolong his stay, but sacrificed 
 his inclinations to his engagement with 
 Mr. Nicol ; which is the more to be re- 
 gretted, as he would otherwise have been 
 introduced to Mr. Dundas (83) (then daily 
 expected on a visit to the Duke), a circum- 
 stance that might have had a favourable 
 influence on Burns's future fortunes. At 
 Athole-house he met, for the first time, 
 Mr. Graham of Fintry, to whom he was 
 afterwards indebted for his office in the 
 Excise. 
 
 The letters and poems which he addressed 
 to Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his sen- 
 sibility, and justify the supposition, that he 
 would not have been deficient in gratitude 
 had he been elevated to a situation betiet 
 
BURNS LEAVES GORDON CASTLE. 
 
 51 
 
 suited to his disposition and to his 
 talents. 
 
 A few da5's after leaving Blair of Athole, 
 our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
 Fochabers. lu the course of the preceding 
 winter Burns had been introduced to the 
 Duchess of Gordon at Edinbiu-gh, and pre- 
 suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded 
 to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the 
 inn in the village. At the castle our poet 
 was received witli the utmost hospitality 
 and kindness, and the family being about to 
 sit down to dinner, he was invited to take 
 his place at table as a matter of course. 
 This invitation he acoepted, and after drink- 
 ing a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and 
 proposed to inithdraw. On being pressed 
 to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his 
 engagement with his fellow-traveller ; and 
 his noble host offering to send a servant to 
 conduct IMr. Nicol to the castle. Burns in- 
 sisted on undertaking that office himself. 
 He was, however, accompanied by a gentle- 
 man, a particular acquaintance of the duke, 
 by whom the invitation was delivered in all 
 the forms of pohteness. The invitation 
 came too late; the pride of Nicol was 
 inflamed into a high degree of passion, by 
 the neglect which he had already sufl'ered. 
 He had ordered the horses to be put to the 
 carriage, being determined to proceed on 
 his journey alone ; and they found him 
 parading the streets of Fochabers, before 
 the door of the inn, venting his anger on 
 the postilion, for the slowness with which 
 he obeyed his commands. As no explana- 
 tion nor entreaty could change the purpose 
 of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced 
 to the necessity of separating from him 
 entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him 
 on their journey. He chose the last of 
 these alternatives ; and seating himself 
 beside Nicol in the post-chaise, with morti- 
 licatiou and regret, he turned his back on 
 Gordon Castle, where he had promised him- 
 self some happy days. Sensible, however, 
 of the great kindness of the noble family, 
 he made the best return in his power, by 
 the follnwlng poem : — (84) 
 
 " Streams that glide in orient plains, 
 Never bound by winter's chains ; 
 
 Glowing here on golden stands, 
 There commi.Vd with foulest stains 
 
 From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
 These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
 1 leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
 Give mc the stream that sweetly laves 
 
 The banks by Castlc-GorUon. 
 Spicy forests, ever gay, 
 Shading from the burning ray 
 
 Helpless wretches sold to toil, 
 Or the ruthless native's way, 
 
 Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil I 
 ^\''oods that ever verdant wave, 
 I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
 Give me the groves that lofty brave 
 The storms by Castle-Gordon. 
 
 Wildly here, without control, 
 Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
 
 In that sober pensive mood 
 Dearest to the feeling soul. 
 
 She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
 Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
 And find at night a sheltering cave, 
 Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
 By bonnie Castle-Gordon." (86) 
 
 Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
 gTeater part of the winter, 1787-8, (80) and 
 again entered into the society and dissipa- 
 tion of that metropolis. (87) It appears 
 that on the 31st December he attended a 
 meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the 
 lineal descendant of the Scottish race of 
 kings, tiie late unfortunate Prince Charles 
 Edward. A\'hatever might have been the 
 wish or purpose of the original institutors 
 of this annual meeting, there is no reason 
 to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it 
 was at this time composed, were not per- 
 fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It 
 is not to be conceived that they entertained 
 any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of 
 the House of Stuart ; but, over then spark- 
 ling wine, they indidged the generous feel- 
 ings which the recollection of fallen greatness 
 is calculated to inspire, and commemorated 
 the heroic valour which strove to sustain it 
 in vain — valoiu: worthy of a nobler cause, 
 and a happier fortune. On this occasion 
 oiur bard took upon himself the office of a 
 poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, 
 though deficient in the complicated rhythm 
 and polished versification that such com- 
 positions require, might on a fair competi- 
 tion, where energy of feelings and of 
 expression were alone in question, have won 
 the butt of ilalmsey from the real laureate 
 of that day. 
 
 The following extracts may serve as • 
 specimen : — 
 
 * • • • 
 
 "False flatterer, Hope, away I 
 Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 
 
 We solemnise this sorrowing natal day, 
 To prove our loyal truth— we can no more; 
 
 And, owning heaven's mysterious sway, 
 Submissive low, adore. 
 
 Ye honoured mighty dead ! 
 Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, 
 Your king, your country, and her laws 1 
 
 From great Dundee, who smiling victory 
 led. 
 
62 
 
 LIFE OF BUENS. 
 
 And foil a martyr in her arms, | 
 
 [Whiit breast of northern ice but -warms ?) 
 To hold Balmerino's undyinpr name, [flame, 
 \V hose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's hiKh 
 Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
 claim. (88) 
 
 Nor unreveng'd your fate shall be, 
 
 It only lags the fatal hour : 
 Tour blood shall ^rith incessant cry 
 
 Awake at last th' unsparini'- power. 
 As from the cliff, \\ ith thundering course, 
 
 The snowy ruin smokes aloii;;, 
 With doubling speed and gathering force, _ 
 Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in 
 So vengeance " • » • [the vule ! 
 
 In relating the incidents of our poet's 
 life in Edinburgh, we ought to have men- 
 tioned the sentiments of respect and sympa- 
 thy with which lie traced out the grave of 
 his predecessor Fergusson, over whose 
 aslies, in tlie Canongate cliurchyard, he ob- 
 tained leave to erect a humble monument, 
 which will be viewed by reflecting minds 
 with no common interest, and wliich will 
 awake in the bosom of kindred genius many 
 a high emotion. Neither should we pass 
 over the continued friendship he experienced 
 from a poet then living, the amiable and 
 accomphshed Blacklock. To his encourag- 
 ing advice it was owing (as has already 
 appeared) that Burns, instead of emigrating 
 to the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. 
 lie received him there with all the ardour 
 of affectionate admiration — he eagerly in- 
 troduced him to the respectable circle of his 
 friends — he consulted his interest — he bla- 
 zoned his fame — he lavished upon him all 
 the kindness of a generous and feeling 
 heart, into which nothing selfish or envious 
 ever foimd admittance. Among the friends 
 to whom he introduced Burns, was Mr. 
 Ramsay of Ochtertyre (89), to whom our poet 
 paid a visit in the autumn of 1787 [October], 
 at his delightful retirement in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of 
 the Teith. Of this visit we have the follow- 
 ing particulars : — 
 
 " I have been in the company of many 
 men of genius" says Mr. Ramsay, " some of 
 them poets ; but never witnessed such 
 flashes of intellectual brightness as from 
 him, the impulse of the moment, sparks of 
 celestial fire ! I never was more delighted, 
 therefore, than with his company for two 
 days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I 
 should have made little of him ; for, in the 
 gamester's phrase, he did not always know 
 when to play off and when to play on. 
 * * * I not only proposed to him the 
 writing of a play similar to the Gentle 
 Shepherd, qualem decet e»se sororem, but 
 
 Scottish Georgics, a subject which Thomson 
 has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. 
 \^'hat beautiful landscapes of rural life and 
 mamiers might not have been expected from 
 a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, 
 which could have exhibited scenes as fami- 
 liar and interesting as those in the Gentle 
 Shepherd, which every one who knows ou» 
 swains in tlieir unadulterated state, in- 
 stantly recognises as true to nature. But 
 to have executed either of these plans, 
 steadiness and abstraction from company 
 were wanting, not talents. When I asked 
 him whether the Edinburgh literati had 
 mended his poems by their criticisms. ' Sir,' 
 said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of 
 some spinsters in my country, who spin 
 their thread so fine that it is neither tit for 
 weft nor woof.' He said he had not changed 
 a word except one, to please Dr. Blair." (90) 
 
 Having settled with his publisher, Mr. 
 Creech, in February 1788, Burns found him- 
 self master of nearly five hundred poimds, 
 after discharging all his expenses. Two 
 hundred pounds he immediately advanced 
 to his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon 
 himself the support of their aged mother, 
 and was struggling with many difficulties in 
 the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder 
 of this sum, and some farther eventual pro- 
 fits from his poems, he determined on settling 
 himself for hfe in the occupation of agricul- 
 ture, and took from Mr. ]\Iiller of Dalswin- 
 ton (91), the farm of EUisland, on the banks 
 of the river Nith, six miles above Dumfries, 
 on which lie entered at Wliitsunday, 1788. 
 Having been previously recommended to 
 the Board of Excise, his name had been 
 put on the list of candidates for the humble 
 otiice of a ganger or exciseman (92) ; and 
 he immediately applied to acquiring the in- 
 formation necessary for filhng that office, 
 when the honourable board might judge it 
 proper to employ him. He expected to be 
 called into service in the district in which 
 his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to 
 unite with success the labours of the farmer 
 with the duties of the exciseman. 
 
 When Burns had in this manner arranged 
 his plans for futiirity, his generous heart 
 turned to the object of his most ardent 
 attachment, and, listening to no considera- 
 tions but those of honour and affection, he 
 joined with her in a public declaration of 
 marriage, thus legalising their union, and 
 rendering it permanent fur life. 
 
 Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, 
 a specimen of his poetry had recommended 
 him to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Under- 
 standing' that he intended to resume the 
 
AVOWED MARTITAGE OF BURNS. 
 
 63 
 
 life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had invited him, 
 in the spring of 1787, to view his estate in 
 Nithsdale, offering him at the same time the 
 choice of any of his farms out of lease, at 
 such a rent as Burns and his friends might 
 judge proper. It was not in the nature of 
 Burns to take an undue advantage of the 
 liberality of Mr. Miller. He proceeded in 
 this business, however, with more than 
 usual deliberation. Having made choice of 
 the farm of Ellisland, he employed two of 
 his friends skilled in the value of land, to 
 examine it, and, with their approbation, 
 offe '(1 a rent to Mr. Miller, which was im- 
 mediately accepted. (93) It was not conve- 
 nient for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately 
 from Ayrshire, and our poet therefore took 
 up his residence alone at Ellisland, to pre- 
 pare for the recejition of his wife and chil- 
 dren, who joined him towards the end of the 
 year. 
 
 [Dr. Currie omits all allusion to the cir- 
 cumstances which led to a permanent union 
 between Burns and his Jean. That the 
 mind of the poet, notwithstaniling all past 
 irritation, and various entanglements with 
 other beauties, was never altogether alienated 
 from her, is evident; b\it up to June 1787, 
 when he first returned from Edinburgh to 
 Mauchline, he certainly did not entertain 
 any self-avowed notion of ever again renew- 
 ing his acquaintance with her. It was in 
 this state of his feelings, that, one day, 
 soon after his return from Edinburgh, when 
 meeting some friends over a glass at John 
 Dow's tavern, close to the residence of his 
 once fondly loved mistress, he chanced to 
 encounter her in the court behind the inn, 
 and was immediately inflamed with all his 
 former affection. Their correspondence was 
 renewed — ^was attended with its former re- 
 sults — and, towards the end of the year, 
 when the poet was fixed helplessly in Edin- 
 burgh by a bruised limb, her shame becom- 
 ing apparent to her parents, she was turned 
 out of doors, and would have been utterly 
 destitute, if she had not obtained shelter 
 from a relation in the village of Ardrossan. 
 Jean was once more delivered of twins — - 
 girls— on the 3rd of March, 1788: the 
 infants died a few days after their birtli. 
 In a letter of that date to Mr. R. Ainslie, 
 written from Mauchline, Burns says — " I 
 found Jean banished, forlorn, destitute, and 
 friendless : I have reconciled her to her 
 fate, and I have reconciled her to her 
 mother." Soon after, he seems to have 
 formed the resolution of overlooking all dis- 
 honouring circumstances, in her past his- 
 tory, and making her really his own for Ufe. 
 
 On the 7th of April, we find him writing to 
 Miss Chalmers, evidently with allusion to 
 this resolution : — " I have lately made some 
 sacrifices, for which, were I viva voce with 
 you to paint the situation and recount the 
 circumstances, you would applaud me." 
 And then, on the 28th, in a letter to Smith, 
 we see the resolution has been virtually 
 acted upon. "To let you a little into the 
 secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
 must know, a certain clean-limbed, hand- 
 some, bewitching young hussy of your ac- 
 quaintance, to whom I have lately given a 
 matrimonial title to my corpus. * * I 
 intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed 
 shawl, an article of which I dare say you 
 have variety : 'tis my first present to her 
 since I irrevocably called her mine. * ♦ 
 Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designa- 
 tion) presents her best compliments to you." 
 He tells Ainslie, May 26, that tlie title is 
 now avowed to the world — a sutficient legal 
 proof of marriage in Scotland. Ultimately, 
 on the 3rd of August, as we learn from the 
 session books, the poet and Jean were 
 openly married ; when Burns, being ia- 
 formed that it was customary for the bride- 
 groom, in such cases, to bestow something 
 on the poor of the parish, gave a guinea for 
 that purpose. The ceremony took place in 
 Dow's tavern, unsanctioned by the lady's 
 father, who never, to the day of the poet's 
 death, would treat him as a friend; even 
 Gavin Hamilton, from respect for the feel- 
 ings of Armour, declined being present. It 
 was not till the ensuing winter that Mrs. 
 Burns joined her husband at Ellisland — ■ 
 their only child Robert following her in the 
 subsequent spring.] 
 
 The situation in which Burns now found 
 himself was calcidated to aw aken reflection. 
 The different steps he had of late taken 
 were in their nature highly important, and 
 might be said to have, in some measure, 
 fixed his destiny. He had become a husband 
 and a father ; he had engaged in the manage- 
 ment of a considerable farm, a difficult and la- 
 borious undertaking; in his success the happi- 
 ness of his family was involved. It was 
 time, therefore, to abandcm the gaiety and 
 dissipation of which he had been too much 
 enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the past, 
 and to form virtuous resolutions respecting 
 the future. That such was actually the 
 state of his mind, the foUowi.ig extract from 
 his common-place book may bear witness : — 
 
 "Ellisland, Sunday, \4t7i June, 1788. 
 " This is now the third day that I have 
 been in this country. ' Lord, what is man ! ' 
 
54 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 What a bustling little bundle of passions, 
 appetites, ideas, and fancies 1 And what a 
 capricious kind of existence he has here! * * 
 There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as 
 Thomson says, virtue sole survives. 
 
 ' Tell us, ye dead ; 
 Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
 What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ; 
 
 . A little time 
 
 Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 
 
 " I am such a coward in life, so tired of 
 the service, that I would almost at any time, 
 with aiilton's Adam, 'gladly lay me in my 
 mother's lap, and be at peace.' But a wife 
 and children bind me to struggle with the 
 stream, till some sudden squall shall overset 
 the silly vessel, or, in the listless return of 
 years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. 
 Farewell now to those giddy follies, those 
 varnished vices, which, though half sancti- 
 fied by the bewitching levity of wit and 
 humour, are at best but thriftless idling with 
 the precious current of existence ; nay, often 
 poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of 
 Jericho, the water is nauijht and the (jround 
 barren, and nothing short of asupernaturally 
 gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 
 
 " Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
 me hardest to care, if virtue and religion 
 were to be any thing with me but names, 
 was what in a few seasons I must have 
 resolved on ; in my present situation it was 
 absolutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, 
 honest pride of character, justice to my own 
 happiness for after-life, so far as it could de- 
 pend (which it surely will a great deal) on 
 internal peace ; all these joined their warmest 
 sutfrages, their most powerful solicitations, 
 with a rooted attachment, to urge the step 
 I have taken. Nor have I any reason ou her 
 part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have 
 never seen where, T could have made a better 
 choice. Come then, let me act up to my 
 favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
 Young — 
 
 ' On reason build resolve, 
 That column of true majesty in man!' " 
 
 Under the impulse of these reflections, 
 Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding 
 the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in 
 the state he found it, was inadequate to the 
 accommodation of his family. On this occa- 
 sion he himself resumed at times the occupa- 
 tion of a labourer, and found neither his 
 strength nor his skill impaired. Pleased with 
 surveying the grounds he was about to cul- 
 tivate, and witli the rearing of a building that 
 shoidd give shelter to his wife and children, 
 and, as he fondly hoped, to his own grey 
 haurs, sentiments of independence buoyed up 
 
 his mind, pictures of domestic content and 
 peace rose on his imagination ; and a few 
 days passed away, as he himself informs iia, 
 the most tranquil, if not the happiest, wliich 
 he had ever experienced. (94.) 
 
 It is to be lamented that at this critical 
 period of his life, our poet was without the 
 society of his wife and children. A great 
 change had taken place in his situation ; his 
 old habits were broken, and the new circum- 
 stances in which he was placed were calcu- 
 lated to give a new direction to his thoughts 
 and conduct. But his application to the 
 cares and labours of his farm was interrupted 
 by several visits to his family in Ayrshire; 
 and as the distance was too great for a single 
 day's journey, he generally spent a night at 
 an inn on the road. On such occasions he 
 sometimes fell into company, and forgot the 
 resolutions he had formed. In a little while, 
 temptation assailed him nearer home. 
 
 His fame naturally drew upon him the 
 attention of his neighbours, and he soon 
 formed a general acquaintance in the district 
 in which he lived. The public voice had now 
 pronounced on the subject of his talents ; 
 the reception he had met with in Edinburgh 
 had given him the currency which fashion 
 bestows ; he had surmounted the prejudices 
 arising from his humble birth, and he was 
 received at the table of the gentlemen of 
 Nithsdale with welcom.e, with kindness, and 
 even with respect. Their social parties too 
 often seduced him from his rustic labours 
 and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady 
 fabric of his resolutions, and inflamed those 
 propensities which temperance might have 
 weakened, and prudence ultimately sup- 
 pressed. (95) It was not long, therefore, 
 before Burns began to view his farm with 
 dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 
 Unfortunately, he had for several years 
 looked to an ottice in the Excise as a certain 
 means of livelihood, should his other expecta- 
 tions fail. As has already been mentioned, 
 he had been recommended to the Board of 
 Excise, and had received the instruction 
 necessary for such a situation. He now 
 applied to be employed ; and by the interest 
 of Mr. Graham of Fintry, was appointed 
 exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, ganger, 
 of the district in which he lived. (96.) Mis 
 farm was after this in a great measure 
 abandoned to servants, while he betook him- 
 self to the duties of his new appointment. 
 
 He might, indeed, still be seen in the 
 spring directing his plough, a labour in 
 which he excelled ; or with a white sheet, 
 containing his seed-corn, slung across his 
 shoulders, striduig with measured stfips 
 
BURNS IN THE EXCISE. 
 
 55 
 
 along his turned-lip furrows, and scattering 
 the grain in the earth. But his farm no 
 longer occupied the principal part of his 
 care or liis thoughts. (97) It was not at 
 EUisIand that he was now in general to be 
 found. Moimted on horseback, this high- 
 minded poet was pursuing the defaulters of 
 the revenue among the hills and vales of 
 Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over 
 the charms of nature, and muttering Jiig 
 wayward fancies as he moved along. 
 
 "I had an adventure with lum in the 
 year 1790," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
 in a letter to the editor, "when passing 
 through Dumfries-shire, on a tour to the 
 south, with Dr. Stewart of Luss. Seeing 
 him pass quickly, near Closeburu, I said to 
 ray companion, ' that is Burns.' On coming 
 to the inn, the hostler told us he woidd be 
 back in a few hours to grant penults ; that 
 wl)ere he met with anything seizable lie was 
 no better than any other gauger ; in every- 
 tliing else, that he was perfectly a gentle- 
 man. After leaving a note to be delivered 
 to him on his retvim, I proceeded to his 
 house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I 
 was much pleased with his uxor Habina 
 qiialis, and the poet's modest mansion, so 
 unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. 
 In the evening he suddenly bounced in 
 upon ns, and said, as he entered, ' I come, 
 to use the words of Shakspcare, stewed in 
 hmte.' In fact, he had ridden incredibly 
 fast after receiving my note We fell into 
 conversation directly, and soon got into tlie 
 mare mac/num of poetry. lie told me that 
 he had now gotten a story for a drama, 
 which he was to call Hob Macquechan's 
 Elshou, from a popular story of Robert 
 Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, 
 when the heel of his boot ha\ing loosened 
 in his flight, he applied to Robert JNIac- 
 quechan to lit it ; who, to make sure, ran 
 his awl nine inches up the king's heel. We 
 were now going on at a great rate, when 
 
 Mr. S popped in his head ; which put 
 
 a stop to our (hscourse, which had become 
 very interesting. Yet in a little while it 
 was resumed ; and such was the force and 
 versatility of the bard's genius, that he 
 
 made the tears run down Mr. S 's 
 
 cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. 
 • * * From that time we met no more, 
 and I was grieved at the reports of iiim 
 afterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly 
 ever see his like again. He was, in truth, a 
 sort of comet in hterature, irregular in its 
 motions, which did not do good propor- 
 tioned to the blaze of hght it displayed." 
 
 lu the summer of 1791, two English 
 
 gentlemen, who had before met with him in 
 Edinburgh, ])aid a visit to him at Ellisland. 
 On calling at the house, they were informed 
 that he had walked out on the banks of the 
 river ; and dismounting from their horses, 
 they proceeded in search of him. On a 
 rock that projected into the stream, they 
 saw a man employed in angling, of a 
 singular appearance. lie had a cap made 
 of a fox's skin on his head, a loose great- 
 coat fixed round him by a belt, from which 
 depended an enormous Highland broad- 
 sword. It was Burns. He received thera 
 with great cordiality, and asked them to 
 share his humble dinner — an invitation 
 which they accepted. On the table they 
 found boiled beef, with vegetables, and 
 barley-broth, after the manner of Scotland, 
 of which they partook heartily. After 
 dinner, the bard told them ingenuously 
 that he had no wine to ofler them, notliing 
 better than Highland whisky, a bottle of 
 which Mrs. Burns set on the board. He 
 produced at the same time his punch-bowl 
 made of Inverary marble ; and, mixing the 
 spirit with water and sugar, tilled their 
 glasses, and invited them to drink. (98) The 
 travellers were in haste, and, besides, the 
 flavour of the whisky to their suthron 
 palates was scarcely tolerable ; but the 
 generous poet oflTered them his best, and 
 his ardent hospitality they found it impos- 
 sible to resist. Burns was in his hapj)iest 
 mood, and the charms of his conversation 
 were altogether fascinating. He ranged 
 over a great variety of topics, illumiuaiuig 
 whatever he touched. He related the tales 
 of liis infancy and of his youth ; he recited 
 some of the gayest and some of the teu- 
 derest of his poems ; in the wildest of his 
 strains of mirth, he threw in some touches 
 of melancholy, and spread around him the 
 electric emotions of his powerful mind. 
 The Highland whisky improved in its 
 flavour ; the marble bowl was again and 
 again emptied and replenished; the guests 
 of our poet forgot the flight of time, and 
 the dictates of prudence : at the hour of 
 midniglit they lost their way in returning 
 to Dumfries, and coidd scarcely distinguish 
 it when assisted by the morning's dawn. 
 
 Besides his duties in the e>;cise, and his 
 social pleasures, other circumstances inter- 
 fered with the attention of Burns to his 
 farm. He engaged in the formation of a 
 society for purcliasing and circulating books 
 among the farmers of his neiglibourhood, of 
 which he undertook the management ; and 
 he occupied liimself occasionally m com- 
 posing songs for the musical work of Mr. 
 
66 
 
 LIFE OF BdRNS. 
 
 Jolmson, then in the course of publication. 
 Tliese eiifcau^emeiits, useful and honourable 
 in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the 
 abstraction of his thoughts from the busi- 
 ness of agriculture. 
 
 The consequences may be easily imagined. 
 Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
 good management of IMrs, Burns, and 
 though his rent was moderate and reason- 
 able, our poet found it convenient, if not 
 necessary, to resign his farm to Mr. Miller, 
 after having occupied it three years and a 
 half. His office in the excise had originally 
 produced about fifty pounds per annum. 
 Having acquitted himself to the satisfaction 
 of the board, he had been appointed to a 
 new district, the emoluments of which rose 
 to aljout seventy pounds per annum. 
 Hoping to support himself aiui his fannly 
 on this humble income till promotion should 
 reach him, he disposed of his stock and of 
 hi-5 crop on Ellisland by public auction, and 
 removed to a small house which he had 
 taken in Dumfries, about the end of the 
 year 1791. 
 
 Hitherto Biims, though addicted to excess 
 in social parties, had abstained from the 
 habitual use of strong liquors, and his con- 
 stitution had not suffered any permanent 
 injury from the irregularities of his conduct. 
 In Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so 
 easily beset him continually presented them- 
 selves ; and his irregularities grew by 
 degrees into habits. These temptations 
 unhappily occurred during his engagements 
 in the business of his office, as well as 
 during his hours of relaxation ; and though 
 he clearly foresaw the consequences of 
 yielding to them, his appetites and sensa- 
 tions, which could not prevent the dictates 
 of his judgment, finally triumphed over the 
 powers of his ^^-ill. Yet this victory was 
 not obtained without many obstinate strug- 
 gles, and at times temperance and virtue 
 seemed to have obtained the mastery. Be- 
 sides his engagements in the excise, and the 
 society into which they led, many eirciun- 
 stances contributed to the melancholy fate 
 of Burns. His great celebrity matle him 
 an object of interest and curiosity to 
 strangers, and few persons of cultivated 
 minds passed tlurough Dumfries without 
 attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy 
 the pleasure of liis conversation. As he 
 coidd not receive them under his own 
 humble roof, these interviews passed at the 
 inns of the town, and often terminated in 
 those excesses which Burns sometimes pro- 
 voked, and was seldom able to resist. And 
 amoQj^ the inhabitants of Dumfries and its 
 
 vicinity, there were never wanting persons 
 to share his social pleasures ; to lead or 
 accompany him to tlie tavern ; to partake 
 in the wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness 
 the strength and the degradation of his 
 genius. 
 
 Still, however, he cultivated the society 
 of persons of taste and of respectability. 
 and in their company could impose on him- 
 self the restraints of temperance and de- 
 corum. Nor was his muse dormant. In 
 the four years which he lived in Dumfries, 
 he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, 
 though it does not appear that he attempted 
 any poem of considcraljle length. During 
 this time he made several excursions into 
 the neighbouring country, of one of which, 
 through Galloway, an account is preserved 
 in a letter of Mr. Syine, written soon after ; 
 which, as it gives an animated picture of 
 him by a correct and masterly hand, we 
 shall present to the reader. 
 
 " I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to 
 ride on." We dined the first day, 27th 
 July, 1793, at Glendenwyncs of Parton ! a 
 beautiful situation on the banks of the Dee. 
 In the evening we walked out, and ascended 
 a gentle eminence, from which we had as 
 fine a view of Alpine scenery as can well be 
 imagined. A delightful soft evening showed 
 all Its wilder as weU as its grander graces. 
 Immediately opposite, and within a mile of 
 us, we saw Airds, a charming romantic 
 place, where dwelt Low, the author of Mary 
 iveep no more for me. (99) TlvT was classical 
 ground for Burns. He viewed ' the highest 
 hill which rises o'er the source of Dee ; ' 
 and would have staid till 'the passing spirit' 
 had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
 Kennure that night, ^\'e arrived as Mr. 
 and Airs. Gordon (100) were sittuig down 
 to supper. 
 
 " Here is a genuine baron's seat. The 
 castle, an old building, stands on a large 
 natural moat. In front, the river Ken 
 winds for several miles through the most 
 fertile and beautiful hohii (101), till it ex- 
 ])ands into a lake twelve miles long, the 
 banks of which, on the south, present a fine 
 and soft landscape of green knolls, natural 
 wood, and here and there a grey rock. On 
 the north, the aspect is great, wild, and, I 
 may say, tremendous. In short, I can 
 scarcely conceive a scene more terribly ro- 
 mantic than the castle of Kenmure. Burns 
 thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a 
 description of it in poetry. Indeed, I be- 
 lieve he has begun the work. We spent 
 three days with Mr. Gordon, \i-liose polished 
 hospitality is of an original and endearing 
 
ST. MAKT'S ISLE. 
 
 67 
 
 kind. Jlrs. Gordon's lap-dojj, Echo, was 
 dead. Slie would have an epitaph for him. 
 Several had been made. Burns waa asked 
 for one. This was setting' Hercules to his 
 distaff. He disliked the subject ; but, to 
 please the lady, he would try. Here is 
 what he produced : — 
 
 ' In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 
 
 Your heavy loss deplore ! 
 Now half extinct your powers of song. 
 Sweet Echo is no more. 
 
 Te jan-ing- screeching things around, 
 Seream your discordant joys ! 
 
 Kow half your din of tuneless song 
 With Echo silent lies.' 
 
 "We left Kenmure, and went to Gate- 
 house. I took hira the moor-road, where 
 savag'e and desolate regions extended wide 
 around. The sky was sj-mpathetic with the 
 wretchedness of the soil ; it became lower- 
 ing and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the 
 lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The 
 poet enjoyed the awful scene ; he spoke not 
 a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. In 
 a little while the rain began to fall ; it poured 
 in floods upon us. For three hours did the 
 wild elements rumble their belly full upon 
 our defenceless heads. Ok ! oh ! 'twas foul. 
 We got utterly wet ; and, to revenge our- 
 selves. Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our 
 getting utterly drunk. 
 
 '■ Fi-om Gatehouse, we went next day to 
 Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
 here I must tell you that Burns had got a 
 pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which 
 had been thoroughly wet, and which had 
 been dried in such manner that it was not 
 possible to get them on again. The brawny 
 poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. 
 A whitiling vexation of this sort is more 
 trying to the temper than a serious calamity. 
 We were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the 
 seat of the Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn 
 Burns was discomfited at the thought of his 
 ruined boots. A sick stomach, and a head- 
 ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse 
 was quite accable. I attempted to reason 
 with him. i\[ercy on us, how he did fume 
 and rage ! Nothing coidd reinstate him in 
 temper. I tried various expedients, and at 
 last hit on one that succeeded. I showed 
 him the house of * * * * , across the 
 bay of Wigton. Against * * * » ^ with 
 whom he was offended, he expectorated his 
 spleeo, and regained a most agreeable tem- 
 per. He was in a most epigrammatic 
 humour indeed! He afterwards fell on 
 humbler game. There is one * « » * » 
 whom he does not love. He had a passing 
 blow at him. 
 
 ' A\Tien ■ 
 
 — , deceased to the devil went 
 
 down, [ovm crown ; 
 
 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's 
 
 Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 
 
 wear never, [clever.' 
 
 I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so 
 
 "AVell, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
 along with our poet, without boots. I 
 carried the torn ruins across my saddle in 
 spite of his ftilminations, and in contempt 
 of appearances ; and what is more, Lord 
 Selkirk (102) carried them in his coach to 
 Dumfries. He insisted they were worth 
 mending. 
 
 "We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
 o'clock. I had promised that we should 
 dine with one of the first men in our 
 country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a 
 wild and obstreperous humour, and swore 
 he would not dine where he should be under 
 the smallest restraint. We prevailed, there- 
 fore, on Jlr. Dalzell to dine with us in the 
 inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the 
 evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. 
 Robert had not absolutely regained the 
 milkiness of good temper, and it occurred 
 once or t%vice to him, as he rode along, that 
 St. Mary't: Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet 
 that Lord was not an aristocrat, at least in 
 his sense of the word. V>'e arrived about 
 eight o'clock, as the fttmily were at tea and 
 cotfee. St. Clary's Isle is one of the most 
 delightful places that can, in my opinion 
 be formed by the assemblage of every soft, 
 but not tame object, which constitutes 
 natural and cultivated beauty. But not to 
 dwell on its external graces, let me tell you 
 that we found all the ladies of the family 
 (all beautiful) at home, and some strangers ; 
 and, among others, who but Urbaiii I The 
 Italian sang us many Scottish songs, accom- 
 panied with instrumental music. The two 
 yomig ladies of Selkirk sang also. We had 
 the song of Lord Gregory, which I asked 
 for, to have an opportunity of calling on 
 Bums to recite his ballad to that tune. He 
 did recite it ; and such was the etfect, that 
 a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence 
 as a mind of feeling naturally preserves 
 when it is touched with that enthusiasm 
 which banishes every other thottght but the 
 contemplation and indulgence of the sym- 
 pathy produced. Burns's Lord Gregory is, 
 in my opinion, a most beautiful and afl'ect- 
 ing ballad. The fastidious critic may per- 
 haps say, some of the sentiments and 
 imagery are of too elevated a kind for such 
 a style of composition ; for instance, ' Thou 
 bolt of Heaven that passest by ; ' and, ' Ye 
 mustering thunder,' &c. ; but this is a c»ld 
 
68 
 
 LIFE OF BUENS. 
 
 blooded objection, which will be said rather 
 than felt. 
 
 " We enjoyed a most happy evening at 
 Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of 
 the word, a feast, in which onr minds and 
 our senses were equally gratified. The poet 
 was delighted with his company, and ac- 
 quitted himself to admiration. The lion 
 that had raged so violently in the morning, 
 was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. 
 Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so 
 ends our peregrination. I told you that, in 
 the midst of the storm, on the wilds of 
 Kerimure, Burns was wrapt in meditation, 
 ^^'hat do you think he was about ? He was 
 charging the English army, along with 
 Bruce, at Bannockburu. He was engaged 
 in the same manner on our ride home 
 from S4. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb 
 him. Next day he produced me the toilow- 
 ing address of Bruce to his troops, and 
 gave me a copy for Dalzell : — 
 
 « Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,' &c. (103)" 
 
 Burns had entertained hopes of promo- 
 tion in the Excise ; but circumstances oc- 
 curred which retarded their fulfilment, and 
 which, in his own mind, destroyed all ex- 
 pectation of their being ever fulfilled. The 
 extraordinary events which ushered in the 
 revolution of France, interested the feelings, 
 and excited the hopes of men in every 
 corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 
 seemed about to disappear from among 
 men, and the day-star of reason to rise 
 upon a benighted world. In the dawn of 
 this beautiful morning, the genius of French 
 freedom appeared on our southern horizon 
 with the countenance of an angel, but 
 speedily assumed the features of a demon, 
 and vanished in a shower of blood. 
 
 Though previously a Jacobite and a 
 cavalier. Burns had shared in the original 
 hopes entertained of this astonishing 
 revolution by ardent and benevolent minds. 
 The novelty and the hazard of the attempt 
 meditated by the First, or Constituent 
 Assembly, served rather, it is probable, to 
 recommend it to his daring temper ; and the 
 unfettered scope proposed to be given to 
 every kind of talent, was doubtless gratify- 
 ing to the feehngs of conscious but in- 
 dignant genius. Burns foresaw not the 
 mighty ruin that was to be the im- 
 mediate consequence of an enterprise, which, 
 on its commencement, promised so much 
 happiness to the human race. And even 
 after the career of guilt and of blood com- 
 menced, he could not immediately, it may 
 be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze 
 
 from a people who had so lately breathed 
 the sentiments of universal peace and 
 benignity, or obliterate in his bosom the 
 pictures of hope and of happiness to which 
 those sentiments had given birth. Under 
 these impressions, he did not always con- 
 duct himself with the circumspection and 
 prudence which his dependent situation 
 seemed to demand. He engaged, indeed, 
 in no popular associations, so common at 
 the time of which we speak ; but in com- 
 pany he did not conceal his opinions of 
 public measures, or of the reforms required 
 in the practice of our government ; and 
 sometimes, in his social and unguarded 
 moments, he uttered them with a wild and 
 unjustifiable vehemence. Information of 
 this was given to the Board of Excise, with 
 the exaggerations so general in such cases. 
 A superior officer in that department was 
 authorized to inquire into his conduct. 
 Burns defended himself iji a letter ad- 
 dressed to one of the board [Mr. Graham 
 of Fintry], WTitten with great independence 
 of spirit, and with more than his accustomed 
 eloquence. The officer appointed to inquire 
 into his conduct gave a favourable re- 
 port. (104) His steady friend, Mr. Graham 
 of Fintry, interposed his good offices in his 
 behalf; and the imprudent ganger was 
 suffered to retain his situation, but given to 
 understand that his promotion was deferred, 
 and must depend on his future behaviour. 
 
 This circumstance made a deep impres- 
 sion on the mind of Burns. Fame ex- 
 aggerated his misconduct, and represented 
 him as actually dismissed from his office ; 
 and this report induced a gentleman of 
 much respectability [Mr. Erskine of Marr] 
 to propose a subscription in his favoiu:. 
 The offer was refused by our poet in a 
 letter of great elevation of sentiment, in 
 which he gives an account of the whole of 
 this transaction, and defends himself from 
 the imputation of disloyal sentiments on 
 the one hand, and on the other, from the 
 charge of having made submissions for the 
 sake of his office unworthy of his character. 
 
 " The partiality of my countrymen," he 
 observes, " has brought me forward as a 
 man of genius, and has given me a character 
 to support. In the poet I have avowed 
 manly and independent sentiments, which I 
 hope have been found in the man. Reasons 
 of no less weight than the support of a wife 
 and children, have pointed out my present 
 occupation as the only eligible line of life 
 within my reach. Still my honest fame is 
 my dearest concern, and a thousand times 
 have I trembled at the idea of the degrading 
 
BUENS'S POLITICS. 
 
 59 
 
 epithets that malice or misrepresentation 
 may affix to my name. Often in blasting 
 anticipation have I Hstened to some future 
 hackney scribbler, with tlie heavy mahce of 
 savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that 
 Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of 
 independence to be found in his works, and 
 after having been lield up to pubhc view, 
 and to public estimation, as a man of some 
 genius, yet, quite destitute of resources 
 within himself to support his borrowed 
 dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, 
 and slunk out the rest of his insignificant 
 existence in the meanest of pursuits, and 
 among the lowest of mankind. 
 
 " In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
 to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance 
 of such slanderous fidsehoods. Burns was 
 a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman 
 by necessity ; but — I will say it ! the 
 sterling of his lionest worth poverty could 
 not debase, and his independent British 
 spirit oppression might bend, but could not 
 subdue." 
 
 It was one of the last acts of his life to 
 copy this letter into his book of manuscripts, 
 accompanied by some additional remarks on 
 the same subject. It is not surprising, that 
 at a season of universal alarm for the 
 safety of the constitution, the indiscreet 
 expressions of a man so powerful as Burns 
 should have attracted notice. The times 
 certainly required extraordinary vigilance in 
 those entrusted with the administration of 
 the government, and to ensure the safety of 
 the constitution was doubtless their first 
 duty. Yet generous minds will lament 
 that their measures of precaution should 
 have robbed the imagination of our poet 
 of the last prop on which his hopes of 
 independence rested; and by embittering 
 his peace, have aggravated those excesses 
 which were soon to conduct liim to an 
 untimely grave. (105) 
 
 Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, 
 increased as it often was by stimulating 
 liquors, might lead him into many improper 
 and unguarded expressions, there seems no 
 reason to doubt of his attachment to our 
 mixed form of government. In his common- 
 place book, where he could have no tempta- 
 tion to disguise, are the following senti- 
 
 the pressing nature of public afTairs callcl, 
 in 1795, for a general arming of the people. 
 Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries 
 volunteers, and employed liis poetical talents 
 in stimulating their patriotism (106); and 
 at this season of alarm, he brought forward 
 the following hymn, worthy of the Grecian . 
 Muse, when Greece was most conspicuous 
 for genius and valoiur : — 
 Scene— A. field of battle— Time of the day, 
 
 evening— The wounded and dying of the 
 
 victorious army are supposed to join in the 
 
 foUowinsr song : — 
 Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth and 
 ye skies, 
 
 Now gay with the bright sotting sun 1 
 Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear 
 tender ties, 
 
 Our race of existence is run ! 
 Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
 foe, 
 
 Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [know, 
 Go, tcacli them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
 
 No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 
 Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the 
 dark, 
 
 Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
 Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious 
 mark ! 
 
 He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
 In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
 our hands, 
 
 Our king and our country to save — [sands. 
 While victory shines on life's last ebbing 
 
 Oh ! who would not rest with the 
 brave! (107) 
 
 Tliough by nature of an athletic form, 
 Burns had in his constitution the pecu- 
 liarities and the dehcacies that belong to 
 the temperament of genius. He was liable, 
 from a very early period of life, to that 
 interruption in the process of digestion, 
 which arises from deep and anxious thought, 
 and which is sometimes the effect, and 
 sometimes the cause, of depression of 
 spirits. Connected with this disorder of the 
 stomach, there was a disposition to head- 
 ache, affecting more especially the temples 
 and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied 
 by violent and irregidar movements of the 
 heart. Endowed by nature with great 
 sensibility of nerves. Bums was, in his cor- 
 poreal, as well as in his mental system, 
 liable to inordinate impressions — to fever 
 of body as well as of mind. This pre- 
 
 ments: — "Whatever might be my sentiments i disposition to disease, which strict tempe 
 of republics, ancient or modern, as to • i- . . ■ i 
 
 Britain, I ever abjured the idea. A con- 
 stitution, which, in its original principles, 
 experience has proved to be every way fitted 
 for our happiness, it woidd be insanity to 
 abandon for an untried visionary theory." 
 In conformity to these sentiments, when 
 
 ranee in diet, regular exercise, and sound 
 sleep, might have subdued, habits of a very 
 different nature strengthened and niflamed. 
 Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one or 
 other of its various forms, the inordinate 
 actions of the circulating system became at 
 length habitual ; the process of nutrition 
 
60 
 
 LIFE OF BITRXS. 
 
 V as (tnable to supply the waste, and the 
 powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a 
 year before Ids death, there was an evident 
 decline in our poet's personal appearance, 
 and though his appetite continued unim- 
 paired, he was himself sensible that his 
 constitution was sinking. In his moments 
 of thought he reflected with the deepest 
 regret on his fatal progress, clearly foresee- 
 ing the goal towards which he was hastening, 
 without the strength of mind necessary to 
 stop, or even to slacken his course. His 
 temper now became more irritable and 
 gloomy ; he fled from himself into society, 
 often of the lowest kind. And in such 
 company, that part of the convivial scene in 
 which wine increases sensibility and excites 
 benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
 succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
 passion generally presided. He who suffers 
 the pollution of inebriation, how shall he 
 escape other pollution ? But let us refrain 
 from the mention of errors over which 
 delicacy and humanity draw the veil. 
 
 [A similar view of the latter days of 
 Burns IS taken by his biographers, Heron, 
 Irving, Walker, and, in general, by all who 
 wrote soon after his death. Mr. Lockhart, 
 supported by attestations from Gilbert 
 Burns, James Gray, then rector of the 
 grammar-school of Dumfries, and Mr. Find- 
 later, the poet's superior otlicer, gives a 
 more favourable representation. The letter 
 of Gray presents so interesting a picture of 
 Burns in all respects, that we cannot resist 
 the temptation to connect it with the text 
 of Currie : — 
 
 " I love Dr. Currie, but I love the memory 
 of Burns more, and no consideration shall 
 deter me from a bold declaration of the 
 truth. The poet of the Cotter's Saturday 
 Night, who felt all the charms of the 
 humble piety and virtue which he sang, is 
 charged (in Dr. Currie's narrative) with 
 vices which would reduce him to a level 
 with the most degraded of his species. As 
 I knew him during that period of his life 
 emphatically called his e\il days, / am 
 enabled to speak from my oioii observation. 
 It is not my intention to extenuate his 
 errors, because they were combined with 
 genius ; on that account, they were only 
 the more dangerous, because the more 
 seductive, and deserve the more severe re- 
 prehension ; but I shall likewise claim that 
 nothing may be said in malice even against 
 him It came under my own view pro- 
 fessionally, that he superintended the educa- 
 tion nf his children with a degree of care 
 that / have never seen surpassed by any 
 
 parent in any rank of life whatever. In 
 the bosom of his family he spent many a 
 delightful hour in directing the studies of 
 his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 
 I have frequently found him explaining to 
 this youth, then not more than nine years 
 of age, the English 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 historians. I 
 would ask any person of common candour, 
 if employments like these are consistent 
 with habitual drunkenness ? It is not denied 
 that he sometimes mingled with society 
 unworthy of him. He w-as of a social and 
 convivial nature. He was courted by all 
 classes of men for the fascinating powers of 
 his conversation, but over his social scene 
 uncontrolled passion never presided. Over 
 the social bowl, his wit flashed for hours 
 together, penetrating whatever it stmck, 
 like the fire from heaven ; but even in the 
 hour of thoughtless gaiety and merriment, 
 I never knew it tainted by indecency. It 
 was playful or caustic by turns, following aa 
 allusion through all its windings ; astonish- 
 ing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild 
 originaHty, and grotesque, yet natural com- 
 binations, but never, within my observation, 
 disgusting by its grossness. In his moriung 
 hours, I never saw hini like one suffering 
 from the effects of last night's intemperance. 
 He appeared then clear and unclouded. He 
 was the eloquent advocate of humanity, 
 justice, and political fi-eedom. From his 
 paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and 
 piety assumed a more celestial 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 amuse- 
 ment. I have never known any man so 
 intimately acquainted with the elegant 
 English authors. He seemed to have the 
 poets by heart. Tlie prose authors he could 
 quote either in their owai words, or clothe 
 their ideas in language more beautiful than 
 their own. Nor was there ever any decay 
 in any of the powers of his mind. To the 
 last day of his life, his judgment, his 
 memory, his imagination, were fresh and 
 vigorous as when he composed the Cotter's 
 Saturday Night. The truth is, that Burns 
 was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soou 
 becomes besotted, and is shunned even by 
 the comdvial. Had he been so, he could 
 not long have contmued the idol of every 
 
HABITS OF INTOXICATIO^. 
 
 61 
 
 party. It will be freely confessed, that tlie 
 hour of enjoyment was often prolonged 
 beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but 
 what man will venture to attirm, that in 
 situations where he was conscious of giving 
 80 much pleasure, he could at all times ha\ e 
 Ustened to her voice ? 
 
 " The men with whom he generally asso- 
 ciated were not of the lowest order, He 
 numbered among his intimate friends many 
 of the most respectable inhabitants of Dum- 
 fries and the vicinity. Several of those were 
 attached to him by ties that th e hand of the 
 calumny, busy as it was, could never 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 lidelity that 
 prove their disbelief of the malicious stories 
 circulated to his disad\ autage. Among them 
 were some of the most distinguished charac- 
 ters in this country, and not a few females 
 emment 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 mis- 
 fortunes, and they still retain for his memory 
 that affectionate veneration which virtue 
 alone inspires." 
 
 In the midst of all his wanderings. Bums 
 met nothing in his domestic circle but gen- 
 tleness and forgiveness, except in the gnaw- 
 ings of his own remorse. He acknowledged 
 his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, 
 promised amendment, and again and again 
 received pardon for his offences. But as 
 the strength of his body decayed, his resolu- 
 tion became feebler, and habit acquired pre- 
 dominating strength. 
 
 From October 1793 to the January follow- 
 ing, an accidental complaint confined him to 
 the house. A few days after he began to go 
 abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned 
 home about three o'clock in a very cold 
 moniing, benumbed and intoxicated. (108) 
 This was fdllowed by an attack of rheuma- 
 tism, which confined him about a week. His 
 appetite now began to fail ; his hand shook, 
 and his voice faltered on any exertion or 
 emotion. His pulse became weaker and 
 more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and 
 in the hands and feet, deprived him of the 
 enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much 
 dejected in his spirits, aiul too well aware of 
 Lis real situation to entertain hopes of re- 
 COTery, he was ever musing on the approach- 
 ing desolation of his family, and his spirits 
 sank into a uniform gloom. 
 
 It was hoped by some of his friendi, that 
 
 if he could live through the months of 
 spring, the succeeding season might restore 
 him. But they were disappointed. I'he 
 genial beams of the sun infused no vigour 
 uito his languid frame ; the summer wind 
 blew upon him, but produced no refrcslimeni. 
 About the latter end of June he was advised 
 to go into the country ; and impatient of 
 medical advice, as well as of every species of 
 control, he determined for himself to try the 
 effects of batliing in the sea. For this pur- 
 pose he took up his residence at Brow, in 
 Annandale, about ten miles east of Dum- 
 fries, on the shore of the Sohvay Firth. 
 
 It happened that at that time a lady \vith 
 whom he had been comiectcd in friendsiiip 
 by the sympathies of kindred genius, was 
 residing in the immediate neighbourhood. 
 (109) Being informed of his arrival, she in- 
 vited him to dinner, and sent her carriage 
 for him to the cottage where he lodged, as 
 he was unable to walk. "I was struck," 
 says this lady (in a confidential letter to a 
 friend written soon after), " with his appear- 
 ance on entering the room. The stamp of 
 death was imprinted on his features. He 
 seemed already touching the brink of eternity. 
 His first salutation was, ' Well, madam, have 
 you any commands for the other worldV ' I 
 replied, that it seemed a doubtful case which 
 of us should be there soonest, and that I 
 hoped he would yet live to wTite my epitapli. 
 (I was then in a bad state of health.) He 
 looked in my face with an air of great kind- 
 ness, and expressed his concern at seeing me 
 look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. 
 At table he ate little or nothing, and he com- 
 plained of having entirely lost the tone of 
 his stomach. We had a long and serious 
 conversation about his present situation, and 
 the approaching termination of all his earthly 
 prospects. He spoke of his death without 
 any of the ostentation of phdosophy, but 
 with firmness as well as feehng, as an event 
 likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
 him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
 children so young and unprotected, and his 
 wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly 
 expectation of lying in of a fifth. He men- 
 tioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
 the promising genius of his eldest son, and 
 the flattering marks of approbation he had 
 received from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
 ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future 
 conduct and merit. His anxiety for his 
 family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and 
 the more perhaps from the reflection that he 
 had not done them all the justice he was so 
 w ell qualified to do. Passing from this sub- 
 ject, he showed great concern about the care 
 
62 
 
 LIFE OP BURNS. 
 
 of his literary 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 writing would be revived against him to 
 the injury of his future reputation ; that 
 letters and verses written with unguarded 
 and improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
 wished to have buried in obhvion, would be 
 handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
 when no dread of his resentment woidd re- 
 strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
 tongued maUce, or the insidious sarcasms of 
 envy, from pouring forth all their venom to 
 blast his fame. 
 
 " He lamented that he had written many 
 epigrams on persons against whom he enter- 
 tained no enmity, and whose characters he 
 should be sorry to wound ; and many in- 
 dirt'erent poetical pieces, which he feared 
 would now, with all their imperfections on 
 their head, be tlinist upon the world. On 
 this accovmt he deeply regretted having de- 
 ferred to put his papers in a state of arrange- 
 ment, as he was now quite incapable of the 
 exertion." The lady goes on to mention 
 many other topics of a private nature on 
 which he spoke. "The conversation," she 
 adds, " was kept up with great evenness and 
 animation on his side. I had seldom seen 
 his mind greater or more collected. There 
 was frequently a considerable degree of viva- 
 city in his salhes, and they would probably 
 have had a greater share, had not the con- 
 cern and dejection I could not disguise 
 damped the spnit of pleasantry he seemed 
 not unwilling to indulge. 
 
 " We parted about sunset on the evening 
 of that day (the 5th of July 1796) : the next 
 day I saw him again, and we parted to meet 
 no more 1 " 
 
 At first Burns imagined bathing in the 
 Bea had been of benefit to him : the pains in 
 his limbs were relieved ; but this was imme- 
 diately followed by a new attack of fever. 
 When brought back to liis own house in 
 Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no 
 longer able to stand upright. At this time 
 a tremor pervaded his frame : his tongue was 
 parched, and his mind sank into delirium, 
 when not roused by conversation. On the 
 second and third day the fever increased, and 
 Lis strength diminished. On the fourth, the 
 sufferings of this great, but ill-fated genius, 
 were terminated; and a life was closed in 
 which virtue and passionhad been in perpetual 
 variance. (110) 
 
 The death of Burns made a strong and 
 general impression on all who had interested 
 themselves in his character, and especially 
 
 on the inhabitants of the town and county iu 
 which he had spent the latter years of his 
 life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had 
 been, they had not deprived him of the re- 
 spect and regard entertained for the extra- 
 ordinary powers of his genius, and the 
 generous qualities of his heart. The Gentle- 
 men-Volunteers of Dumfries determined to 
 bury their illustrious associate with military 
 honours, and every preparation was made to 
 render this last service solemn and impressive. 
 Tlie Fencible Infantry of Angus-shire, and 
 the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, 
 at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered 
 their assistance on this occasion ; the prin- 
 cipal inhabitants of the town and neighbour- 
 hood determined to walk in the funeral 
 procession; and a vast concourse of persons 
 assembled, some of them from a considerable 
 distance, to witness the obsequies of the 
 Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th 
 of July, the remains of Burns were removed 
 from his house to the Town Hall, and the 
 funeral took place on the succeeding day. A 
 party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
 the mihtary duty in the churchyard, stationed 
 themselves in the front of the procession, with 
 their arms reversed ; the main body of the 
 corps surrounded and supported the coffin, 
 on which were placed the hat and sword of 
 their friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous 
 body of attendants ranged themselves in the 
 rear; while the Fencible regiments of infantry 
 and cavalry lined the streets from the Town 
 Hall to the burial ground in the southern 
 churchyard, a distance of more than half a 
 mile. The whole procession moved forward 
 to that sublime and affecting strain of music, 
 the Dead March in Saul ; and three voUies 
 tired over his grave marked the return of 
 Burns to his parent earth! The spectacle 
 was in a high degree grand and solemn, and 
 accorded with the general sentiments of 
 sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had 
 called forth. 
 
 It was an affecting circumstance, that, on 
 the morning of the day of her husband's 
 funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing the 
 pains of labour ; and that during the solemn 
 service we have just been describing, the 
 posthumous son of our poet was born. 
 This mfant boy, who received the name of 
 Alaxwell, was not destined to a long life. 
 He has already become an inhabitant of the 
 same grave with his celebrated father. The 
 four other children of our poet, all sons (the 
 eldest at that time about ten years of age), 
 yet survive, and give every promise of pru- 
 dence and virtue that can be expected from 
 their tender years. They remain under the 
 
ILLNESS AND DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 63 
 
 care of their affectionate mother in Dura- 
 fries, and are eujoyiii? the means of educa- 
 tion which the excellent schools of that 
 town afford ; the teachers of which, in 
 ilieir conduct to the children of Burns, do 
 themselves great honour. On this occasion 
 the nauie of ]\Ir. Whyte deserves to be par- 
 ticularly mentioned, himself a poet as well 
 as a man of science. (Ill) 
 
 Burns died in great poverty ; but the in- 
 dependence of his spirit, and the exemplary 
 prudence of his wife, had preserved him 
 from debt. (112) He had received from his 
 piems a clear profit of about nine hundred 
 pounds. Of this sum, the part expended on 
 his library (which was far from extensive) 
 and in the humble furniture of his house, 
 remained ; and obligations were found for 
 tivo hundred pounds advanced by him to the 
 a-isistance of those to whom he was united 
 by tlie ties of blood, and still more by those 
 of esteem and affection. When it is con- 
 sidered, that his expenses in Edinburgh, and 
 on his various journies, could not be incon- 
 siderable ; that his agricultural undertaking 
 was unsuccessful ; that his income from the 
 Excise was for some time as low as fifty, 
 and never rose to above seventy pounds 
 a-year ; that his family was large, and his 
 spirit liberal — no one will be surprised that 
 his circumstances were so poor, or that, as 
 his health decayed, his proud and feeling 
 heart sank under the secret consciousness of 
 indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute 
 want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of 
 Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither 
 chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared in 
 his conduct. He carried his disregard of 
 money to a blameable excess. Even in the 
 midst of distress he bore himself loftily to 
 the world, and received with a jealous re- 
 luctance every offer of friendly assistance. 
 His printed poems had procured him great 
 celebrity and a just and fair recompense for 
 the latter offsprings of his pen might have 
 produced him considerable emolument. In 
 the year 1795, the editor of a London news- 
 paper, high in its character for literature and 
 independence of sentiment, made a proposal 
 to him that lie should furnish them, once 
 a- week, with an article for their poetical 
 department, and receive from them a recom- 
 pense of fifty-two guineas per annum ; an 
 offer which the pride of genius disdained to 
 iccept. Yet he had for several years fur- 
 nished, and was at that time furnishing, the 
 Museum of Johnson with his beautifid 
 lyrics, without fee or rew-ard, and was obsti- 
 nately refusing all recompense for his assist- 
 ance to the greater work of Mr. Thomson, 
 
 which the justice and generosity of that 
 gentleman was pressing upon him. 
 
 'i'he sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
 proaching distress of his infant family, 
 pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the 
 bed of death. Yet he alluded to his indi- 
 gence, at times, with something approaching 
 to his wonted gaiety. " What business," 
 said he to Dr. jNIaxwell, who attended him 
 with the utmost zeal, " has a physician to 
 waste his time on me ? I am a poor pigeon 
 not worth plucking. Alas ! 1 have not 
 feathers enough upon me to carry me to my 
 grave." And« when his reason was lost iu 
 delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- 
 choly train ; the horrors of a jail were con- 
 tinually present to his troubled imagination, 
 and produced the most affecting exclama- 
 tions. 
 
 As for some months previous to his death 
 he had been incapable of the duties of his 
 office. Burns dreaded that his salary should 
 be reduced one half, as is usual in such 
 cases. His full emoluments were, however, 
 continued to him by the kindness of Mr. 
 Stobie (113), a young expectant iu the Ex- 
 cise, who performed the duties of his office 
 without fee or reward ; and Jlr. Graham of 
 Fintry, hearing of his illness, though un- 
 acquainted with its dangerous nature, made 
 an offer of his assistance towards procuring 
 him the means of preserving his health. 
 "Whatever might be the faults of Burns, in- 
 gratitude was not of the number. Amongst 
 his manuscripts, various proofs are found of 
 the sense he entertained of Mr. Graham's 
 friendship, which delicacy towards that gen- 
 tleman has induced us to suppress ; and on 
 this last occasion there is no doubt that his 
 heart overflowed towards him, though he 
 had no longer the power of expressing his 
 feelings. (114) 
 
 On the death of Burns, the mhabitunts 
 of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened 
 a subscription for the support of his wife 
 and family ; and Mr. Miller, Mr. JI'Miirdo, 
 Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syne, and Mr. Cunning, 
 ham, gentlemen of the first respectability, 
 became trustees for the application of the 
 money to its proper objects. The subscrip. 
 tion was extended to other parts of Scotland, 
 and of England also, particularly London 
 and Liverpool. By this means a sum was 
 raised amounting to seven hundred pounds; 
 and thus the widow and children were res- 
 cued from immediate distress, and the most 
 melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
 happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, 
 though equal to their present support, is in- 
 suflicient to secure them from future penury. 
 
61 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 'ITieir hope in regard to futurity depends on 
 the favouraljle reception of these volumes 
 from the pubhc at large, in the promoting of 
 which the candour and humanity of the 
 reader may induce him to lend his assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Burns, as has already been mentioned, 
 was nearly five feet ten inches in height, and 
 of a form that indicated agility as well as 
 Strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded 
 with black curling hair, indicated extensile 
 c ipacity. His eyes were large, dark, fall of 
 ardour and intelligence. His face was well 
 formed ; and his countenance uncommonly 
 interesting and expressive. His mode of 
 dressing, which was often slovenly, and a 
 certam fulness and bend in his shoulders, 
 characteristic of his original profession, dis- 
 guised in some degree the natural symmetry 
 and elegance of his form. The external 
 appearance of Burns was most strikingly 
 indicative of the character of his mind. 
 On a first view, his physiognomy had a cer- 
 tain air of coarseness, mingled, however, 
 with an expression of deep penetration, and 
 of calm thoughtfulness, approaching to me- 
 lancholy. There appeared in his first manner 
 and address, perfect ease and self-possession, 
 but a stern and almost supercilious elevation, 
 not, indeed, incompatible with openness and 
 affability, which, however, bespoke a mind 
 conscious of superior talents. Strangers 
 that supposed themselves approaching an 
 Ayrshire peasant who coiUd make rhymes, 
 and to whom their notice was an honour, 
 found themselves speedily overawed by the 
 presence of a man who bore himself with 
 dignity, and who possessed a singidar power 
 of correcting forwardness and of repelling 
 intrusion. (115) But though jealous of the 
 respect due to himself. Burns never enforced 
 it where he saw it was willingly paid ; and, 
 though inaccessible to the approaches of 
 pride, he was open to every advance of 
 kindness and of benevolence. His dark and 
 haughty countenance easily relaxed into a 
 look of good will, of pity, or of tenderness; 
 and, as the various emotions succeeded each 
 other in his mind, assumed with equal ease 
 the expression of the broadest humour, of 
 the most extravagant mirth, rf the deepest 
 melancholy, or of the most suulime emotion. 
 The tones of his voice happily corresponded 
 with the expression of his features, and with 
 the feelings of his mind. When to these 
 endowments are added a rapid and distinct 
 apprehension, a most powerful understand- 
 ing, and a happy command of language— of 
 Strength as well as brilliancy of expression — 
 
 e shall be able to account for the extraor- 
 
 dinary attractions of his conversation — for 
 the sorcery which in his social parties he 
 seemed to exert on all around him. In the 
 company of women this sorcery was more 
 especially apparent. Their presence charmed 
 the fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and 
 awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the 
 powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness 
 of his heart ; and, by restraining the vehe- 
 mence and exuberance of his language, at 
 times gave to his manners the impression of 
 taste, and even of elegance, which in the 
 company of men they seldom possessed. 
 This influence was doubtless reciprocal. A. 
 Scottish lady accustomed to the best society, 
 declared with characteristic naivete, that no 
 man's conversation ever carried her so com- 
 jiletelij off her feet as that of Burns ; and 
 an Enghsh lady, familiarly acquainted with 
 several of the most distinguished characters 
 of the ))resent times, assured the editor, that 
 in the happiest of his social hours, there was 
 a charm about Bums which she had never 
 seen equalled. This charm arose not more 
 from the power than the versatility of his 
 genius. No languor could be felt in the 
 society of a man who passed at pleasure 
 from (/rave to gay, from the ludicrous to 
 the pathetic, from the simple to the sub- 
 lime; who wielded all his fticulties with 
 equal strength and ease, and never failed to 
 impress the offspring of his fancy with the 
 stamp of his understanding. 
 
 This, indeed, is to represent Bums in his 
 happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties 
 he was often silent and dark, sometimes 
 fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of 
 the proud man's scorn, jealous to an extreme 
 of the insolence of wealth, and prone to 
 avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the 
 partiality of fortune. By nature kind, brave, 
 sincere, and in a singular degree compas- 
 sionate, he was on tlie other hand proud, 
 irascible, and vindictive. His virtues and his 
 faihngs had their origin in the extraordinary 
 sensibility of his mind, and equally partook 
 of the chills and glows of sentiment. His 
 friendships were liable to interruption from 
 jealousy or disgust, and his enmities died 
 away under the influence of pity or self- 
 accusation. His understanding was equal 
 to the other powers of his mind, and his 
 deliberate opinions were singularly candid 
 and just ; but, like other men of great and 
 irregular genius, the opinions which he de- 
 livered in conversation were often the 
 offspring of temporary feelings, and widely 
 different from the calm decisions of his 
 judgment. This was not merely true re- 
 specting the characters of others, but in 
 
CHARACTERISTICS OF BURNS. 
 
 (id 
 
 regard to some of the most important points 
 of human speculation. 
 
 On no subject did he give a more striking 
 proof of the strength of his understanding, 
 than in tlie correct estimate he formed of 
 himself. He knew his own failings ; he 
 predicted their consequence ; the melancholy 
 foreboding was never long absent from his 
 mind ; yet his passions carried him down 
 the stream of error, and swept him over the 
 precii)ice he saw directly in his course. The 
 fatal defect in his character lay in the 
 comparative weakness of his volition, that 
 superior faculty of the mind, which, govern- 
 ing the conduct according to the dictates of 
 the understanding, alone entitles it to be 
 denominated rational; which is the parent 
 of fortitude, patience, and self-denial; which, 
 by regulating and combining human exer- 
 tions, may be said to have effected all that 
 is great in the works of man, in literature, 
 in science, or on the face of nature. The 
 occupations of a poet are not calculated to 
 strengthen the governing powers of the 
 mind, or to weaken that sensibility which 
 requires perpetual control, since it gives 
 birth to the vehemence of passion as well 
 as to the higher powers of imagination. 
 Unfortunately, the favourite occupations of 
 genius are calculated to increase all its pecu- 
 liarities ; to nourish that lofty pride which 
 disdains the littleness of prudence, and the 
 restrictions of order : and, by indulgence, 
 to increase that sensibility which, in the 
 present form of our existence, is scarcely 
 compatible with peace or happiness, even 
 when accompanied with the choicest gifts of 
 fortune! 
 
 It is observed by one who was a friend 
 and associate of Burns (116), and who has 
 contemplated and explained the system of 
 animated nature, that no sentient being with 
 mental powers greatly superior to those of 
 men, could possibly live and be happy in 
 this world. "If such a being really existed," 
 continues he, "his misery would be extreme. 
 'N^'ith senses more delicate and retined; with 
 perceptions more acute and penetrating ; 
 with a taste so exquisite that the objects 
 around him would by no means gratify it ; 
 obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for 
 his frame — he must be born only to be 
 miserable, and the continuation of his exist- 
 ence would be utterly impossible. Even in 
 our present condition, the sameness and the 
 insipidity of objects and pursuits, the futility 
 of pleasure, and the intinite sources of ex- 
 cruciating pain, are supported with great 
 difficulty by cultivated and refined minds. 
 Increase our sensibilities, continue the same 
 
 objects and situation, and no man could bear 
 to live." 
 
 Thus it appears, that our powers of sen- 
 sation, as well as all our other powers, are 
 adapted to the scene of our existence ; that 
 they are limited in mercy, as well as in 
 wisdom. 
 
 Tlie speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to 
 be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; 
 they were probably founded on sad experi- 
 ence. The being he supposes "with senses 
 more delicate and refined, with perceptions 
 more acute and penetrating," is to be found 
 in real life. He is of the temperament of 
 genius, and perhaps a poet. Is there, tiien, 
 no remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? 
 Are there no means by which the happiness 
 of one so constituted by nature may be con- 
 sulted ? Perhaps it will be found, tliat 
 regular and constant occupation, irksome 
 though at first it may be, is the true remedy. 
 Occupation in wliich the powers of the un- 
 derstanding are exercised, will diminish tlie 
 force of external impressions, and keep the 
 imagination under restraint. 
 
 That the bent of every man's mind should 
 be followed in his education and in his des- 
 tination in life, is a maxim which has been 
 often repeated, but which cannot be admitted 
 without many restrictions. It may be gene- 
 rally true when applied to weak minds, which 
 being capable of little, must be encouraged 
 and strengthened in the feeble impulses by 
 which that little is produced. But where 
 indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts with 
 a liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim 
 ought frequently to be the rule of conduct. 
 In minds of a higher order, the object of 
 instruction and of discipline is very often to 
 restrain, rather than to impel ; to curb the 
 impulses of imagination, so that the passions 
 also may be kept under control. (117j 
 
 Hence the advantages, even in a moral 
 point of view, of studies of a severer nature, 
 which, while they inform the understanding, 
 employ the volition, that regulating power 
 of the mind, which, like all our other facid- 
 ties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
 superiority of which virtue, happiness, and 
 honourable fame, are wholly dependent. 
 Hence also the advantage of regular and 
 constant application, which aids the volun- 
 tary power by the production of habits so 
 necessary to the support of order and virtue, 
 and so ditlicult to be formed in the tempera- 
 ment of genius. The man who is so 
 endowed and so regulated, may pursue his 
 course with confidence in almost any of the 
 various walks of life which choice or acci- 
 dent shall open to him ; and, provided he 
 
C6 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 employ the talents he has cultivated, may 
 hope for such imperfect happiness, and such 
 limited success, as are reasonably to be ex- 
 pected from human exertions. 
 
 The pre-eminence among men, which pro- 
 cures personal respect, and which terminates 
 in lasting reputation, is seldom or never 
 obtained by the excellence of a single faculty 
 of mind. Experience teaches us, that it has 
 been acquired by those only who have pos- 
 sessed the comprehension and the energy of 
 general talents, and who have regulated 
 tlieir application in the line which choice, or 
 perhaps accident, may have determined, by 
 the dictates of their judgment. Imagination 
 is supposed, and with justice, to be the 
 leading faculty of tlie poet. But what poet 
 has stood the test of time by the force of 
 this single faculty ? Who does not see that 
 Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of 
 their species in understanding as well as in 
 imagination ; that they were pre-eminent in 
 the highest species of knowledge — the know- 
 ledge of the nature and character of man? 
 On the other hand, the talent of ratiocination 
 is more especially requisite to the orator; 
 but no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, 
 even by the highest excellence in this single 
 talent. "Wlio does not perceive that Demos- 
 thenes and Cicero were not more happy in 
 their addresses to the reason than in their 
 appeals to the passions? Tliey knew, that 
 to excite, to agitate, and to delight, are 
 among the most potent arts of persuasion ; 
 and they enforced their impression on the 
 understanding, by their command of all the 
 sympathies of the heart. These observations 
 might be extended to other walks of life. 
 He who has the faculties fitted to excel in 
 poetry, has the faculties which, didy governed, 
 and differently directed, might lead to pre- 
 eminence in other, and, as far as respects 
 himself, perhaps in happier destinations. 
 The talents necessary to the eonstructicii 
 of an Iliad, under different discipline and 
 application, might have led armies to vic- 
 tory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might have 
 wielded the thunder of eloquence, or dis- 
 covered and enlarged the sciences that con- 
 Btitute the power and improve the condition 
 of our species. (118) Such talents are, 
 indeed, rare among the productions of na- 
 ture, and occasions of bringing them into 
 full exertion are rarer still. But safe and 
 salutary occupations may be found for men 
 of genius in every direction, while the useful 
 and ornamental arts remain to be cvdtixated, 
 while the sciences remain to be studied and 
 to be extended, and principles of science to 
 be applied to the correction and improve- 
 
 ment of art. In the temperament of sensi- 
 bility, which is, in truth, the temperament of 
 general talents, the principal object of disci- 
 pline and instruction is, as has already been 
 mentioned, to strengthen the self-command ; 
 and this may be promoted by the direction of 
 the studies, more effectually, perhaps, than 
 has been generally understood. 
 
 If these observations be founded in truth, 
 they may lead to practical consequences of 
 some importance. It has been too much 
 the custom to consider the possession of 
 poetical talents as excluding the possibility 
 of application to the severer branches of 
 study, and as, in some degree, incapacitating 
 the possessor from attaining those habits, 
 and from bestowing that attention, which 
 are necessary to success in the details of 
 business, and in the engagements of active 
 life. It has been common for persons con- 
 scious of such talents, to look with a sort of 
 disdain on other kinds of intellectual excel- 
 lence, and to consider themselves as in some 
 degree absolved from those rules of prudence 
 by which humbler minds are restricted. 
 They are too much disposed to abandon 
 themselves to their own sensations, and to 
 suffer life to pass away without regular 
 exertion or settled purpose. 
 
 But though men of genius are generally 
 prone to indolence, with tliem indolence and 
 unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
 allied. The unbidden splendours of imagi- 
 nation may, indeed, at times irradiate tho 
 gloom which inactivity produces ; but such 
 visions, though bright, are transient, and 
 serve to cast the realities of life into deeper 
 shade. In bestowing great talents. Nature 
 seems very generally to have imposed on the 
 possessor the necessity of exertion, if he 
 would escape WTetchedness. Better for him 
 tlian sloth, toils the most painful, or adven- 
 tures the most hazardous. Happier to him 
 than idleness were the condition of the 
 peasant, earning with incessant labour his 
 scanty food ; or that of the sailor, though 
 hanging on the yard-arm, and wrestUng with 
 the hurricane. 
 
 These observations might be amply illus- 
 trated by the biography of men of genius of 
 every denomination, and more especially by 
 the biography of tlie poets. Of this last 
 description of men, few seem to have enjoyed 
 the usual portion of happiness that falls to 
 the lot of humanity, those excepted who 
 have cultivated poetry as an elegant amuse- 
 jnent in the hours of relaxation from other 
 occupations, or the small number who have 
 engaged with success in the greater or more 
 arduous attempts of the muse, in which all 
 
INFLUENCES OF MELANCHOLY. 
 
 67 
 
 the faculties of the mind have been fully 
 and permanently employed. Even taste, 
 virtue, and comparative independence, do 
 not seem capable of bestowing on men of 
 pcnius peace and tranquillity, without such 
 occupation as may g\ve regular and healthful 
 exercise to the faculties of body and mind. 
 The amiable Shenstone has left us the re- 
 cords of his imprudence, of his indolence, 
 and of his unhappiness, amidst the shades 
 of the liCasowes ; and the virtues, the learn- 
 ing:, and the geni\is of Gray, equal to the 
 loftiest attempts of the epic muse, failed to 
 procure him in the academic bowers of Cam- 
 bridge that tranquillity and that respect 
 which less fastidiousness of taste, and greater 
 constancy and vigour of exertion, would have 
 doubtless obtained. 
 
 It is more necessary that men of genius 
 should be aware of the importance of self- 
 command, and of exertion, because their 
 indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely 
 to unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and 
 to errors of conduct, which are generally 
 fatal. This interesting subject deserves a 
 particular investigation ; but we must content 
 ourselves with one or two cursory remarks. 
 Belief is sometimes sought from the melan- 
 choly of indolence in practices which, for a 
 time, soothe and gratify the sensations, but 
 which, in the end, involve the sufferer in 
 darker gloom. To command the external 
 circumstances by which happiness is affected, 
 is not in lunnan power ; but there are various 
 substances in nature which operate on the 
 system of the nerves, so as to give a fictitious 
 gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and to 
 alter the effect of the external impressions 
 which we receive. Opium is chiefly em- 
 ployed for this purpose by the disciples of 
 ]\Tahomet and the inhabitants of Asia ; but 
 alcohol, the principle of intoxication in 
 vinous and spirituous liquors, is preferred in 
 Europe, and is iniiversally used in the Chris- 
 tian world. (119) Under the various wounds to 
 which indolent insensibility is exposed, and 
 under the gloomy apprehensions respecting 
 futurity to which it is so often a prey, how 
 strong is the temptation to have recourse 
 to an antidote by which the pain of these 
 wounds is suspended, by which the heart is 
 exhilirated, visions of happuiess are excited 
 in the mind, and the forms of external na- 
 ture clothed with new beauty ! 
 
 " Elysium opens round, 
 A pleasinp phrcnzy buoys the lijihtcn'd soul, 
 And sanguine hopes dispel your ticctinir care; 
 And what was difficult, and what wjs dire, 
 Yields to your prowess, and superior stars ; 
 The happiest you of all that e'er w ere mad, 
 
 Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
 
 But soon your heaven is gone ; a hcaviei 
 
 ploom 
 
 Shuts o'er your head 
 
 • • • • 
 
 Morning comes ; your cares return 
 
 With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
 May be endured— so may the throbbing head: 
 But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
 Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
 Uiunans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus 
 
 felt, 
 AVhen, baited round Cithoeron's cruel sides, 
 lie saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 
 — Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. iv. 
 1. 163. 
 
 Such are the pleasures and pains of intoxi- 
 cation, as they occur in the temperament of 
 sensibility, described by a genuine poet, with 
 a degree of truth and energy which nothing 
 but experience could have dictated. There 
 are, indeed, some individuals of this tern- 
 perament on whom wine produces no cheer- 
 ing influence. On some, even in very 
 moderate qxiantities, its effects are painfully 
 irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark 
 and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts still 
 larger, the fierceness of insanity itself Such 
 men are happily exempted from a temptation 
 to which experience teaches us the finest 
 dispositions often yield, and the influence of 
 which, when strengthened by habit, it is a 
 humiliating truth, that the most powerful 
 minds have not been able to resist. 
 
 It is the more necessary for men of genius 
 to be on their guard against the habitual 
 use of wine, because it is apt to steal on 
 them insensibly, and because the temptation 
 to excess usually presents itself to them in 
 their social hours, when they are alive only 
 to warm and generous emotions, and when 
 prudence and moderation are often con- 
 temned as selfishness and timitiity. 
 
 It is the more necessary for them to gciard 
 against excess in the use of wine, because on 
 them its etfccts are, physically and morally, 
 in an especial manner injurious. In pro- 
 portion to its stimulating influence on the 
 system (on which the pleasurable sensations 
 depend, is the debility that ensues — a de- 
 bility that destroys digestion, and terminates 
 in habitnal fe\er, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, 
 or insanity. As the strength of the body 
 decays, the volition fails; in proportion as 
 the sensations are soothed aiul gratified, the' 
 sensibility increases ; and morbid sensibility 
 is the parent of indolence, because, while it 
 impairs the regulating power of the mind, it 
 exaggerates all the obstacles to exertion. 
 Activity, perseverance, and self-commai d, 
 become more and more difficidt, and the grcdt 
 purposes of jtility, patriotism, or of honour- 
 
68 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 a1)le ambition, which had occupied the ima- 
 gination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or 
 in feeble efforts. 
 
 To apply these observations to the subject 
 of our memoirs, would be a useless as well 
 as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we 
 owe to the hving-, not to allow our admira- 
 tion of g-reat genius, or even our pity for its 
 unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise its 
 errors. But there are sentiments of respect, 
 and even of tenderness, with which this 
 duty should be performed ; there is an awful 
 sanctity which invests the mansions of the 
 dead ; and let those who moralise over the 
 graves of their contemporaries, reflect with 
 humility on their owai errors, nor forget how 
 soon they may themselves require the can- 
 dour and the sympathy they are called upon 
 to bestow. 
 
 Soon after the death of Burns, the follow- 
 ing article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, 
 from wliich it was copied into the Edinburgh 
 newspapers, and into various other periodical 
 publications. It is from the elegant pen of 
 a lady, already alluded to in the course of 
 these memoirs (120), whose exertions for the 
 family of our bard, in the circles of literature 
 and fashion in which she moves, have done 
 her so much honour. 
 
 " The attention of the public seems to be 
 much occupied at present with the loss it 
 has recently sustained in the death of the 
 Caledonian poet, Robert Burns ; a loss cal- 
 culated 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 anec- 
 dotes and memoirs which are usually circu- 
 lated immediately after the death of every 
 rare and celebrated personage : I had, how- 
 ever, 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 misrepresenta- 
 tion and calumny been less industrious ; but 
 a regard to truth, no less than aft'ection for 
 the memory of a friend, must now justify 
 my offering to the public a few at least of 
 those observations which an intimate ac- 
 quaintance with Burns, and the frequent 
 opportunities I have had of observing equally 
 his happy qualities and his failings for several 
 years past, have enabled me to communicate. 
 
 " It will actually be an injustice done tc 
 Burns's character, not only by future genera- 
 tions and foreign countries, but even by his 
 native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his 
 contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
 and considered, with reference to his poetical 
 talents only ; for the fact is, even allowing 
 his great and original genius its due tribute 
 of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all 
 who have had the advantage of being per- 
 sonally acquainted with him) was actuaUy 
 not his forte. Many others, perhaps, may 
 have ascended to prouder heights in the 
 region of Parnassus, but none certainly ever 
 outshone Burns in the charms, the sorcery, 
 I would almost call it, of fascinating conver- 
 sation, the spontaneous eloquence of social 
 argument, or the unstudied poignancy of 
 brilliant repartee ; nor was any man, I be- 
 lieve, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
 'vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments 
 were perfectly correspondent to the qualifi- 
 cations of his mind — his form was manly — 
 his action, energy itself — devoid in a 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 irresistible power of attraction that en- 
 circled him, though his appearance and 
 manners were always peculiar, he never failed 
 to delight and to excel. His figure seemed 
 to bear testimony to his earlier destination 
 and employments. It seemed rather moulded 
 by nature for the rough exercises of agricul- 
 ture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles 
 Lettres. His features 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 superiority, or beamed 
 with the impassioned sentiment of fervent 
 and impetuous aff'ections. His voice alone 
 could improve upon the magic of his eye : 
 sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, 
 it alternately captivated the ear with the 
 melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of 
 nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of 
 enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of 
 satire was, I am almost at a loss whether to 
 say,his/o/"^e 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, animo- 
 sities. It was uot always that sportiveuejje 
 
INADEQUACY OF NATIVE CRITICIS^I. 
 
 69 
 
 of humour, that ' unwary pleasantry,' which 
 Sterne has depicted with touches so conci- 
 liatory, but the darts of ridicide were 
 frequently directed as the caprice of the 
 instant sujrgested, 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 matter 
 indeed) had always the start of his judj;ment, 
 and would lead him to the indulgence of 
 raillery uniformly acute, but often accomjia- 
 nied with the least desire to wound. The 
 suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon- 
 mot, from a dread of offending its object, the 
 sage of Zurich very properly classes as a 
 virtue onhj 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. 
 lie paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as 
 any one could do. ' 'Twas no extravagant 
 arithmetic,' to say of him, as was said of 
 Yorick, that ' for every ten jokes he got a 
 hundred enemies ; ' but much allowance will 
 be made by a candid mind for the splenetic 
 warmth of a spirit whom ' distress had spited 
 with the world,' and which, unbounded in its 
 intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually 
 experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
 wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of 
 his wishes and temper was indeed checked by 
 almost habitual disappointments, which sat 
 heavy on a heart that acknowledged the 
 ruling passion of independence, without 
 having ever been placed beyond the grasp of 
 penury. His soul was never languid or in- 
 active, and his genius was extinguished only 
 with the last spark of retreating life. His 
 passions rendered him, according as they 
 disclosed themselves in affection or antipathy, 
 an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of 
 decided enmity ; for he possessed none of 
 that negative insipidity of character, whose 
 love might be regarded with indifference, or 
 whose resentment could be considered with 
 contempt. In this, it should seem, the 
 temper of his associates took the tincture 
 from his own; for he acknowledged in the 
 universe but two classes of objects, those of 
 adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the 
 most uncontrollable ; and it has been fre- 
 quently 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 appreciating the homage ; and elevated to 
 the pri\ileges of an adversary some who 
 were lUKpialified in all respects for the honour 
 of a contest so djstinguislied. 
 
 "It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson 
 professed to ' love a good hater ' — a temiicra- 
 ineut that would have singularly adapted Inui 
 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 fortu- 
 nately corrected by their versatility. He w as 
 seldom, indeed never, implacable in his re- 
 sentments, and sometimes, it has been 
 alleged, not inviolably faithful in his engaire- 
 ments of friendship. Much, indeed, has 
 been said about his inconstancy and caprice ; 
 but I am inclined to believe, that they origi- 
 nated 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 Hukindness, took their measure of asperity 
 from the overflomngs of the opposite senti- 
 ment which preceded them, and which seldom 
 failed to regain its ascendancy in his bosom 
 on the return of calmer reflection. He was 
 candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, 
 and his avowal \vas a reparation. His native 
 fierle never forsaking him for a moment, the 
 value of a frank acknowledgment was en- 
 hanced tenfold towards a generous mind, 
 from its never being attended with servility. 
 His mind, organised only for the stronger 
 and more acute operations of the passions, 
 was impracticable to the efforts of super- 
 ciliousness that would have depressed it into 
 humility, and equally superior to the en- 
 croachments of venal suggestions that might 
 have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 
 
 "It has been observed that he was far from 
 averse to the incense of flattery, and could 
 receive it tempered with less delicacy than 
 might have been expected, as he seldom 
 transgressed extravagantly in that way him- 
 self ; where he paid a compliment, it might 
 indeed claim the power of intoxication, as 
 approbation from him was always an honest 
 tribute from the warmth and suicerity of his 
 heart. It has been sometimes represented 
 by those who, it should seem, had a view to 
 depreciate, though they could not hope 
 wholly to obscure, that native brilliancy 
 which the powers of this extraordinary man 
 had invariably bestowed on every thing that 
 came from his lips or pen, that the history 
 of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious 
 fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtain- 
 ing the interests of the great, and enhancing 
 the merits of what in reality required no foil. 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tarn o' Shan- 
 ter, and The Mountain Daisy, besides a 
 
70 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 D nnbor of later productions, where the 
 miturity of his genius will be readily traced, 
 and which will be given to the public as soon 
 as his friends have collected and arranged 
 them, speak sutticiently for themselves ; and 
 haJ ciiey fallen from a hand more dignified 
 in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, 
 they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a 
 grace there, as even in the humbler shade of 
 rustic inspiration from whence they really 
 sprang. 
 
 " To the obscure scene of Burns's educa- 
 tion, and to the laborious, though honourable 
 station of rural industry in which his parent- 
 age enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of 
 the south of Scotland can give testimony. 
 His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, 
 now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers 
 in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; and 
 our poet's eldest sou, a lad of nine years of 
 age, whose early dispositions already prove 
 him to be in some measure the inheritor of 
 his father's talents as well as indigence, has 
 been destined by his family to the humble 
 employments of the loom. 
 
 " That Burns had received no classical 
 education, and was acquainted with the 
 Greek and Roman authors only through the 
 medium of translations, is a fact of which all 
 who were in the habit'of conversing with him 
 might readily be convinced. I have, indeed, 
 seldom observed him to be at a loss in con- 
 versation, ludess where the dead languages 
 and their writers have been the subjects of 
 discussion. When I have pressed him to tell 
 me why he never applied himself to acquire 
 the Latin, in particular, a language which 
 his happy memory would have so soon en- 
 abled him to be master of, he used only to 
 reply with a smile, that he liad already 
 learnt all the Latiu he desired to know, and 
 that was omnia vmcit amor — a sentence, that 
 from his writings and most favourite pur- 
 suits, it should undoubtedly seem that he 
 was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really 
 believe his classic erudition extended little, 
 if any, farther. 
 
 "The penchant Burns had uniformly ac- 
 knowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
 table, and towards the fairer and softer 
 objects of nature's creation, has been the 
 rallying point whence the attacks of his 
 censors have been uniformly directed , and 
 to these, it must be confessed, he showed 
 himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend 
 with alternate happiness of description, the 
 frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the 
 heart to the tender and uupassioned senti- 
 ments in which beauty always taught him to 
 »oar forth his own. But who would wish to 
 
 reprove the feelings he has consecrated with 
 such lively touches of nature ? And where 
 is the rugged moralist who will persuade us 
 so far to 'chill the genial current of the 
 soul,' as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated 
 his Corinna, or that Anacreon sang beneath 
 his vine ? 
 
 " I will not, however, undertake to be the 
 apologist of the irregularities even of a man 
 of genius, though I believe it is as certain 
 that genius never was free from irregulari- 
 ties, as that their absolution may, in great 
 n\easure, be justly claimed, since it is per- 
 fectly evident that the world had continued 
 very stationary in its intellectual acquire- 
 ments, had it never given birth to any but 
 men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, 
 and a due regard to the decorums of the 
 world, have been so rarely seen to move 
 hand in hand with genius, that some have 
 gone as far as to say, tliough there I cannot 
 wholly acquiesce, that they are even in- 
 com|)atible ; besides, the frailties tliat cast 
 their shade over the splendour of superior 
 merit, are more conspicuously glaring than 
 where they are the attendants of mere me- 
 diocrity. It is only on the gem we are dis- 
 turbed to see the dust ; the pebble may be 
 soiled, and we never regard it. The eccen- 
 tric intuitions of genius too often yield the 
 soul to the wild effervescence of desires, 
 always inibounded, and sometimes equally 
 dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to 
 its own. No wonder, then, if virtue her- 
 self be sometimes lost in the blaze of 
 kindling animation, or that the calm moni- 
 tions of reason are not invariably found 
 sufficient to fetter an iniagination, 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 precepts 
 of plulosophy, too often unable to control 
 the passions which proved a source of 
 frequent errors and misfortunes to him. 
 Burns made his own artless apology iu 
 language more impressive than all the argu- 
 mentatory vindications in the world could 
 do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
 lineates the gradual expansion of his mind 
 to the lessons of the ' tutelary muse,' who 
 concludes an address to her pupil, almost 
 unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, 
 with these lines : — 
 
 ' I saw thy pulse's madd'ninfr play 
 Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray: 
 Was light f run heaven* 
 
TECULIAltlTIES, ETC. 
 
 71 
 
 "1 liave already transgressed beyond the 
 bounds I liad proposed to myself on lirst 
 committiiii; this sketch to paper, which com- 
 prehends what at least I have been led to 
 deem the leading; features of Bums's mind 
 and character. A literary critique I do not 
 aim at — mine is wholly fulfilled if, in these 
 paj;es, I have been able to delineate any of 
 those stronj; traits that distinjjuished hira, 
 of those talents which raised him from the 
 I)louu:h, where he passed the bleak morniii<!; 
 of his life, weaving liis rude wreaths of 
 poesy with the wild tield-flowers that sprang 
 around his cottage, to that enviable eminence 
 of literary fame, where Scotland will long 
 cherish his memory with delight and grati- 
 tude ; and proudly remember that, beneath 
 her cold sky, a genius was ripened, without 
 care or culture, that would have done honour 
 to climes more favourable tft those luxuri- 
 ances — that warmth of colouring and fancy 
 iu which he so eminently excelled. 
 
 " From several paragraphs 1 have noticed 
 in the public prints, ever since the idea of 
 sending this sketch to some one of them 
 was formed, I find private animosities have 
 not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet 
 exhausted all her shafts. I still trust, how- 
 ever, that honest fame will be permanently 
 altixed to Biirns's character, which I think it 
 will be found he lias merited, by the candid 
 and impartial among liis countrymen. And 
 where a recollection of the imprudences that 
 sullied his brighter qualitications interpose, 
 let the imperfection of all human excellence 
 be remembered at the same time, leaving 
 those inconsistencies, which alternately ex- 
 alted his nature into the seraph, and sank it 
 again into the man, to the tribunal which 
 alone can investigate the labyrinths of the 
 human heart — 
 
 • Where they alike in tremblin": hope repose, 
 ^'I'he bosom of his father and his G^jd.' 
 
 Grav's Elegy. 
 " Aunandale, Awjust 7, 1796." 
 
 After this account of the life and personal 
 character of Burns, it may be expected that 
 some inquiry should be made into his 
 literary merits. It will not, however, be 
 necessary to enter very minutely into this 
 investigation. If fiction be, as some sup- 
 pose, the soul of poetry, no one had ever 
 less pretensions to the name of poet than 
 Burns. Though he has displayed great 
 powers of imagination, yet the subjects on 
 which he has written are seldom, if ever, 
 imaginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, 
 may be considered as the effusions of his 
 eensibility, and the transcript of his own 
 musings ou the real iucideuti of his humble 
 
 life. If we add, that they also contain most 
 happy delineations of the characters, man- 
 ners, and scenery, that presented themselves 
 to his observation, we shall include almost 
 all the subjects of his muse. His writings 
 may, therefore, be regarded as alfuriling a 
 great part of the data ou which our account 
 of his personal character has been founded ; 
 and most of the observations we have ap- 
 plied to the man, are applicable, with little 
 variation, to the poet. 
 
 The impression of his birth, and of his 
 original station in hfe, was not more evident 
 on his form and manners, than on his 
 poetical productions. The incidents which 
 form the subjects of his poems, though some 
 of them highly interesting, and susceptible 
 of poetical imagery, are incidents in the life 
 of a peasant who takes no pains to disguise 
 the lowliness of his condition, or to throw 
 into shade the circumstances attending it, 
 which more feeble or more artificial minds 
 would have endeavoured to conceal. The 
 same rudeness and inattention appears in 
 the formation of his rhymes, which are 
 frequently incorrect, while the measure in 
 which many of the poems are written has 
 little of the pomp or harmony of modern 
 versification, and is, indeed, to an English 
 ear strange and uncouth. The greater part 
 of his earlier poems are written in the dialect 
 of his country, which is obscure, if not 
 unintelligible, to Enghslimen ; and which, 
 though it still adheres more or less to the 
 speech of almost every Scotsman, all the 
 polite and the ambitious are now endeavour- 
 ing to banish from their tongues as well as 
 their writings. The use of it in composition 
 naturally, therefore, calls up ideas of vul- 
 garity in the mind. These singularities are 
 increased by the character of the poet, who 
 delights to express himself with a simplicity 
 that approaches to nakedness, and with an 
 unmeasured energy that often alarms deli- 
 cacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, 
 in approaching him, the first impression is, 
 perhaps, repulsive : there is an air of coarse- 
 ness about him, which is ditticultly recon- 
 ciled with our established notions of poetical 
 excellence. 
 
 As the reader, however, becomes better 
 acquainted with the poet, the effects of his 
 peculiarities lessen. He perceives in his 
 poems, even on the lowest subjects, expres- 
 sions of sentiment, and delineations of 
 manners, which are highly interesting. The 
 scenery he describes is evidently taken from 
 real life ; the characters he nitroduces, and 
 the incidents hi; relates, have the impression 
 of nature and truth. His humour, though 
 
72 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 >vil(l and unbridled, is irresistibly amiisiiiff, 
 and is sometimes hei};lUen€d in its effects by 
 tlie introduction of emotions of tenderness, 
 with which genuine humour so happily 
 unites. Nor is this the extent of his power. 
 The reader, as he examines farther, discovers 
 that the poet is not confined to the descrip- 
 tive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is 
 found, as occasion offers, to rise with ease 
 into the terrible and the sublime. Every- 
 where he appears devoid of artifice, per- 
 forming what lie attempts with little appa- 
 rent efifort, and impressing on the offspring 
 of his fancy the stamp of his imderstandiiif/. 
 The reader, capable of forming a just esti- 
 mate of poetical talents, discovers in these 
 circumstances marks of uncommon genius, 
 and is willing to investigate more minutely 
 its nature and its claims to originality. This 
 last point we shall examine first. 
 
 That Burns had not the advantages of a 
 classical education, or of any degree of ac- 
 quaintance with the Greek or Roman writers 
 in tlieir original dress, has appeared in the 
 history of his life. He acquired, indeed, 
 some knowledge of the French languiige, 
 but it does not appear that he was ever much 
 conversant in French literature, nor is there 
 any evidence of his having derived any of 
 his poetical stores from that source. With 
 the English classics he became well ac- 
 quainted ill the course of his life, and the 
 effect of this acquaintance are observable in 
 his later productions ; but the character and 
 style of his poetry were formed very early, 
 and the model which he followed, in as far 
 as he can be said to have had one, is to be 
 sought for in the works of the poets who 
 have written in the Scottish dialect — in the 
 works of such of them more especially, as 
 are familiar to the peasantry of Scotland. 
 Some observations on these may form a 
 proper introduction to a more particular 
 examination of the poetry of Burns. The 
 studies of the editor in this direction are 
 indeed very recent and very imperfect. It 
 would liave been imprudent for him to have 
 entered on this subject at all, but for the 
 kindness of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
 whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, 
 and to whom the reader must ascribe 
 wliatever is of any value in the following 
 imperfect sketch of literary compositions iu 
 the Scottish idiom. 
 
 It is a circumstance not a little curious, 
 and which does not seem to be satisfactorily 
 explained, that in the thirteenth century, 
 the language of the two British nations, if 
 at all different, differed only in dialect, the 
 liaelic in the one, like the Welsh and Ar- 
 
 moric in the other, being confined to the 
 mountainous districts. The Kiighsh under 
 the Edwards, and tlie Scots under Wallace 
 and Bruce, spoke the same language. We 
 may observe also, that in Scotland, tlie his- 
 tory of poetry ascends to a period nearly a3 
 remote as in England. Barber, and Blind 
 Harry, James the First, Dunbar. Douglas, 
 and Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, 
 fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were coevd 
 with the fathers of poetry in England ; and, 
 in the opinion of Mr. Wartoii, not inferior 
 to them ill genius or in composition. Though 
 the language of the two countries gradually 
 deviated from each other during this period, 
 yet the difference on the whole was not con- 
 siderable ; not perhaps, greater than between 
 the different dialects of the different parts of 
 England in our own time. 
 
 At the death of James V. iu 1542, the 
 language of Scotland was ia ?, flourishing 
 condition, wanting only vriters in prose 
 equal to those in verse. Two vurcumstances, 
 propitious on the whole, operated to prevent 
 this. The first was the passion of the Scots 
 for composition in Latin, and the second, 
 the accession of James VL to the English 
 throne. It may easily be imasined, that if 
 Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, 
 even in part, to the cultivation of his native 
 tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
 in Italy, he would have left compositions in 
 that language which might have incited other 
 men of genius to have followed his ex- 
 ample (121), and given duration to the lan- 
 guage itself. The union of the two crowns 
 in the person of James, overthrew all rea^ 
 sonable expectation of this kind. That 
 monarch, seated on the English throne, 
 would no longer suffer himself to be ad- 
 dressed in the rude dialect in which the 
 Scottish clergy had so often insulted his 
 dignity. He encouraged Latin or English 
 only, both of which he prided liimselif ou 
 writing with purity, though he himself never 
 could acquire the English pronunciation, 
 but spoke with a Scottish idiom and intoiiu/- 
 tiou to the last. Scotsmen of talents de- 
 clined writing in their native language, which 
 they knew was not acceptable to their 
 learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a 
 time when national prejudice and enmity 
 prevailed to a great degree, they disdained 
 to study the niceties of the English tongue, 
 though of so much easier acquisition than 
 a dead language. Lord Stirling, and Drum- 
 i mond of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen 
 j who wrote poetry in those times, were ex- 
 ceptions. They studied the language of 
 ! England, and composed in it with precision 
 
UTERATURE OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 73 
 
 Olid elegance. They were, however, the last 
 of tlieir countrymen who ileservcd to be 
 considered as poets in that century. The 
 iiiuses of Scotland sank into silence, and did 
 not again raise their voices for a period of 
 eighty years. 
 
 To what causes are we to attribute this 
 extreme depression among a people compara- 
 tively learned, enterprising, and ingenious ? 
 Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of tlie 
 Covenanters, or to the tyranny of the house 
 of Stuart after their restoration to the 
 throne ? Doubtless these causes operated, 
 but they seem unequal to account for the 
 effect. In England, similar distractions and 
 oppression took place, yet poetry flourished 
 there in a remarkable degree. During this 
 period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden, 
 sang, and iMilton raised his strain of unpa- 
 ralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
 mentioned, another must be added, in 
 accounting for the torpor of Scottish litera- 
 ture — the want of a proper vehicle for men 
 of genius to employ. The civil wars had 
 frightened away the Latin Muses, and no 
 standard had been established of the Scottish 
 tongue, which was deviating still farther 
 from the pure English idiom. 
 
 The revival of literature in Scotland may 
 be dated from the establishment of the 
 Union, or rather from the extinction of the 
 rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally 
 incorporated, it was clearly seen that their 
 tongues must be in the end incorporate also; 
 or rather, indeed, that the Scottish language 
 must degenerate into a provincial idiom, to 
 be avoided by those who would aim at dis- 
 tinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the 
 united legislature. 
 
 Soon after this, a band of men of genius 
 appeared, who studied the English classics, 
 and imitated their beauties, in the same 
 manner as they studied the classics of Greece 
 and Rome. They had admirable models of 
 composition lately presented to them by the 
 writers of the reign of tiueen Anne ; par- 
 ticularly in the periodical papers published 
 by Steele, Addison, and their associated 
 friends, which circulated widely through 
 Scotland, and diffused everywhere a taste 
 for purity of style and sentiment, and for 
 critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish 
 writers succeeded in English composition, 
 and an union was formed of the literary 
 talents, as well as of the legislatures of the 
 two nations. On this occasion the poets 
 took the lead. While Henry Home (122), 
 Dr. \\'allace, and their learned associates, 
 were only laying in their intellectual stores, 
 and studvin'c to clear themselves of their 
 
 Scottish idioms, Thomson, IMallett, and 
 Hamilton of Bangour, had made their ap- 
 pearance before the public, and been enrolled 
 on the list of English poets. The writers 
 in prose followed — a numerous and powerful 
 band — and poured their ample stores into 
 the general stream of Britisli literature. 
 Scotland possessed her four universities be- 
 fore the accession of James to the English 
 throne. Immediately before the Union, she 
 acquired her parochial schools. Tlicse esta- 
 blishments combining happily together, made 
 the elements of knowledge of easy acquisi- 
 tion, and presented a direct path by which 
 the ardent student might be carried along 
 into the recesses of science or learning. As 
 civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice 
 gradually died away, a wider field was opened 
 to literary ambition, and the influence of the 
 Scottish institutions for instruction, on the 
 productions of the press, became more and 
 more apparent. 
 
 It seems, indeed, probable, that the esta- 
 blishment of tiie parochial schools produced 
 effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, 
 which have not hitherto been suspected, and 
 which, though less spleiuhd in their nature, 
 are not, however, to be regarded as trivial, 
 whether we consider the happiness or the 
 morals of the people. 
 
 There is some reason to believe, that the 
 original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 
 sessed a peculiar and an interesting species 
 of music, which being banished from the 
 plains by the successive invasions of the 
 Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved 
 with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland 
 and in the mountains of Scotland and \\'ales. 
 The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh 
 music, differ indeed from each other, but the 
 difference may be considered as in dialect 
 only, and probably produced by the influence 
 of time, and like the dift'erent dialects of 
 their common language. If this conjecture 
 be true, the Scottish music must be more 
 immediately of a Highland origin, and the 
 Lowland tunes, though now of a character 
 somewhat distinct, must have descended 
 from the mountains in remote ages. What- 
 ever credit may be given to conjectures, 
 evidently involved in great uncertainty, there 
 can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry 
 have been long in possession of a number of 
 songs and ballads composed in their native 
 dialect, and sung to their native music. 
 The subjects of these compositions were 
 such as most interested the sim|)lc inhabi- 
 tants, and in the succession of time varied 
 probably as the condition of society varied. 
 During the separation and the hostility of 
 
74 
 
 LIFE OF BURNiS. 
 
 the two nations, these songs and ballads, as 
 far as our imperfect documents enable us to 
 judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as the 
 Iluntis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlaw. 
 After the union of the two crowns, when a 
 certain degree of peace and of tranquillity 
 took place, the rural muse of Scotland 
 breathed in softer accents. "In the want 
 of real evidence respecting the history of 
 our songs," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
 " recourse may be had to conjecture. One 
 would be disposed to think, that the most 
 beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed 
 with new words after the union of the 
 crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, 
 who had formerly been warriors from choice, 
 and husbandmen from necessity, either 
 quitted the country, or were transformed 
 into real sliepherds, easy in their circum- 
 stances, and satistted with their lot. Some 
 sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which 
 they are celebrated by Froissart, remained, 
 sutticient to inspire elevation of sentiment 
 and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 
 familiarity and kindness which had long 
 subsisted between the gentry and the pea- 
 santry, could not all at once be obliterated, 
 and this connexion tended to sweeten rural 
 life. In this state of innocence, ease, and 
 tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and 
 music would still maintain its ground, though 
 it would naturally assume a form congenial 
 to the more peaceful state of society. The 
 minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to 
 rouse the borderers like the trumpet's sound, 
 had been, by an order of the legislature (in 
 1579), classed with rogues and vagabonds, 
 and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and 
 his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- 
 ment, but contended in vain with her rural 
 muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably 
 on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its 
 tributary streams, one or more original 
 geniuses may have arisen, who were destined 
 to give a new turn to the taste of their 
 countrjTnen. They would see that the 
 events and pursuits which chequer private 
 hii; were the proper subjects for popular 
 poetry. Love, which had formerly held a 
 divided sway with glory and ambition, be- 
 came now the master passion of the soul. 
 To portray in lively and delicate colours, 
 though with a hasty hand, the hopes and 
 fears that agitate the breast of the love-sick 
 8W»in, or forlorn maiden, affords ample scope 
 to the rural poet. Love-songs of which 
 TibuUus himself would not have been 
 ashamed, might be composed by an unedu- 
 cated rustic with a slight tincture of letters; 
 01 if in these songs the character of the 
 
 rustic be sometimes assumed, the truth ol 
 character, and the language of nature, are 
 preserved. With imaflected simplicity and 
 tenderness, topics are urged most likely to 
 soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, 
 or to regain a tickle lover. Even in such aa 
 are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
 breaks through, and dispels the deep and 
 settled gloom which characterises the sweet- 
 est of the Highland lueitiys, or vocal airs. 
 Nor are these songs all plaintive; many of 
 them are lively and humorous, and some 
 appear to us coarse and indelicate. They 
 seem, however, genuine descriptions of the 
 manners of an energetic and sequestered 
 people in their hours of mirth and festivity, 
 though in their portraits some objects are 
 brought into open view, which more fasti- 
 dious painters would have thrown into 
 shade. 
 
 As those rural poets sang for amusement, 
 not for gain, their eflusions seldom exceeded 
 a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
 which, like the works of the elder minstrels, 
 were seldom committed to writing, but 
 treasured up in the memory of their friends 
 and neighbours. Neither known to the 
 learned nor patronised by the great, these 
 rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and 
 by a strange fatality, their story, and even 
 their very names, have been forgotten. (123) 
 When proper models for pastoral songs were 
 produced, there would be no want of imita- 
 tors. To succeed in this species of compo- 
 sition, soundness of und^-stauding, and 
 sensibility of heart, were more requisite than 
 flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. 
 Great changes have certainly taken place in 
 Scottish song-writing, thougii we cannot 
 trace the steps of this change ; and few of 
 the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time 
 are now to be discovered in modern collec- 
 tions. It is possible, though not probable, 
 that the music may have remained nearly 
 the same, though the words to the tunes 
 were entirely new-modelled." tl~^J 
 
 These conjectures are iiighly ingenious. 
 It cannot, however, be presumed, that the 
 state of ease and tranquillity described by 
 Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scottish 
 l)easantry immediately on the union of the 
 crowns, or indeed during the greater part of 
 the seventeenth century. The Scottish 
 nation, through all its ranks, was deeply 
 agitated by the civil wars, and the religious 
 persecutions which succeeded each other in 
 that disastrous period ; it was not till after 
 the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent 
 establishment of their beloved form of 
 church government, that the peasantry of 
 
COMPARISON OF SCOTTISH POETS. 
 
 75 
 
 the Lowlands enjnyed comparati\e repose ; 
 and it is since that period that a jfreat 
 number of the most admired Scottish songs 
 have been produced, tliouijh the tunes to 
 which they are snug are in general of much 
 greater antiquity. It i' not unreasonable to 
 suppose that the paace aad security derived 
 from tlie Revolution and the Union, pro- 
 duced a favourable change on the rustic 
 poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be 
 doubted, that the institution of parish 
 schools in 1090, by which a certain degree 
 of instruction was diffused universally among 
 the peasantry, contributed to this happy 
 effect. 
 
 Soon after this appeared Allan Bamsay, 
 the Scottisli Theocritus. He was born on 
 the high mountains that divide Clydesdale 
 and Annandale, in a small hamlet by the 
 banks of Glengonar, a stream which descends 
 into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet 
 are still shown to the inquiring traveller. 
 He was the son of a peasant, and probably 
 received such instruction as his parish-school 
 bestowed, and the poverty of his parents ad- 
 mitted. (125) Ramsay made his appearance 
 in Edinburgh in the beginmng of the present 
 century, in the h\;mble character of an ap- 
 prentice to a barber, or peruke-maker ; he 
 was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. 
 By degrees he acquired notice for his social 
 disposition, and his talent for the composi- 
 tion of verses in the Scottish idiom; and, 
 changing his profession for that of a book- 
 seller, he became intimate with many of the 
 literary, as well as the gay and fashionable 
 characters of his time. (126) Having pub- 
 lished a volume of poems of his own in 
 1721, which was favourably received, he 
 undertook to make a collection (,f ancient 
 Scottish poems, under the title of The Ever- 
 green, and was afterwards encouraged to 
 present to the world a collection of Scottish 
 songs. " From what sources he procured 
 them," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
 "whether from tradition or manuscript, is 
 uncertain. As in the Evergreen, he made 
 some rash attempts to improve on the origi- 
 nals of his ancient poems, he probably used 
 still greater freedom with the songs and 
 ballads. The truth cannot, however, be 
 known on this point, till manuscripts of the 
 songs printed by him more ancient than the 
 present century, shall be produced, or access 
 be obtained to his own papers, if they are 
 still in existence. To several tunes which 
 cither wanted words, or had words that 
 were improper or imperfect, he, or his 
 friends, adapted verses worthy of the melo- 
 dies they accompanied, worthy indeed of the 
 
 8 
 
 golden age. These verses were perfectly in- 
 telligible to every rustic, yet justly admired 
 by persons of taste, who regarded them a* 
 the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. 
 In some respects, Ramsay had advantages 
 not possessed by poets writing in the Scot- 
 tish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect 
 of Cumberland or Ijancashire could never be 
 popular, because these dialects have never 
 been spoken by persons of fashion. But 
 till the middle of the present century, every 
 Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, 
 spoke a truly Doric language. It is true, 
 the English moralists and poets were by 
 this time read by every person of condition, 
 and considered as the standards for polite 
 composition. But as national prejudices 
 were still strong, the busy, the learned, the 
 gay, and the fair, continued to speak their 
 native dialect, and that with an elegance 
 and poignancy, of which Scotsmen of the 
 present day can have no just notion. I am 
 old enough to have conversed with Mr. 
 Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of 
 fashion, who survived all the members of 
 the Union Parliament, in which he had a 
 seat. His pronunciation and phraseology 
 differed as much from the common dialect, 
 as the language of St. James's from that of 
 Thames Street. Had we retained a court 
 and parliament of our own, the tongues of 
 the two sister-kingdoms would indeed have 
 ditTered like the Castilian and Portuguese ; 
 but each would have had its own classics, 
 not in a single branch, but in the whole 
 circle of literature. 
 
 " Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
 and fashion of his day, and several of them 
 attempted to write poetry in his manner. 
 Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
 compositions that required much exertion, 
 succeeded very happily in making tender 
 sonnets to favourite tunes in compliment to 
 their mistresses, and, transforming them- 
 selves into impassioned shepherds, caught 
 the language of the characters they assumed. 
 Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawford 
 of Auchinames wrote the modern song of 
 Tweed Side (127), which has been so much 
 admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the 
 first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
 wrote English elegantly, composed, in the 
 character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful 
 song, beginning, ' My sheep I neglected, I 
 lost my sheep-hook,' on the marriage of 
 his mistress, Miss Forbes, witli lionald 
 Crawford. And about twelve years after- 
 wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the 
 ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of 
 the Forest (128), and supposed to allude to 
 
76 
 
 LIFE or" BURXS. 
 
 the battle of Flowden. lu spite of the 
 double rhyme, it is a sweet, and, though 
 in some parts allegorical, a natural expres- 
 sion of national sorrow The more modern 
 words to the same tune, beginning;, ' I have 
 seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,' were 
 written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a 
 woman of great wit, who outlived all the 
 tirst group of literati of the present century, 
 all of whom were very fond of her. (129) I 
 was delighted with her company, though, 
 when I saw her, she was very old. Much 
 did she know that is now lost." 
 
 In addition to these instances of Scottish 
 songs produced' in the earlier part o/ the 
 present century, may be mentioned the 
 ballad of Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw; 
 the ballad of WiUiam and Margaret ; and 
 the song entitled the Birks of Endermay, 
 by Mallett ; the love-song, beginning. " For 
 ever fortune, wilt thou prove," produced by 
 the youthful muse of Thomson; and the 
 exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of 
 Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
 revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to 
 the Union, a very general taste seems to 
 have prevailed for the national songs and 
 music. " For many years," says Mr. Ram- 
 say, "the singing of songs was the great 
 delight of the higher and middle order of 
 the people, as well as of the peasantry ; 
 and though a taste for Italian music has 
 interfered with this amusement, it is still 
 very prevalent. Between forty and fifty 
 years ago, the common people were not only 
 exceedingly fond of songs and ballads, but 
 of metrical history. Often have I, in my 
 cheerful morn of youth, listened to them 
 with delight, when reading or reciting the 
 exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the 
 s.iuthrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call 
 Blind Harry their bible, he being their great 
 favourite next to the Scriptures. \Mien, 
 therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first 
 emotions of genius, he wanted not models 
 gui generis. But though the seeds of 
 poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand 
 among the Scottish peasantry, the product 
 was probably like that of pears and apples — 
 of a thousand that spring up, nine hundred 
 and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on 
 edge ; forty-five or more are passable and 
 useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. 
 Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildings of 
 this last description. They had the ex- 
 ample of the elder Scottish poets ; they were 
 not without the aid of the best English 
 writers ; and, what was still of more im- 
 portance, they were no strangers to the 
 book of nature, and to the book of God." 
 
 "From this general view, it is apparent 
 that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in 
 a great measure the reviver of the rural 
 poetry of his country. His coUectiou of 
 ancient Scottish poems, under the name of 
 The Evergreen, his collection of Scottish 
 songs, and his own poems, the principal of 
 which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been 
 universally read among the peasantry of his 
 country, and have in some degree superseded 
 the adventures of Bruce and \\^allace, 08 
 recorded by Baibour and Blind Harry. 
 Burns was well acquainted with all these. 
 He had also before him the poems of 
 Fcrgusson in the Scottish dialect, which 
 have been produced in our own times, and 
 of which it will be necessary to give a short 
 account. 
 
 "Fergusson was born of parents who had 
 it in their power to procure him a liberal 
 education — a circumstance, however, which 
 in Scotland implies no very high rank in 
 society. From a well-written and appa- 
 rently authentic account of his life (130), 
 we learn that he spent six years at the 
 schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and 
 several years at the vuiiversities of Edin- 
 burgh and St. Andrews. It appears tliat 
 he was at one time destined for the Scottith 
 church ; but, as he advanced towards man- 
 hood, he renounced that intention, and 
 at Edinburgh entered the office of a writer 
 to the signet — a title which designates a 
 separate and higher order of Scottish at- 
 tornies. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, 
 a warm and generous heart, and talents 
 for society of the most attractive kind. 
 To such a man no situation could be 
 more dangerous than that in which he was 
 placed. The excesses into which he was led 
 impaired his feeble constitution, and he sank 
 under them in the month of October, 1 774 
 in his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year. 
 Burns was not acquainted vvitli the poeins 
 of this youthful genius when he himself 
 begar, to write poetry ; and when he first 
 saw them, he had renounced the muses. 
 But while he resided in the town of Irvine, 
 meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Foem^, he 
 informs us that he "strung his lyre anew with 
 emulati:ig vigour." Touched by the sympa- 
 thy originating in kindred genius, and in the 
 forebodings of similar fortune, Burns re- 
 garded Fergusson with a partial and an 
 affectionate admiration. Over his grave he 
 erected a monument, as lias aheady been 
 mentioned; and his poems he lia*. in several 
 instances, made the subjects of his iniMri ii. 
 
 From this account of the ^^ci'ii-i ■ h 
 
 known to Burns, those uhu ;ii\' ac. ,h.j a ril 
 
SCOTTISH LITERATURE. 
 
 77 
 
 with thern will see that they are cliiefly 
 humorous or pathetic, and under one or 
 Other of tliese descriptions most of his own 
 poems will class. Let us compare hira with 
 his predecessors under each of these points 
 of view, and close our examination with a 
 few general observations. 
 
 It has frequently been observed, that 
 Scotland has produced, comparatively speak- 
 uig:, few writers who have excelled in liumour. 
 But this observation is true only when ap- 
 plied to those who have continued to ri;side 
 in their own country, and have confined 
 themselves to composition in pure English ; 
 and, in these circumstances, it admits of an 
 easy explanation. The Scottish poets who 
 have written in the dialect of Scotland, have 
 been at all times remarkable for dwelling on 
 subjects of humour, in which, indeed, imany 
 of them have excelled. It would be ezsy to 
 show, that the dialect of Scotland having 
 become provincial, is now scarcely suif;ed to 
 the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
 may believe that the poem of Clu-istis Kirk 
 of the Grene was written by James I. of 
 Scotland (lol), this accomplished monarch, 
 who had received an English education 
 under the direction of Henry IV., and who 
 bore arms under his gallant successor, gave 
 the model on which the greater part of the 
 humorous productions of the rustic muse of 
 Scotland has been formed. Christis Kirk 
 of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay 
 somewhat modernised in the orthography, 
 and two cantos wire added by him, in which 
 he attempts to carry on the design. Hence 
 the poem of King Jaiues is usually printed 
 in Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, 
 in the first canto, a rustic dance, and after- 
 wards a contention in archery, ending in an 
 affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of 
 concord, and the renewal of the rural sports, 
 with the humours of a country wedding. 
 Though each of the poets describes the 
 manners of his respective age, yet in the 
 whole piece there is a very sufficient unifor- 
 mity — a striking proof of the identity of 
 character in the Scottish peasantry at the 
 two periods, distant from each other three 
 hundred years. It is an honourable dis- 
 tinction to this body of men, that their 
 character and manners, very little embel- 
 hshed, have been found to be susceptible of 
 on amusing and interesting species of poetry; 
 and it must appear not a httle curious, that 
 the single nation of modern Europe which 
 possesses an original rural poetry, shoidd 
 have received the model, followed by their 
 rustic bards, from the monarch on the 
 thr'ine. 
 
 The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
 of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though 
 objectionable in point of delicacy, are among 
 the happiest of his productions. His chief 
 excellence, indeed, lay in the description of 
 rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for 
 he did not possess any very high powers 
 either of imagination or of understanding. 
 He was well acquainted with the peasantry 
 of Scotland, their lives and opinions. Tlie 
 subject was in a great measure new ; his 
 talents were equal to the subject ; and he 
 has shown that it may be happily adapted to 
 pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, 
 the characters are delineations from nature, 
 the descriptive parts are in the genuine style 
 of beautiful simplicity, the passions and 
 affections of rural life are finely pourtrayed, 
 and the heart is pleasingly interested in the 
 happiness that is bestowed on innocence and 
 virtue. Throughout the whole there is an 
 air of reality which the most careless reader 
 cannot but perceive ; and, in fact, no poem 
 ever perhaps acquired so high a reputation, 
 in which truth received so httle embellish- 
 ment from the imagination. In his pastoral 
 songs, and in his rural tales, Ramsay appears 
 to less advantage indeed, but still with con- 
 siderable attraction. The story of the ]\Ionk 
 and the Miller's Wife, though somewhat 
 licentious, may rank with the happiest pro- 
 ductions of Prior, or La Fontaine. But when 
 he attempts subjects from higher life, and 
 aims at pure English composition, he is 
 feeble and uninteresting, and seldom ever 
 reaches mediocrity. Neither are his familiar 
 epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect 
 entitled to much approbation. Though 
 Fergusson had higher powers of imagination 
 than Ramsay, his genius was not of the 
 highest order ; nor did his learning, which 
 was considerable, improve his genius. His 
 poems written in pure English, in which he 
 often follows classical models, though supe- 
 rior to the English poems of Ramsay, seldom 
 rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- 
 posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
 successful. He was in general, however, 
 less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of 
 his muse. As he spent the greater part of 
 his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his 
 amusement in the intervals of business or 
 dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly 
 founded on the incidents of a town life, 
 which, though they are susceptibleof humour, 
 do not admit of those delineations of scenery 
 and manners, which vivify the rural poetry 
 of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse 
 the fancy and interest the heart. The 
 town-cclognes of Fergusson, if we may so 
 
78 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 denominate them, are, however, faithful to 
 aature, and often distinguished by a very 
 happy vein of humour. His poems entitled 
 'J'he Daft Days, Tlie King's Birth-day in 
 Edinburgh, Leith Races, and the Hallow 
 Fair, will justify this character. In these, 
 particularly in the last, he imitated Christis 
 Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done 
 before him. His Address to the Tron Kirk 
 Dell is an exquisite piece of humour, which 
 Burns has scarcely excelled. In appreciating 
 the genms of Fergusson, it ought to be 
 recollected, that his poems are the careless 
 effusions of an irregular though amiable 
 young man, who WTOte for the periodical 
 papers of the day, and who died in early 
 youth. Had his life been prolonged under 
 happier circumstances of fortune, he would 
 probably have risen to much higher reputa- 
 tion. He might have excelled in rural poetry ; 
 for though his professed pastorals, on the 
 established Sicilian model, are stale and 
 uninteresting. The Farmer's Ingle (132), 
 which may be considered as a Scottish pas- 
 toral, is the happiest of all his productions, 
 and certainly was the prototype of the Cot- 
 ter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and more 
 especially Burns, have shown that the cha- 
 racter and manners of the peasantry of 
 Scotland of the present times, are as well 
 adapted to poetry as in the days of Ramsay, 
 or of the author of Christis Kirk of the 
 Grene. 
 
 '1 he humour of Burns is of a richer vein 
 than that of Ramsay or Fergusnon, both of 
 whom, as he himself informs us, he had 
 "frequently in his eye, but rather with a 
 view to kindle at their flame, than to servile 
 imitation." His descriptive powers, whether 
 the objects on which they are employed be 
 coraic or serious, animate or inanimate, are 
 of the highest order. A superiority of 
 this kind is essential to every species of 
 poetical excellence. In one of his earlier 
 poems, his plan seems to be to inculcate 
 a lesson of contentment on the lower 
 classes of society, by showing that their 
 superiors are neither much better nor 
 happier than themselves ; and this he 
 chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue 
 between two dogs. He introduces this 
 dialogue by an account of the persons and 
 characters of the speakers. The first, whom 
 he has named Cjesar, is a dog of con- 
 dition: — 
 
 "Ilis locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
 Sliow'd him the gentleman and scholar." 
 
 High- bred though he is, he is, however, fuU 
 of condescension : — 
 
 " At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
 Nae tawted tyke, tlio' e'er so duddie. 
 But he wad stan't, as glad to see hiin, 
 Andstroan't on sta?tes and hillocks wV him.'* 
 
 The other, Luath, is a " ploughman's collie," 
 but a cur of a good heart and a sound un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 " His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
 Aye gat him friends in ilka place 
 His breast was white, his towsie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gaucie tail, ivV upward curl, 
 Hu)ig o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl." 
 
 Never were tioa ilofjs so exquisitely deli- 
 neated. Their gambols before they sit down 
 to moralise are described with an equal de- 
 gree of happiness ; and through the whole 
 dialogue, the character, as well as the dif- 
 ferent condition of the two speakers, is kept 
 in view. The speech of Luath, in which he 
 enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives 
 the following account of their merriment oa 
 the first day of the year : — 
 "That merry day the year begins. 
 They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
 The nai)py recks wi' mantling ream, 
 And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
 The luntin pipe, and snccshinniill. 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will; 
 The canty auld folks crackin crouse. 
 The young ancs rantin thro' the house — 
 ]Sly heart has been sae fain to see them, 
 That I for joy hae barkit ivi' them." 
 
 Of all the animals who have moralised on 
 human affairs since the days of ^Esop, the 
 dog seems best entitled to this privileee, as 
 well from his superior sagacity as from his 
 being, more than any other, the friend and 
 associate of man. The dogs of Burns, ex- 
 cepting in their talent for moralising, are 
 downright dogs ; and not like the horses of 
 Swift, or the Hind pnd Panther of Dryden, 
 men in the shape of brutes. It is this cir- 
 cumstance that heightens the humour of the 
 dialogue. The " twa dogs" are constantly 
 kept before our eyes, and the contrast be- 
 tween their form and character as dogs, and 
 the sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
 the humour, and deepens the impression of 
 the poet's satire. Though in this poem the 
 chief excellence may be considered as hu- 
 mour, yet great talents are displayed in its 
 composition ; the happiest powers of de- 
 scription, and the deepest insight into the 
 human heart. (133) It is seldom, however, 
 that the humour of Bums appears in so 
 simple a form. The liveliness of his sensi- 
 bility frequently impels him to introduce 
 into subjects of humour emotions of ten- 
 derness or of pity ; and, wliere occasion 
 admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert 
 
SCOTTISH LITERATURE. 
 
 79 
 
 the hi<r1i?r powers of ima«^ination. In such 
 iti'itatices, he leaves the society of Kamsay 
 and of Fer^isson, and associates himself 
 with the masters of Eiifclish poetry, whose 
 lanffiiaffc he frequently assumes. 
 
 Of the union of tenderness and humour, 
 examples may be found in The Death and 
 Dying Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld 
 Farmer's New- Year's Morning Salutation 
 to his Mare Jlaggie, and in many of his 
 other poems. The praise of whisky is a 
 favourite subject with Burns. To this he 
 dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After 
 mentioning its cheering influence in a va- 
 riety of situations, he describes, with singular 
 liveliness and power of fancy, its stimulating 
 effects on the blacksmith working at his 
 forge : — 
 
 " Nae mercy, then, for aim and stcol ; 
 
 The brawnie, bainie, plouijman chiol. 
 
 Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 
 The strong fore-hammer, 
 
 Till block and studdie ring and reel 
 Wi' ilinsome clamour." 
 
 On another occasion (134), choosing to 
 exalt whisky above wine, he introduces a 
 comparison between the natives of more 
 genial climes, to whom the vine furnishes 
 their beverage, and his own countrymen who 
 drink the spirit of malt. The description of 
 the Scotsman is humorous : — 
 
 " But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
 Clap in his check a Iliuh'and "ill (135), 
 Say such is royal George's will, 
 
 And there's the foe, 
 He has nae thought but how to kill 
 Twa at a blow." 
 
 Here the notion of danger rouses ^the 
 imagination of the poet. He goes on 
 thus : — 
 " Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings teaze 
 
 him ; 
 Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him, 
 Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gics him ; 
 
 .\nd when he fa's, 
 His latest drauglit o' breathing lea'es him 
 In faint huzzas." 
 Again, however, he sinks into humour, 
 and concludes the poem with the following 
 most laughable but most irreverent apos- 
 trephe :^ 
 
 " Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
 Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather. 
 Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 
 
 Ye tine your dam : 
 Freedom and irhiskct/ gang thcgithcr — 
 
 Tak atf your dram ! " 
 
 Of this union of humour with the higher 
 powers of imagination, instances may be 
 found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. 
 Hornbook, and in almost every stauza of 
 
 the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest 
 of his productions. After r 'proachiug this 
 terrible being with all his " doiiigs" ami 
 misdeeds, in the course of which he passes 
 through a series of Scottish superstitions, 
 and rises at times into a high strain of 
 poetry, he concludes this address, delivered 
 in a tone of great familiarity, not altogether 
 unmixed with apprehension, in the following 
 words : — 
 
 " But, fare-ye-well, auld Nickie-bcn ! 
 
 Oh wad you tak a thought and niea'l 
 
 Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
 Sill hae a stake — 
 
 I'm wae to think upon yon don 
 
 E'en for your ;-ake I " 
 
 Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
 intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
 preponderates. 
 
 Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
 Causeway and the Plainstones (136) of 
 Edinburgh. This probably suggested to 
 Burns his dialogue between the Old and 
 the New Bridge over the river Ayr. (137) 
 The iiature of such subjects rpq\iires that 
 they shall be treated humorously, and Fer- 
 gusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
 Though the Causeway and the Plainstones 
 talk together, no attempt is made to per- 
 sonify the speakers. A "cadie" (138) heard 
 the conversation, and reported it to the 
 poet. 
 
 In the dialogues between the Brigs of 
 Ayr, Burns himself is the auditor, and the 
 time and occasion on which it occurred is 
 related with great circumstantiality. The 
 poet, " pressed by care," or " inspired by 
 whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
 and wandered out alone in the darkness and 
 solitude of a winter-night, to the mouth of 
 the river, where the stillness was interrupted 
 only by the rushing sound of the influx of 
 the tide. It was after midnight. The duu- 
 geon-clock (139) had struck two, and the 
 sound had been repeated by "t^'allace Tower. 
 (140) All else was hushed. The moon 
 shone brightly, and 
 
 " Tho chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
 Crept gently crusting, o'er the glittering 
 stream." 
 
 In this situation the listening bard hears the 
 "clanging sugh" of wings moving tbrouirh 
 the air, and speedily he perceives two beings 
 reared, the one on the Old, the other on the 
 New Britlge, whose form and attire he de- 
 scritjcs, and whose conversation with each 
 otlicr he rehearses. These genii enter into 
 a comparison of the respective edifices over 
 which they preside, and afterwards, as is 
 usual between the old and young, compare 
 
 '^- 
 
80 
 
 LIFE OP BURNS. 
 
 iiKulerii characters and manners with tliose 
 of i)ast times. 'I'hey ditt'er, as may be ex- 
 pected, and taunt and scold each otlier in 
 broad Scotch. This conversation, wliich is 
 certainly humorous, may be considered as 
 the proper business of the poem. As the 
 debate runs higli, and threatens serious con- 
 sequences, all at once it is interrupted by a 
 new scene of wonders : — 
 
 ' all before their sight 
 
 A fairy train appear'd in order brigrht ; 
 Adown the glittering stream they featly 
 diinc'd ; [glanc'd ; 
 
 Bright to the moon their various dresses 
 They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
 'J'he infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; 
 While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
 And soul-enobling Bards heroic ditties sung." 
 » • * « 
 
 " The Genius of the Stream in front appears — 
 A venerable chief, advanc'd in years ; 
 His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
 His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 
 
 Next follow a number of other allegorical 
 beings, among whom are the four seasons. 
 Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Cou- 
 rage. 
 
 " Benevolence, with mild beni.!;nant air, 
 A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ; 
 Learning and wealth in equal measures trode, 
 From simjile Catrine, their long-lcv'd abode; 
 Last, white-rob'd Peace, 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 
 kind'ling wrath." 
 
 lliis poem, irregular and imperfect as it 
 is, displays various and powerful talents, and 
 may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. 
 In particular, it affords a striking instance of 
 his being carried beyond his original purpose 
 by the powers of imagination. 
 
 In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstones and 
 Causeway contrast the characters of the 
 different persons who walked upon them. 
 Burns probably conceived, that by a dialogue 
 between the Old and New Bridge, he might 
 form a humorous contrast between ancient 
 and modern manners in the town of Ayr. 
 Such a dialogue could only be supposed to 
 pass in the stillness of night ; and this led 
 our poet into a description of a midnight 
 scene, which excited in a high degree the 
 powers of his imagination. During the 
 whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
 fancy, and at length it suggests to him a 
 fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams 
 of the moon, by which the wrath of the 
 Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 
 
 Incongruous as the different parts of this 
 poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 
 
 pleases ; and we have only to regret tliat tht 
 poet did not bestow a little pains in raakinj» 
 the figures more correct, and in smoothing 
 the versification. 
 
 The epistles of Burns, in which may be 
 included his Dedication to G. H., Esq., dis- 
 cover, like his other writings, the powers of 
 a superior understanding. They display 
 deep insight into liuniaii nature, a gay and 
 hap])y strain of reflection, great independ- 
 ence of sentiment and generosity of heart. 
 It is to be regretted, that, in liis Holy Fair, 
 and in some of his other poems, his humour 
 degenerates into personal satire, and that it 
 is not sufficiently guarded in other respects. 
 The Halloween of Burns is free from every 
 objection of this sort. It is interesting, not 
 merely from its humorous description of 
 manners, but as it records the spells and 
 charms used on the celebration of a festival, 
 now even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 
 but which was once observed over the greater 
 part of Britain and Ireland. (141) These 
 charms are supposed to afford an insight 
 into futurity, especially on the subject of 
 marriage, the most interesting event of rural 
 life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- 
 forming one of the spells, has occasion to go 
 out by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into 
 a stream running toioanh Ike south. It was 
 not necessary for Burns to give a description 
 of this stream. But it was the character of 
 his ardent mind to pour forth not merely 
 what the occasion required, but what is ad- 
 mitted ; and the temptation to describe so 
 beautiful a natural object by moonlight, was 
 not to be resisted — 
 
 " JVhyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
 As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
 Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 
 
 Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; 
 Whyles glitter'd tc the nightly rays, 
 
 AVi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
 Whyles cookit underneath the braes. 
 Below the spreading hazel, 
 
 Unseen that night." 
 
 Those who understand the Scottish dia- 
 lect will allow this to be one of the finest 
 instances of description which the records of 
 poetry afford. (142) Though of a very different 
 nature, it may be compared, in point of ex- 
 cellence, with Thomson's description of a 
 river swoollen by the rains of winter, burst- 
 ing through the streights that confine its 
 torrent, " boihng, wheeling, foaming, and 
 thundering along." 
 
 In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, 
 in rural poetry of a serious nature, Burns 
 excelled equally as in that of a humorous 
 kind ; and, u«ing less of the Scottish dialect 
 
SENSIBILITY OP BURNS. 
 
 81 
 
 m his sennus poems, he becomes more pe- 
 nsrally intellifrible. It is difficult to decide 
 whether the Address to a blouse, whose nest 
 was turned up with the plough, should be 
 considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
 it may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
 most finished of his productions. If we 
 smile at the " bickering brattle" of this little 
 flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness 
 and pity. The descriptive part is admirable ; 
 the moral reflections beautiful, and arising 
 directly out of the occasion ; and in the con- 
 clusion there is a deep melancholy, a sen- 
 timent of doubt and dread, that rises to 
 the sublime. Tiie address to a Mountain 
 Daisy, turned down with the plough, is a 
 poem of the same nature, though somewhat 
 inferior in point of originality, as well as in 
 the interest produced. To extract out of 
 incidents so common, and seemingly so tri- 
 vial as these, so fine a train of sentiment 
 and imagery, is the surest proof, as well as 
 the most brilhant triumph, of original ge- 
 nius. The vision, in two cantos, from which 
 a beautiful extract is taken by Mr. jMackenzie, 
 m the n7th nimiber of The Lounger, is a 
 poem of fi-reat and various excellence. The 
 opening, in which the poet describes his own 
 state of mind, retiring in the evening, wea- 
 ried from the labours of the day, to moralise 
 on his conduct and prospects, is truly 
 interesting. The chamber, if we may so 
 term it, in which he sits down to muse, is 
 an exquisite painting : 
 •• There, lanely, by the ingle cheek 
 I s;it .iiul ey'd tlie spewing- reek, 
 That filled wi' hoast-provokincr smeek 
 
 The auki clay biggin ; 
 And heard the restless rations squeak 
 About the riggin." 
 
 To reconcile to our imagination the en- 
 trance of an aerial being into a mansion of this 
 kind, required the powers of Burns — he 
 however succeeds. Coila enters, and her 
 countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike 
 those of other spiritual beings, are distinctly 
 pourtraycd. To the painting on her mantle, 
 on which is depicted the most striking 
 scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
 characters, of his native coimtrry, some ex- 
 ceptions may be made. Tlie mantle of Coila, 
 like the cup of Thyrsis, and the shield of 
 Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, 
 and some of the objects represented upon 
 it are scarcely admissible, according to the 
 principles of design. The generous tem- 
 perament of Burns led him into these 
 exuberances. In his second edition he en- 
 larged the number of figures originally 
 iutioduced, that he might uiclude objects to 
 o 
 
 which he was attached by sentiments o* 
 affection, gratitude, or patriotism. T\» 
 second duan, or canto, of this poem, in 
 which Coila describes her own nature and 
 occupations, particularly her superinten- 
 dence of his infant genius, and in which she 
 reconciles him to the character of a bard, is 
 an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, 
 ranking in all respects, excepting the har- 
 mony of numbers, with the higher produc- 
 tions of the English muse. The concluding 
 stanza, compared with that already quoted, 
 will show to what a height Burns rises iu 
 this poem, from the point at which he set 
 out: — 
 
 "And v^enr thott ?^i>— she solemn said, 
 And bound the holly round my head ; 
 The polished leaves, and berries red. 
 
 Did rustling play : 
 And, like a passing thought, she fled 
 In light away." 
 
 In various poems. Burns has exhibited 
 the picture of a mind under the deep im- 
 pressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the 
 Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a 
 Dirge, are of this character. In the first of 
 these poems, the 8th stanza, which describes 
 a sleepless night from anguish of mind, is 
 particularly striking. Burns often indulged 
 in those melancholy views of the nature and 
 condition of man, which are so congenial 
 to the temperament of sensibihty. The 
 poem entitled Alan was Made to Mourn, 
 atfords an instance of this kind, and the 
 Winter Night is of the same description. 
 The last is highly characteristic, both of the 
 temper of mind, and of the condition o' 
 Burns. It begins with a description of a 
 dreadftj storm on a night in winter. The 
 poet represents himself as lying in bed, ai.d 
 listening to its howling. In this situation 
 he naturally turns his thoughts to the owrie 
 (143) caitle, and silly (14-ij sheep, exposed 
 to all the violence of the tempest. Having 
 lamented their fate, he proceeds in the fol- 
 lowing manner : — 
 
 " Ilk happing bird— wee, helpless thing I 
 That, in the nierrv months o' spring. 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
 
 What conies o' thee ? 
 AVTiare wilt thou cow'r thy chitteriiig wing, 
 
 And close thy ee J " 
 
 Other reflections of the same nature 
 occur to his mind ; and as the midnight 
 moon " muffled with clouds " casts her 
 dreary light on his window, thoughts of a 
 darker and more melancholy nature crowrl 
 upon him. In this state of mind, he hears 
 a voice pouring through the gloom a solcmv 
 
82 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 and plaintive strain of reflection. The 
 mourner compares the fury of the elements 
 with that of man to his brother man, and 
 finds the former light in the balance. 
 " See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
 
 Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
 Sending, like bloodhounds from the slip, 
 Woe, want, and murder, o'er vhe land." 
 
 He pursues this train of reflection 
 through a variety of particulars, in the 
 course of which he introduces the following 
 animated apostrophe : — 
 
 " 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 ! 
 lU-'^atisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 
 
 Stretch'd olf his straw he lays him down to 
 sleep, 
 While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
 
 Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." 
 
 The strain of sentiment which runs 
 through this poem is noble, though the exe- 
 cution is unequal, and the versification is 
 defective. 
 
 Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
 Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled 
 to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of 
 Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
 this poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
 but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted 
 entirely to his own powers for the execution. 
 Fergusson's poem is certainly very beautiful. 
 It has all the charms which depend on rural 
 characters and manners happily pourtrayed, 
 and exhibited under circumstances highly 
 grateful to the imagination. The Farmer's 
 Ingle begins with describing the return of 
 evening. The toils of the day are over, and 
 the farmer retires to his comfortable fireside. 
 The reception which he and his men-servants 
 receive from the careful housewife, is pleas- 
 ingly described. After their supper is over, 
 they begin to talk ou the rural events of the 
 day. 
 
 •♦'Bout kirk and market eke their talesgaeon. 
 How Jock woo'd Jcniui here to be his bride ; 
 
 And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
 Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride. 
 
 The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 
 
 The "guidame" is next introduced as 
 forming a circle round the fire, in the midst 
 of her grandchildren, and while she spins 
 from the lock, and the spindle plays on her 
 " russet lap," she is relating to the young 
 ones tales of witches and ghosts. The poet 
 exclaims, 
 
 •*0h, mock na this, my friends! but rather 
 mourn, 
 Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
 VV'i' cild our idle fancies a' return, 
 
 And dim our dolcfu' days wi' bairnly fear , 
 The mind's aye cradled when the griii\' is 
 near." 
 
 In the meantime, the farmer, wearied with 
 the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
 length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch 
 which extends on one side of the fire, and 
 the cat and house-dog leap upon it to re- 
 ceive his caresses. Here resting at his ease, 
 he gives his directions to his men-servants 
 for the succeeding day. The housewife 
 follows his example, and gives her orders to 
 the maidens. By degrees the oil in the 
 cruise begins to fail, the fire runs low, sleep 
 steals on this rustic group, and they move 
 oft' to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The 
 poet concludes by bestowing his blessings 
 ou the " husbandman and all his tribe." 
 ~ This is an original and truly interesting 
 pastoral. It possesses every thing required 
 in this species of composition. We might 
 have perhaps said every thing that it admits, 
 had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday 
 Night. 
 
 The cottager returning from his labours, 
 has no servants to accompany him, to 
 partake of his fare, or to receive his instruc- 
 tions. The circle which he joins, is com- 
 posed of his wife and children only ; and if 
 it admits of less variety, it alTords an oppor- 
 tunity for representing scenes that more 
 strongly interest the aifections. The 
 younger children running to meet him, and 
 clambering round his knee — the elder, re- 
 turning from their weekly labours with the 
 neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing 
 their little gains with their parents, and re- 
 ceiving their father's blessing and instruc- 
 tions — the incidents of the courtship of 
 Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman 
 grown" — are circumstances of the most in- 
 teresting kind, which are most happily de- 
 lineated ; and after their frugal supper, the 
 representation of these humble cottagers 
 forming a wider circle round their hearth, 
 and uniting in the worship of God, is a 
 picture the most deeply affecting of any 
 which the rural muse has ever presented to 
 the view. Burns was admirably adapted to 
 this delineation. Like all men of genius, 
 he was of the temperament of devotion, 
 and the powers of memory co-operated in 
 this instance with the sensibility of his 
 heart, and the fervour of his imagina- 
 tion. (145) The Cotter's Saturday Night is 
 tender and moral, it is solemn and devo- 
 tional, and rises at length into a strain ut 
 grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
 poetry has not surpassed. The noble senti- 
 ments of patriotism with which it con- 
 
BURNS'S ORIGINALITY. 
 
 elndes, correspond with the rest of the 
 j)oem. In no &2;e or country have the 
 pastoral muses breathed such elevated 
 iircents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, 
 vvliich is indeed a pastoral in form only. It 
 is to be regretted that Burns did not employ 
 his genius on other subjects of the same 
 nature, which the manners and customs of 
 the Scottish peasantry would have amply 
 supphed. Such poetry is not to be esti- 
 mated by the degree of pleasure which it 
 bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and 
 is calculated, far beyond any other human 
 means, for giving permanence to the scenes 
 and characters it so exquisitely describes. 
 
 Before we conclude, it will be proper to 
 offer a few observations on the lyric produc- 
 tions of Burns. His compositions of this 
 kind are chiefly songs, generally in the 
 Scottish dialect, and always after the model 
 of the Scottish songs, on the general cha- 
 racter and moral influence of which some 
 observations have already been offered. We 
 may hazard a few more particular remarks. 
 
 Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
 land, it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has 
 nowhere imitated them, a circumstance to be 
 regretted, since in this species of composi- 
 tion, from its admitting the more terrible as 
 well as the softer graces of poetry, lie was 
 eminently qualified to have excelled The 
 Scottish songs which served as a model to 
 Bums, are, almost without exception, pas- 
 toral, or rather rural. Such of them as are 
 comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship 
 or a country wedding ; or they describe the 
 differences of opinion which arise in mar- 
 ried life. Burns has imitated this species, 
 and surpassed his models. The song, be- 
 ghining, " Ilu.sband, husband, cease your 
 strife," may be cited in support of this ob- 
 servation. (146) His other comic songs 
 are of equal merit. In the rural songs of 
 Scotland, whether humorous or tender, the 
 sentiments are given to particular characters, 
 and very generally, the incidents are re- 
 ferred to particular scenery. This last 
 circumstance may be considered as the dis- 
 tinguishing feature of the Scottish songs, 
 and on it a considerable part of their attrac- 
 tion depends. On all occasions the senti- 
 ments, of whatever nature, are delivered in 
 the character of the person principally in- 
 terested. If love be described, it is not as 
 it is observed, but as it is felt ; and the 
 passion is delineated under a particular 
 aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of 
 desire that are expressed, as in the celebrated 
 ode of Sajjpho, the model of so many 
 modern songs, but those gentler emotions of 
 
 9 
 
 tenderness and affection, which do not 
 entirely absorb the lover, but permit hiin to 
 associate his emotions with tlie charms of 
 external nature, and breathe the accents ot 
 purity and innocence, as well as of love. In 
 these respects, the love-songs of Scotland 
 are honorably distinguished from the most 
 admired classical compositions of the same 
 kind ; and by such associations, a variety, as 
 well as liveliness, is given to the representa- 
 tion of this passion, which are not to be 
 found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or 
 perhaps of any other nation. Many of the 
 love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of 
 rural courtship; many may be considered 
 as invocations from lovers to their mis- 
 tresses. On such occasions a degree of in- 
 terest and reality is given to the sentiments, 
 by the spot destined to these happy inter- 
 views being particularized. Tlie lovers 
 perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, 
 or on the banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs 
 are invoked to wander among the wilds of 
 Roslin, or the woods of Invermay. Nor is 
 the spot merely pointed out ; the scenery is 
 often described as well as the characters, so 
 as to present a complete picture to the 
 fancy. (147) Tlius the maxim of Horace ut 
 pictura j)oesis, is faithfully observed by these 
 rustic bards, who are guided by the sam(> 
 impidse of nature and sensibility wh'ch in- 
 fluenced the father of epic poetry, on whose 
 example the precept of the Roman poet was 
 perhaps founded. By this means the imagi- 
 nation is employed to interest the feelings. 
 When we do not conceive distinctly, we do 
 not sympathise deeply in any human affec- 
 tion ; and we conceive nothing in the ab- 
 stract. Abstraction, so useful in morals, 
 and so essential in science, must be aban- 
 doned when the heart is to he subdued by 
 the powers of poetry or of eloquence. The 
 bards of a ruder condition of society paint 
 individual objects; and hence, among other 
 causes, the easy access they obtain to the 
 heart. Generalization is the vice of poets 
 whose learning overpowers their genius ; of 
 poets of a refined and scientific age. 
 
 The dramatic style which prevails so 
 much in the Scottish songs, while it con- 
 tributes greatly to the interest they excite, 
 also shows that they have originated among 
 a people in the earlier stiiges of society. 
 Where this form of composition appears in 
 songs of a modern date, it indicates that 
 they have been written after the ancient 
 model. (148) 
 
 Tlie Scottish songs are of very unequal 
 poetical merit, and this inequality often 
 extends to the different parts of the same 
 
84 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 soHif. Those that are humorous, or cha- 
 racteristic of manners, liave in general the 
 merit of copynig nature ; tliose that are 
 serious, are tender, and often sweetly 
 interesting, but ssldom exhibit high powers 
 of imaguiation, which indeed do not easily 
 find a place in this species of composition. 
 The aUiance of the words of the Scottish 
 songs with the music, has in some instance 
 given to the former a popularity, which 
 otherwise they would not have obtained. 
 
 Tlie association of the words and the 
 music of these songs, with the more beau- 
 tiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, 
 contributes to the same effect. It has given 
 thein not merely popularity, but perma- 
 neni e ; it has imparted to the works of man 
 some portion of the durability of the works 
 of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- 
 perience of the past, we may judge with 
 any confidence respecting the future, songs 
 of this description are of all others least 
 hkely to die. In the changes of language 
 they may no doubt suffer change ; but the 
 associated strain of sentiment and of music 
 will perhaps survive, while the clear stream 
 sweeps down the vale of Yarrow, or the 
 yellow broom waves on Cowden-Knowes. 
 
 The first attempts of Burns in song- 
 writing were not very successful. His 
 habitual inattention to the exactness of 
 rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, 
 arising probably from the models on which 
 his versification was formed, were faults 
 likely to appear to more disadvantage in 
 this species of composition than in any 
 other ; and we may also remark, that the 
 strength of his imagination, and the 
 exuberance of his sensibility, were with 
 ditticulty restrained within the limits of 
 gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which 
 seemed to be assigned to the love-songs of 
 his nation. Burns was better adapted by 
 nature for following, in such compositions, 
 the model of the Grecian than of the 
 Scottish muse. By study and practice, he 
 however surmounted all these obstacles. 
 In his earlier songs, tliere is some rugged- 
 ness, but this gradually disappears in his 
 successive efforts ; and some of his later 
 compositions of this kind may be compared, 
 in polished delicacy, with the finest songs in 
 our language, wliile in the eloquence of 
 sensibility they surpass them all. 
 
 The songs of Burns, like the models he 
 followed and excelled, are often dramatic, 
 and for the greater part amatory ; and the 
 beauties of rural nature are everywhere 
 associated with the passions and emotions 
 of the mind. Disdaining to copy the works- 
 
 of others, he has not, like some poets of 
 great name, admitted into his descriptions 
 exotic imagery. The landscapes he lias 
 painted, and the objects with which they are 
 embellished, are, in every single instance, 
 such as are to be found in his own country. 
 In a mountainous region, especially when it 
 is comparatively rude and naked, the most 
 beautiful scenery will always be found in the 
 vallies, and on the banks of the wooded 
 streams. Such scenery is peculiarly inter- 
 esting at the close of a summer-day. As we 
 advance northwards, the number of the days 
 of summer, indeed diminishes ; but from 
 this cause, as well as from the mildness of 
 the temperature, the attraction of the 
 season increases, and the summer night 
 becomes still more beautiful. The greater 
 obliquity of the sun's path on the ecliptic, 
 prolongs the grateful season of twilight to 
 the midnight hours ; and the shades of the 
 evening seem to mingle with the morning's 
 dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as matjr 
 be expected, associate in their songs the 
 expressions of passion with the most 
 beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest 
 season of the year, and generally in those 
 hours of the evening when the beauties of 
 nature are most interesting. (149.) 
 
 To all these adventitious circumstances, 
 on which so much of the eftect of poetry 
 depends, great attention is paid by Burns. 
 There is scarcely a single song of his, in 
 which particular scenery is not described, or 
 allusions made to natural objects, remarkahle 
 for beauty or interest ; and tliough his 
 descriptions are not so full as are sometimes 
 met with in the older Scottish songs, they 
 are in the highest degree appropriate and 
 interesting. Instances in proof of this 
 might be quoted from the Lea Rig, High- 
 land Mary, the Soldier's Keturn, Logaa 
 Water ; from that beautiful pastoral, 
 Bonnie Jean, and a great number of others. 
 Occasionally the force of his genius carries 
 him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish 
 song, and the natural objects introduced 
 have more of the character of sublimity. An 
 instance of this kind is noticed by Mr, 
 Syme, and many others might be adduced : 
 
 " Had 1 a cave on some wild distant shore. 
 Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing 
 roar ; 
 There would I weep my woes. 
 There seek my lost repose, 
 Till grief my eyes should closc^ - 
 Ne'er to wake more." 
 
 In one song, the scene of which is laid m 
 a winter night, the "wan moon" is des- 
 cribed as " setting behind the white waves ;" 
 
REMARKS ON THE DIALECT. 
 
 80 
 
 in another, the "storms" are apostrophised, 
 and commanded to "rest in the cave of 
 their slumbers." On several occasions, the 
 genius of Burns lost sight entirely of his 
 archetypes, and rises into a strain of uniform 
 sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in 
 Libertie, a Vision ; and in his two war- 
 songs, Bruce to his Troops, and the Song of 
 Death. These last are of a description of 
 which we have no other in our language. 
 The martial songs of our nation are not 
 military, but naval. If we were to seek a 
 comparison of these songs of Burns with 
 others of a similar nature, we must have 
 recourse to the poetry of ancient Greece, or 
 of modern Gaul. 
 
 Burns has made an important addition to 
 the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, 
 the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses 
 the music. He has enlarged the poetical 
 scenery of his country, Jlauy of her rivers 
 and mountains, formerly unknown to the 
 muse, are now consecrated by his immortal 
 verse. The Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the 
 Kith, and the Cluden, will in future, like 
 the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be 
 considered as classical streams, and their 
 borders will be trodden with new and 
 superior emotions. 
 
 The greater part of the songs of Burns 
 were written after he removed into the 
 county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, 
 by habits formed in early life, he usually 
 c.imposed while walking in the open air. 
 AVhen engaged in writing these songs, his 
 favourite walks were on the banks of the 
 Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near the 
 ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; and this beauti- 
 ful scenery he has very happily described 
 under various aspects, as it appears during 
 the softness and serenity of evening, and 
 during the stillness and solemnity of the 
 moonlight night. 
 
 There is no species of poetry, the produc- 
 tions of the drama not excepted, so much 
 calcidated to influence the morals, as well as 
 the happiness of a people, as those popular 
 verses which are associated with national 
 airs : and which being learnt in the years of 
 infancy, make a deep impression on the 
 heart before the evolution of the powers of 
 the understanding. The compositions of 
 Burns of this kind, now presented in a col- 
 lected form to the world, make a most im- 
 portant addition to the popular songs of his 
 natiiii. Like all his other writings, they 
 exhilut independence of sentiment; they are 
 peculiarly calculated to increase those ties 
 which bind generous hearts to their native 
 toil, and to the domestic circle of their in- 
 
 fancy ; and to cherish those sensibilities 
 which, under due restriction, form tlie purest 
 happiness of our nature. If in his unguarded 
 moments he composed some songs on which 
 this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope 
 that they wdl speedily be forgotten. In 
 several instances where Scottish airs were 
 allied to words objectionable in point of 
 delicacy, Burns has substituted others of a 
 purer character. On such occasions, without 
 changing the subject, he has changed the 
 sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in 
 the air of John Anderson my Joe, which is 
 now united to words that breathe a strain of 
 conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral 
 as it is exquisitely aff'ecting. 
 
 Few circumstances could aff"ord a more 
 striking proof of the strength of Burns's 
 genius, than the general circidation of his 
 poems iu England, notwithstanding the 
 dialect in which the greater part are written, 
 and which might he supposed to render them 
 here uncouth or obscure. In some instances 
 he has used this dialect on subjects of a 
 sublime nature ; but in general he confines 
 it to sentiments or description of a tender 
 or humorous kind ; and, where he rises nito 
 elevation of thought, he ass\imes a purer 
 English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
 sessed of mingling in the same poem humo- 
 rous sentiments and descriptions with unagery 
 of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled him 
 to use this variety of dialect on some occa- 
 sions with striking effect. His poem of Tam 
 o' Shanter aS'ords an instance of this. There 
 he passes from a scene of the lowest humour 
 to situations of the most awful and terrible 
 kind. He is a musician that runs from the 
 lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the 
 use of the Scottish dialect enables him to 
 add two additional notes to the bottom of 
 his scale. 
 
 Great efibrts have been made by the in- 
 habitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, 
 to approximate in their speech to the pure 
 English standard. Yet an Englishman who 
 understands the meaning of the Scottish 
 words, is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, 
 he is, perhaps, pleased with the rustic dialect. 
 
 But a Scotchman inhabiting his own 
 country, if a man of education, and more 
 especially if a literary character, has banished 
 such words from his writings, and has at- 
 tempted to banish them from his speech. 
 A dislike of this kind is, however, ao 
 cidental, not natural. It is of the species 
 of disgust which we feel at seeing a female 
 of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; 
 which, if she be really young and beautiful, 
 a little habit will enable us to overcome. A 
 
8n 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 hilly who assumes such a dress puts her j 
 beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
 jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of 
 fashion ; she, possihly, abandons the grace 
 of elegant and flowing drapery; but her 
 native charms reinuiii, the more striking, 
 perhaps, because the less adorned, and to 
 these she trusts for fixing her empire on 
 tliose affections over which fashion has no 
 sway. If she succeeds, a new association 
 arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic be- 
 comes itself beautiful, and establishes a 
 new fashion for the young and the gay. 
 And when, in after ages, the contemplative 
 observer shall view her picture in the gallery 
 that contains the portraits of the beauties of 
 successive centuries, each in the dress of her 
 respective day, her drapery will not deviate, 
 more than that of her rivals, from the 
 standard of his taste, and he will give the 
 palm to her who excels in the lineaments of 
 nature. 
 
 Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry 
 of his country, and by them their native 
 dialect is universally relished. To a nume- 
 rous class of the natives of Scotland of another 
 description, it may also be considered as 
 attractive in a ditferent point of view. 
 Estranged from their native soil, and spread 
 over foreign lands, the idiom of their country 
 unites with the seiitiinents and the descrip- 
 tions on which it is employed, to recal to 
 their minds the interesting scenes of infancy 
 and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many 
 tender recollections. Literary men, residing 
 at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on 
 this point for one hundred and tifty thousand 
 of their expatriated countrymen. (150) 
 
 To the use of the Scottish dialect in one 
 species of poetry, the composition of songs, 
 the taste of the public has been for some 
 time reconciled. The dialect in question 
 excels, as has already been observed, in the 
 copiousness and exactness of its terms for 
 natural objects ; and in pastoral or rural 
 songs, it gives a Doric simplicity which is 
 very generally approved. Ts'either does the 
 regret seem well founded which some persons 
 of taste have expressed, that Burns used this 
 dialect in so many other of his compositions. 
 His declared ])urpose was to paint the man- 
 ners of rustic life among his " humble com- 
 peers," and it is not easy to conceive, that 
 this could have been done with equal humour 
 and 'effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. 
 There are some, indeed, who will think the 
 subject too low for poetry. Persons of this 
 sickly taste will find their delicacies consulted 
 
 in many a polite and ]ea,-r.e('. author ; let 
 them not seek for gratification in the rough 
 and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, 
 or in the overpowering uensibility of tliia 
 bard of nature. 
 
 To determine the comparative merit of 
 Burns would be no easy task. Many per- 
 sons, afterwards distinguished in literature, 
 have been born in as lininble a situation of 
 life ; but it would be difficult to find any 
 other, who, while earning his subsistence by 
 daily labour, has written verses which have 
 attracted and retained universal attention, 
 and which are likely to give the author a 
 permanent and distinguished place among 
 the followers of the muses. If he is deficient 
 in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well 
 as energy; and these are indications of the 
 higher order of genius. The flither of epic 
 poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling 
 in strength, another in swiftness — to form 
 his perfect warrior, these attributes are com- 
 bined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
 riority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrange- 
 ment. One wTiter excels in force — another 
 in ease; he is superior to them both, in 
 whom both these qualities are united. Of 
 Homer himself it may be said, that, like his 
 own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors 
 in mobility as well as strength. 
 
 '^(he force of Burns lay in the powers of 
 his understanding and in the sensibility of 
 his heart ; and these will be found to infuse 
 the living principle into all the works of 
 genius which seem destined to immortality. 
 His sensibility had an uncommon range. 
 He was alive to every species ot emotion. 
 He is one of the few poets that can be men- 
 tioned, who have at once excelled in humour, 
 in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a praise 
 unknown to the ancients, and which in 
 modern times is only due to Ariosto, to 
 Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To 
 compare the writings of the Scottish peasants 
 with the works of these giants in literature, 
 might appear presumptuous ; yet it may be 
 asserted that he has displayed the foot of 
 Hercules. How near he might have ap- 
 proached them by proper culture, with 
 lengthened years, and under hajipier auspices, 
 it is not for us to calculate. But while we 
 run over the melancholy story of his life, it 
 is impossible not to heave a sigh at the 
 asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey 
 the records of his mind, it is easy to see, 
 that out of such materials have been reared 
 the fairest and the most durable of the 
 monuments of genius. 
 
LETTER FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURUIE. 
 
 87 
 
 ^itrarts frnni Irtttrs. 
 
 PROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, 
 
 respeciing the composition of his 
 brother's poems. 
 
 " Mossrjiel, 2nd April, 1793. 
 "I CANNOT pretend to be very accurate in 
 respect to the dates of the poems, but none 
 of them, excepting Winter, a Dira^e (which 
 was a juvenile production), The Death and 
 Dying Words of poor Maihe, and some of 
 the songs, were composed before the year 
 1 784. 'I'he circumstances of the poor sheep 
 were pretty much as lie has described them. 
 
 " Among tlie earliest of his poems was 
 the I'jpistle to Davie. Robert often com- 
 posed without any regular plan. When 
 anything made a strong impression on his 
 mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he 
 would give way to the impulse, and embody 
 the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or 
 three stanzas to please hira, he would then 
 think of proper introductory, connecting, 
 and concludiiig stanzas; hence the middle of 
 a poem was often lirst produced. It was, I 
 think, in stuiimer 1784, when, in the interval 
 of harder labour, he and I were weeding in 
 the garden (kailyard), that he repeated to 
 me the principal part of this epistle. I 
 believe the first idea of Robert's becoming 
 an author was started on this occasion. 1 
 was much pleased with the epistle, and said 
 to him I was of opinion it would bear being 
 printed, and that it would be well received 
 by people of taste; that I thought it at 
 least equal, if not superior, to many of 
 Allan Ramsay's epistles ; 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 train 
 of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism 
 of the language scarcely seemed affected, 
 but appeared to be the natural language of 
 the poet : that, besides, there was certairdy 
 some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
 consolations that were in store for him when 
 he should go a-begging. Robert seemed 
 very well pleased with my criticism, and we 
 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 fire (and I could j'et point 
 out the particular spot), that the author 
 first repeated to nie the Address to the 
 Deil. The curious idea of such an address 
 was suggested to him by running over in 
 his mind the many ludicrous accounts and 
 representations we have from various quar- 
 ters of this august personage. Death and 
 Doctor Hornbook, though not published in 
 the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early 
 in the year 1785. The schoolmaster of 
 Tarbolton parish, to eke out the scanty sub- 
 sistence 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-liorsically 
 attached to the study of medicine, he had 
 added the sale of a few metlicines to his 
 little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, 
 at the bottom of which, overlooking his own 
 incapacity, he had advertised that 'Advice 
 would be given in common disorders at the 
 shop gratis.' Robert was at a mason meet- 
 ing in Tarbolton, when the dominie unfor- 
 tunately made too ostentatious a display of 
 his medical skill. As he parted in the 
 evening from this mi,\ture of pedantry and 
 physic, at the place where he describes his 
 meeting with Death, one of those floating 
 ideas of apparitions he mentions in his 
 letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this 
 set him to work for the rest of the way 
 home. These circumstances he related when 
 he repeated the verses to me next afternoon, 
 as 1 was holding the plough, and he was 
 letting the water off the field beside me. 
 The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced 
 exactly on the occasion described by the 
 author. He says in that poem, 'On Fasten 
 e'en we had a rockin.' I believe he has 
 omitted the word rocking in the glossary. 
 It is a term derived from those primitive 
 times, when the countrywomen employed 
 their spare hours in spininng on the rock, or 
 distaff. The simple implement is a very 
 portable one, and well fitted to the social 
 inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
 house ; hence the phrase of yoinr/ a-rockinrj, 
 or ivith the rock. As the connection the 
 phrase had with the implement was forgot- 
 ten, when the rock gave place to the spin- 
 ning-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 
 
 9* 
 
£8 
 
 LIFE OP BURXS. 
 
 lion«e, when we hid twelve or fifteen young 
 people with their rocks, that Lajiraik's sony, 
 i)ei;;iniiing— ' When I upon thy bosom lean,' 
 was sung, and we were informed who was 
 tlie author. Upon tliis, Robert wrote his 
 first epistle .to Laipraik, 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 ; I could 
 point out the particular spot where each was 
 composed. Holding the plough was a 
 favourite situation with Robert for poetic 
 composition, and some of his best verses 
 were produced while he was at that exercise. 
 Several of the poems were produced for the 
 purpose of bringing forward some favourite 
 sentiment of the author. Robert had fre- 
 quently 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 Cotter's 
 Saturday Night. When my brother had 
 some pleasure in view, in which I was 
 thought tit to participate, we used frequently 
 to walk together, when the weather was 
 favourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those 
 precious breathing times to the labouring part 
 of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays 
 as would make one regret to see their niimber 
 abridged. It was in one of these walks that 
 I first had the pleasure of hearing the 
 author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
 I do not recollect to have read or heard any- 
 thing by which I was more highly electrijicd. 
 The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eight- 
 eenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through 
 my soul. I mention this to you, that you 
 may see what hit the taste of unlettered 
 criticism. I should be glad to know, if the 
 enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr. 
 Roscoe, who has borne such honourable 
 fastimony to this poem, agrees with me in 
 the selection. Fergussou, iu his Hallow 
 Fair of Edinburgh, I believe, likewise fur- 
 nished a hhit of the title and plan of the 
 Holy I'air. The farcical scene the poet 
 there describes was often a favourite field of 
 his observation, and the most of the incidents 
 he mentions had actually passed before his 
 eyes. It is scarcely necessary to mention, 
 that The Lament was composed on that 
 unfortunate passage in his matrimonial his- 
 tory v/hich I have mentioned in my letter to 
 Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of 
 his feelings had a little subsided. The Twa 
 Dogs was composed after the resolution of 
 publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 
 
 had a dog, which he called Luath, that was 
 a great favourite. The dog had been killed 
 by the wanton cruelty of some person the 
 night before my father's death. Robert said 
 to me, that he should like to confer such 
 immortality as he could bestow upon his old 
 friend Luath, and that he had a great mind 
 to introduce something into the book, under 
 the title of Stanzas to the Memory of a 
 Quadruped Friend ; but this plan was given 
 up for the tale as it now stands. Cresar was 
 merely the creature of the poet's imagina- 
 tion, created for the purpose of holding chat 
 with his favourite Luath. The first time 
 Robert heard the spinnet pla.\ >;d upon, m as 
 at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of 
 the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
 having given up the parish in favour of his 
 son. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters ; 
 one of them played ; the father and mother 
 led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
 the brother, the poet, and the other guests, 
 mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
 scene for our poet, then lately introduced to 
 the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
 enthusiasm, and the stanzas [which he 
 wrote on the occasion] were left iu the room 
 where he slept. It was to Dr. Lawrie tha*" 
 Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, which 
 my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, 
 mentions as the reason of his gomg to 
 Edinburgh. ■• • •" 
 
 LETTER OF GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 (First inserted in the S-conrl Elition.J 
 The editor [Dr. Currie] has particular 
 pleasure in presenting to the public tlie 
 following letter, to the due understanding of 
 which a few previous observations are 
 necessary. 
 
 The biographer of Burns was naturally 
 desirous of hearing the opinion of the friend 
 and brother of the poet, on the manner in 
 which he had executed his task, before a 
 second edition should be committed to the 
 press. He had the satisfaction of receiving 
 this opinion, in a letter dated the 24th of 
 August, approving of the Life in very 
 obliging terms, and offering one or two 
 trivial corrections as to names and dates 
 chiefly, which are made iu this edition. One 
 or two observations were offered of a differ- 
 ent kind. In the 319th page [correspond- 
 ing to the CGth page of tlie present reprint 
 of Dr. Currie's memoir], a quotation is made 
 from the pastoral song, Ettrick Banks, and 
 an explanation given Xti the phrase "mony 
 feck," which occurs iu this quotation. Sup. 
 posiug the sense to be complete aftei 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 m 
 
 " mony," the editor had considered " feck" a 
 rustic oath which coiiiirined the assertion. 
 The words were, therefore, separated by a 
 comma. Mr. lUiriis considered this an 
 error. " Feck," he presumes, is the Scot- 
 tish word for quantity, and " niony feck " 
 tD mean simply, very many. Tlie editor, in 
 yielding to this authority, expressed some 
 hesitation, and hinted that the phrase 
 " mony feck " was, in Mr. Burns's sense, 
 a pleonasm, or barbarism, which deformed 
 tliis beautiful song. His reply to this obser- 
 vation makes the first clause of the following 
 letter. 
 
 In the same communication he informed 
 me, that the Mirror and the Lounger were 
 proposed by him to the Conversation Club 
 of Mauchline, and that he had thoughts of 
 giving me his sentiments on the remarks I 
 had made respecting the fitness of such 
 works for such societies. The observations 
 of such a man on such a subject, the editor 
 conceived, would be received with particular 
 interest by the public, and, ha\ing pressed 
 earnestly for them, they will be found in the 
 following letter. Of the value of this com- 
 munication, delicacy towards his very re- 
 spectable correspondent prevents him from 
 expressing his opinion. The original letter j 
 is in the hands of Messrs. Cadell and 
 Davies. 
 
 " DiiDiiiifj, Dumfriesshire, 2ith Oct., 1800. 
 
 "Dear Sir. — Yours of the l/th instant 
 came to my hand yesterday, and I sit down 
 this afternoon to write you in return ; but 
 when 1 shall be able to finish all I wish to 
 Bay to yon, I cannot tell. I am sorry your 
 conviction is not complete respecting /ccfc. 
 There is no doubt, that if you take two 
 English words which appear synonymous to 
 vioiiy feck, und judge by the rules of English 
 construction, it will appear a barbarism. I 
 believe, if you take this mode of translating 
 from any language, the effect will frequently 
 be the same. But if you take the expression 
 mony feck to have, as I have stated it, the 
 same meaning wii'.i the English expression 
 teri/ many (and such licence every translator 
 must be allowed, especially when he trans- 
 lates from a simple dialect which has never 
 been subjected to rule, and where the precise 
 meaning of words is, of consequence, not 
 minutely attended to), it will be well enough. 
 One tiling I am certain of, that ours is the 
 sense universally understood in this country; 
 and I believe no Scotsman who has lived 
 contented at home, pleased with the simple 
 manners, the simple melodies, and the sim- 
 ple dialect of his native country, uiivitiated 
 
 by foreign intercourse, 'whose soul-proml 
 science never taught to stray,' ever dis- 
 covered barbarism in the song of Ettrick 
 Banks. 
 
 " 'I'iie story you have heard of the gable 
 of my father's house falling down, is simply 
 as follows (151) : — When my father built his 
 ' clay biggin,' he put in two stone-jambs, as 
 they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a 
 chimney in his clay-gable. The consequence 
 was, that as the gable subsided, the jambs, 
 remaining firm, threw it off its centre ; and 
 one very stormy morning, when my brother 
 was nine or ten days old, a little before day- 
 light, a part of the gable fell out, and the 
 rest appeared so shattered, that my mother, 
 with the young poet, had to be carried 
 through the storm to a neighl)our's house, 
 where they remained a week till their own 
 dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
 think too meanly of this house, or of ray 
 father's taste in budding, by supposing the 
 poet's description in the Vision (which is 
 entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, 
 allow me to take notice to you, that the 
 house consisted of a kitchen in one end, and 
 a room in the other, with a fire-place and 
 chimney ; that my father had constructed a 
 concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small 
 closet at the end, of the same materials with 
 the house ; and when altogether east over, 
 outside and in, with Inne, it had a neat, 
 comfortable appearance, such as no' family of 
 the same rank, in the present improved style 
 of living, would think themselves ill-lodged 
 in. 1 wish likewise to take notice in passing, 
 that although the ' Cotter ' in the Saturday 
 Night, is an exact copy of my father in his 
 manners, his family-devotion, and exhorta- 
 tions, yet the other parts of the descrip- 
 tion do not apjily to our family. None of 
 us were ever ' at service out amang the nei- 
 bors roun'.' Instead of o\ir depositing out 
 ' sair-won penny fee ' with our parents, my 
 father laboured hard, and lived with the 
 most rigid economy, that he might be able 
 to keep his children at home, therciiy having 
 an opportunity of watcliing the progress of 
 our young minds, and forming in them 
 early habits of piety and virtue ; and from 
 this motive alone did he engage in faiMiii!g — 
 the source of all his difficulties and dis- 
 tresses. 
 
 " When I threatened you in my last with 
 a long letter on the subject of the books I 
 recommended to the Jlauchline Club, una 
 the effects of refinement of taste on the 
 labouring classes of men, I meant merely 
 to wTite you on that subject, with the view 
 that, in some future commuiiicatiou to the 
 
90 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 publif;, you might take up the subject more 
 at large ; that by means of your happy 
 manner of writing, the attention of people 
 of power and influence might be fixed on it. 
 I had little expectation, however, that I 
 should overcome my indolence, and the diffi- 
 culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to 
 put my threat in execution ; till some time 
 ago, before I had finished my harvest, 
 having a call from Mr. Ewart (152), with a 
 message from you, pressing me to the per- 
 formance of this task, I thought myself no 
 longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved 
 to set about it \ritli my first leisure. I will 
 now, therefore, endeavour to lay before you 
 what has occurred to my mind, on a subject 
 wliere people capable of observation, and of 
 placing their remarks in a proper point of 
 view, have seldom an opportunity of making 
 their remarks on real life. In doing this, I 
 may perhaps be led sometimes to write more 
 in the manner of a person communicating 
 information to you which you did not know 
 before, atul at other times more in the style 
 of egotism, than I would choose to do to 
 any person, in whose candour, and even per- 
 sonal good will, I had less confidence. 
 
 " There are two several lines of study that 
 open to every man as he enters life : the one, 
 the general science of life, of duty, and of 
 happiness ; the other, the particular arts of 
 his employment or situation in society, and 
 the several branches of knowledge tlierewith 
 connected. This last is certaiidy indispen- 
 sable, as nothing can be more disgraceful 
 than ignorance in the way of one's own pro- 
 fession ; and whatever a man's speculative 
 knowledge may be, if he is ill-informed there, 
 he can neither be a useful nor a respectable 
 member of society. It is, nevertheless, true, 
 that ' the proper study of mankind is man ;' 
 to consider what duties are incumbent on 
 him as a rational creature, and a member of 
 society ; how he may increase or secure his 
 happiness ; and how he may prevent or soften 
 the many miseries incident to human life. 
 I think the pursuit of happiness is too fre- 
 quently confined to the endeavour after the 
 acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be 
 considered as an idle declaimer against riches, 
 which, after all that can be said against them, 
 will still be considered by men of common 
 sense as objects of importance, and poverty 
 will be felt as a sore evil, after all the fine 
 things that can be said of its advantages ; 
 on tlie contrary, I am of opinion, that a 
 great proportion of the miseries of life arise 
 from the want of economy, and a prudent 
 attention to money, or the ill-directed or 
 intemperate pursuit of it. But however 
 
 valuable riches may be as the means of com- 
 fort, independence, and the pleasure of doing 
 good to others, yet I am of opinion that they 
 may be, and frequently are, purchased at too 
 great a cost, and tiiat sacrifices are made in 
 the pursuit, which the acquisition cannot 
 compensate. I remember hearing my worthy 
 teacher, jNIr. IMurdoch, relate an anecdote to 
 my father, which I think sets this matter in 
 a strong light, and perhaps was the origin, 
 or at least tended to promote this way of 
 thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left 
 .411oway, he went to teach and reside in the 
 family of an opulent farmer who had a num- 
 ber of sons. A neighbour coming on a 
 visit, in the course of conversation, asked 
 the father how he meant to dispose of his 
 sons. The father replied that he had not 
 determined. The visitor said that, were he 
 in his place, he would give them all good 
 education and send them abroad, without, 
 perhaps, having a precise idea where. The 
 fatlier objected, that many young men lost 
 their health in foreign countries, and many 
 their lives. True, replied the visitor, but as 
 you have a number of sons, it will be strange 
 if some one of them does not Uve and make 
 a fortune. 
 
 " Let any person who has the feelings of 
 a father, comment on this story ; but though 
 few will avow, even to themselves, that such 
 views govern their conduct, yet do we not 
 daily see people shipping off their sons (and 
 who would do so by their daughters also, if 
 there were any demand for them), that they 
 may be rich or perish? 
 
 "The education of the lower classes is 
 seldom considered in any other pomt of 
 view than as the means of raising them from 
 that station to which they were born, and of 
 making a fortune. I am ignorant of the 
 mysteries of the art of acquiring a fortune 
 without any thing to begin with, and cannot 
 calculate, with any degree of exactness, the 
 difficulties to be surmounted, the mortifica- 
 tions to be suffered, and the degradation of 
 character to be submitted to, in lending 
 one's self to be the minister of other people's 
 vices, or in the practice of rapine, fraud, op- 
 pression, or dissimulation, in the progress ; 
 but even when the wished-for end is attained, 
 it may be questioned whether happiness be 
 much increased by the change. When I have 
 seen a fortunate adventurer of the lower 
 ranks of life returned from the East or West 
 Indies, with all the hauteur of a vulgar 
 mind accustomed to be served by slaves, as- 
 suming a character, which, from early habits 
 of life, he is ill fitted to support — displaying 
 magnificence which raises the envy of some. 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 91 
 
 Aiid the contempt of others — claiming an 
 equality with tlie great, which they are un- 
 willing to allow — inly pining at the prece- 
 dence of the hereilitary gentry — maddened 
 by the polished insolence of some of the 
 unworthy part of them — seeking pleasure in 
 the society of men wlio can condescend to 
 flatter him, and listen to his absurdity for 
 the sake of a good dinner and good wine — 
 I cannot avoid conchuling, that his brother, 
 or companion, who, by a diligent application 
 to the labours of agriculture, or some usefid 
 mechanic employment, and the careful lius- 
 banding of his gains, has acquired a com- 
 petence in his station, is a much happier, 
 and, in the eye of a person who can take an 
 enlarged view of mankind, a much more 
 respectable man. 
 
 " But the votaries of wealth may be con- 
 sidered as a great number of candidates 
 striving for a few prizes : and whatever ad- 
 dition the successful may make to their plea- 
 sure orhappiness,the disappointed will always 
 have more to suffer. 1 am afraid, than those 
 who abide contented in the station to which 
 they were born. I wish, therefore, the edu- 
 cation of the lower classes to be promoted 
 and directed to their improvement as men, 
 as the means of increasing their virtue, and 
 opening to tlicm new and dignified sources 
 of pleasure and happiness, i have heard 
 some people object to the education of the 
 lower chisses of men, as rendering them less 
 useful, by abstracting them from their pro- 
 per business; others, as tending to make 
 them saucy to their superiors, impatient of 
 their condition, and turbulent subjects ; 
 while you, with more humanity, have your 
 fears alarmed, lest the delicacy of mind, 
 induced by that sort of education and read- 
 ing I recommended, should render the evils 
 of their situation insupportable to them. I 
 wish to examine the validity of each of these 
 objections, beginning with the one you have 
 mentioned. 
 
 " I do not mean to controvert your criti- 
 cism of my favourite books, the Mirror and 
 Lounger, although I understand there are 
 people who think themselves judges, who do 
 not agree with you. The acquisition of 
 knowledge, except what is connected with 
 human life and conduct, or the particular 
 business of his emiiloyment, does not ap- 
 pear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a 
 peasant. I would say with the poet, 
 * How empty learning, and how vain is art, 
 Save where it guides the life, or mends the 
 
 heart !' 
 
 " There seems to be a considerable latitude 
 in the use of the word taste. I understand 
 
 it to be the perception and relish of beauty, 
 order, or any other thing, the contemplatiou 
 of which gives pleasure and delight to the 
 mind. I suppose it is in this sense you wish 
 it to be understood. If I am right, the 
 taste which these books are calculated to 
 cultivate (besides the taste for line writing, 
 which many of the papers tend to improve 
 and to gratify), is what is proper, consistent, 
 and becoming in human character and con- 
 duct, as almost every paper relates to these 
 subjects. 
 
 " 1 am sorry I have not these books by 
 me, that I might point out some instances. 
 1 remember two ; one, the beaut ifid story of 
 La Roche, where, besides the pleasure one 
 derives from a beautiful simple story, told ia 
 M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led 
 to taste, with lieartfelt rapture, the consola- 
 tion to be derived in deep aftliction, from 
 habitual devotion and trust in Almighty 
 God. The other, the story of General 
 
 W , where the reader is led to have a 
 
 high relish for that firmness of mind which 
 disregards appearances, the common forms 
 and vanities of life, for the sake of doing 
 justice in a case which was out of the reach 
 of human laws. 
 
 " Allow me then to remark, that if the 
 morality of these books is subordinate to 
 the cultivation of taste ; that taste, that re- 
 tiiiemeiit of mind and delicacy of sentiment 
 which they are intended to give, are the 
 strongest guard and surest foundation of 
 morality and virtue. Other moralists guard, 
 as it were, the overt act ; these papers, by 
 exalting duty into sentiment, are calculated 
 to make every deviation from rectitude and 
 propriety of conduct, painful to the mind 
 
 ' ^^^lose temper'd pow^ is, 
 Refine at length, and every pa^slorl wears 
 A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.' 
 
 " I readily grant you, that the refinement 
 of mind which 1 contend for increases our 
 sensibility to the evils of life ; but what sta- 
 tion of life is without its evils ? There 
 seems to be no such thing as perfect hap- 
 piness in this world, and we must balance 
 the pleasure and the pain which we derive 
 from taste, before we can properly ajiprc- 
 ciate it in the case before us. 1 apprehend, 
 that on a minute examination it will appear, 
 that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks of 
 life derive their power to wound us, more 
 from the suggestions of false pride, and 
 the 'contagion of luxury, weak and vile,' 
 than the refinement of our taste. It was a 
 favourite remark of my brother's, that there 
 was no part of the constitution of our ufw 
 
<J2 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 ture CO which we were more indebted, than 
 lliat by wliich ' ciistcun makes tliimjs familiar 
 and easy' (a copy Mr. jMurdoch used to set 
 u-i to write) ; and there is little labour 
 which custom will not make easy to a man 
 in health, if he is not ashamed of his em- 
 ployment, or does not begin to compare his 
 situation with those he may see going about 
 at their ease. 
 
 " But the man of enlarged mind feels the 
 respect due to him as a man ; he has learned 
 that no employment is dishonourable in 
 itself; that while he performs aright the 
 duties of that station in which God has 
 placed him, he is as great as a king in the 
 eyes of Him whom he is principally desirous 
 to please ; for the man of taste, who is con- 
 stantly obliged to labour, must of necessity 
 be religious. If you teach him only to 
 reason, you may make him an atheist, a de- 
 magogue, or any vile thing ; but if you 
 teach him to feel, his feelings can only tiiid 
 their proper and natural relief in devotion 
 and religious resignation. lie knows that 
 those people who are to appearance at ease, 
 are not without their share of evils, and 
 that even toil itself is not destitute of ad- 
 vantages. He listens to the words of his 
 favomite poet : 
 •Oh, mortal man, that livcst here by toil, 
 
 Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate I 
 Tiiat like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
 
 Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
 Althous'h sometimes it makes thee weep and 
 wail, [late ; 
 
 And curse thy star, and early drudge, and 
 Withouten that would come an heavier bale. 
 Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale!' 
 
 " And while he repeats the words, the 
 grateful recollection comes across his mind, 
 how often he has derived ineffable pleasure 
 from the sweet song of ' nature's darling 
 child.' I can say, from my own experience, 
 that there is no sort of farm-labour incon- 
 sistent with the most refined and pleasurable 
 state of the mind that I am acquainted with, 
 thrashmg alone e.Kcepted. That, indeed, I 
 have always considered as insupportable 
 drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic 
 who invented the thrashing-machine, ought 
 to have a statue among the benefactors of 
 his country, and should be placed in the 
 niche next to the person who introduced the 
 culture of potatoes mto this island. 
 
 "Perhaps the thing of most importance in 
 the education of the common people js, to 
 prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I 
 bless the memory of my worthy father for 
 almost every thing in the dispositions of my 
 mind, and my habits of life, which I can 
 
 approve of; and for none more than the 
 pains he took to impress my mind with the 
 sentiment, that nothmg was more unworthy 
 the character of a man, that that his happi- 
 ness should in the least depend on what he 
 should eat or drink. So early did he im- 
 press my mind with this, that although I 
 was as fond of sweetmeats as children gene- 
 rally are, yet I seldom laid out any of the 
 half-pence which relations or neighbours 
 gave me at fairs, in the purchase of them ; 
 and if I did, every mouthful I swallowed 
 was accompanied with shame and remorse; 
 and to this hour I never indulge in the use 
 of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable 
 degree of self-reproach and alarm for the 
 degradation of the human character. Such 
 a habit of thinking I consider as of great 
 consequence, both to the virtue and hajipi- 
 ness of men in the lower ranks of life. And 
 thus. Sir, I am of opinion, that if their 
 minds are early and deeply impressed with 
 a sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with 
 the love of independence and of industry, 
 economy and temperance, as the most ob- 
 vious means of making themselves inde- 
 pendent, and the virtues most becoming 
 their situation, and necessary to their happi- 
 ness ; men in the lower ranks of life may 
 partake of the pleasures to be derived from 
 the perusal of books calculated to improve 
 the mind and refine the taste, without any 
 danger of becoming more unhappy in their 
 situation, or discontented with it. Nor do 
 I think there is any danger of their be- 
 coming less useful. There are some hours 
 every day that the most constant labourer is 
 neither at work nor asleep. These hours 
 are either appropriated to amusement or to 
 sloth. If a taste for employing these 
 hours in reading were cultivated, 1 do not 
 suppose that the return to labour would be 
 more ditticult. Every one will allow, that 
 the attachment to idle amusements, or even 
 to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to ab- 
 stract men from tiieir proj)er business, as the 
 attachment to books ; while the one dissi- 
 pates the mind, and the other tends to in- 
 crease its powers of self-government. To 
 those who are afraid that the improvement 
 of the minds of the common people mi;;ht 
 be dangerous to the state, or the establisheo' 
 order of society, I would remark, that tur- 
 bulence and conunotion are certainly verj 
 inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. 
 Let the matter be brought to the test of ex- 
 perience and observation. Of what descrip- 
 tion of people are mobs and insurrections 
 composed ? Are they not universally owing 
 to the want of enlargement and improve- 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 93 
 
 ment of mind among the common people ? 
 Nay, let any one recollect the characters of 
 those who formed the calmer and more de- 
 liberate associations, which lately gave so 
 much alarm to the govenuneiit of this 
 country. I suppose few of the common 
 people who were to be found in such socie- 
 ties, had the education and turn of mind I 
 have been endeavouring to recommend. 
 Allow me to suggest one reason for en- 
 deavouring to enlighten the minds of the 
 common people. Their morals have hitherto 
 been guarded bv a sort of dim religious awe, 
 which, from a variety of causes, seems wear- 
 ing otf. I think the alteration in this re- 
 spect consid rable, in the short period of my 
 observation. I have already given my 
 opinion of the effects of refinement of mind 
 on morals and virtue. AMienever vulgar 
 minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the 
 religion in which they have been educated, 
 the progress is quick and immediate to 
 downright infidelity ; aiul nothing but 
 refinement of mind can enable them to dis- 
 tinguish between the pure essence of reli- 
 gion, and the gross systems which men have 
 been perpetually connecting it with. In 
 addition to what has already been done for 
 the education of the common people of this 
 country, in the establishment of parish 
 .s-'iools, I wish to see the salaries augmented 
 i 1 -iome proportion to tlie present expense 
 ox living, and the earnings of people of 
 Bi Hilar rank, en Jowraeiits, and usefulness, in 
 society ; and I hope that the hberality of 
 the present age will be no longer disgraced 
 by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
 such encouragement as may make parish 
 schools worth the attention of men fitted for 
 the important duties of that office. In till- 
 ing up the vacancies, I would have more 
 attention paid to the candidate's capacity of 
 reading the English language with grace 
 and propriety — to his understanding tho- 
 roughly, and having a high relish for, the 
 beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
 and prose — to that good sense and know- 
 ledge of human nature which would enable 
 him to acquire some influence on the minds 
 and affections of his scholars — to the general 
 worth of his character, and the love of his 
 kmg and his country — than to his proficiency 
 in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I 
 vould then have a sort of high English 
 class established, not only for the purpose of 
 teaching the pupils to read in that graceful 
 and agreeable manner that might make them 
 fond of reading, but to make them under- 
 stand what they read, and discover the 
 lieauties of the author, in composition and 
 
 sentiment. I would have established iu 
 every parish a small circulating library, con- 
 sisting of the books which the yoniig 
 people had read extracts from in the collec- 
 tions they had read at school, and any other 
 books well calculated to refine the mind, im- 
 prove the moral feelings, recommend the 
 practice of virtue, and communicate such 
 knowledge as might he useful and suitable to 
 the labouring classes of men. I would have 
 the schoolmaster act as librarian ; and ia 
 recommending books to his young friends, 
 formerly his pupils, and letting in the light 
 of them upon their young minds, he should 
 have the assistance of the minister. If once 
 such educatio-.'. were become general, the 
 low delights of the public-house, and other 
 scenes of riot and depravity, would be con- 
 temned and neglected ; while industry, 
 (Irder, cleanliness, and every virtue which 
 taste and independence of mind could re- 
 commend, would prevad and flourish. Thus 
 possessed of a virtuous and enlightened 
 popidace, with high delight I should con- 
 sider my native country as at the head of all 
 the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 
 
 " Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to 
 the fullest extent, in regard to the length of 
 my letter. If I had not presumed on doing 
 it more to my liking, I should not have un- 
 dertaken it ; but I have not time to attempt 
 it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain that I 
 should succeed any better. I have learned 
 to have less confidence in my capacity of 
 writing on such sulijects. 
 
 "I am much obliged by your kind in- 
 quiries about my situation and prospects. I 
 am much pleased with the soil of this farm, 
 and with the terms on which I possess it. I 
 receive great encouragement likeivise in 
 building, enclosing, and other conveniences, 
 from my landlord, i\Ir. G. S. Monteith, whose 
 general character and conduct, as a landlord 
 and country-gentleman, I am highly pleased 
 with. But the land is in such a state as to 
 require a considerable immediate outlay of 
 money in the purchase of manure, the 
 grubbing of brush-wood, removing of stones, 
 &c., which twelve years' struggle with a 
 farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill- 
 prepared me for. If I can get these things 
 done, however, to my mind, I think there is 
 next to a certainty that in five or six years 
 I shall be in a hopeful way of attaining a 
 situation which I think as eligible for happi- 
 ness as any one I know ; for 1 have al« ays 
 been of opinion, that if a man bred to the 
 habits of a farming life, who possesses a 
 farm of good soil, on such terms as enable* 
 him easily to pay all demands, is not happy, 
 
94 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 he ought to look somewhere else than to his 
 tit\iation for the causes of his uneasiness. 
 
 " I beg you will present my most respect- 
 ful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remem- 
 ber me to Mr. and ilrs. Koscoe, and Mr 
 Koscoe, Junior, the worth of whose kind 
 attentions to me, when in Liverpool, I shall 
 never forget. I am, dear sir, your most 
 obedient, and much obliged humble servant, 
 
 "Gilbert Burns. 
 « To James Currie, M.B.,F.R.S. 
 Liverpool." 
 
 Qiiji! l^iilDra, f Ijilkpn, antt Sjrntljrr nf 
 iiirns. 
 
 At the time of Burn's decease, his family 
 consisted of his wife and four sons — Robert, 
 born at Mauchline, in 1786; Francis Wal- 
 lace, born at EUisland, April 9, 1791 ; 
 William Nicol, born at Dumfries, November 
 21, 1792; and James Glencairn. Oi. the 
 day of the poet's funeral, Mrs. Burns pro- 
 duced a fifth son, who received the name of 
 Maxwell, but did not long survive. Francis 
 Wallace, a child of uncommon vivacity, died 
 at the age of fourteen. The three other 
 sons yet (1838) survive. Robert received a 
 good education at the academy of Dumfries, 
 was two sessions at the university of Edin- 
 burgh, and one at the university of Glas- 
 gow ; and in 1804 obtained a situation in 
 the Stamp Office, London, where he con- 
 tinued for twenty-nine years, improvi/\g a 
 narrow income by teaching the classics and 
 mathematics. It is remarkable, that during 
 that long time he and his mother, though on 
 the best terms, never once met. In 1833, 
 having obtained a superannuation allowance, 
 he retired to Dumfries, where he now lives. 
 He has the dark eyes, large liead, and 
 swarthy complexion of his father, and 
 possesses much more than the average of 
 mental capacity. He has written many 
 verses far above mediocrity ; but the bent 
 of his mind is towards geometry — a study 
 in which his father was much more ac- 
 complished than his biographers seem to 
 have been aware of. William and James 
 went out to India on cadetships, and have 
 each risen to the rank of major in the 
 Company's service. " Wherever these men 
 wander, at home or abroad, they are re- 
 garded as the scions of a noble stock, and 
 receive the cordial greetings of hundreds 
 who never saw their faces before, but who 
 account it a happiness to grasp, in friendly 
 pressure, the hand in which circulates the 
 blood of Burns." — M'Diarmid's Picture of 
 Dumfries. 
 
 The only dependence of Mrs. B\ims, after 
 her husband's death, was on an annuity ol 
 ten pounds, arising from a benefit society 
 connected with the Excise, the books and 
 other moveable property left to her, and the 
 generosity of the public. The subscription, 
 as we are informed by Dr. Currie, produced 
 seven hundred pounds ; and the works of 
 the poet, as edited with singular taste and 
 judgment by that gentleman, brought nearly 
 two thousand more. One half of the latter 
 sum was lent on a bond to a Galloway 
 gentleman, who continued to pay five per 
 cent, for it till a late period. Mrs. Burns 
 was thus enabled to support and educate 
 her family in a manner creditable to the 
 memory of her husband. Slie continued to 
 reside in the house which had been occu- 
 pied by her husband and herself, and 
 " never changed, nor wished to change 
 
 her place." 
 For many years after her sons had left her 
 to pursue their fortunes in the world, she 
 lived in a decent and respectable manner, oa 
 an income which never amounted to more 
 than £02 per annum. At length, in 1817, 
 at a festival held in Edinburgh to celebrate 
 the birth-day of the bard, Mr. Henry, (now 
 Lord) Cockburn acting as president, it was 
 proposed by Mr. Maule of Panmure (now 
 Lord Panmure), that some permanent addi- 
 tion should be made to the income of the 
 poet's widow. The idea appeared to be 
 favourably received, but the subscription did 
 not till rapidly. Mr. Maule then said that 
 the burden of the provision should fall upon 
 himself, and immediately executed a bond, 
 entitling Mrs. Burns to an annuity of £50 
 as long as she lived. This act, together 
 with the generosity of the same gentleman 
 to Nathaniel Gow, in his latter and evil 
 days, must ever endear the name of Lord 
 Panmure to all who feel warmly on the sub- 
 jects of Scottish poetry and Scottish music. 
 
 ]Mr. Blaule's pension had not been en- 
 joyed by the widow more than a year and 
 a half, when her youngest son James at- 
 tained the rank of Captain with a situation 
 in the commissariat, and was thus enabled 
 to relieve her from the necessity of being 
 beholden to a stranger's hand for any share 
 of her support. She accordingly resigned 
 the pension. ]Mr. M'Diarmid, who records 
 these circumstances, adds in another place, 
 that, during her subsequent years, JNlrs. 
 Burns enjoyed an income of about two 
 hundred a-year, great part of which, as not 
 needed by her, she dispensed in charities. 
 Her whole conduct in widowhood was such 
 as to secure imiversal esteem in the town 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 n-here she residpcl. She died, March 26, ! In personal aspect, Robert Bnms rescmhlcd 
 lb34, in the (JSth year of her age, and was [ his mother ; Gilbert had the more aquihne 
 buried beside her ilhistrious husband, in the i features of his father. The portrait of 
 mausoleum at Dumfries. (153) | Robert Burns, painted by a l\Ir. Taylor, 
 
 Mr. Gilbert Burns, the early companion | and p\il)lished in an enerraved form by 
 and at all times the steadfast friend of 1 Messrs. Constable and Company a few 
 the poet, continued to strugjrle with the j years ago, bore a striking resemblance to 
 miserable glebe of Mossgiel "till about the I Gilbert. Tliis excellent man died at 
 year 1797, when he removed to the farm of ; Grant's Braes, November 8, 1827, aged 
 Dinning, on the estate of Mr. Monteith of about sixty-seven years. His sons, having 
 Closeburn, in Nithsdale. The poet had lent j received an excellent education, occupy 
 him £200 out of the profits of the Edin- I respectable stations in society. One is 
 burgh edition of his works, in order that he factor to Lord Blantyre, and another is 
 
 might overcome some of his difficulties ; 
 and he, some years after, united himself to 
 a Miss Breckonridge, by whom he had a 
 family of six sons and five daughters. In 
 consideration of the support he extended to 
 his widowed mother, the poet seems never 
 to have thought of a reckoning with him 
 for the above sura. He was a man of 
 sterling sense and sagacity, pious without 
 asceticism or bigotry, and entertaining 
 liberal and enlightened views, without being 
 the least of an enthusiast. His letter to 
 Dr. Currie, dated from Dinning, October 24, 
 1800, shows no mean powers of composi- 
 tion, and embodies nearly all the philan- 
 thropic views of human improvement which 
 have been so broadly realised in our own 
 day. We ate scarcely more affected by the 
 consideration of the penury under which 
 some of his brother's noblest compositions 
 were penned, than by the reflection that this 
 beautiful letter was the effusion of a man 
 who, with his family, daily wrought long 
 and laboriously under all those circum- 
 stances of parsimony which characterise 
 Scottish rural life. Some years after, Mr. 
 Gilbert Burns was appointed by Lady 
 Blantyre to be land-steward or factor upon 
 her estate of Lethington in East-Lothian, 
 to which place he accordingly removed. 
 His conduct in this capacity, during near 
 twenty-five years, was marked by great 
 fidelity and prudence, and gave the most 
 perfect satisfaction to his titled employer. 
 It was not till 1820, that he was enabled to 
 repay the money borrowed from his brother 
 in 1788 Being then invited by Messrs. 
 Cadell and Davies to superintend, and 
 improve as much as possible, a new edition 
 of the poet's works, he received as nmch 
 in remuneration of his labour, as enabled 
 him to perform this act of duty. 
 
 The mother of Robert and Gilbert Bums 
 lived in the household of the latter at 
 Grant's Braes, near Lethington, till 1820, 
 
 minister of the parish of Monkton, near 
 Ayr. 
 
 Two sisters of Bums, one of whom is by 
 marriage !Mrs. Begg, yet survive. They 
 reside in the village of Tranent, East- 
 Lothian. 
 
 '^c^ljrrnfllngiral Drnrlnprnt iif f nrns. 
 
 At the opeTiing of the ^Mausoleum, Jlarch 
 1834, for the interment of Mrs. Burns, it 
 was resolved by some citizens of Dumfries, 
 with the concurrence of the nearest relative 
 of the widow, to raise the cranium of the 
 poet from the grave, and have a cast 
 moulded from it, with a view to gratifying 
 the interest likely to be felt by the students 
 of phrenology respecting its peculiar de- 
 velopment. Tliis purpose was carried into 
 effect during the night between the 31st 
 March and the 1st April, and the following 
 is the description of the cranium, drawn up 
 at the time by ]Mr. A. Blacklock, surgeon, 
 one of the individuals present : — 
 
 " The craniel bones were perfect in every 
 respect, if we eicept a little erosion of their 
 external table, and firmly held together by 
 their sutures ; even the delicate bones of 
 the orbits, \rith the trifling exception of the 
 OS luir/uis in the left, were sound, and un- 
 injured by death and the grave. The 
 superior maxillary bones still retained the 
 four most posterior teeth on each side, in- 
 cluding the dentes sapientise, and all 
 without spot or blemish ; the incisores, 
 cuspidati, &c., had, in all probability, recently 
 dropped from the jaw, for the alveoli were 
 but little decayed. The bones of the face 
 and palate were also sound. Some small 
 portions of black hair, with a very few grey 
 hairs intermixed, were observed white de- 
 taching some extraneous matter from the 
 
 occiput. Indeed, nothing could exceed the 
 high state of preservation in which we found 
 the bones of the cranium, or offer a fairer 
 when she died at the age of eighty-eight, I opportunity of supplying what has so long 
 Olid was buried in the churchyard of Bolton. I been desiderated by phrenologists — a 
 
 10 
 
96 
 
 LIFE OP BURNS. 
 
 correct model (if our immortal poet's head : 
 and in order to acconiplis'i this in the most 
 accurate and satisfactory manner, every 
 particle of sand, or other foreign body, was 
 carefully washed off, and the plaster of Paris 
 applied with all the tact and accuracy of an 
 experienced artist. The cast is admirably 
 taken, and cannot fail to prove highly in- 
 teresting to phrenologists and others. 
 
 "Ha\ iiig completed our intention, the skull, 
 securely enclosed in a leaden case, was again 
 committi^d to the earth, precisely where we 
 found it. 
 
 Archd. Blacklock." 
 
 A cast from the skull having been trans- 
 mitted to the Phrenological Society of 
 Edinburgh, the following view of the cere- 
 bral development of Burns was drawn up 
 by Mr. George Combe, and published in 
 connection with four views of the crai:vum. 
 (fV. and A. K. Johnston, Edinburgh) : — • 
 
 "I. DIMENSIONS OF THE SKULL. 
 
 Inches. 
 
 Greatest circumference 22| 
 
 Fiom Occipital Spine to Individuality, 
 
 over the top of the head . . 14 
 „ Ear to Ear vertically over the top 
 
 of the head 13 
 
 „ Philoprogenitiveness to Individu- 
 ality, (greatest length) . . . ' 8 
 ., Concentrativeness to Comparison 7| 
 „ Ear to Philoprogenitiveness . . 4| 
 „ „ Individnahty .... 4| 
 
 „ „ Benevolence 5i 
 
 „ „ Firmness 65 
 
 „ Destructiveness to Destructive- 
 
 ness 5i 
 
 „ Secretiveness to Secretiveness . 5| 
 
 „ Cautiousness to Cautiousness . 5j 
 
 „ Ideality to Ideality 4f 
 
 „ Constructiveness to Constructive- 
 
 ness 4| 
 
 ^ Mastoid process to Mastoid Pro- 
 cess 41 
 
 "11. DEVELOPEMENT OF THE ORGANS. 
 
 Scale 
 
 1. Amativeness, rather large ... 16 
 
 2. Philoprogenitiveness, very large . 20 
 
 3. Concentrativeness, large .... 18 
 
 4. Adhesiveness, very Iprge ... 20 
 
 5. Combativeness, very large , , , 20 
 G. Destructiveness, large .... 18 
 
 7. Secretiveness, large 19 
 
 8. Acquisitiveness, rather large , . 16 
 
 9. Constructiveness, full .... 15 
 
 10. Self-Esteem, large 18 
 
 11. Love of Approbation, very large . 20 
 
 12. Cautiousness, large 19 
 
 13. Benevolence, very large .... 20 
 
 14. Veneration, large ...,,, 78 
 
 15. Firmness, full ..•..,. 15 
 
 16. Conscientiousness, full , , , , Ij 
 
 17. Hope, full ,1 
 
 18. Wonder, large Irf 
 
 19. Ideality, large ]8 
 
 20. Wit, or Mirthfulness, full . . .* 15 
 
 21. Imitation, large 1!) 
 
 22. Individuality, large 19 
 
 23. Form, rather large 1 ti 
 
 24. Size, rather large ...... 17 
 
 25. Weight, rather large 16 
 
 26. Colouring, rather large .... ? 6 
 
 27. Locality, large IS 
 
 28. Number, rather full 1^ 
 
 29. Order, full - 14 
 
 30. Eventuality, large 18 
 
 31. Time, rather large 1 J 
 
 32. Tune, full 15 
 
 33. Language, uncertain 
 
 34 Coin])arison, rather large ... 17 
 
 35. Causality, large 13 
 
 " 7'he scale of the organs indicates their 
 relative proportions to each other; 2 is 
 idiotcy— 10 moderate — 14 full— IS Inrrje; 
 and 20 very lun/e. 
 
 " The cast of a skull does not show the 
 temperament of the individual, but the por- 
 traits of Burns indicate the bilious and 
 nervous temperaments, the sources of 
 strength, activity, and susceptibility; and 
 the descriptions given by his contemporaries 
 of his beaming and energetic eye, and the 
 rapidity and impetuosity of his manifesta- 
 tions, establish the inference that his brain 
 was active and susceptible. 
 
 " Size in the brain, other conditions being 
 equal, is the measure of mental power. The 
 skull of Burns indicates a large brain. The 
 length is eight, and the greatest breadth 
 nearly six inches. The circumference is 22\ 
 inches. These measurements exceed the 
 average of Scotch living heads, including the 
 integuments, for which four-eighths of au 
 inch may be allowed. 
 
 " The brain of Burns, therefore, possessed 
 the two elements of power and activity. 
 
 " The portions of the brain which manifest 
 the animal propensities, are uncommonly 
 large, indicating strong passions, and great 
 energy in action under their influence. The 
 group of organs manifesting tlie domestic 
 affections (Amativeness, Philoprogenitive- 
 ness, and Adhesiveness), is large ; Philopro- 
 genitiveness uncommonly so for a male 
 head. The organs of Combativeness and 
 Destructiveness are large, bespeaking greul 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 97 
 
 h-'flt of temppr, impatipn''e, and liability to 
 irriiiitiim. 
 
 " Si-cretivenoss and Cautiousness are both 
 larire, and would confer coiisideral)le power 
 of restraint, where he felt restraint to be 
 necessary. 
 
 "Acquisitivenegs, Self-Esteem, and Love 
 of Approbation, are also in ample endowment, 
 although the first is less than the other 
 two; these feelings give the love of pro- 
 perty, a high consideration of self, and desire 
 of the esteem of others. The first quality 
 will not be so readily conceded to Burns as 
 the second and third, which, indeed, were 
 much stronger; but the phrenologist records 
 what is ((resented by nature, in full confi- 
 dence that the manifestations, when the 
 character is correctly understood, will be 
 found to correspond with the developement, 
 and he states that the brain indicates con- 
 siderable love of property. 
 
 " The organs of the moral sentiments are 
 also largely developed. Ideality, Wonder, 
 Imitation, and Benevolence, are the largest 
 in size. Veneration also is large. Con- 
 scientiousness, Firmness, and Hope, are full. 
 
 " The Knowing organs, or those of percep- 
 tive intellect, are large; and the organs of 
 Reflection are also considerable, but less 
 than the former. Causality is larger than 
 Comparison, and Wit is less than either. 
 
 " The skull indicates the combination of 
 strong animal passions with equally powerful 
 111 ral emotions. If the natural morahty 
 Lad been less, the endowment of the pro- 
 pensities is suttieient to have constituted a 
 character of the most desperate description. 
 The combination as it exists, bespeaks a 
 mind extremely subject to contending emo- 
 tions — capable of great good, or great evil — 
 and encompassed with vast difficulties in 
 preserving a steady, even, onward course of 
 practical morality. 
 
 " In the combination of very large Philo- 
 progenitiveness and Adhesiveness, with very 
 large Benevolence and large Ideality, we find 
 the elements of that exquisite tenderness 
 and refinement, which Burns so frequently 
 manifested, e\ en when at the worst stage of 
 his career. In the combination of great 
 Combativeness, Destructivencss, and Self- 
 Esteera, we find the fundamental qualities 
 which inspired ' Scots wha hae wi' AVallace 
 bled,' and similar productions. 
 
 " The combination of large Secretiveness, 
 Imitation, and the perceptive organs, gives 
 the elements of his dranuitic talent and 
 humour. The skull indicates a decided 
 talent for Humour, but less for Wit. The 
 pubUc are apt to confoimd the talents for 
 
 Wit and Humour. The metaphysicians, 
 however, have distitigiiished them, and in 
 the phrenological works their dift'erent ele- 
 ments are pointed out. Burns possessed 
 the talent for satire; Destructivencss, added 
 to the combination which gives Humour, 
 produces it. 
 
 "An unskilful observer looking at the fore- 
 .lead, might suppose it to be moderate in 
 size ; but when the dimensions of the ante- 
 rior lobe, in both length and breadth, are 
 attended to, the Intellectual organs will be 
 recognised to have been large. The anterior 
 lobe projects so much, that it gives an ap- 
 pearance of narrowness to the forehead 
 which is not real. This is the cause, also, 
 why Benevolence appears to lie farther back 
 than usual. An anterior lobe of this magni- 
 tude indicates great Intellectual power. The 
 combination of large Percepti\e and Re- 
 flecting organs (Causality predominant), with 
 large Concentrativeness and large organs of 
 the feelings, gives that sagacity and vigorous 
 common sense, for which Burns was distui- 
 guished. 
 
 " The skull rises high above Causality, and 
 spreads wide in the region of Ideality ; the 
 strength of his moral feelings lay in that 
 region. 
 
 " The combination of large organs of the 
 Animal Propensities, with large Cautious- 
 ness, and only full Hope, together with the 
 unfavourable circumstances in which he was 
 placed, accounts for the melancholy and 
 internal uidiappiness with which Burns was 
 so frequently altiicted. This melancholy was 
 rendered still deeper by bad health. 
 
 "The combination of Acquisitiveness, Cau- 
 tiousness, Love of Approbation, and Con- 
 scientiousness, is the source of his keen 
 feelings in regard to pecuniary independence. 
 The great power of his Animal Propensities 
 would give him strong temptations to waste ; 
 but the combination just mentioned would 
 impose a powerfid restraint. The head in- 
 dicates the elements of an economical cha- 
 racter, and it is known that he died fi-ee 
 from debt, notwithstanding the smalluess of 
 his salary. 
 
 " No phrenologist can look upon this licad, 
 and consider the circumstances in which 
 Bums was placed, without vivid feelings of 
 regret. Burns must have walked the earth 
 with a consciousness of great superiority 
 over his associates in the station in which 
 he was placed — of powers calculated for a 
 far higher sphere than that which he was 
 able to reach, and of passions which he 
 could with difficulty restiain, and which it 
 I was fatal to indulge. If he had been placed 
 
98 
 
 LIFE OF EUENS. 
 
 from infancy in the higher ranks of life, 
 liberally educated, and employed in pursuits 
 corresponding to his powers, the inferior 
 portion of his nature would have lost part 
 of its energy, while his better qualities 
 would have assumed a decided and per- 
 manent superiority." 
 
 A more elaborate paper on the skull of 
 Burns appeared in the Phrenological Journal, 
 No. XLL, from the pen of Mr. Robert Cox. 
 This gentleman endeavours to show that the 
 character of Burns was in conformity with 
 the full development of Acquisitiveness. 
 ".According to his own description," says 
 Mr. Cox, " he was a man who ' had little 
 art in making money, and still less in keep- 
 ing it.' That his art in making money was 
 sufficiently moderate, there can be no doubt, 
 for he was engaged in occupations which his 
 sold loathed, and thought it below his 
 dignity to accept of pecuniary remuneration 
 for some of his most laborious literary per- 
 formances. He was, however, by no means 
 insensible to the value of money, and never 
 threw It away. On the contrary, he was 
 remarkably frugal, except when feelings 
 stronger than Acquisitiveness came into play 
 — such as Benevolence, Adhesiveness, and 
 Love of Approbation; the organs of all 
 which are very large, while Acquisitiveness 
 
 is only rather large. During his residence 
 at JNlossgiel, where his revenue was not 
 more than £7, his expenses, as Gilbert men- 
 tions, ' never in any one year exceeded his 
 slender income.' It is also well known that 
 he did not leave behind him a shilling of 
 debt ; and I have learned from good autho- 
 rity that his household was much more 
 frugally managed at Dumfries than at Ellis- 
 land — as in the former place, but not in the 
 latter, he had it in his power to exercise a 
 personal control over the expenditure. 1 
 have been told also, that, after his death, the 
 domestic expenses were greater than when 
 he was alive. These facts are all consistent 
 with a considerable development of Acquisi- 
 tiveness, for, v,]\en that organ is small, there 
 is habitual inattention to pecuniary con- 
 cerns, even although the love of indepen- 
 dence and dislike to ask a favour be strong. 
 The indifference with respect to money, 
 which Burns occasionally ascribes to him- 
 self, appears therefore to savour of affecta- 
 tion — a failing into which he was not 
 uufrequently led by Love of Approbation and 
 Sccretiveness. Indeed, in one of his letters 
 to Miss Chalmers, he expressly intimates a 
 wish to be rich." The whole of this essay 
 is highly worthy of perusal by all who take an 
 interest in the character of the Ayrshiie bard 
 
(Titr 
 
 ^nefeal WmkB nf Unkrt 35mm 
 
POOPv TvT.-VlI-li; 
 
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 ©Ijr Sratir an!t Dijing IXJnrb nf 
 1{kni Bailip. 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET TOWE. 
 
 AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. (1) 
 
 As !Mailie, and her lamte thegither. 
 Were ae day nibbling ou the tether, 
 Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. 
 And owre she warsled in the ditch : 
 There, groaning, dying, she did he. 
 When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 
 Wi' glowering een and lifted han's. 
 Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ; 
 He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
 But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it. 
 He gaped wide but naething spak — 
 At length poor Mailie silence brak. 
 
 " Oh thou, whose lamentable face 
 Appears to mourn my woefu' case 1 
 My dying words attentive hear, 
 And bear them to my master dear. 
 
 " Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
 As muckle gear as buy a sheep. 
 Oh bid him never tie them mair 
 \'\1' wicked strings o' hemp or hair 1 
 But ca' them out to park or hill. 
 And let them wander at their will ; 
 So may his flock increase, and grow 
 To scores o' lambs, £md packs o' woo' 1 
 
 " Tell him he was a master kin', 
 And aye was guid to me and mine ; 
 And now my dying charge I gie him — 
 My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 
 
 "Oh bid him save their harmless lives 
 Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives I 
 But gie them guid cow-milk their iill. 
 Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
 And tent them duly, e'en and mom, 
 Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn. 
 
 " And may they never learn the gaets 
 Of other vile wanrestfu' pets ; 
 To slink through slaps, and reave and steal 
 At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. 
 So may they, like their great forbears. 
 For many a year come through the shears : 
 So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
 And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 
 
 " My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir. 
 Oh, bid him breed him up yn' care ; 
 And if he live to be a beast, 
 To pit some bavins in his breast ! 
 
 " And warn him, what I wiima name. 
 To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
 And no to rin and wear his cloots. 
 Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 
 
 " And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
 GuJe keep thee frae a tether string ; 
 Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
 Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. 
 But aye keep mind to moop and mell 
 Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel. 
 
 " And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
 I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
 And when you thuik upo' your mither. 
 Mind 1o be kin' to aue auitber. 
 
102 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
 To tell my master a' my tale ; 
 And bid him burn this cursed tether, 
 And, for tliy pains, thou's get my blether.' 
 This said, poor Jlailie turn'd her head. 
 And clos'd her een amang the dead. 
 
 Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
 Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
 Our bardie's fate is at a close, 
 
 Past a' reniead ; 
 The last sad caiie-stane of his woes — 
 
 Poor Mailie's dead 1 
 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 neibor dear, 
 
 In Mailie dead. 
 Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
 A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
 \Vi' kmdly bleat, when she did spy him. 
 
 She ran wi' speed : 
 A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 
 
 Than MaiUe dead. 
 1 wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
 And could behave hersel' wi' raense : 
 ril say't she .never brak a fence, 
 
 Thro' thievish greed. 
 Our bardie, lanely, keeps tlie spence 
 
 Sin' Mailie's dead. 
 Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
 iler living image in her yowe. 
 Comes bleating to him, o\vre the knowe. 
 
 For bits o' bread ; 
 And down the briny pearls rowe 
 
 For Mailie dead. 
 She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
 Wi' tawtcd ket, and hairy hips. 
 For her forbears were brought in sliips 
 
 Frae yont the Tweed : 
 A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 
 
 Than Mailie dead. 
 Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
 That nle, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
 It maks guid fellows gini and gape, 
 
 Wi' chokin' dread ; 
 And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 
 
 For Mailie dead. 
 Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
 And wha on Ayr your clianters tune 1 
 Come, join, the melanchoUous croon 
 
 O' Robin's reed ! 
 Ilis heart will never get aboon— 
 
 His Mailie's dead ! 
 
 (IFpislk In Danic. 
 
 A BROTHER POET. (2) 
 
 January, 1784. 
 While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, 
 And bar the doors with driving snaw. 
 
 And hing us owre tlie ingle, 
 I set me down to pass the time. 
 And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 
 
 In hamely westliu jingle. 
 While frosty winds blaw in the drif^ 
 
 Ben to the chimla lug, 
 I grudge a wee the great folk's gift; 
 That hve sa bien and snug : 
 I tent less, and want less 
 Their roomy fire-side ; 
 But liankcr and canker 
 To see their cursed pride. 
 
 It's hardly in a body's power 
 
 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 ran^ 
 
 And ken na how to wair't ; 
 But Davie, lad, ne'er fash yoiur head, 
 
 Tho' we hae little gear, 
 We're fit to win our daily bread. 
 As lan's we're hale and fier : 
 " ilair spier na, no fear na" (3), 
 
 Auld age ne'er mind a feg. 
 The last o't, the warst o't. 
 Is only but to beg. (4) 
 
 To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 
 
 When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin. 
 
 Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
 Yet then content could make us blest ; 
 Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 
 
 Of truest happiness. 
 The honest heart that's free frae a' 
 
 Intended fraud or guile. 
 However fortune kick the ba', 
 Has aye some cause to smUe : 
 And mind still, you'll find still, 
 
 A comfort this nae sma' ; 
 Na mair then, we'll care then, 
 Nae farther we can fa'. 
 
 What though, like commoners of air. 
 We wander out we know not where. 
 
 But either house or hal'? 
 Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods. 
 The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 
 
 Are free ahke to all. 
 In days when daisies deck the ground. 
 
 And blackbirds wliistle clear. 
 With honest joy our hearts will bound 
 ' To see the coming year : 
 
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
 
 103 
 
 Oil braes when we please, then. 
 We'll sit au<l sowtli a tune ; 
 Syne rhyme till't. we'll time till't. 
 And smg't when we hae dune. 
 It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
 It's no in wealth like Lou'on bank. 
 
 To purclia-!e peace and rest ; 
 It's no in makiu' muckle mair ; 
 It's no in bonks ; it's no in lear. 
 
 To mak ns truly blest ; 
 If happiness hae not her scat 
 
 And centre in the breast, 
 We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
 But never can be blest : 
 Nae treasures nor pleasures 
 
 Could make us happy lang; 
 The lieart aye's the part aye 
 That makes us ri,i;ht or WTang. 
 Tliink ye, that sic as you and I, 
 Wha (U-udge and drive through wet and dry, 
 
 Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
 Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
 Wha scarcely tent us in their way. 
 
 As hardly worth their while ? 
 Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood, 
 God's creatures they oppress ! 
 Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
 They riot iu excess ! 
 
 liaith careless and fearless 
 
 Of either heaven or hell I 
 Esteeming and deeming 
 It's a' an idle tale ! 
 Then let us checrfu' acquiesce ; 
 Nor make our scanty pleasures less. 
 
 By pining at our state ; 
 And, even should misfortunes come, 
 I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 
 
 An's thankfu' for them yet. 
 They gie the wit of age to youth; 
 
 They let us ken oursel; 
 They make us see the naked truth. 
 The real guid and ill. 
 
 Thougli losses and crosses 
 Be lessons right severe, 
 Tliere's wit there, ye'll get there, 
 Ye'll find nae other where. 
 But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
 (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes. 
 
 And flatt'ry I detest) 
 This life has joys for you and I ; 
 And joys that riches ne'er could buy : 
 
 And joys the very best. 
 There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 
 
 The lover and the fricn' ; 
 Ye hae your J\Icg (5), your dearest part, 
 And 1 my darlin;;; Jean ! 
 It warms me. it charms me, 
 
 To mention but her name: 
 It heats me, it beets me. 
 And sets me a' ou flame I 
 
 Oh, all ye pow'rs who rule abore I 
 Oh, Thou, whose very self art love ! 
 Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
 The life-blood streaming thro' my heart; 
 Or my more dear iinmnrtal part. 
 
 Is not more fondly dear ! 
 When heart-corroding care and grief 
 
 Deprive my soul of rest, 
 Her dear idea brings relief 
 And solace to my breast. 
 Thou IJeing, all-seeing. 
 
 Oh hear my fervent pray'r! 
 Still take her, and make her 
 Thy most peculiar care ! 
 All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
 The smile of love, the friendly tear. 
 
 The sympathetic glow ! 
 Long since, this world's thorny ways 
 Had number'd out my weary days. 
 
 Had it not been for you I 
 Fate still has blest me with a friend. 
 
 In every care and ill ; 
 And ofc a more endearing band, 
 A tie more tender still. 
 It lightens, it brightens 
 The tenebrific scene, 
 To meet with, and greet with 
 My Davie or my Jean ! 
 Oh, how that name inspires my style! 
 The words come skelpin', rank and tile, 
 
 Amaist before I ken ! 
 The ready measure riiis as fine 
 As I'hcebus and the famous Nine 
 
 Were glowriii' owre my pen. 
 My spaviet Pegasus wiU limp. 
 
 Till ance he's fairly het ; 
 And then he'll hilch, and stUt, and jimp^ 
 And rin an unco tit : 
 
 But lest then, the beast then 
 Should rue this hasty ride, 
 I'll light now, and dight now. 
 His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 
 
 51Jilirr55 1j tljp Dril. (6) 
 
 Oh Prince ! Oh cliicf of many throned pow'ra, 
 That led th' embattled seraphim to war. — 
 
 Milton. 
 On thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie^ 
 "Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie. 
 
 Closed under hatches, 
 Spairges about the brunstane cootie^ 
 
 To scaud poor wretches I 
 Hear me, auld Ilangie, for a wee. 
 And let poor damned bodies be ; 
 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 
 
 E'en to a deil, 
 To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me. 
 
 And hear us squeel 1 
 
1D4 
 
 P.URXS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Great is fliy pow'r, and great thy fame ; 
 Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
 And tha' you lowin' heugh's thy hame, 
 
 Thou travels far ; 
 And, faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame. 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur. 
 Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion. 
 For prey a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
 Whyleson the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', 
 
 Tirlin' the kirks ; 
 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin'. 
 
 Unseen thou lurks. 
 I've heard my reverend granny say. 
 In hmely glens ye like to stray ; 
 Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray. 
 
 Nod to the moon, 
 Ye fright the niglitly wand'rer's way 
 
 Wi' eldritch croon. 
 
 When twilight did my granny summon. 
 To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
 Aft yont the dyke she's heard youbummiu', 
 
 Wi' eerie drone ; 
 Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 
 
 Wi' heavy groan. 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
 The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
 Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 
 
 Ayont the lough ; 
 Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight 
 
 Wi' waving sough. 
 
 The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 
 When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaiek — quaick — 
 
 Amang the springs, 
 Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 
 
 On whistling wings. 
 
 Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags. 
 Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags. 
 They skim tlie muirs and dizzy crags, 
 
 Wi wicked speed ; 
 And in kirk-yards renew their leagues 
 
 Owre howkit dead. 
 
 Thence couiitra wives, wi' toil and pain. 
 May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
 For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 
 
 By witching skill ; 
 And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 
 
 As yell's the bdl. 
 
 When thow-es dissolve the snawy hooord. 
 And float the jinglin' icy boord, 
 Then water kelpies haunt the foord. 
 
 By your direction ; 
 And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd 
 
 To their destruction. 
 
 And aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
 Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 
 
 The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkiea 
 
 Delude his eyes, 
 TiU in some miry slough he sunk is, 
 
 Ne'er man: to rise. 
 
 Wien masons' mystic word and grip 
 In storms and tempests raise you up. 
 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 
 
 Or, strange to tell ! 
 The youngest brother ye wad whip 
 
 Alf straught to hell ! 
 
 Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard. 
 When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
 And all the soiU of love they shar'd. 
 
 The raptur'd hour. 
 Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward. 
 
 In shady bow'r (7) : 
 
 Then you, ye auld snec-dra^vulg dog I 
 
 Ye came to Paradise incog. 
 
 And played on man a cursed brogue^ 
 
 (Black be your fa !) 
 And gied the infant warld a shog, 
 
 'Maist ruin'd a'. 
 
 D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
 
 Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz. 
 Ye did present your smoutie phis 
 
 'Mang better folk, 
 And sklented on the man of Uza 
 
 Your spitefu' joke ? 
 
 And how ne gat him i' your thrall. 
 And brak him out o' house and hall, 
 Wlule scabs and botches did him gaU 
 
 Wi' bitter claw. 
 And lows'd his iU-tongued, wicked scawl. 
 
 Was warst ava ? 
 
 But a' your doings to rehearse. 
 Your wily snares and fetchin' fierce. 
 Sin' that day INIichael did you pierce, 
 
 Down to this time. 
 Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse, 
 
 In prose or rhyme. 
 
 And now, aidd Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', 
 A certain bardie's rantin', di-inkin'. 
 Some luckless hour w ill send him linkin' 
 
 To your black pit ; 
 But, faith 1 he'U turn a corner jinkin'. 
 
 And cheat you yet. 
 
 But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben 1 
 Oh wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 
 Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 
 
 Still hae a stake — 
 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
 •* Ev'n for your aake I 
 
NEW- YEAR MORNING SALUTATION. 
 
 105 
 
 (tlji; 5InI& /aimrr's Jdrni-f^rar Jllnrning 
 #alntatinit tn liis ijliilir Mm ffiaggip, 
 
 ON GIVING HER THB ACCUSTOMED niPP OF 
 CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
 Ilae, there's a ripp to thy aiUd baggie ; 
 Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, and knaggie, 
 
 I've seen the day 
 Thou could hae gaen Uke onie staggie 
 
 Out-owre the lay. 
 Tho' now thou's dowie, stifT, and crazy. 
 And thy a\dd hide's as white's a daisy, 
 I've seeu thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 
 
 A bonny gray : 
 He should been tight that daur't to raise thee 
 
 Ance in a day. 
 Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
 A filly, buirdly, steeve, and swank. 
 And set w eel down a shapely shank 
 
 As e'er tread yird ; 
 And coidd hae flown out-owre a stank. 
 
 Like ony bird. 
 It's now some nine-and-twenty year. 
 Sin' thou was my guid-father's mere ; 
 He gied me thee, o' tocher clear 
 
 And fifty mark ; 
 Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 
 
 And thou was stark. 
 When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
 Ye then was trottiu' wi' your minnie : 
 Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funnie. 
 
 Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
 But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cauuie. 
 
 And unco sonsie. 
 That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
 AMien ye bure hame my bonny bride : 
 And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 
 
 AVi' maiden air ! 
 Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 
 
 For sic a pair. 
 Tlio' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble. 
 And \»'intle like a saumont-coble. 
 That day ye was a jiuker noble. 
 
 For heels and win' ! 
 , Aud ran them till they a' did wauble. 
 
 Far, far beliiu' ! 
 When thou and I were young and skeigh. 
 And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
 How thou wad prance, and snore, aud skreigh 
 
 And tak the road ! 
 Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh. 
 
 And ca't thee mad. 
 When thou was corn't, and I was mellow. 
 We took the road aye like a swallow : 
 
 At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow 
 
 For pith and speed ; 
 But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
 
 ■\Vhare'er thou gaed. 
 Tlie sma' droop-rumpl't, hunter, cattle, 
 jMight aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
 But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle. 
 
 And gar't them whaizle : 
 Nae wliip nor spur, but just a wattle 
 
 O' saugh or hazle. 
 Thou was a noble fittie-lan'. 
 As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
 Aft thee and I, in audit hours' gaun. 
 
 In guid Jlarch weather, 
 Ilae turn'd sax rood beside our han' 
 
 For days thegither. 
 Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit; 
 But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 
 And spread abreed tliy well-fill'd brisket, 
 
 Wi' pith and pow'r. 
 Tin spritty knowes wad rair't and risket. 
 
 And slypet owre. 
 AVhen frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, 
 Aud tlirpaten'd labour back to keep, 
 I gied ihy c 'g a wee-bit heap 
 
 Aboon the timmer ; 
 I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 
 
 For that, or simmer. 
 In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
 The steyest brae tliou wad hae fac't it ; 
 Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit. 
 
 Then stood to blaw ; 
 But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 
 
 Thou suoov't awa. 
 My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
 Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
 Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa. 
 
 That thou hast nurst : 
 They drew me thretteen pund aud twa. 
 
 The vera warst. 
 JMonie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 
 And wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
 Aud monie an anxious day I thought 
 
 We wad be beat ! 
 Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
 
 Wi' something yet. 
 And think na, my auld trusty servan*. 
 That now perhaps thou's less desernn'. 
 And thy auld days may end in starvLu', 
 
 For my last fou, 
 A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
 
 Laid by for you. 
 We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
 We'U toyte about wi' ane anither; 
 Wi' teutie care I'll flit thy tether. 
 
 To some hain'd rig, 
 Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
 
 Wi' sma' fati'nie. 
 
106 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 Uallniiirai. (8) 
 
 Upon that night, when fairies light. 
 
 On Cassihs Downans (9) dance. 
 Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 
 
 On sprightly coursiers prance; 
 Or for Coleon the route is ta'en. 
 
 Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
 There, up the cove (lOj, to stray and rove 
 
 Amang the rocks and streams 
 To sport that night. 
 
 Amang the bonny, winding banks. 
 
 Where Doon rins, wimphu', clear, 
 \Vliere Bruce (11) ance rul'd the martial 
 ranks, 
 
 And shook his Carrick spear. 
 Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 
 
 Together did convene. 
 To burn tlieir nits, and pou their stocks. 
 
 And haud their Halloween 
 
 Fu' blythe that night. 
 The lasses feat, and cleanly ueat, 
 
 JIair braw than when tliey're fine ; 
 heir faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 
 
 Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' : 
 The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 
 
 Weel knotted on their garten. 
 Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs. 
 
 Gar lasses' hearts gang startiu' 
 Whiles fast at night. 
 Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail. 
 
 Their stocks (12j manna' besought ance; 
 They steek their een, and graip, and wale. 
 
 For niuckle anes and straught anes. 
 Poor hav'rel Will fell aff th - ilrift. 
 
 And wander'd thro' the bow-kail. 
 And pou't, for want o' better shift, 
 
 A runt was like a sow-tad, 
 
 Sae bow't that night. 
 Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. 
 
 They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
 The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 
 
 Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther : 
 And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 
 
 Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
 Syne coziely, aboon the door, 
 
 Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
 To lie that night. 
 The lasses straw frae 'mang them a' 
 
 To pou then: stalks o' corn (13) ; 
 But Kab slips out, and jinks about, 
 
 Beliint the muckle thorn : 
 He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 
 
 Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
 But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 
 
 When kuittliu' in the fuuse-house (14) 
 Wi' him that uight. 
 
 Tlie auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits (15) 
 
 Are round and round divided. 
 And mony lads' and lasses' fates 
 
 Are there that night decided : 
 Some kindle, couthie, side by side^ 
 
 And burn thegither trimly ; 
 Some start awa wi' saucy pride. 
 
 And jump out-owre the chimlie 
 Fu' high that night. 
 Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 
 
 Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
 But this is Jock, and this is me. 
 
 She says in to hersel' : 
 He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him. 
 
 As tliey waud never mair part ; 
 Tdl, fuff ! he started up the lum. 
 
 And Jean had e'en a sair heart 
 To see't that night. 
 Poor Willie, wi' his how-kail runt. 
 
 Was brunt wi' primsie !Mallie ; 
 And Alary, nae doubt, took the dnmt, 
 
 To be compared to ^^'iUie. 
 Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 
 
 And her ain fit it burnt it ; 
 While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, 
 
 'Twas just the way he wanted 
 To be that night. 
 Nell had the fause-house in her min,' 
 
 She pits hersel and Rob in ; 
 In loving bleeze they sweetly join,. 
 
 Till white in ase they're sobbiu'. 
 Nell's heart was danein' at the view. 
 
 She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
 Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou' 
 
 Fu' cozie in the neux for't. 
 Unseen that night. 
 But Merran sat behint their backs. 
 
 Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
 She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 
 
 And slips out by hersel' : 
 She through the yard the nearest taks. 
 
 And to the kiln she goes tlien, 
 And darklins graipit for the banks. 
 
 And in the blue-clue (16) throws then 
 Right fear't that night. 
 And aye she win't, and aye she aviat, 
 
 I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
 Till something held within the pat. 
 
 Quid L — d ! but she was quakin' I 
 But whether 'twas the dcil hnnsel. 
 
 Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
 Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 
 
 She did na wait on talkin' 
 
 To spier that night. 
 Wee Jenny to her gpranny says, 
 
 " Will ye go wi' me, granny ? 
 I'll eat the apple (17) at the glass, 
 
 1 gat frae uncle Johnny : " 
 
HALLOWEEN. 
 
 107 
 
 She fufTt her pipe wi' sic a lunt. 
 In MTath she was sae vap'ria', 
 She iiotic't na, aizle brunt 
 Her braw new worset apron 
 
 Out thro' that night. 
 "Ye little skelpie-limmer's face I 
 
 I daur you try sic sportin', 
 As seek the foul thief onie place. 
 For him to spae your fortune : 
 Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 
 
 Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
 For nionie a ane has gotten a fright. 
 And lived aud died deleeret. 
 On sic a night. 
 Ac hairst afore the Sherra-moor — 
 I mind't as well's yestreen, 
 was a gilpey, then I'm sure 
 I was na past fyfteen : 
 The simmer had been cauld and wat. 
 
 And stuff was unco' green ; 
 And aye a rantin' kirn we gat. 
 And just on Halloween 
 
 It fell that night. 
 Our stibble rig was Rab jNI'Graen, 
 
 A clever, sturdy fallow : 
 He's sin' gat Eppie Sim w* wean. 
 
 That lived in Achmacalla : 
 He gat hemp-seed (18), I mind it weel. 
 
 And he made unco light o't ; 
 But mony a day was by himsel', 
 He was sae sairly frighted 
 That very night." 
 Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 
 Aud he swoor by his conscience. 
 That he could sow hemp-seed a peck ; 
 
 For it was a' but nonsense. 
 The aulil guidman raught down the pock. 
 
 And out a handfu' gied him ; 
 Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 
 Sometime when nae ane see'd him. 
 And try'd that night. 
 He marches through amang the stacks, 
 
 Tho' he was something sturtin : 
 The graip he for a harrow taks. 
 
 And hauls at his curpin ; 
 And every now and ihen he says, 
 
 " Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
 And her that is to be my lass. 
 Come after me, and draw thee 
 As fast this night." 
 He whistl'd up Lord Leonox' march. 
 
 To keep his courage cheery ; 
 Altho' his hair began to arch. 
 He was sae fley'd and eerie : 
 Till presently he hears a squeak. 
 
 And then a grane and gruntle ; 
 He by his shouthcr gae a keek. 
 And tumbl'd wi' o wintle 
 
 Out-owre that night. 
 
 11 
 
 He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. 
 
 In dreadfu' desperation ! 
 And young and auld cam rinnin' out. 
 
 And hear the sad narration : 
 He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean !M'Craw, 
 
 Or croucliie Jlerran Huraphie, 
 Till, stop — she trotted through tliem a'— 
 
 And wha was it but grumphie 
 Asteer that night ! 
 
 j\Ieg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. 
 
 To win three wechts o' naething (19) ; 
 But for to meet the deil her lane. 
 
 She pat cut little faith in : 
 She gies tlie herd a pickle nit3. 
 
 And twa red-cheekit apples. 
 To watch, while for the barn she sets. 
 
 In hopes to see Tarn Kipplea 
 ■ That vera night. 
 She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. 
 
 And owre the threshold venturs; 
 But first on Sawny gies a ca', 
 
 Sjiie bauldly in she enters : 
 A ratton rattled up the wa'. 
 
 And she cried, " L — d, preserve her !* 
 And ran thro' midden hole and a', 
 
 Aud pray'd with zeal aud fervour, 
 Fu' fast that night. 
 
 They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 
 
 They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
 It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice (20), 
 
 Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
 He taks a surly auld moss oak 
 
 For some black, grousome carlin ; 
 And loot a winze, and drew a stroke. 
 
 Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 
 Aff's nieves that night. 
 A wanton widow Leezie was. 
 
 As canty as a kittlin ; 
 But, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 
 
 Slie got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
 She thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
 
 Aud owTe the hill gaed scrievin, 
 Where three lairds' lands met at a burn (21), 
 
 To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 
 Was bent that night. 
 Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 
 
 As through the glen it whimpl't ; 
 Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; 
 
 Whyles in a wicl it dimpl't ; 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly raya, 
 
 Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
 Whyles cooyit underneath the braea, 
 
 Below the spreading hazel. 
 Unseen that night. 
 Amang the brackens, on the brae, 
 
 Between her and the moon, 
 Tlie deil, or else an cutler quey. 
 
 Gat up and gae a croon : 
 
lOS 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Poor Leezy's heart maist lap the hool ; 
 
 Near lav'rock lieight she jumpit. 
 But mist a fit, and in the pool 
 
 Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 
 
 Wi' a plunge that night. 
 
 In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 
 
 The luggies three (22) are ranged, 
 ATid every time great care is ta'en. 
 
 To see them duly changed : 
 Auld uncle John, wha' wedlock's joys 
 
 Sin' Mars' year did desire. 
 Because he gat the toom-dish thrice^ 
 
 lie heav'd them on the fire 
 
 In wrath that night. 
 
 Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 
 
 I wat they did nae weary : 
 And unco tales, and funny jokes. 
 
 Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
 Till butter'd so'ns (23), wi' fragrant lunt. 
 
 Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
 Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 
 
 They parted aff careerin' 
 
 ru' blythe that night. (24) 
 
 Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are. 
 That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
 How shall your houseless heads and unfed 
 sides, [defend you 
 
 Your looped and windowed raggedness, 
 From seasons such as these?— Shakspeaee. 
 
 When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
 Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
 When Phoebus gies a short-lived glow'r 
 
 Far south the lift. 
 Dim-darkening thro' the flaky show'r. 
 
 Or whirling drift : 
 
 Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
 Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
 While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up- 
 choked. 
 
 Wild eddying swirl. 
 Or thro' the mining outlet hocked, 
 Down headlong hurl. 
 
 listening, the doors and winnocks 
 
 rattle, 
 1 thought me on the ourie cattle, 
 Or &iUy sheep, wha bide this brattle 
 
 O' winter war, [sprattle. 
 And through the drift, deep-lairing 
 
 Beneath a scaur. 
 
 nk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
 That in the merry months o' spring. 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
 AVhat comes o' thee ! 
 
 Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering 
 wing. 
 
 And close thy e'e ? 
 Ev'n yoxi on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
 Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
 The blood-stain'd roost and sheep-cot 
 spoil'd 
 
 My heart forgets. 
 While pitiless the tempest wild 
 Sore on you beats. 
 Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
 Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain ; 
 Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 
 
 Rose in my soul. 
 When on my ear this plaintive strain 
 Slow, solemn, stole : — 
 " Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust '. 
 And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
 Descend ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
 Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
 More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
 Vengeful malice unrepenting. 
 Than heaven-iUumiued man on brother man 
 bestows ! 
 See stern oppression's iron grip. 
 Or mad ambition's gory hand. 
 Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip 
 
 Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
 E'en in the peaceful rural vale. 
 Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 
 How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side, 
 "The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
 With all the servile wretches in the rear 
 Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; 
 And eyes the simple rustic hind. 
 Whose toil upholds the glittering 
 show, 
 A creature of another kind. 
 Some coarser substance, unrefined. 
 Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus 
 vile below. 
 Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe. 
 With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
 The powers you proudly own ? 
 Is there beneath Love's noble name^ 
 Can harbour dark the selfish aim. 
 
 To bless himself alone ! 
 Mark maiden innocence a prey 
 
 To love-pretending snares. 
 This boasted Honour turns away. 
 Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, [ers ! 
 Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray- 
 Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest. 
 She strains your infant to her joyless 
 breast, [rocking blast 1 
 
 And with a mother's fears shrinks at the 
 Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
 Feel not a want but what yourselves 
 create. 
 
EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. 
 
 109 
 
 Think for a moment on his wretched fate. 
 Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 
 Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call. 
 Stretched ou his straw he lays himself 
 to sleep, [wall. 
 
 While through the ragged roof and clunky 
 Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty 
 heap; 
 Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
 ^Miere guilt andpoor misfortune pine ! 
 Guilt, erring mau, relenting view ! 
 But shall thy legal rage piursue 
 The wretch, already crushed low 
 By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? 
 AflEliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
 A brother to reheve, how exquisite the 
 bhss ! " 
 I hear nae mair, for chanticleer 
 
 Shook off the poutheray snaw. 
 And hailed the morning with a chee — 
 
 A cottage-rousiug craw. 
 But deep this truth impressed my 
 mind — 
 Through all his works abroad, 
 Tlie heart benevolent and kind 
 The most resembles God. 
 
 (BpistlE h %. Xaprailt. 
 
 AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (25.) 
 
 April 1, 1785. 
 While briers and woodbines budding green, 
 And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en. 
 And morning poussie whiddin seen. 
 
 Inspire my muse. 
 This freedom in an unknown frien* 
 
 I pray excuse. 
 On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin'. 
 To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 
 And there was muckle fun and jokin'. 
 
 Ye need na' doubt ; 
 At length we had a hearty yokin' 
 
 At sang about. 
 There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
 Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
 That some kind husband had addrest 
 
 To some sweet wife : 
 It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
 
 A' to the life. 
 I've scarce heard ought described sae weel. 
 What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 
 Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 
 
 Or Beattie's wark ?" 
 They tauld me 'twas an odtl kind chiel 
 
 About Muirkirk. 
 It pat me fidgin-faiu to hear't. 
 And sae about him there I spier't. 
 
 Then a' that ken't him round dcclar'd 
 
 He had ingine. 
 That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
 
 It was sae fine. 
 Tliat, set hira to a pint of ale. 
 And either douce or merry tale. 
 Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel'. 
 
 Or witty catches, 
 'Tween Inverness and Teriotdale, 
 
 He had a few matches. 
 Tlien up I gat, and swoor an aith, 
 Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith. 
 Or die a cadger pownie's death 
 
 At some dyke back 
 A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 
 
 To hear your crack. 
 But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
 Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 I to the crambo-jingle fell ; 
 
 Tho' rude and rough. 
 Yet crooning to a body's sell, 
 
 Does weel eneugh. 
 I am nae poet, m a sense. 
 But just a rliymer, hke by chance. 
 And hae to learning nae pretence. 
 
 Yet, what the matter ! 
 'Wliene'er my muse does on me glance^ 
 
 I jingle at her. 
 Your critic folk may cock their nose. 
 And say, " How can you e'er propose. 
 You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 
 
 To mak a sang ? " 
 But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
 
 Ye're may be wrang. 
 What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
 Your Latin names for horns and stools; 
 If honest nature made you fools. 
 
 What sairs your grammars ? 
 Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 
 
 Or knappin-hammers. 
 A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
 Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
 They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 
 
 Plain truth to speak ; 
 And syne they think to climb Parnassus 
 
 By dint o' Greek ! 
 Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire 1 
 That's a' the learning I desire ; 
 Then tho' I drudge tliro' dub and mire 
 
 At pleugh or cart. 
 My muse, tho' hamely in attire. 
 
 May touch the heart. 
 Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 
 Or Fergusson's the baiild and slee, 
 Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 
 
 If I can hit it ! 
 That would be lear eneugh for me. 
 
 If I could get it 1 
 
110 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 
 
 Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
 Tho' real friends I believe are few. 
 Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 
 
 I'se no insist, 
 But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 
 
 I'm on your list. 
 
 I winna blaw about mysel ; 
 
 As ill I like my faults to tell ; 
 
 But friends and folk that wish me well. 
 
 They sometimes roose me ; 
 Tho' I maun own, as monie still 
 
 As far abuse me. 
 
 But Mauehline race (26), or Mauchline fair, 
 1 should be proud to meet you there ; 
 We'se gic ae night's discharge to care. 
 
 If we forgather. 
 And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 
 
 "VVi' ane anither. 
 
 The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. 
 And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
 Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter. 
 
 To cheer our lieart ; 
 And, faith, we'se be acquainted better 
 
 Before we part. 
 
 Awa ye selfish war'ly race, 
 
 Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, 
 
 Ev'n love aud friendship, should give place 
 
 To catch the plack ! 
 I dimia like to see your face. 
 
 Nor hear your crack. 
 
 But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
 Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. 
 Who hold your being on the terms, 
 
 " Each aid the others." 
 Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 
 
 My friends, my brothers ! 
 
 But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
 
 As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
 
 Twa lines frae you wad gar me rissle, 
 
 Who am, most fervent. 
 While I can either sing or whissle. 
 
 Your friend and servant. 
 
 2^n llii! §mt. 
 
 April 21, 1785. 
 
 While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake. 
 And pownies reek in plengh or braik. 
 This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 
 
 To own I'm debtor. 
 To honest-hearted, auld Jjapraik, 
 
 For his kind letter. 
 
 Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
 Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs. 
 Or dealing thro' amansr the uaigs 
 
 Their ten hours' bite. 
 My awkwart muse sair pleads and begs 
 
 I woidd 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 and mair, 
 That trouth, my head is grown right dizzier 
 
 And something sair." 
 
 Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 
 
 " Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jaj I 
 
 I'll write, aud 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'll neglect to shaw your parts. 
 
 And thank him kindly?" 
 Sae I gat paper in a blink. 
 And down gaed stumpie in the ink ; 
 Quoth I, " before I sleep a wink, 
 
 I vow I'll close it ; 
 And if ye winna mak it cUnk, 
 
 By Jove I'll prose it ! * 
 Sae I've begun to scra\vl, but whether 
 In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
 Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 
 
 Let time mak proof ; 
 But I shall scribble down some blether 
 
 Just clean aff-loof 
 My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 
 Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
 Come, kittle up your moorland-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' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
 But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 
 
 '\'\^i' lyart pow, 
 I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 
 
 As lang's I dow ! 
 Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
 I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 
 Still persecuted by the limmer 
 
 Frae year to year ; 
 But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 
 
 I, Rob, am here. 
 Do ye envy the city gent, 
 Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 
 Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent 
 
 And muckle wame. 
 In some bit brugh to represent 
 
 A bailie's name ? 
 
TO WILLIAM SflMPSON]. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Or is't the pauglity, feudal Thane, 
 AVi' ruffl'd sark aiul glancing cane, 
 Wha thinks hiuiscl nae sheep-shank bane. 
 
 But iurilly stalks. 
 While caps and bonnets all' are taen. 
 
 As by lie walks ? 
 Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift 1 
 Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
 Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 
 
 Thro' Scotland wide; 
 Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 
 
 lu 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. 
 When first the human race began, 
 " The social, friendly, honest man, 
 
 "Whate'er he be, 
 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 
 
 And none but he 1 " 
 Oh mandate glorious and divine ! 
 The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
 Poor thoughtless devils yet may shine 
 
 In glorious light. 
 While sordid sons o' jNIammon's line 
 
 Are dark as night. 
 Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl. 
 Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
 May in some future carcase howl. 
 
 The forest's fright ; 
 O' in some day-detesting owl 
 
 May shun the light. 
 Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
 To reach their native kindred skies, 
 And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys. 
 
 In some mild sphere. 
 Still closer knit in friendship's ties 
 
 Each passing year ! 
 
 ^n ll'illiam ?[iinji5nn], 
 
 aCIIILTREE. (27) 
 
 Mny, 1785, 
 X UAT your letter, winsome W^illie; 
 Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
 Tho' I maun say't, I wad he silly. 
 
 And unco vain. 
 Should I believe, my coaxiu' billie. 
 
 Your flalterin' strain. 
 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
 1 sudbe laith totliink ye liinted 
 Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 
 
 IV 
 
 On my poor Musie ; 
 Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye'vepenn'd it 
 
 I scarcely excuse ye. 
 My senses wad be in a creel. 
 Should I but dare a hope to sped, 
 Wi' Allan, or wi Gilbertfield, 
 
 The braes o' fame ; 
 Or Fergusson, the writer cliiel, 
 
 A deathless name. 
 
 (Oh Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
 
 111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 
 
 My curse upon your w hunstaue hearts. 
 
 Ye E'librugh gentry ; 
 The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 
 
 Wad stow'd his pantry !) 
 
 Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 
 
 Or lassies gie my heart a screed. 
 
 As whiles they're like to be my dead, 
 
 (Oh sad disease !) 
 I kittle up my rustic reed ; 
 
 It gies me ease. 
 Aiild Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain. 
 She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
 Chiels wha their chanters winnahaJn, 
 
 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 measur'd style ; 
 She lay like some unkeu'd-of-isle 
 
 Beside New Holland, 
 Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 
 
 Besouth iMagellan. 
 Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
 Gied Forth and Tay a bft aboou 
 Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 
 
 Owre Scotland rings. 
 While Irwin, Lugor, Ayr, and Boon, 
 
 NaeLody sings. 
 Til' missus. Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
 Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
 But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 
 
 And cock your crest. 
 We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 
 
 Up wi' the best ! 
 AVe'U sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
 Iler moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
 Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 
 
 Where glorious ■\^■allace 
 Aft bure the gree, as story tell, 
 
 Frae southron billies. 
 
 At AA'allare' name what Scottish blood 
 But boils up in spring-tide flood ' 
 Oft have our fearless fathers strode 
 
 By Wallace' side. 
 Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 
 
 Or glorious died ! 
 
itz 
 
 liUllNS'S rOETICAL ^'OlilvS. 
 
 Oh sweet are Coila's haii<;hs and woods, 
 When lintwhites chant aniang the buds, 
 Aud jinkin' hares, in amorous whids. 
 
 Their loves enjoy, 
 While thro' tlie braes tlie crushat croods 
 
 With wailfu' cry ! 
 
 Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
 WHien winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
 Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 
 
 Are hoary gray : 
 Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, 
 
 Dark'ning the day ! 
 
 Oh nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
 To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
 Whether the summer kindly warms, 
 
 Wi' life and 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. 
 
 And no think lang ; 
 Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder, 
 
 A heart-felt sang ! 
 
 The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
 Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive ; 
 Let me fair nature's face descrive. 
 
 And I, wi' pleasure. 
 Shall let the busy grumbling hive 
 
 Bum owre their treasure. 
 
 Fareweel, " my rlijTne-composing brither !" 
 We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
 Now let us lay our heads thegither, 
 
 lu love fraternal ; 
 May envy wallop in a tether. 
 
 Black fiend, infernal ! 
 
 While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes : 
 While moorlan' heads like guid fat braxies ; 
 While terra firma on her axis 
 
 Diurnal turns. 
 Count ou a friend, in faith and practice. 
 
 In Robert Burns. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 My memory's no worth a preen ; 
 I had amaist forgotten clean. 
 Ye bade me write you what they mean. 
 
 By this New Light, 
 "Bout which our herds sae aft hae beeu 
 
 Maist like to fight. 
 
 In days when mankind were but callans 
 
 At grammar, logic, and sic talents. 
 
 They took nae pains their speech to balance. 
 
 Or rules to gie. 
 But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallana. 
 
 Like yL)U or me. 
 
 In thae auld times, they thought the mooB, 
 Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
 Wore by degrees, till lier last roon 
 
 Uaed past their viewing. 
 And shortly after she was done, 
 
 They gat a new one. 
 
 This past for certain — undisputed ; 
 It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 
 Till chiels gat up and wad confute it. 
 
 And ca'd it wrang ; 
 And muckle din there was about it, 
 
 Baith loud aud lang. 
 
 Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk. 
 Wad threap auld folk the think misteuk; 
 For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk. 
 
 And out o' sight, 
 And backlins-comin', to the leuk 
 
 She grew mair bright. 
 
 This was denied — it was affirmed ; 
 
 The herds and hirsels were alarmed : 
 
 The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd and storm'd 
 
 That beardless laddies 
 Should tliiuk they better were inform 'd 
 
 Than their auld daddies. 
 
 Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
 
 Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks. 
 
 And mony a fallow gat his licks, 
 
 Wi' hearty crunt ; 
 And some, to learn them for their tricks, 
 
 Were haug'd and brunt. 
 
 This game was play'd in monie lands. 
 And Auld 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 cowe, 
 Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowe. 
 Till now amaist on every knowe, 
 
 Ye'll find ane plac'd; 
 And some their New-Light fair avow. 
 
 Just quite barefac'd. 
 
 Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin'j 
 Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin'; 
 Mysel' I've even seen them greetin' 
 
 Wi' girnin' spite, 
 To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 
 
 By word and write. 
 
 But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
 Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns 
 Are mind't in thinns they ca' balloons. 
 
 To tak a flight, 
 Aud stay ae month among the moons 
 
 Aud see them right. 
 
DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 
 
 113 
 
 Guid observation they ■will gie them ; 
 
 Ami when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e 
 
 llieni. 
 The hindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi'them. 
 
 Just i' their pouch, 
 And when the New Light billies see them, 
 
 1 think they'll crouch ! 
 
 Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
 
 Is naething but a " moonshine matter;" 
 
 But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 
 
 In logic tulzie, 
 I hope we bardies ken some better 
 
 Than mind sic brulzie. 
 
 Dratl; ani Dr. SJnrnlinak. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. (28) 
 
 Some hooks are lies frae end to end. 
 And some great lies were never penn'd ; 
 E'en ministers they hae been keiiu'd. 
 
 In holy rapture, 
 A rousing whid at times to vend. 
 
 And nail't wi' Scripture. 
 But this that I am gaun to tell, 
 Which lately on a night befell, 
 Is just as true's the dcil's in hell 
 
 Or Dubhn city : 
 Tliat e'er he ne nearer comes oursel 
 
 's a muckle pity. 
 The clachan yiU had made me canty— 
 I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 
 1 stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye 
 
 To free the ditches ; 
 And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenned aye 
 
 Frae ghaists and witches. 
 The rising moon began to glow'r 
 The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
 To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 
 
 I set mysel ; 
 But whether sha had three or four, 
 
 I could na tell. 
 I was come round about the hill. 
 And todliu' dov^Ti on Willie's mill (29), 
 Setting my staff wi' all my skill. 
 
 To keep me sicker ; 
 The' leeward whyles, against my wUl, 
 
 I took a bicker. 
 I there wi' something did forgather. 
 That put mc in an eerie switlier ; 
 An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shoutlier. 
 
 Clear-dangling, hang ; 
 A thrce-taed leister on the ither 
 
 Lay, large and lang. 
 Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
 The queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
 For fient a wamc it had ava ; 
 
 And then, its shanks. 
 They were as thin, as sharp and sma'. 
 
 As cheeks o' brauks. 
 "Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been 
 When other folk are busy sawin' ? " [m.i\vm'. 
 It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 
 
 But naething spak ; 
 At length says I, "Friend, whare j'e gaun. 
 
 Will ye go back ?" 
 It spake rigiit howe — " My name is Death, 
 But be na Hey'd." Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
 Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; 
 
 But tent me, billie — 
 I red ye w-eel, tak care o' skaith. 
 
 See, there's a guUy !" 
 "Guidman," quo'he, "put up your whittle, 
 I'm no designed to try its mettle; 
 But if I did, I wad be kittle 
 
 To be mislear'd ; 
 I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 
 
 Out-owre my beard." 
 " Weel, weel !" says I, "a bargain be't; 
 Come, gies your hand, and sae we're grce't; 
 We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat- 
 Come, gics your news ; 
 This while ye hae been mony a gate. 
 
 At mony a house." 
 " Ay, ay !" quo' he, and shook his head, 
 " It's e en a lang time indeed 
 Sin' I began to nick the thread. 
 
 And choke the breath : 
 Folk raatui do something for their bread, 
 
 And sae maun Death. 
 " Sax thousand years are near hand fled 
 Sin' I was to the butclung bred. 
 And mony a scheme in vain's been laicl. 
 
 To stap or scaur me ; 
 Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade. 
 
 And faith he'll waur me. 
 " Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 
 Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuclian ! 
 He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan(3((), 
 
 And ither chaps. 
 The weans hand out their lingers laughin'. 
 
 And pouk my hips. 
 "See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
 They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; 
 But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art 
 
 And cursed skill. 
 Has made them botli no worth a f — t; 
 
 Damn'd haet they'll kill. 
 
 " 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 
 
 I threw a noble throw at ane ; 
 
 Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 
 
 But deil-ma-care, 
 It just play' d dirl on the bane. 
 
 But did uae mair. 
 
114 
 
 BURKS' S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " Hombrook was by wi' ready art. 
 And liad sae fortified the part. 
 That when I looked to my dart, 
 
 It was sae blunt, 
 I'ient haet o't wad liae pierc'd the heart 
 
 Of a kail-runt. 
 
 "I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
 I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. 
 But yet the bauld apothecary 
 
 Withstood tlie shock ; 
 I might as weel hae tried a quarry 
 
 0' hard whin rock. 
 
 "And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
 Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
 A' kinds o' boxes, nmgs, and bottles. 
 
 He's sure to hae ; 
 Their Latin names as fast he rattles 
 
 As A B C. 
 
 "Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
 True sal-marinum o'the seas; 
 The farina of beans and peas. 
 
 He has't in plenty; 
 Aqua-fontis, what you please, 
 
 He can content ye. 
 
 " Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 
 
 Urinus spiritus of capons ; 
 
 Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 
 
 Distill'd per se ; 
 Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings. 
 
 And mony mae." 
 
 "Waesme for Johnny Ged's Hole (31) now,' 
 Quo' I ; "if that thae news be true, 
 His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 
 
 Sae white and bonny, 
 Nae doubt they'll rive it wi'the plew; 
 
 They'll ruin Johnny !" 
 
 The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
 And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
 Kirkyards 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 I kill'd ane a fair strae death. 
 By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
 This night I'm free to tak my aith. 
 
 That Hornbook's skill 
 Has clad a score i' their last claith. 
 
 By drap and pill. 
 
 "An honest wabster to his trade, 
 
 Wliase wife's twanieves were scarce well-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 taen the batts. 
 Or rome curmurring in his guts ; 
 His only son for Hornbook sets. 
 
 And pays him well — 
 The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets. 
 
 Was laird himsel. 
 
 " Tliat's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way} 
 Thus goes he on from day to day. 
 Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 
 
 An's weel paid for't; 
 Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 
 
 Wi' his curs'd dirt : 
 
 " But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
 Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
 I'll nail the self-conceited sot 
 
 As dead's a herrin' : 
 Neist time wc meet, I'll wad a groat. 
 
 He gets his fairin' ! " 
 
 But just as he began to tell, 
 
 Tlie aidd kirk-hanimer strak the bell 
 
 Some wee short hour ayont the twal. 
 
 Which rais'd us baith : 
 I took the way that pleas'd mysel'. 
 
 And sae did Death 
 
 Ijri 2Jalij /air. 
 
 A robe of seeming truth and trust 
 
 Hid crafty observation ; 
 And secret hunsr, with poison'd crust, 
 
 The dirk of Defamation : 
 A mask that like the gorget show'd, 
 
 Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
 And for a rnantle large and broad, 
 
 He wrapt him in Religion. 
 
 Hypocrisy a-la-mode. (11,) 
 
 Upon a simmer Sunday morn. 
 
 When Nature's face is fair, 
 I walked forth to view the corn. 
 
 And snuff the cauler air, 
 The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 
 
 Wi' glorious light was ghntin ' ; 
 Tlie hares were hirplin' down the furs. 
 
 The lav'rocks they were chantia' 
 Fu' sweet that day. 
 
 As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 
 
 To see a scene sae gay, 
 Tliree hizzies, early at the road. 
 
 Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
 Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. 
 
 But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
 The third, that gaed a-wee a-back. 
 
 Was in the fashion shining, 
 Fu' gay that day 
 
HAI,L')WF,P,N 
 
THE HOLY FAIR. 
 
 lU 
 
 The twa appcar'd like sisters twin. 
 
 In feature, form, and claes ; 
 Their visage wither'd, laiig, and thin. 
 
 And sour as ony slaes : 
 Tlie third cam up, liap-step-an'-lowp. 
 
 As hght as ony lambie. 
 And \\ i' a cnrchie low did stoop. 
 
 As soon as e'er she saw rae, 
 
 Fu' kind that day. 
 
 Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 
 
 I think ye seem to ken me ; 
 I'm sure I've seen that bonny fiice. 
 
 But yet I canna name ye." 
 Quo' she, and laughiu' as she spak. 
 
 And taks me by the hands, 
 "Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feek. 
 
 Of a' the ten commands 
 
 A screed some day. 
 
 "My name is Fun — your cronie dear. 
 
 The nearest friend ye hae; 
 And this is Superstition here. 
 
 And that's Hypocrisy. 
 I'm gaun to iMauchline holy fair. 
 
 To s]iend an hour in daffin' : 
 Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair. 
 
 We will get famous laughin' 
 
 At them this day." 
 
 Qucth I "With a' my heart, I'll do't; 
 
 I '11 get my Sunday's sark on, 
 And meet you on the holj' spot — 
 
 Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin ' ! " 
 Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time. 
 
 And soon I made me ready ; 
 For roads were clad, from side to side, 
 
 Wi' monie a wearie body* 
 
 in droves that day. 
 
 Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 
 
 Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
 Tliere, swankies young, in braw braid-claith. 
 
 Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
 Tlie lasses, skelpin" barefit, thrang, 
 
 In silks and scarlets glitter; 
 Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang. 
 
 And farls bak'd wi' butter, 
 
 Fu' crump that day. 
 
 When by the plate we set our nose, 
 
 Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
 A greedy glow'r black bonnet throws. 
 
 And we maun draw our tippence, 
 Tlien in we go to see tVie show ; 
 
 On ev'ry side they're gath'rin'. 
 Some carrying dails, some chairs, and stools. 
 
 And some are busy blcthriu' 
 
 Kight loud that day. 
 
 Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 
 And screen our country gentry. 
 
 There, racer, Jess (33), and twa-tliree wh-ret 
 
 Are bhnkin' at the entry. 
 Here sits a raw of tittlin' jauds, 
 
 V,'i' heaving breast and bare nech, 
 And there a batch o' wabster lads. 
 
 Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
 For fun this day. 
 
 Here sum are thinlcin' on their sina, 
 
 And some upo' their claes ; 
 Ane curses feet that fyi'd his sliina, 
 
 Anither sighs and prays : 
 On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 
 
 Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces; 
 On that a set o'chaps at watch, 
 
 Tlnrang winkin' on the lasses 
 To chairs that day. 
 
 Oh happy is that man and blest ! 
 
 (Xae wonder that it pride him !) 
 Wha's ain dear lass that he likes besf^ 
 
 Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
 Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 
 
 He sweetly does compose him ; 
 Which, by degrees, slips round her nech 
 
 Au's loof upon her bosom, 
 
 Unkeun'd that day. 
 
 Now a' the congregation o'er 
 
 Is silent expectation : 
 For Moodie speels the holy door, 
 
 Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion. (34) 
 Should Hcirnie, 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 
 \\'i' fright that day. 
 
 Hear how he clears the points o' faith 
 
 Wi rattlin' and wi' thurapin' ! 
 Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 
 
 He's starapiu' and he's jurapiu' ! 
 His lengthened chin, his turn'd-up suoui, 
 
 His eldritch squeal and gestures. 
 Oh, how they fire the heart devout. 
 
 Like cantharidian plasters, 
 On sic a day ! 
 
 But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice: 
 
 There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
 For a' the real judges rise. 
 
 They canna sit for anger. 
 Smith opens out his cauld harangues (35), 
 
 On practice and on morals ; 
 And aff the godly pour in thrangs. 
 
 To gie the jars and barrels 
 A lift that day. 
 
 Wliat signifies his barren shine. 
 
 Of moral powr's and reason ? 
 His English style and gesture fine 
 
 Are a' clean out o' season. 
 
lie 
 
 JJUKNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 Like Socrates or Antonine, 
 
 Or some auld pagan heathen. 
 The moral man lie does define. 
 
 But ne'er a word o' faith in 
 
 That's right that day. 
 In gnid time comes an antidote 
 
 Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
 For Peebles, frae the water-fit (3G), 
 
 Ascends the holy rostrum : 
 See, up he's got the word o' God, 
 
 And meek and mim has view'd it. 
 While Common Sense (37) has ta'en the 
 road, 
 
 And aff, and up the Cowgate (38), 
 Fast, fast, that day. 
 
 Wee iMiller (39) neist the guard reUevcs, 
 
 And orthodoxy raiblcs, 
 Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 
 
 And thinks it auld wives' fables; 
 Bnt, faith ! the birkie wants a mause. 
 
 So, cannily he hums them ; 
 Altho' his carnal wit and sense 
 
 Like hattlins-ways o'ercomes him 
 At times that day. 
 Now butt and ben the change-house fills, 
 
 Wi' yill-caiip commentators ; 
 Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 
 
 And there the piut-stoup clatters ; 
 While thick and thraug, and loud and 
 lang, 
 
 Wi' logic and wi' Scripture, 
 They raise a din, that, in the end. 
 
 Is like to breed a rupture 
 
 O' wrath that day. 
 Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 
 
 Tliau either school or college : 
 It kindles wit, it waiikens lair. 
 
 It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
 Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. 
 
 Or oiiy stronger potion. 
 It never fails, on drinking deep. 
 
 To piltle up our notion 
 
 By night or day. 
 
 The lads and lasses, blythely bent 
 
 To mind baith saul and body. 
 Sit round the table weel content. 
 
 And steer about the toddy. 
 On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk. 
 
 They're making observations ; 
 While some are cozie i' the neuk. 
 
 And formin' assignations 
 
 To meet some day. 
 But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts. 
 
 Till a' the hills are rairin'. 
 And echoes back return the shouts — 
 
 Black Russell (40) is na sparin' : 
 His piercing words, like Highlau' swords. 
 
 Divide the joints and marrow ; 
 
 His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell. 
 
 Our vera sauls does harrow (41) 
 
 Wi' fright that day. 
 
 A vast, nnbottom'd, boundless pit, 
 
 Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
 Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 
 
 AVad melt the hardest whun-stauel 
 The half asleep start up wi' fear. 
 
 And think they hear it roariu'. 
 When presently it does appear 
 
 'Twas bui some neebor snoria' 
 Asleep that day. 
 
 'Twad be owre long a tale, to tell 
 
 How nionie stories past. 
 And how they crowded to the yill 
 
 When they were a' dismist : 
 How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups^ 
 
 Amang the furras and benches : 
 And cheese and bread, frae women's lape^ 
 
 Was dealt about in lunches. 
 
 And dauds that day. 
 
 In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. 
 
 And sits down by the fire. 
 Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife j 
 
 The lasses they are shyer. 
 The auld guidraen, about the grace, 
 
 Frae side to side they bother. 
 Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 
 
 And gi'es them't like a tether, 
 Fa' lang that day. 
 
 Waesuck ! for him that gets nae Ias% 
 
 Or lasses that hae nathing ! 
 Sma' need has he to say a grace. 
 
 Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
 Oh wives be mindfu' ance yoursel 
 
 How bonny lads ye wanted. 
 
 And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. 
 
 Let lasses be affronted 
 
 On sic a day ! 
 
 Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow. 
 
 Begins to jow and croon ; 
 Some swagger hame the best they dow. 
 
 Some wait the afternoon. 
 At slaps the billies halt a blink. 
 
 Till lassess trip their shoon : 
 Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink. 
 
 They're a' in famous tune 
 
 For crack that day. 
 
 How monie hearts this day converts 
 
 O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
 Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaiiQ 
 
 A3 saft as ony flesh is. 
 Tliere' s some are fou o' love divine ; 
 
 There's some are fou' o' brandy; 
 And many jobs that day begin 
 
 May end in houghmagandy. 
 Some ither day. 
 
THE ORDINATION. 
 
 117 
 
 Cljt i\tiinatinii. 
 
 " For sense they little owe to frup-al Ilcav'n — 
 To please the mob they hide the little giv'n." 
 (42) 
 
 Kilmarnock wabsters fidge and claw. 
 
 And pour your creesliie nations ; 
 And ye wha leather rax and draw. 
 
 Of a' denominations, (43) 
 Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a'. 
 
 And there tak up your stations ; 
 Then afF to Begbie's (44) in a raw. 
 
 And pour divine libations. 
 
 For joy this day. 
 Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell, 
 
 Cam in v i' JIaggie Lauder (45) ; 
 But Oliphant aft made her yell. 
 
 And Russell sair misca'd her ; 
 This day M taks the flail, 
 
 And he's the boy will bland her ! 
 He'll clap a shangaa on her fail. 
 
 And set the bairns to daud her. 
 Wi' dirt this day. 
 Mak haste and turn king David owTe, 
 
 And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
 0' double verse come gie us four. 
 
 And skirl up the Bangor : 
 This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 
 
 Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 
 For Heresy is in her pow'r. 
 
 And gloriously she'll whang her 
 AVi' pith this day. 
 Come, let a proper text be read. 
 
 And touch it aif wi' vigour. 
 How graceless Ham (46) leugh at his dad. 
 
 Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
 Or Phiueas (47) drove the murdering blade, 
 
 AVi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
 Or Zipporah (48), the scauldiu' jad, 
 
 "Was like a bluidy tiger 
 
 I' th' inn that day. 
 Tliere, try his mettle on the creed. 
 
 And bind him down wi' caution, 
 That stipend is a carnal weed 
 
 He taks but for the fashion ; 
 And gie him o'er the flock, to feed. 
 
 And punish each transgression ; 
 Especial, rams that cross the breed, 
 
 Gie them sufficient threshin'. 
 
 Spare them nae day. 
 Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 
 
 And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
 Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale. 
 
 Because thy pasture's scanty; 
 For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 
 
 Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 
 And runts o' grace the pick and wale. 
 
 No g''en by way o' dainty. 
 But ilka day. 
 
 Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 
 
 To think upon our Zion ; 
 And hing our nddles up to sleep. 
 
 Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
 Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheap 
 
 And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 
 Oh, rare ! to see our clbucks wheep. 
 
 And a' like lamb-tails flyin' 
 
 Fu' fast this day ; 
 
 Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 
 
 Has shor'd the Kirk's uadoia'. 
 As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn. 
 
 Has proven to its ruin : 
 Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 
 
 He saw mischief was brewiu' ; 
 And like a godly elect bairn 
 
 He's wal'd us out a true ane. 
 
 And sound this day. 
 
 Now, Robertson (49), harangue nae mair 
 
 But steek your gab for ever : 
 Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 
 
 For there they'll think you cleverj 
 Or, nae reflection on your lear, 
 
 Ye may commence a shaver ; 
 Or to the Netherton (50) repair. 
 
 And turn a carpet-weaver 
 
 Aff-haud this day. 
 
 Mutrie (51) and you were just a match, 
 
 'W'e never had sic twa drones : 
 Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch. 
 
 Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
 And aye he catched the tither wretch. 
 
 To fry them in liis caudrons : 
 But now his honour maun detach, 
 
 Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons. 
 Fast, fast this day. 
 See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 
 
 She's swingein through the city; 
 Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she play3 1 
 
 I vow it's unco pretty : 
 Tliere, Learning, w iih his Greekish face^ 
 
 Grunts out some Latin ditty. 
 And Common Sense is gaun, she says. 
 
 To mak to Jamie Beattie (52) 
 Her plant this day. 
 But there's Morality himsel'. 
 
 Embracing all opinions ; 
 Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 
 
 Between his twa companions ; 
 See, how she peels the skin and fell. 
 
 As ane were peclin' onions ! 
 Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 
 
 And banish'd our dominions. 
 
 Henceforth this day. 
 Oh, happy day ! rcj(jice, rejoice 1 
 
 Come bouse about the porter ! 
 Jlorality's demure decoys 
 
 Shall here nae mair tind quarter : 
 
in 
 
 liURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 M , Russell, are the boys. 
 
 That Heresy can torture : 
 They 11 gie her on a rape a hoyse. 
 
 And covve her measure shorter 
 
 By th' head some day. 
 Come, brins: the tither mutchkin in. 
 
 And here's, for a conclusion, 
 To every New Light (53) mother's soil, 
 
 From this time forth. Confusion : 
 If niair they deave us wi' their din. 
 
 Or Patronage intrusion. 
 Well light a spunk, and every skia 
 
 We'll rin them aff in fusion. 
 Like oil some day. 
 
 Cn %mn ImitI;. (54) 
 
 " Friendship ! mysterious cement of tlie soul ! 
 Sweet'uer of life, and solder of society ! 
 1 owe thee much ! " — Blair. 
 
 Dear Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief, 
 That e'er attempted stealth or rief. 
 Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 
 
 Owre human hearts; 
 For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 
 
 Against your arts. 
 For me, I swear by sun and moou. 
 And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
 Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 
 
 Just gaun to see you ; 
 And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 
 
 Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 
 That auld capricious carlin. Nature, 
 To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
 She's turn'd you aff, a human Creature 
 
 On her first plan ; 
 And in her freaks, on every feature 
 
 She's wrote, the Man. 
 Just now I've ta'en the fit o' ryhme, 
 Jly 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 neighbour's name to lash ; 
 Some rhyme (vain thought) for needfu* 
 
 cash ; 
 Some rhyme to court the country clash. 
 
 And 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. 
 And damn'd my fortune to tlie groat ; 
 
 But in requit. 
 Has blest me wi' a random shot 
 
 O' countra wit. 
 
 This while my notion's ta'en a sklent. 
 To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
 But still the mair I'm that way bent. 
 
 Something cries " Hoolie ! 
 I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 
 
 Ye'll shaw your foUy. 
 
 There's itiier poets much your betters. 
 Far seen iu Greek, deep men o' letters, 
 Hae thought they had ensur'd theii 
 debtors 
 
 A' future ages ; 
 Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. 
 
 Their unknown pages." 
 
 Tlien farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
 To garland my poetic brows ! 
 Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 
 
 Are whistling thrang. 
 And teach the lanely heights and 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 and 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, 
 WHiere pleasure is the magic wand. 
 
 That, wielded right, 
 ilaks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 
 
 Dance by fu' light. 
 
 The magic wand then let us wield; 
 For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd. 
 See, crazy, weary, joyless eikl, 
 
 Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
 Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field, 
 
 Wi' creepin' pace. 
 
 ■\Vhen ance life's day draws near the 
 
 gloamin'. 
 Then fareweel vacant careless roarain' ; 
 And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 
 
 And social noise ; 
 And fareweel dear, deluding woman I 
 
 The joy of joys ! 
 
 Oh life ! how pleasant in thy morning. 
 Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
 Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning, 
 
 W^e frisk away. 
 Like school -boys, at th' expected warning, 
 
 To joy and play. 
 
THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 
 
 119 
 
 Wo >>. iuiiler there, we wander here. 
 We eye the rose upon the brier, 
 Unmindful that the thorn is near, 
 
 Among: the leaves ! 
 And tho' the puny wound appear. 
 
 Short while it grieves. 
 Some, lucky, find a (low'ry spot, 
 ! for which they never toil'd or swat ; 
 They drink the sweet and eat the fat. 
 
 But care or pain ; 
 And, haply, eye the barren hnt 
 
 With high disdain. 
 
 With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
 Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
 Thro' fair, thro' foul, tliey urge the race. 
 
 And seize the prey : 
 Tlien cannie, in some cozie place. 
 
 They close the day. 
 
 And others', like your humble servan', 
 Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
 To right or left, eternal swer\'iu', 
 j They zig-zag on ; 
 
 Till curst with age, obscure and starvin,' 
 They aften groan. 
 
 Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
 I But truce with peevish, poor complaining! 
 Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 
 E'en let her gang ! 
 Beneath what light she has remaining, 
 Let's sing our sang. 
 
 My pen I here fling to the door. 
 
 And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, 
 
 "Tho' I should wander terra o'er. 
 
 In all her climes, 
 Grant me but this, I ask no more, 
 
 Aye rowth o' rhymes. 
 
 Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
 Till icicles hing frae tiieir beards ; 
 Gie' tine braw claes to fine life guards, 
 
 And maids of honour I 
 And yill and whisky gie to cairds, 
 
 Until they scouuer. 
 
 A title, Dempster merits it ; 
 A garter gie to Willie Pitc ; 
 Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 
 
 In cent, per cent. 
 But give me real, sterliug wit. 
 
 And I'm content. 
 
 While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
 I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
 Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 
 
 Wi' cheerfu' face. 
 As lang's the muses diinia fijil 
 
 To say the grace." 
 
 An anxious e'c. I never throws 
 Behiut my lug or by my nose ; 
 
 I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 
 
 As weel's I may : 
 Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose^ 
 
 I rhyme away. 
 Oh ye douce folk, that live by rnli?. 
 Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
 Corapar'd wi' you — oh fool ! fool ! fool I 
 
 How much unlike ; 
 Yoiu: heart's are just a standing pool. 
 
 Your lives a dyke ! 
 Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces^ 
 In your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
 In arioso trills and graces 
 
 Ye never stray. 
 But gravissimo, solemn basses 
 
 Ye hum away. 
 Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wiso; 
 Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
 The hairum-scairum, rara-stam boys, 
 
 Tlie rattling squad : 
 I see you upward cast your eyes — 
 
 — Ye ken the road. 
 A^Tiilst I — but I shall baud me there — 
 Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
 Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 
 
 But quat my sang. 
 Content wi' you to mak a pair, 
 
 \Miare'er I gang. 
 
 Qilip Sallii Sopggars.— a (Cantata. (55) 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 When lyart leaves bestrew the yird. 
 Or wavering like the bauckie-bird. 
 
 Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
 AMien hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyta 
 And infant frosts begin to bite. 
 
 In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
 Ae night at e'en a merry core 
 
 O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
 In Poosie Nancy's held the splore. 
 To drink their orra duddies : 
 Wi" qualtiug and laugliing, 
 
 Tliey ranted and they sangj 
 Wi' jumping and thumping, 
 The vera girdle rang. 
 
 First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
 Ane sait weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. 
 
 And knapsack a' in order ; 
 ITis doxy lay within his arm, 
 Wi' usq\iel)ae and blankets warm — 
 
 She bliuket on her sodger : 
 And aye he gies the tozie drab 
 
 The tithor skelpin' kiss. 
 While she held up her greedy gab 
 
 Just like an aumos dish. tMi 
 
 12 
 
120 
 
 BURNS' S POETICAL 'WORKS. 
 
 Ilk sm;ick still, did crack still, 
 Just like a cadii-pr's whip, 
 
 Then staiTfjeriii^ and swaggering 
 He roared this ditty up. 
 
 Tune — Soldiers' Joy. 
 I am a son of Mars, who have been in many 
 
 wars, [come ; 
 
 And show my cuts and scars wherever I 
 This here was for a wench, aud that other in 
 
 a trench, [the drum. 
 
 Wlien welcoming the French at the sound of 
 
 Lai de daudle, &e. 
 My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 
 
 breath'd his last, [of Abram (57) ; 
 
 When the bloody die was cast on the heights 
 I served out my trade when the gallant game 
 
 was play'd, [sound of the drum. 
 
 And the Morro (58) low was laid at the 
 
 Lai, de daudle, &c. 
 I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 
 
 batt'ries (59), [limb ; 
 
 And there I left for witness an arm and a 
 Yet let my country need me, with Elliot (GO) 
 
 to head me, [drum. 
 
 I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a 
 
 Lai de daudle, &x. 
 And now the' I must beg with a wooden arm 
 
 and leg, [bum. 
 
 And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my 
 I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 
 
 my callet, 
 As when 1 us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, &c. 
 ■\VTiat tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 
 
 winter shocks, [a home, 
 
 Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for 
 When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 
 
 bottle tell, [a drum. 
 
 I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of 
 Lai de daudle, &c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 
 
 Aboon the chorus roar ; 
 While frighted rattons backward leuk. 
 
 And seek the benmost bore ; 
 A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 
 
 He skirl d out " Encore !" 
 But up arose the martial chuck. 
 
 And laid the loud uproar. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 ToNK — Soldier Laddie. 
 
 I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 
 And still my delight is in proper young men; 
 
 Some one of a troop of dragoons was my 
 
 daddie, 
 No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 
 The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 
 To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
 His leg was so tight, aud his cheek was so 
 
 ruddy. 
 Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
 But the godly old chaplain, left him in the 
 lurch, [church ; 
 
 The sword I forsook for the sake of the 
 He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body — 
 'Twas then I prov'd false to mv sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lal, denial, &c. 
 Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
 The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
 From the gilded spontoou to the fife I was 
 
 ready, 
 I asked no more but a sodger laddie 
 
 Sing, Lal, de lal, &c. 
 But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
 Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 
 His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy. 
 My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie. 
 
 Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
 And now I have liv'd — I know not how long 
 And still I can join in a cup and a song ; 
 But whilst with both hands I can hold tht 
 
 glass steady. 
 Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 Poor Men-y Andrew in the neuk. 
 
 Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; 
 They uiiiid't na wha the chorus teuk, 
 
 Between themselves they were sae busy ; 
 At length wi' drink and courting dizzy. 
 
 He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
 Then tnni'd, and laid a smack on Grizzle, 
 
 Syne tuned his pipes wi" grave grimace. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 TuNK — Auld Sir Sijmon. 
 Sir \^'^isdom's a fool when he's fou. 
 
 Sir Knave is a fool hi a session : 
 He's there but a 'in-entiee I trow. 
 
 But I am a fuol by profession. 
 My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
 
 And I held awa to the school; 
 I fear I my talent misteuk. 
 
 But what will ye hae of a fool ? 
 For drink I would venture my neck, 
 
 A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 
 But what could ye other expect. 
 
 Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 
 
THE JOLLY BEGGAES. 
 
 121 
 
 I ance was tied up like a stirk; 
 
 For civilly sweariujr and quatlin' ; 
 I ance was abiis'd in the kirk, 
 
 For toiizliiig a lass i' my daffiii. 
 
 Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport. 
 Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 
 
 Tliere's ev'n, I'm taiitrht, i' the court 
 A tumbler ca'd the premier. 
 
 Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
 jMaks faces to tickle the mob ; 
 
 lie rails at our mountebank squad — 
 It's rivalship just i' the job. 
 
 And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
 For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 
 
 The duel that's a fool for himscl', 
 Gude L — d ! he's far dafter than I. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
 ■\Vha keut fu' weel to cleek the sterling'. 
 For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
 And had in mony a well been ducked. 
 Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
 But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
 Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
 To wail her braw John Highlandman. 
 
 Tune — an ye were dead Guidman. 
 
 A HigUand lad my love was born. 
 The Lawland laws he held in scorn 
 But he still was faithfu' to his clan. 
 My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
 
 Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman! 
 Saig, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
 There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
 Was match for my Jolm Highlandman. 
 
 With his philabeg and tartan plaid, 
 And guid dajmore down by his side, 
 Tlie ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
 Jly gallant braw John Highlandman. 
 Slug, hey, &c. 
 
 We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
 And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
 For a I^awland face he feared none. 
 My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
 But ere the bud was on the tree, 
 Adown my checks the pearls ran. 
 Embracing my John Highlandman. 
 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last. 
 And bound lum in a dungeon fast : 
 
 My curse upon them every one, 
 
 They'ye hang'dmy braw John Highlandman. 
 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 A"d now a widow, I must mourn, 
 TKe pleasure's that will ne'er return ; 
 No (!o-ufort but a hearty can, 
 When I think on John Ilighhxndman. 
 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 A pigmy scra])er, wi' his fiddle, 
 
 Wlia us'd at trysts and fairs to ilnddle, 
 
 Her strappiu' limb, and gaiicy middle 
 
 (He reach d na higher) 
 Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle. 
 
 And blawu't on fire. 
 
 Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e 
 He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
 Then in an arioso key. 
 
 The wee Apollo 
 Set off wi' allegretto glee 
 
 His gisca solo. 
 
 Tune- 
 
 air. 
 -Whistle oe'r the lave o't. 
 
 Let me ryke up to dight that tear. 
 And go wi' me and be my dear. 
 And then you every care and fear 
 May whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 I am a fiddler to my trade. 
 And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. 
 The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
 Was whistle owre the lave o'c. 
 
 At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
 Au<l oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
 ^\'e'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
 Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 I am, (fee. 
 
 Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
 And sun oursells about the dyke. 
 And at our leisure, when ye like, 
 We'll whistle ow're the lave o't. 
 1 am, &c. 
 
 But bless me wi' your heav'n o' chamub 
 And while I kittle hair on thairras. 
 Hunger, cauld, and a sic harms. 
 May whistle ow're the lave o't. 
 I am, &c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 Her charms had struck a sturdy aafi. 
 
 As weel as jionr gut-scraper ; 
 He taks the fiddler by the beard. 
 
 And draws a roosty rapier — 
 
122 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 He swoor by a' was sw earing worth, 
 
 To speet him like a pliver. 
 Unless he wad 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 tho' 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- 
 
 AIU. 
 
 -Clout the Caudron. 
 
 My bonny lass, I work in brass, 
 
 A tinkler is my station : 
 I've travell'd round all Christian ground 
 
 In this my occupation : 
 I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroU'd 
 
 In many a noble squadron : 
 But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 
 
 To go and clout the caudron, 
 
 I've tae'n the gold, &c. 
 Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 
 
 Wi' a' his noise and caprin,' 
 And tak a share wi' those that bear 
 
 The budget and the apron. 
 And by that stoup, my faith and houp. 
 
 And by that dear Kilbagie (Gl), 
 If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 
 
 May I ne'er weet my craigie. 
 
 And by that stoup, &c. 
 
 EECITATIVO. 
 
 Tlie caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 
 
 In his embraces sunk. 
 Partly wi' love o'ercorae sae sair. 
 
 And partly she was drunk. 
 Sir Violino, with an air 
 
 That show'd a man of spunk, 
 Wish'd unison between the pair, 
 
 And made the bottle clunk 
 
 To their health that night. 
 But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft. 
 
 That play'd a dame a shavie. 
 The fiddler raked her fore and aft, 
 
 Ahint the chicken cavie. 
 Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 
 
 Tho' limping wi' the spavie. 
 He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 
 
 And shor'd them Dainty Davie • 
 O' boot that night 
 He was a care-defying blade 
 
 As ever Bacchus listed, 
 Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid. 
 
 His heart she ever miss'd it. 
 
 He had iiae wish but — to be glad. 
 Nor want but— when he thirsted; 
 
 He had nought but — to be sad, 
 And thus the JNIuse suggested 
 
 His sang that night. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Tv^B—For a' that, and a' that. 
 I am a bard of no regard, 
 
 Mi' gentle folks, and a' that : 
 But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, 
 
 Frae town to town I draw that. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 ^ And twice as muckle's a' that; 
 I've lost but ane, I've twa behin,' 
 I've wife eneugh for a' that. 
 I never drank the Muses' stank, 
 
 Castalia's burn and a' that ; 
 But there it streams, and richly reams. 
 My Hehcon I ca' that. 
 
 For a' that, &c. 
 Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
 
 Their humble sla<e, and a' that; 
 But lordly will, I hold it still 
 A mortal sin to thraw that. 
 For a' that, &c. 
 In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
 
 Wi' mutual love and a' that : 
 But for how lang the flee may stang. 
 Let inclination law that. 
 
 For a' that, &c. 
 Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 
 
 They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
 But clear your decks, and here s the sex 
 I like the jads for a' that. 
 CHORUS. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 And twice as muckle's a' that; 
 My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 
 They're welcome till't for a' that. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 So sang the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
 Shook with a wonder of applause. 
 
 Re-echo' d from each mouth : 
 They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd Wncir 
 
 duds. 
 They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. 
 
 To quench their lowin' drougth. 
 Then o«'re again, the jovial thrang. 
 
 The poet did request. 
 To loose his pack and wale a sang, 
 A ballad o' the best ; 
 He rising, rejoicing. 
 
 Between his twa Deborahs, 
 Looks round him, and found them 
 Impatient for the chorus. 
 
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURX. 
 
 123 
 
 TrNE — Jolhj Mortals, fill your Glasse$. 
 See ! the smoking' bowl before us, 
 
 Mark our jovial rag^ged ring ! 
 Round and round take up tiie chorus, 
 
 Aud ill raptiu'es let us slug. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 A fig for those by law protected ! 
 
 Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
 Courts for cowards were erected, 
 
 Chui-ches built to please the priest. 
 
 What is title? what is treasure? 
 
 What is reputation's care ? 
 If we lead a life of pleasure, 
 
 'Tis no matter how or where ! 
 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 With the ready trick and fable. 
 
 Round we wander all the day; 
 And at night in barn or stable. 
 
 Hug our doxies on the hay. 
 A fig, &c. 
 Does the train-attended carriage 
 
 Through the country lighter rove ? 
 Does the sober bed of marriage 
 
 Witness brighter scenes of love 1 
 A fig, &c 
 Life is all a variorum, 
 
 ^\ e regard not how it goes ; 
 Let them cant about decorum 
 
 Who have characters to lose. 
 A tig, &c. 
 Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 
 
 Here's to all the wandering train ! 
 Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 
 
 One and all cry out — Anieii I 
 
 A fig for those by law protected ! 
 
 Liberty's a glarious feast ! 
 Courts for cowards were erected. 
 
 Churches built to please the priest. 
 
 Bm raa5 5^Iak in aimirn. (62) 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 
 Made fields and forests bare. 
 One ev'ning, as I wandered forth 
 
 Along the banks of A>t, 
 I spied a man whose aged step 
 
 Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
 His face was furrow'd o'er with years. 
 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 " Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? " 
 
 Began the rev'rend sage : 
 "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 
 
 Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
 
 12 
 
 Or haply, prest with cares aud woes. 
 
 Too soon thou hast began 
 To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
 
 The miseries of man. 
 
 Tlie sun that overhangs yon moors. 
 
 Out-spreading far and wide, 
 Where hundreds labour to support 
 
 A hauglity lordling's pride : 
 I've seeu yon weary winter-sun 
 
 Twice forty times return. 
 And ev'ry time has added proofs 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 Oh man, while in thy early years. 
 
 How prodigal of time ! 
 Misspending all thy precious hours. 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime 1 
 Alternate folhes take the sway; 
 
 Licentious passions burn ; 
 Which tenfold force gives nature's law. 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prime, 
 
 Or manhood's active might ; 
 jNIan then is useful to his kind. 
 
 Supported is his right ; 
 Cut see him on the edge of life, 
 
 ^^'ith cares and sorrows worn ; 
 Then age and want — oh ! iU-match'd paiil- 
 
 Show mau was made to mouin. 
 
 A few seem favourites of fate. 
 
 In pleasure's lap carest ; 
 Yet, think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, oh ! what crowds in every land. 
 
 All wTetched and forlorn ! 
 Tliro' weary life this lesson learn — 
 
 That mau was made to mourn. 
 
 Many and sharp the num'rous ills 
 
 Inwoven witli our frame ! 
 More pointed still we make ourselves 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ; 
 And man, whose heaven-erected face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 Man's inhumanity to mau 
 
 Makes comitless tliousauds mourn ! 
 
 See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile, 
 "VMio begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn. 
 Unmindful, though a weeping wife 
 
 Aud helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 
 
 By Nature's law designed — 
 Why was an independent wish 
 
 E'er planted in my mind ? 
 
124 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 If not, why am I subject to 
 
 His cruelty or scorn ? 
 Or why has man the will and power 
 
 To make his fellow mourn ? 
 
 Vet, 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 ! 
 
 Oh Death ' the poor man's dearest friend- 
 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 
 
 Are laid w ith thee at rest ! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
 But, oh ! a blest relief to those 
 
 That weary-laden mourn ! " 
 
 ^a a SHniisr, 
 
 OJI TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 
 
 November 1785. (63.) 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin',tim'rous beastie. 
 Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
 
 AVi' bickering brattle ! 
 I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 
 
 AVi' murd'ring pattle ! 
 I'm truly sorrow man's dominion 
 Has broken nature's social union. 
 And justilies that ill opinion, 
 
 AA'hich makes thee startle 
 At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 
 
 And fellow-mortal! 
 I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
 What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
 A daimen icker in athrave 
 
 's a sma' request : 
 I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive. 
 
 And never miss't ! 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
 And uaething, now, to big a new ane, 
 
 O' foggage green 
 And bleak December's winds ensuin', 
 
 Baith snell and keen ! 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste. 
 And weary winter couiin' fast. 
 And cozie here, beneath the blast. 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
 
 Out thro' thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, 
 
 But house or hald. 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 
 
 And cranreuch cauldl 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
 In provnig foresight may be vain: 
 The best laid schemes o' mice and men. 
 
 Gang aft a-gley. 
 And lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 
 
 For promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I 
 The present only toucheth thee : 
 But, och ! I backward cast my e'e. 
 
 On prospects drear t 
 And forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess and fear. 
 
 DUAN FIRST. (64) 
 
 The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
 The curlers quat their roaring play (65), 
 And hunger'd maukiu ta'en her way 
 
 To kail-yards green, 
 Wliile faithless snavvs ilk step betray 
 
 Whare she has been. 
 
 The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
 The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
 And when the day had clos'd his e'e. 
 
 Far i' the west, 
 Ben i' the spence (6G), right pensivelie, 
 
 I gaed to rest. 
 
 There, lauely, by the ingle-cheek, 
 1 sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
 That till'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 
 
 The auld clay biggin' ; 
 And heard the restless rations squeak 
 
 About the riggin'. 
 
 All in this mottie, misty clime, 
 I backward nms'd on wasted time. 
 How I had spent my youthfu' primes 
 
 And done nae tluug. 
 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-sarkit, 
 
 Is a' th' amount. 
 
THE VISIOX. 
 
 125 
 
 I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof I 
 And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
 To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
 
 Or some rash aith, 
 That I hencefortli would be rhyme-proof 
 
 Till my last breath— 
 
 ■\Mien, click ! the string the snick did draw; 
 And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
 And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 
 
 Now bleezin' bright, 
 A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. 
 
 Come full \ji sight. 
 
 Ye reedna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
 The infant aith, half-forra'd, was crusht ; 
 I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been diisht 
 
 In some wild glen ; 
 When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 
 
 And stepped ben. 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
 Were twisted gracefu' round her lirows ; 
 I took her for some Scottish Muse, 
 
 By that same token. 
 And come to stop those reckless vows, 
 
 Wou'd soon been broken. 
 
 A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace " 
 Was strongly marked in her face ; 
 A wildjy-witty, rustic grace 
 
 Shone full upon her ; 
 Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 
 
 Beam'd keen with honour. 
 
 Down flow'd her robe a tartan sheen, 
 Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
 And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 
 
 Could only peer it ; 
 Sae thought, sae taper, tight and clean, 
 
 Kane else came near it. 
 
 Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 
 
 My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
 
 Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 
 
 A lustre grand ; 
 And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 
 
 A well-know i land. 
 Here, rivers in the sea wore lost ; 
 There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
 Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast 
 
 With surging foam 
 Tliere, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 
 
 The lordly dome. 
 Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; 
 There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
 Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 
 
 On to the shore. 
 And many a lesser torrent scuds, 
 
 '\\'ith seeming roar. 
 Low in a sandy valley spread. 
 An ancient borough rear'd her head (67) ; 
 
 Still, as in Scottish story read, 
 
 She boasts a race. 
 To ev'ry 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 nuise, some seem'd to dare^ 
 
 With feature stem, 
 
 My heart did glowing transport feel. 
 
 To see a race (G8> heroic wheel, 
 
 And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 
 
 In sturdy blows ; 
 While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 
 
 Their sutlu'on foes. 
 
 His Country's Saviour (G9), mark him welll 
 Bold Richardtou's (70) heroic swell ; 
 The chief on Sark (71) who glorious fell 
 
 In high command ; 
 And he whom ruthless fates expel 
 
 His native land. 
 
 Tliere, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade (72) 
 Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
 I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 
 
 In colours strong; 
 Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismayed 
 
 They strode along. 
 
 Tliro' many a wild romantic grove (73), 
 Near many a hcrmit-fancy'd cove 
 (Fit haunts for friendship or for love). 
 
 In musing mood. 
 An aged judge, I saw him rove. 
 
 Dispensing good. 
 
 With deep-stnick reverential awe (74), 
 The learned sire and son I saw (75), 
 To Nature's God and Nature's law 
 
 They gave their lore, 
 This, all its source and end to draw ; 
 
 That, to adore. 
 
 Brydone's brave ward (76) I well could spj 
 Beneath old Scotia's smihng eye ; 
 Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. 
 
 To hand him on, 
 Where many a patriot-name on high 
 
 And hero shone. 
 
 DUAN SECOND. 
 
 With musing-deep, astonish'd st5T^ 
 I view'd the hcav'nly-sceming fair ; 
 A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 
 
 Of kindred sweet, 
 Wlien with an elder sisters's air 
 
 She did me greet. 
 
126 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " All hail ! my owri inspired bard ! 
 In me thy native Muse regard ! 
 Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
 
 Tlius poorly low ! 
 I come to give thee such regard 
 
 As we bestow. 
 
 Know, the great genius of this land 
 Has many a light, aerial band. 
 Who, all beneath his high command. 
 
 Harmoniously, 
 As arts or arms they luiderstand. 
 
 Their labours ply. 
 
 They Scotia's race among them share; 
 Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
 Some raise the patriot on to bare 
 
 Corruption's heart : 
 Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
 
 The tuneful art. 
 
 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore^ 
 They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; 
 Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 
 
 They, sightless, stand. 
 To mend the honest patriot-lore. 
 
 And grace the hand. 
 
 And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
 Charm or instruct the future age. 
 They bind the wild, poetic rage 
 
 In energy. 
 Or point the inconclusive page 
 
 Full on the eye. 
 Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
 Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
 Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 
 
 His ' jMinstrel lays ; ' 
 Or tore, with nobler ardour stung. 
 
 The sceptic's bays. 
 To lower orders are assign'd 
 The humbler ranks of human-kind. 
 The rustic bard, the lalj'ring hind. 
 
 The artizan ; 
 All choose, as various tliey're inclin'd. 
 
 The various man. 
 When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
 The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein : 
 Some teach to meliorate tlie plain. 
 
 With tiDage-skill ; 
 And some instruct the shepherd-train, 
 
 Blythe o'er the hiU. 
 Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
 Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
 Some sooilie the lab'rer's weary toil. 
 
 For humble gains. 
 And mal' ^ his cottage-scenes beguile 
 
 His cares and pains. 
 Some, bounded to a district-space. 
 Explore at large man's infant race^ 
 
 To mark the embryotic trace 
 
 Of rustic bard ; 
 And careful note each op'ning grace, 
 
 A guide and guard. 
 Of these am I — Coila my name (77) ; 
 And this district as mine I claim. [fame. 
 Where once the Campbells (78), chiefs of 
 
 Held ruling pow'r : 
 I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 
 
 Thy natal hour. 
 With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
 Fond, on thy little early ways. 
 Thy rudely caroU'd, chiming phrase. 
 
 In uncouth rhymes, 
 Fir'd at the simple, artless lays. 
 
 Of other times. 
 I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
 Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
 Or when the north his fleecy store 
 
 Drove through the sky, 
 I saw grim nature's visage hoar 
 
 Struck thy young eye. 
 Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
 Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
 And joy and music pouring forth 
 
 In ev'ry grove, 
 I saw thee eye the general mirth 
 
 With boundless love. 
 'Wlicn ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
 Called forth the reaper's rustling nois^ 
 I saw thee leave their evening joys. 
 
 And lonely stalk, 
 To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
 
 In pensive walk. 
 'Wlien youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
 Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
 Those accents, grateful to thy tongne, 
 
 Th' adored Name, 
 I taught thee how to pour in song. 
 
 To soothe thy flame. 
 I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
 Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray. 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from Heaven. 
 I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
 The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
 Till now, o'er all my wide domains 
 
 Thy fame extends ; 
 And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 
 
 Become thy friends. 
 Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
 To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 
 
 With Shenstone's art ; 
 Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
 
 Warm on the heart. 
 
'HE JOLLY BEGGARS 
 
THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY. 
 
 127 
 
 Yet, all beneath the inirh'aU'd rose, 
 
 The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
 
 The' large the forest's monarch throws 
 
 His army shade, 
 Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
 
 Adown the glade. 
 Then never murmur nor repine ; 
 Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
 And, trust me, not Potosi's mine. 
 
 Nor king's regard, 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
 
 A rustic bard. 
 To give my counsels all in one — 
 Thy tuneful flame still carcfid fan; 
 Preserve the dignity of man, 
 
 \A'ith soul erect ; 
 And trust, the universal plan 
 
 Will all protect. 
 And wear thou this " — she solemn said. 
 And bound the holly round my head : 
 The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 And, hke a passing thought, she fled 
 
 In light away. 
 
 €\}t Mniljnr's £arnrst Crif anii ^ratjpr 
 
 TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (79) 
 
 " Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! 
 How art thou lost !" — Parody on Milton. 
 
 Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
 Wlia represent our brughs and shires. 
 And doucely manage our affairs 
 
 In parliament. 
 To you a simple Bardie's prayers 
 
 Are humbly sent. 
 Alas ! my roopit IMuse is hearse ! 
 Yoiur honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce' 
 To see her sittiu' on her a — 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 And scriecliin' out prosaic verse, 
 
 And like to brust ! 
 Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
 Scotland and me's in great affliction. 
 E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 
 
 On aqua vitje ; 
 And rouse them up to strong conviction. 
 
 And move their pity. 
 
 Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth (80), 
 
 The honest, open, naked truth : 
 
 Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth. 
 
 His servants humble : 
 The muckle devil blaw ye south. 
 
 If ye dissemble ! 
 
 Does ony great man glunch and gloom? 
 Speak out, and never fas your thoom ! 
 Let posts and pensions sink or soom 
 
 W' them wha grant 'era : 
 If honestly they canna come. 
 
 Far better want 'em. 
 
 In gathrin' votes you were na slack; 
 Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
 Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back. 
 
 And hum and haw ; 
 But raise your arm, and tell your crack 
 
 Before them a'. 
 
 Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle. 
 Her mutchkiu stoup as toom's a whissle; 
 And d-mn'd excisemen in a busslc. 
 
 Seizin' a stell. 
 Triumphant crushiu't like a mussel 
 
 Or lampit shell. 
 
 Then on the tither hand present her, 
 A blackguard smuggler, right behint her. 
 And cheek-for-chow, a chutlie vintner, 
 
 Colleaguing join. 
 Picking her pouch as bare as winter 
 
 Of a' kind coin. 
 
 Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
 But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
 To see his poor auld mither's pot 
 
 Thus dung in staves. 
 And plundered o' her hmdraost groat 
 
 By gallows knaves ? 
 
 Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight. 
 
 Trod i' the mire out o' sight ! 
 
 But could I like Jlontiromeries fight (81), 
 
 Or gab like Boswell {S'J), 
 There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 
 
 And tie some hose well. 
 
 God bless your honours, can ye see't. 
 The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet. 
 And no get warmly to your feet. 
 
 And gar them hear it. 
 And tell them, with a patriot heat. 
 
 Ye winna bear it ? 
 
 Some o' yoti nicely ken the laws. 
 To round the period and pause. 
 And wi' rhetoric clause on clause 
 
 To mak harangues ; 
 Tlien echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 
 
 Auld Scotland's wrangs. 
 
 Dempster (SS'i, a true blue Scotl'se warran', 
 Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran (84); 
 And that ghb-gabbet Higidand baron. 
 
 The Laird o' Graham (85) ; 
 Aud ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auidfarrau, 
 
 Dundas his name. (8G) 
 
' 
 
 128 
 
 BDRNS'S rOETlCAL WORKS. 
 
 Erskine (87), a spunkie Norland billie ; 
 True Campbells, Prederick (88) and Hay (89); 
 And Livingstone, the ba\ild Sir Willie ; 
 
 And monie ithers, 
 Whcm auld Demosthenes or TiiUy 
 
 May'n own for brithers. 
 See' sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented. 
 If bardies e'er are represented; 
 I ken if that your sword were wanted, 
 
 Ye'd lend a hand, 
 But when there's ought to say anent it, 
 
 Ye're at a stand. (90) 
 Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
 To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
 Or faith ! I'll wad my now pleugh-pettle. 
 
 Ye' 11 see't ere lang. 
 She'll teach you wi' a reekin' whittle, 
 
 Anither sang. 
 Tliis while she's been in crankus mood, 
 Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
 (Deil na they never mair do guid, 
 
 Play'd her that pliskie !) 
 And now she's like to run red-wud 
 
 About her whisky. 
 And L — d ! if auce they pit her tiU't, 
 Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
 And durk and pistol at her belt. 
 
 She'll tak the streets. 
 And rin her whittle to the hilt, 
 
 I' th' first she meets ! 
 For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair. 
 And straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
 And to the mvickle house repair, 
 
 Wi' instant speed. 
 And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear. 
 
 To get remead. 
 Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
 May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks ; 
 But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 
 
 E'en cowe the cadie ! 
 An send him to his dicing box 
 
 And sportin' lady. 
 Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's (91), 
 I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks (92), 
 And drink his health in auld Nanse Tin- 
 nock's (93) 
 
 Nine times a-week. 
 If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks (94), 
 
 Wad kindly seek. 
 Could he some commutation broach, 
 I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
 He'll need ua fear their foul reproach. 
 
 Nor erudition, 
 ion mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. 
 
 The Coalition. 
 
 Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; 
 She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
 
 And if she promise auld or young 
 
 To tak their part, 
 Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 
 
 She'U no desert. 
 
 And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
 i\Iay still your mither's heart support ye; 
 Then, though a minister grow dorty. 
 
 And kick your place, 
 Ye'll snap your fingers poor and hearty. 
 
 Before his face. 
 
 God bless your honours a' your days, 
 Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise. 
 In spite o' a' the thievish kaes. 
 
 That haunt St. Jamies I 
 Your humble Poet sings and prays. 
 
 While Rab his name is. 
 
 POSTCRIPT. 
 
 Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
 See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
 Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 
 
 But blythe and frisky. 
 See eyes her freeborn, martial boys 
 
 Tak alT their whisky. 
 
 WTiat tho' their Phcebus kinder warms, 
 While fragrance blooms and beauty cliarms! 
 When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. 
 
 The scented groves. 
 Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 
 
 In hungry droves. 
 
 Their gun's a burthen on their shoulther ; 
 They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
 Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 
 
 To Stan' or rin. 
 Till skelp — a shot — they're atf, a'throwther. 
 
 To save their skin. 
 But bring a Scotsman frae his hUl, 
 Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
 Say such is royal George's will. 
 
 And there's the foe, 
 lie has nae thought but how to kill 
 
 Twa at a blow. 
 Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him; 
 Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
 Wi' bluidy lian' a welcome gies him ; 
 
 And when he fa's. 
 His latest draught o' breathiu' lea's him 
 
 In faint huzzas ! 
 Sages their solemn een may steek. 
 And raise a philosophic reek. 
 And physically causes seek, 
 
 In clime and season ; 
 But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 
 
 I'll tell the reason. 
 Scotland, my auld, respected mitherl 
 The' whiles ye moistify your leather. 
 
SCOTCH DRINK. 
 
 12a 
 
 . .ii V i.iie ye sit, on craps 0' heather 
 Ye tine your dam ; 
 
 freedoui and whisky gang thegitlier ! — 
 Take atf your drain ! 
 
 Irnirl; Drink. 
 
 " Gie him strong drink, until he ■wink, 
 
 That's sinkin;j: in despair ; 
 And liquor t;ui(i to fire liis bluid, 
 That's prest w' grief and care ; 
 There let him house, and deep carouse, 
 
 Wi' bumpers flowiui? o'er, 
 Till he forgets his loves or debts. 
 And minds his griefs no more." (9.5.) 
 Solomon's Pkoverb, xxxi, G, 7. 
 
 Let other poets raise a fracas, 
 
 'Bout nncs, and wines, and dru'ken Bacchus, 
 
 And crabbit names and stories wrack us, 
 
 And grate our hig', 
 I sing the juice Scotch beer can mak us. 
 
 In glass or jug. 
 Oh thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink; 
 M'hether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink. 
 Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 
 
 In glorious faera. 
 Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 
 
 To sing thy name ! 
 Let hii^sky wheat the haughs adorn, 
 Ai d aits s^t up their awnie horn. 
 And i^tMs and beans, at e'en or morn. 
 
 Perfume the plain, 
 Leeze me on thee. John Barleycorn, 
 
 Thou king o' grain ! 
 On tliee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
 In souple scones, the wale 0' food! 
 Or tumbUn' in the boilin' flood 
 
 Vi'i' kail and beet ; 
 But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 
 
 Tliert thou shines chief. 
 Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
 Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
 AMien hea^•y dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 
 
 But, oil'd by thee. 
 The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin', 
 
 Wi' rattlin' glee. 
 
 Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: 
 Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
 Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 
 
 At's weary toil ; 
 Thou even brightens dark Despair 
 
 Wi' gloomy smile. 
 Aft clad in massy, siller v.eed, 
 Wi' geutlcs thou erects thy head (96) ; 
 Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 
 
 The poor man's Mine, 
 His wee drap panitch, or his bread. 
 
 Thou kitchens fine. (97) 
 
 Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
 
 But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 
 
 Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. 
 
 By thee inspir'd, 
 Wlien gaping they besiege tlie tents (98), 
 
 Are doubly fir'd. 
 
 That merry night we get the corn in. 
 Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in I 
 Or reekin' on a new-year morning 
 
 In cog or bicker. 
 And just a wee drap sp'ritual bum in. 
 
 And gusty sucker ! 
 
 Wlien Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
 And ])loughmen gather wi' their graith. 
 Oh rare! to see thee fizz and frealh 
 
 I' th' lugget caup ! 
 Then Burnewin comes on like death 
 
 At ev'ry chap. 
 
 Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ; 
 The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
 Brings hard owrehip, vd' sturdy wheel. 
 
 The strong forehammer. 
 Till block and studdie ring and reel 
 
 Wi' dinsome clamour. 
 
 When skirlin' weanies see the light. 
 Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
 How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ^ 
 
 Wae worth the name ! 
 Nae howdie gets a social night. 
 
 Or plack frae them. 
 
 AVlien neebors anger at a plea. 
 And just as wud as wud can be. 
 How easy can the barley-bree 
 
 Cement the quarrel I 
 Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 
 
 To taste the barrel. 
 
 Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
 To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
 But monie daily weet their weason 
 
 Wi' liquors nice. 
 And hardly, in a winter's season. 
 
 E'er spier her price. 
 
 Wae worth that brandy, burning trash f 
 Fell source o' monie a pain and brash ! 
 Twins monie a poor, doylt, druckcn hash, 
 
 O' half his days ; 
 And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
 
 To her warst faes. 
 
 Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
 Y'e chief, to you my tale I tell. 
 Poor plackless devils like nij-sel. 
 
 It sets you ill, 
 Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 
 
 Or foreign gill. 
 
 May gravels round his blather wrench. 
 And gouts torment nim inch by inch. 
 
13C 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Wha twists his gruntle wi' a gluuch 
 
 O' sour disdain. 
 Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 
 
 Wj' honest men ! 
 Oh whisky ! soul o' plays and pranks ! 
 Accept a IBardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
 When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
 
 Are my poor verses ! 
 Thou comes tliey rattle i' their ranks 
 
 At ither's a — ! 
 Thee, Ferintosh ! oh sadly lost! (99) 
 Scotland lament frae coast to coast 1 
 Now cohc grips, and barkin' hoast. 
 
 May kill us a' ; 
 For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast. 
 
 Is ta'en awa! 
 Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
 Wha mak the whisky stells their prize ! 
 Hand up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 
 
 There, seize the blinkers ! 
 And bake them up in brunstane pies 
 
 For poor d — nd drinkers, 
 Fortune ! if thou' 11 but gie me still 
 Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
 And rowth o' rhyme to rave at wUl, 
 
 Tak a' the rest. 
 And deal't about as thy blind skill 
 
 Directs thee best. 
 
 iiites In till! Ttnrn &mi, 
 
 OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 
 
 " My son, these maxims make a rule, 
 And lump them aye thesfither ; 
 The llif^id Ritrhteous is a fool, 
 
 The Rigid Wise anithcr ; 
 The cleanest corn that eer was dight 
 
 May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
 So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
 For random fits o' daffin." 
 
 Solomon— Eccles. vii, 16. 
 
 Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 
 
 Sae pious and sae holy, 
 Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
 Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. 
 
 Supplied wi' store o' water, 
 The heaped hap;;'er's ebbing still. 
 
 And still the clap plays clatter. 
 Hear me, ye venerable core. 
 
 As counsel for poor mortals. 
 That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 
 
 For glaiket FoUy's portals ; 
 I, for their thoughtless, cireless sakes. 
 
 Would here propone d fences. 
 Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 
 
 Their failings and miscliances. 
 
 Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd. 
 
 And shudder at the niffer. 
 But cast a moment's fair regard. 
 
 What maks the mighty ditfer ? 
 Discount w hat scant occasion gave 
 
 That purity ye pride in. 
 And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 
 
 Your better art o' hiding. 
 Tliink, when your castigated pulse 
 
 Gies now and then a wallop. 
 What ragings must his veins convulse. 
 
 That stm eternal gallop : 
 Wi' \vind and tide fair i' your tail. 
 
 Eight on ye scud your sea-way j 
 But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 
 
 It maks an unco lee-way. 
 See social life and glee sit down. 
 
 All joyous and unthinking. 
 Till, quite transmugrilied, they're grown 
 
 Debauchery and drinking : 
 Oh would tliey stay to calculate 
 
 Til' eternal consequences ; 
 Or your more dreaded hell to state, 
 
 I)-mnation of expenses ! 
 Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 
 
 Tied up in godly laces. 
 Before ye gie poor frailty names. 
 
 Suppose a change o' cases ; 
 A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 
 
 A treacherous inclination — 
 But, let me whisper i' your lug. 
 
 Ye' re aibUns nae temptation. 
 Then gently scan your brother man. 
 
 Still gentler sister woman ; 
 Though they may gang a kennin' wrang. 
 
 To step aside is human : 
 One pouit must still be greatly dark. 
 
 The moving why they do it : 
 And just as lamely can ye mark, 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 Wlio made the heart, 'tis He alone 
 
 Decidedly can try us. 
 He knows each chord — its various toiu^ 
 
 Each spring — its various bias : 
 Then at the balance let's be mute. 
 
 We never can adjust it ; 
 WTiat's done we partly may compute 
 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 ••An honest man's tlie noblest work of GodJ 
 Pope. 
 
 Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? 
 Or great M'Kinlay (100) thrawn his heel? 
 Or Kobertson (101) again grown wcel. 
 To preach and read ? 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 131 
 
 " Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel — 
 
 Tarn Samson's dead ! 
 Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grrane, 
 And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane, 
 And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 
 
 In mourning weed ; 
 To death, she's dearly paid the kane — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 The brethren o' the mystic level 
 May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
 Wilde by their nose the tears will revel. 
 
 Like ony head ; 
 Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 When winter muffles up his cloak. 
 And binds the mire like a rock ; 
 When to the lochs the curlers flock 
 
 Wi' gleesome speed, 
 \Mia will they station at the cock ? — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ? 
 He was the king o' a' the core. 
 To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
 Or up the rink like Jehu roar 
 
 In time o' need ; 
 But now he lags on death's hog-seore — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 Now safe the stately sav^Tnont sail, 
 And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, — 
 And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. 
 
 And geds for creed, 
 Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 
 
 Tam Samson dead ! 
 Elejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
 Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; 
 Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 
 
 Withouten dread; 
 Your mortal fae is now awa' — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 That woefu mourn be ever mourn'd 
 Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 
 While pointers round impatient burn'd, 
 
 Frae couples freed ; 
 But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 In vain auld age his body batters ; 
 In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
 In vain the burns cam' down like waters. 
 
 An acre braid ! 
 Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 OwTC many a weary hag he lirapit. 
 And aye the tither shot he thumpit. 
 Till coward death behind him jumpit, 
 
 Wi' deadly feide; 
 Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
 He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger. 
 
 But yet he drew the mortal trigger 
 
 Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
 " L — d, five ! " he cried, and owTe did 
 stagger — 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
 Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
 You auld grey stane, amang the heather, 
 
 iMarks out his head, 
 "\^'hare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 There now he lies, in lasting rest ; 
 Perhaps upon his mould'riug breast 
 Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 
 
 To hatch and breed ; 
 Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest !— 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 'VAHien August winds the heather wave. 
 And sportsmen wander by you grave. 
 Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 
 
 O' pouther and lead, 
 Till echoe answer frae her cave, 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
 Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
 He had twa fauts, or maybe three. 
 
 Yet what remead ? 
 Ae social, honest man want we : 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies. 
 Ye canting zealots spare him ! 
 
 If honest worth in heaven rise, 
 Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 
 
 PER CONTRA. 
 
 Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
 
 Thro' e the streets and neuks o' KilUe (102), 
 
 Tell ev'ry social, honest billy 
 
 To cease his grievin'. 
 For yet, uuskaith'd by death's gleg guUie, 
 
 Tam Samsou's hvin' (103) ! 
 
 Dpspnuirrnrq. 
 
 Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
 A burden more than 1 can bear, 
 
 I set me down and sigh ; 
 Oh life 1 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 thr</. 
 
 Too justly I may fear I 
 
 13 
 
132 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Still caring, despairing, 
 
 yiuit be my bitter doom; 
 My woes here shall close ne'er 
 But with the closing tomb I 
 Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
 Who, equal to the bustling strife, 
 
 No other view regard ! 
 Ev'n when the wished end's denied. 
 Yet while the busy means are plied. 
 
 They bring their own reward : 
 Whilst I, a hope-abandou'd wight. 
 
 Unfitted with an aim. 
 Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
 And joyless morn tlie same ; 
 You, bustling, ai;-i justling. 
 
 Forget each grief and pain; 
 I listless, yet restless. 
 Find every prospect vam. 
 How blest the solitary's lot, 
 Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot. 
 
 Within his humble cell. 
 The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
 Siis o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. 
 
 Beside his crystal well ! 
 Or haply to his ev'ning thought. 
 
 By unfrequented stream. 
 The ways of men are distant brought, 
 A faint collected dream ; 
 While praising and raising 
 
 His thoughts to heav'n on high. 
 As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
 He views the solemn sky. 
 Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
 Wliere never human footstep trac'd. 
 
 Less tit to play the part ; 
 The lucky moment to improve, 
 And just to stop, and just to move. 
 
 With self-respecting art : 
 But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys. 
 
 Which I too keenly taste. 
 The solitary can despise. 
 Can want, and yet be blest ! 
 He needs not, he heeds not. 
 
 Or human love or hate. 
 Whilst I here, must cry here 
 At perfidy ingrate I 
 Oh ! enviable, early days, 
 \^Tien dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze. 
 
 To care, to guilt unknown ! 
 How ill excliang'd 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 1 
 The losses, the crosses. 
 
 That active man engage 1 
 The fears all, the tears all. 
 Of dim declining age I 
 
 fjIE (fntlrr's latnrhij Sligljt. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKIN, ESO. (104^ 
 
 " Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor." 
 
 (105)-Gkat. 
 
 My loved, my honour'd, much respected 
 
 friend. 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
 
 With honest pride I scoru each selfish 
 
 end : [praise : 
 
 ]\Iy dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
 
 To you 1 sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
 
 The lowly tram in life's sequester'd 
 
 scene ; [ways ; 
 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless 
 
 What Aitken in a cottage would have 
 
 been; [there, I ween. 
 
 Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry 
 
 sough ; [close ; 
 
 The short'ning winter- day is near a 
 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the 
 
 pleugh ; [repose : 
 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
 
 This night his weekly mod is at an end. 
 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
 
 hoes, [spend. 
 
 Hoping the mom in ease and rest to 
 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
 
 hameward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view. 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee things toddhn, stacher 
 thro' [and glee. 
 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily. 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his tluiftie . 
 wifie's smile. 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
 Does a' liis weary Maugh and care 
 beguile, [his toil. 
 
 And makes him quite forget his labour and 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 
 At service out amang the farmers roun', 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some 
 tentie rin 
 A cannie errand to a neibor town ; 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
 grown, [e'e. 
 
 In youtlifu' bloom, love sparkhn' in her 
 Comes liame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
 gown. 
 Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hard- 
 ship be. 
 
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 133 
 
 With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters 
 meet, [spiers : 
 
 And each for other's weelfare kindly 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 
 fleet ; [hears ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
 years ; 
 Anticipation forward pomts the view, 
 Tlie mother, wi' her needle and her shears. 
 Gars aidd claes look amaist as weel's 
 the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their master's and their mistress's com- 
 mand. 
 The yoiinkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 And mind their laboiurs wi' an eydent 
 hand, [j'lay ; 
 
 And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 
 "And oh ! be smre to fear the Lord alway ! 
 And mind your duty, duly, morn and 
 night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye grang astray. 
 Implore His coimsel and assisting 
 might : Lord aright ! " 
 
 They never sought in vain that sought the 
 
 But, hark! a rap comes gently to the 
 door, [same, 
 
 Jenny wha kens the meaning o' the 
 Tells how a neibor 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, [name, 
 
 Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
 TMiile Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
 eel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae vrdd 
 worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 
 
 ben ; [e'e ; 
 
 A strappin youth ; he taks the mether's 
 
 Bhthe 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 lathefu', scarce can weel 
 
 behave ; [spy 
 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can 
 
 VThat makes the youth sae baslifu' an' 
 
 sae grave ; 
 
 Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected 
 
 like the lave. 
 
 Oh happy love ! — where love like this is 
 
 found ! [compare ! 
 
 Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond 
 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 
 And sage experience bids me this de- 
 clare — [spare, 
 " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasture 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender 
 
 tale, [the ev'ning gale." 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 
 
 A ^^ retch ! a villain ! lost to love and 
 
 truth !— 
 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's tmsuspecling 
 
 youth? [smooth! 
 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts! disserablnicj 
 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
 
 chdd? [traction wild ? 
 
 Then pauits the niin'd maid, and their dis- 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple 
 
 board, [food ; 
 
 The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 
 
 The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
 
 cood : [mood, 
 
 The dame brings forth, in complimental 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- 
 
 luck, fell. 
 
 And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; 
 
 The frugal wide, garridous, will tell. 
 How 'twas a towmond aiUd, sin' lint was 
 
 i' the bell. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 
 The sire turns o'er, witli patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; 
 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haff'ets wearing thin and bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
 glide, 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with 
 solemn air. 
 They chant their artless notes in simple 
 guise ; [aim : 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
 Perhaps Dundee's wUd-warbling measures 
 rise, [name. 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward 
 flame. 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are 
 tame ; [raise ; 
 
 The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator'i 
 praise. 
 
134 
 
 BUllNS'S POJiTICAL WOEKS. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred 
 page — [high ; 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God ou 
 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
 ire; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
 theme — (shed ; 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
 name, [iiead : 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his 
 How his first followers and servants sped. 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
 land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
 by Heaven's command. 
 
 Then kneeling down to Heaven's eter- 
 nal King, [prays: 
 The saint, the father, and the husband 
 Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
 wing," (106) [days: 
 That thus they all shall meet in futui'e 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 'While circling time moves round in an eter- 
 nal sphere. 
 Corapar'd with this, how poor Keligion's 
 pride, 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
 When men display to congregations wide. 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
 The pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will de- 
 sert. 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
 But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 May hear, well pleas'd, the language of 
 the soul ; [enrol. 
 
 And in his book of life the inmates poor 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
 way; 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent pair their secret homage pay. 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
 quest, [nest, 
 Tliat He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the 
 best. 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide .: 
 But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
 preside. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's gran- 
 deur springs, [abroad : 
 ITiat makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of 
 kings, [God ! " 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
 
 What is a lordhng's pomp ? — a cumbrous 
 
 load, [kind 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human 
 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refia'd! 
 
 Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
 is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and 
 sweet content ! [prevent 
 
 And oh ! may Heaven their simple lives 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Tlien, howe'er crowns and coronets be 
 rent, 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
 lov'd isle. 
 
 Oh Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 That stream'd through Wallace's un- 
 daunted heart, 
 Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
 Or nobly die the second glorious part, 
 (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
 ward !) 
 Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
 But still the patriot, and the patriot 
 bard, [guard ! 
 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
 
 t!tn a 3ilnitntaiii Daisi|. 
 
 IN TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
 PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. (107) 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush an»ang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem : 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet. 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet. 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy \veet I 
 
 Wi' speckl'd breast, 
 When up-ward-springing, blythe, to greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 135 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-bitiii<; north 
 Upon thy early, h\irable birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thovi srlinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce rear'd abo\ c the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flauininf; flowers our g-ardens yield. 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
 But ihou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane. 
 Adorn the histie stibble-field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. 
 Thou Ufts thy unassuming- head, 
 
 In humble gaiise ; 
 But now the share nptears thy bed 
 
 And low thou lies I 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid. 
 Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
 By love's simplicity betray'd. 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard. 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
 AVho long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To mis'ry's brink. 
 Till WTench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Ruhi's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom. 
 
 Epistle Id a f^niing /ripnk 
 
 M.\Y, 1796. (108) 
 
 I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
 
 A something to have sent you. 
 Though it should serve nae other end 
 
 Thau just a kind momento ; 
 But how the subject-theme may gang. 
 
 Let time and chance determine ; 
 Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 
 Perhaps turn out a sermon. 
 
 13 
 
 Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad. 
 
 And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
 Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 
 
 And muckle they may grieve ye : 
 For care and trouble set your thought, 
 
 Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
 And a' your views may come to nought. 
 
 Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 
 
 I'll no say men are villains a' : 
 The real, hardcn'd wicked, 
 i Wha hae nae check but human law, 
 1 Are to a few restricked 
 ' But, och ! mankind are unco weak. 
 And httle to be trusted ; 
 If self the wavering balance shake. 
 It's rarely right adjusted! 
 
 Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 
 
 Their fate we should na censure. 
 For still th' important end of life, 
 
 Tliey equally may answer ; 
 A man may hae an honest heart, 
 
 Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
 A man may tak a neibor's part. 
 
 Yet hae no cash to spare him. 
 
 Aye free, aff han, your story tell. 
 
 When wi' a bosom crony ; 
 But still keep something to yoursel 
 
 Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
 Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 
 
 Frae critical dissection ; 
 But keek through ev'ry other man, 
 
 Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 
 
 The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love. 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
 But never tempt th' illicit rove, 
 
 Tho' naething should dinJge it : 
 I waive the quantum o' the sin. 
 
 The hazard of concealing ; 
 But, och ! it hardens a' within. 
 
 And petrifies the feeling ! 
 
 To catch dame Fortune's golden smiley 
 
 Assiduous wait upon her ; 
 And gather gear by ev'ry wile 
 
 That's justified by honour; 
 Not for to hide it in a hedge. 
 
 Nor for a train-attendant. 
 But for the glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent. 
 
 The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 
 
 To baud the wretch in order ; 
 But where ye feel your honour grip. 
 
 Let that aye be your border : 
 Its slightest touches, instaut pause — 
 
 Debar a' side pretences ; 
 And resolutely keeps its laws. 
 
 Uncaring consequences. 
 * 
 
133 
 
 BURNS' S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 nie great Creator to revere 
 
 j\lust sure become the creature. 
 But still the preachitig can forbear, 
 
 And e'en the rigid feature : 
 Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 
 
 Be complaisance extended ; 
 An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 
 
 For Deity offended ! 
 
 When rantins; round in pleasure's ring, 
 
 Religion may be blinded ; 
 Or if she gie a random sting. 
 
 It may be little minded ; 
 But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 
 
 A conscience but a canker, 
 A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 
 
 Is sure a noble anchor ! 
 
 A.dieu ! 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 ! 
 
 £ DrJiiratinn in §mii iamiltnn, fsii. 
 
 (109) 
 
 Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
 A fleeching, fleth'rin dedication, 
 To roose you up, and ca' you guid. 
 And sprung o' great and noble bluid. 
 Because ye're surnam'd like his grace ; 
 Perhaps related to the race ; 
 Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are j^e, 
 Wi' mony a fidsome, sinfu' he, 
 Set up a face, how I stop short. 
 For fear your modesty be hi\rt. 
 
 This may do — maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
 Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
 For me ! — sae laigh I needna bow. 
 For, lord be thankit, 1 can plough ; 
 And when I downa yoke a naig. 
 Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
 Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin'. 
 It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
 The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
 Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. 
 He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
 But only he's no just begun yet. 
 
 The Patron (sir, ye maun forgive me, 
 I winna lie, come what wdl o' me). 
 On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. 
 He's just — nae better than he should be. 
 
 I readily and freely grant. 
 He downa see a poor man want ; 
 What's no his aim he winna tak it. 
 What ance he says he winna break it ; 
 Ought he can lend he'll no refus't 
 Till aft his goodness is abus'd ; 
 And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
 Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
 As master, landlord, husband, father. 
 He does na fail his part in either. 
 
 But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; 
 Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
 It's naething but a milder feature. 
 Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : 
 Ye'U get the best o' moral works, 
 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
 Or hunter's wild on Ponotaxi, 
 ^Vha never heard of orthodoxy. 
 That he's 'the poor man's friend in need, 
 Tlie gentleman in word and deed, / 
 It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tiou ; 
 It's just a carnal inclination. 
 
 Morality, thou deadly bane. 
 Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
 Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
 In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 
 
 No — stretch a point to catch a plack j 
 Abuse a brother to his back ; 
 Seal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. 
 But point the rake that taks the door; 
 Be to the poor like ony whunstane. 
 And baud their noses to the grunstane. 
 Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving 1 
 No matter — stick to sound believing ! 
 
 Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile 
 
 graces, 
 Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 
 Grunt up a solemn, lengtlien'd groan. 
 And damn a' parties but your own ; 
 I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
 A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 
 
 Oh ye wha leaves the springs o' Calvin, 
 
 For gumlie dubs of your .im delviu' ! 
 
 Ye sons of heresy and error, 
 
 Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror 
 
 V\ hen Vengeance draws tlie sword in wrath. 
 
 And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
 
 When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
 
 Just frets, till heav'n conmiissiou 
 
 him : 
 While o'er the harp pale IMis'ry moans. 
 And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 
 Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans I 
 
 Your pardon. Sir, for tliis digression, 
 I maist forgat my dedication ; 
 But when divinity comes cross me. 
 My readers still are sure to loss me. 
 
 gies 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 137 
 
 So, Sir, }-e see 'twas nae daft ^ npour. 
 But 1 maturely thouglit it i^diicr, 
 Wlieii a' my woaks 1 did review. 
 To dedicate them. Sir, to you : 
 Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
 I thought them something Uk yoursel. 
 
 Then patronise them wi' your favour. 
 
 And your petitioner sliall ever 
 
 I had amaist said, ever pray, 
 ■ But that's a word I need ua say : 
 For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
 I'm baith dead swcor, and 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 growling bark. 
 Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ! 
 May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
 For that same gen'rous spirit siuart! 
 Miiy Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
 Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
 Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
 Are by their canty tireside risen : 
 Five bounie lasses round their table. 
 And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
 To serve their king and country wcel. 
 By word, or pen, or pointed steel I 
 May health and peace, with mutual rays. 
 Shine on the ev'ning o' his days. 
 Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. 
 When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
 The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 
 
 T will 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, humljle servant. 
 But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 
 That iron- hearted carl, AVant, 
 
 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 lieav'a I 
 "Wliile recollection's power 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 baud — my friend aud bro- 
 ter. 
 
 <J Drram. 
 
 " 'J'houtjhts, -words, and deeds, the statute 
 
 b.ame'^ with reason : [treason." (110) 
 
 But surely dreams were ne'er indicted 
 
 Gi'id-mornin' to your Majesty ! 
 'May Heaven augment your blisses. 
 
 On e\ 'ry new birth day ye see, 
 A humble poet wishes I 
 j\Ty hardship here, at your levee^ 
 
 On SIC a day as thi-* is. 
 Is sure a:i inicniith sight to see, 
 
 Amang tUue birth-day dresses 
 Sae line this day. 
 I see ye're complimented thrang, 
 
 By many a linl an<l lady; 
 " Gud save the king ! " 's a cuckoo sang 
 
 That's unco easy said aye ; 
 The poets, too, a venal gang, 
 
 \> i" rhymes weel-turn'd and ready. 
 Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrau^ 
 
 But aye unerring steady. 
 On sic a day. 
 For me ! before a monarch's face, 
 
 Ev'ii there I wiuna flatter; 
 For neither pension, post, nor plac^ 
 
 Am i your humble ilebtor : 
 So, uae reflection on your grace. 
 
 Your kingship to bespatter ; 
 There's mouy waur been o" the rac^ 
 
 Aud aibhus ane been better 
 
 Than you this day. 
 "lis very true, my sov'reign king. 
 
 My skill may weel be doubted: 
 But facts are chicls that wiiuia ding. 
 
 And downa be disputed : 
 Your royal nest, beneath your wing. 
 
 Is e'en right reft and clouted. 
 And now tlie third part of the strings 
 
 And less, will gang about it 
 Thaii did ae day. 
 Far be't frae me that I aspire 
 
 To blame your It-gislation, 
 Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 
 
 To rule this mighty nation ! 
 But faith I I muckle doubt, my sir^ 
 
 Ye've trusted miuistratiun 
 To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 
 
 AVad better lill'd their station 
 
 Than courts yon day. 
 And now ye've gien aidd Britain peace; 
 
 Iler broken shins to plaister ; 
 Your sair taxation does her fleece. 
 
 Till she has s<"jrce 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. 
 
138 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 
 
 When taxes he enlarges, 
 (And Will's a trne guid fallow's get (111) 
 
 A name not envy spairges). 
 That he intends to pay your debt. 
 
 And lessen a' your charges ; 
 But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 
 
 Abridge your bonnie barges (112) 
 And boats this day. 
 
 Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek 
 
 Beneath your high protection ; 
 And may ye rax corruption's neck, 
 
 And gie her for dissection ! 
 But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 
 
 In loyal, true affection. 
 To pay your Q,neen, with due respect. 
 
 My fealty and subjection 
 
 This great birth-day. 
 Hail, Majesty Most E.\cellent! 
 
 \Miile nobles strive to please ye, 
 AVill ye accept a compliment 
 
 A simple poet gies you ? 
 Thae bonnie bairntime, Ileav'n has lent. 
 
 Still higher may they heeze ye 
 In' bliss, till fate some day is sent, 
 
 For ever to release ye 
 
 Frae care that day. 
 For you, young potentate o' Wales, 
 
 I tell your Highness fairly, 
 Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 
 
 I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
 But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 
 
 And curse your folly sairlj', 
 That e'er ye brak Diana's pales. 
 
 Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie (113), 
 By night or day. 
 Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 
 
 To mak a noble aiver ; 
 So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 
 
 For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
 There, him at Agincourt wha shone. 
 
 Few better were or braver ; 
 And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 
 
 He was an unco shaver 
 
 For monie a day (114.) 
 For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg (115), 
 
 Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
 Altho' a ribbon at your lug. 
 
 Wad been a dress completer : 
 As ye disown yon paughty dog 
 
 That bears the keys of Peter, 
 Then, swith ! and get awife to hug. 
 
 Or, trouth ! ye'U stain the mitre. 
 Some luckless day. 
 Young, royal Tarry Brocks (116), I learn, 
 
 Ye've lately come athrawt her; 
 A glorious galley (117), stem and stern, 
 
 Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 
 
 But first hang out, that she'll discern 
 
 Your hymeneal charter. 
 Then heave aboard your grapple aim. 
 
 And, large upon her quarter. 
 
 Come full that day. 
 
 Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'. 
 
 Ye royal lasses dainty, 
 Heav'n mak ye guid as well as braw. 
 
 And gie you lads a-plenty : 
 But sneer na British boys awa'. 
 
 For kings are unco scant eye; 
 And German gentles are but sma'. 
 
 They're better just than want aye 
 On onie day. 
 
 God bless you a' ! consider now, 
 
 Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
 But ere the course o' hfe be thro'. 
 
 It may be bitter sautet : 
 And I hae seen their coggie fou. 
 
 That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
 But or the day was done, I trow. 
 
 The luggen they hae clautet 
 
 Fu' clean that day. 
 
 i SarD's drpitajiti. 
 
 Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
 
 Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
 
 Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool. 
 
 Let him draw near ; 
 And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 
 
 And drap a tear. 
 Is there a bard of rustic song. 
 Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 
 That weekly this area throng. 
 
 Oh, pass not by ! 
 But, with a frater-feeling strong. 
 
 Here, heave a sigh. 
 Is there a man, whose judgment clear. 
 Can others teach the course to steer. 
 Yet rims, himself, life's mad career. 
 
 Wild as the wave ; 
 Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 
 
 Survey this grave. 
 The poor inhabitant below. 
 Was quick to learn, and wise to know. 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow. 
 
 And softer flame ; 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low. 
 
 And stain' d his name! 
 Reader, attend — whether thy soid 
 Soar's fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
 Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 
 
 In low pursuit ; 
 Know, prudent, cautious self- control 
 
 Is wisdom's root. 
 
THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 13» 
 
 f Ijr Cm JDngs, 
 
 A TALE. (118) 
 
 'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle 
 
 That bears the name o' Auld King Coil (119), 
 
 Upon a bonnie clay in June, 
 
 "When wearing; tlirougli the afternoon, 
 
 Twa dogs that were na tlirang at hame, 
 
 Forgather'd auce upon a time. 
 
 The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cresar, 
 Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
 His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
 Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
 Biit whalpit some place far abroad, 
 Whare sailor's gang to fish for cod. 
 
 His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
 Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
 But though he was o' high degree. 
 The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; 
 But wad hae spent an hour caressin'. 
 E'en \vi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin'. 
 . At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
 Nae tawted tyke, though ere sae duddie. 
 But he wad stau't, as glad to see him, 
 And stroan't on staues and hillocks wi' liim. 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
 A rhyming, ranting, raving bUlie, 
 "Wlia for his friend and comrade had him. 
 And in his freaks had Lnath ca'd him, 
 After some dog in Highland sang (120), 
 Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 
 He was a gash and faithful tyke. 
 As ever lap or sheugh or dyke. 
 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. 
 Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
 His breast was white, his touzie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gaucie tale, wi' upward curl. 
 Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
 And unco pack and thick thegither : 
 Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit. 
 Whyles mice and moudicworts they howkit ; 
 Whyles scour' d awa in lang excursion. 
 And worried ither in diversion ; 
 Until wi' datfin' weary grown. 
 Upon a knowe they sat them down. 
 And there began a lang digression 
 About the lords o' the creation. 
 
 CESAR. 
 
 I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
 'What sort o" life poor dogs like you have ; 
 And when the gentry's life I saw. 
 What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 
 
 Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
 His coals, his kain, and a' liis stents ; 
 
 He rises when he likes himsel ; 
 
 His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
 
 He ca's liis coach, he ca's his horse ; 
 
 He draws a bonnie silken purse 
 
 As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks. 
 
 The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 
 
 Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling. 
 
 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
 
 And though the gentry first are stechiu. 
 
 Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 
 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie: 
 
 That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
 
 Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 
 
 Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 
 
 Better than ony tenant man 
 
 His hanour has in a' the Ian' ; 
 
 And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
 
 I own its past my comprehension. 
 
 LUATII. 
 
 Trowth, Cjcsar, whyles they're fash' t enough; 
 A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, 
 Wi' dirty stanes bigj^in' a dyke. 
 Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 
 Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
 And nought but his han' dark, to keep 
 Them right and tight in thack and rape 
 And when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
 Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, . 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch Linger, 
 And they maun starve o' cauld or hunger; 
 But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
 Theyre' maistly wonderfu' contented : 
 And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies. 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 C.F.SAR. 
 
 But then to see how ye're neglecit. 
 How huff'd, and cuif'd, and disrespeckit I 
 L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
 For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
 They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
 As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 
 I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
 And mony a time my heart's been wae. 
 Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
 How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
 He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
 He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
 AMiile they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
 And hear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
 I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
 But surely poor folk maun be wretches I 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They're no sae wTCtched's ane wad tliiuk; 
 Tiio' constantly on poortith's brink : 
 They're sae accustoin'd wi' the sight. 
 The view o't gies tlicm little fright. 
 
140 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Then chaiicu and fortune are sae gviideJ, 
 They're aye in less or raair provided ; 
 And tlio' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest's sweet enjoyment. 
 
 The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
 Their grushie weans and faithfii' wives ; 
 The prattling things are just their pride, 
 That sweetens a' their fire-side ; 
 And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy- 
 Can make the bodies unco happy ; 
 They lay aside their i)rivate cares, 
 To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
 They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
 'VVi' kindling fury in tlieir breasts. 
 Or tell what new taxation's comin'. 
 And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
 As bleak-fac'd Hallo^^■mas returns. 
 They get the jo\ial, ranting kirns. 
 When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
 Unite in common recreation ; 
 Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 
 Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 
 That merry day the year begins, 
 Tliey bar the door on frosty win's ; 
 The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
 And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
 The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill. 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
 The^ cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
 The young anes rantin' thro' the house — 
 My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
 That I for joy hae barkit wit' them. 
 Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
 Sic game is now owre aften play'd, 
 There's monie a creditable stock 
 O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
 Are riven out baith root and branch, 
 Some rascal's pridefu' gi-etd to quench, 
 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
 In favour wi' some gentle master, 
 Wha' aiblins thrang a parliamentin'. 
 For Britain's guid his saul indeutiu' 
 
 C/ESAR. 
 
 Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
 
 For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it. 
 
 Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 
 
 And saying ay or no's they bid him : 
 
 At operas and plays parading. 
 
 Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
 
 Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
 
 To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 
 
 To mak a tour and tak a whirl. 
 
 To learn hun ton, and see the worl'. 
 
 There' at Vienna or Versailles, 
 
 He rives his father's auld entails ; 
 
 Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
 
 I'o thrum guitars, audfecht wi' nowte; 
 
 Or down Italian vista startles, 
 
 W-re hunting amaiig groves o' myrtles ; 
 
 Then bouses drumly German water. 
 
 To mak himsel' look fair and fatter. 
 
 And clear the consequential sorrows. 
 
 Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
 
 For Britain's guid! — for her destruction! 
 
 ^Vi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
 They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
 Are we sae foughten and harass' d 
 For gear to gang that gate at last ! 
 
 Oh would they stay aback frae courts. 
 
 And please themselves wi' countra sports. 
 
 It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
 
 The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter! 
 
 For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
 
 Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
 
 Except for breakin' o' their timmer. 
 
 Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
 
 Or shootiii' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
 
 The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 
 
 But will ye tell me. Master Cffisar, 
 
 Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
 
 Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them. 
 
 The vera thought o't need ua fear them, 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 li — d, man, v.'cre ye but whyles whare I am, 
 The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
 It's true, they needna starve or sweat. 
 Thro' winter's caidd, or simmer's heat ; 
 They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
 And fill auld age wi' grips and granes ; 
 15ut human bodies are sic fools. 
 Fur a' their colleges and schools. 
 That when nae real ills perplex them. 
 They mak enow themselves to vex them; 
 And aye the less they hae to sturt them,' 
 In Hke proportion less will hurt them. 
 A country fellow at the plough. 
 His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; 
 A country girl at her Mheel, 
 Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: 
 But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst, 
 Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
 They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; 
 Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; 
 Their days insipid, dtdl, aiid tasteless; 
 Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless; 
 And e'en their sports, their balls and racea^ 
 Their gallopping thro' public places. 
 There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art. 
 The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
 The men cast out in party matches, 
 Then sawther a' in deep debauches; 
 
TITF, rOTTE'R''S -SATTTRDAY MGHT. 
 
MMENT. 
 
 141 
 
 Ae nisrht they're madwi' drink and wh-riii,^, 
 Nicst day their hfe is past enduring. 
 The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
 As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
 They're a' run deils and jads thegither. 
 Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
 They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
 Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
 Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
 And cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 
 There's some exception, man and woman ; 
 But this is Gentry's life in common. 
 
 By this, the sun was otit o' sight 
 And darker gloaming brought the night : 
 The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
 The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
 \Mien up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
 Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs ; 
 And each took off his several way, 
 Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE UNFOKTtJNATE 
 ISSUE OF A friend's AMOUR. (121) 
 
 " Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
 And sweet affection prove the spring of woe ! " 
 
 Home! 
 
 On thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
 
 While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
 Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, 
 
 And wanders here to wail and weep I 
 With woe I nightly vigils keep. 
 
 Beneath thy wan, un warming beam; 
 And mourn, in lamentation deep. 
 
 How life and love are all a dream. 
 
 I joyless view thy rays adorn 
 
 The faintly marked distant hill : 
 I joyless view thy trembling horn. 
 
 Reflected in the gurgling rill :\ 
 My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 
 
 Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! 
 Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 
 
 For ever bar returning peace 1 
 
 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 Pow'rs above; 
 The promis'd father's tender name ; 
 
 These were the pledges of my love ! 
 
 Encircled in her clasping arms, 
 
 How liave the raptur'd moments flown 
 
 Ilow have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 
 For her dear sake, and her's alone! 
 1 And must 1 think it — is she gone. 
 My secret heart's exulting boast? 
 
 And does she heedless hear my groan P 
 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, 
 
 Tlie 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 soothe. 
 
 Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 
 
 Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 
 
 Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy' d. 
 Your dear remembrance in my breast, 
 
 !My fondly treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
 That breast, how dreary now, and void. 
 
 For her too scanty once of room ! 
 Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy' d. 
 
 And not a wish to guild the gloom ! 
 
 Tlie mom that warns th' approaching day. 
 
 Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
 I see the hours in long array. 
 
 That 1 must suffer, lingering, slow. 
 Full many a pang, and many a tluroe. 
 
 Keen recollection's direful train, 
 Must wring my soul, ere Phccbus, low. 
 
 Shall kiss the distant, western main. 
 
 And when my nightly couch I try, 
 
 Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
 !My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 
 
 Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 
 Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 
 
 Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
 Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 
 
 From such a horror-breathing night. 
 
 Oh 1 thou bright queen, who, o'er th' ex- 
 pause, [sway! 
 
 Now highest reign'st, with boimdles3 
 Oft has thy sdent-marking glance 
 
 Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
 The tune, unlieeded, sped away. 
 
 While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
 Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 
 
 To mark the mutual kindUng eye. 
 
 Oh I scenes in strong remembrance set ! 
 
 Scenes never, never to return ! 
 Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 
 
 Again 1 feel, again 1 bum ! 
 From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 
 
 Life's weary vale I'll wander tiiro* ; 
 And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mouro 
 
 A faithless woman's broken vow. 
 
142 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 
 
 5l!ilin'33 tn <|pilinlinrg!j. 
 
 Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 
 
 All hail thy palaces and towr'rs. 
 Where once beneath a monarch's feet 
 
 Sat Lepslation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
 From marking wildJy-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. 
 Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 
 
 As busy Trade his labour 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. 
 Tliy sons, Edina ! social, kind. 
 
 With open arms the stranger hail ; 
 Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind. 
 
 Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
 Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 
 
 Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
 And never may their sources fail ! 
 
 And never envy blot their name ! 
 Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. 
 
 Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
 Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 
 
 Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
 Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
 
 Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; 
 I see the Sire of Love on high. 
 
 And own his work indeed divine (122) ! 
 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 seaming scar : 
 The pond'rous wall and massy bar. 
 
 Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
 Have oft withstood assailing war. 
 
 And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 
 With awe- struck thought, and pitying tears, 
 
 I view that noble, stately dome. 
 Where Scotia's kings of other years, 
 
 Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
 Alas, how chang'd 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 1 
 Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
 
 Wliose ancestors, in days of yore. 
 Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
 
 Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
 Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 
 
 Haply, my sires have left their shed, 
 j\jid fac'd grim danger's loudest roar. 
 
 Bold-following where your fathers led ! 
 
 Edina ! Scottia'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'rR, 
 
 As on the banks of Ayr I stcay'd. 
 And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
 
 I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 
 
 ®!n; Srigs nf 5li!r. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., 
 AYR. 
 
 The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough. 
 Learning his tuneful trade fi-om ev'ry bough; 
 The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
 Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the greea 
 
 thorn bush ; [shrill. 
 
 The soaring lark, the perching red-breast 
 Or deep-ton'd 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 stern misfortune's 
 
 field- 
 Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
 The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
 Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
 With all the venal soul of dedicating prose .? 
 No ! though his artless strains he rudely 
 
 sings, [strings, 
 
 And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the 
 He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
 Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- 
 ward! 
 Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
 Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 
 WTien Ballantyne befriends his humble 
 
 name, 
 And hands the nistic stranger up to fame. 
 With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom 
 
 swells. 
 The god-hke bliss, to give, alone excels. 
 
 'Twas when the stacks get on their 
 
 winter-hap, [crap ; 
 
 And thack and rape secure the toil-wou 
 
 Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
 
 Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
 
 The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
 
 Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs' delicious 
 
 spoils, [piles, 
 
 Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 
 
 Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the 
 
 weak, [reek : 
 
 The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone 
 
THE BRIGS OF AYR. 
 
 US 
 
 The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry | 
 
 side, 
 The wounded conveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
 The feather'd field-mates, bound by ISature's 
 
 tie. 
 Sires, mothers, children, in one carnag:e lie : 
 (\Vha.t warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 
 And execrates man's savage, rutliless deeds !) 
 Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow 
 
 springs ; 
 Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
 Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee. 
 Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang 
 
 tree: 
 'fliC hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
 Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon- 
 tide blaze, [the rays. 
 "While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 
 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard. 
 Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
 Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
 By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care. 
 He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
 And down by Simpson's (123) wheel'd the 
 
 left about : 
 OMiethcr impell'd by all-directing Fate 
 To ■n^tness what I after shall narrate ; 
 Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
 He wander'd out he knew not where or why) 
 The drowsy Dungeon-clock (124) had num. 
 ber'd two, [was true : 
 
 And Wallace Tower (125) had sworn the fact 
 The tide-swoln Firthj with suUen sounding 
 roar, [the shore. 
 
 Through the still night dash'd hoarse along 
 All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 
 The silent moon shone liigh o'er tow'r and 
 
 tree: 
 The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
 Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 
 stream. [Bard, 
 
 When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning 
 Tlie clanging sugh of whistling wings is 
 
 heard ; 
 Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
 Swift as the gos (126) drives on the wheel- 
 ing hare ; 
 
 Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 
 The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
 Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
 The Sprites that owtc the Brigs of Ayr pre- 
 side. 
 (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
 And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
 Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 
 them, ■ [them.) 
 
 And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken 
 Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race. 
 The very wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 
 
 He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang. 
 Yet, teughly doure. he bade an unco bang. 
 New Brig wasbuskit in a braw new coal, 
 Tliat he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 
 In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a 
 
 bead, 
 Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
 The Goth was stalking rouud with anxious 
 
 search. 
 Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ;— 
 It chauc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e. 
 And e'en a vex'd and angry lieart had he ! 
 Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modisli mien, 
 He, down the water, gies hiui this guid- 
 
 e'eii: — 
 
 AULD BRIG. 
 
 I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye're nae 
 sheepshank, 
 Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank I 
 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 date come. 111 wad a 
 
 boddle. 
 Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 
 
 NEW BRIG. 
 
 Auld Vandal, ye but show your little 
 
 raense. 
 Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
 Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
 Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 
 
 meet — [lime. 
 
 Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and 
 Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? 
 Tliere's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat- 
 
 stream (127), [swim, 
 
 Tho' they should cast the vera sark and 
 Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 
 
 view 
 Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 
 
 AULD BRIG. 
 
 Conceited gowkl puff'd up wi' windy 
 I pride — [tide ; 
 
 1 Tliis mony a year 1' le stood the flood and 
 I And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
 i I'll be a Brig, when ye'se a shapeless cairn ! 
 i As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
 : But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
 j When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
 ■ Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
 ' When from the hills where springs the 
 j brawling Coil, 
 
 I Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
 j Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 
 course, [source, 
 
 I Or haunted Garpal (128) draws his feeble 
 I Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting 
 ! thowes, [rowes; 
 
 ' In mony a torrent down his snaw-bruo 
 
144 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL "WOEKS. 
 
 Wliile crashing ice, borne on the roaring 
 sjieat, [a^te ; 
 
 Sweeps dams and mills, and brigs, a' to the 
 And from Glenbuck (129), down to the Rat- 
 ton-key (130), [sea — • 
 Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling 
 Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
 And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pour- 
 ing skies. 
 A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
 That Archietcture's noble art is lost ! 
 
 NEW BRIG. 
 
 Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must 
 say't o't 1 [gate o't ! 
 
 Tlie L — d be thankit that we've tint the 
 Gaiuit, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
 Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; 
 O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
 Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
 Wnidows, 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 command be free, 
 Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, 
 or sea. [taste 
 
 ]\Iansions that would disgrace the building 
 Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
 Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
 Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; 
 Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 
 That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
 Fancies that our good Brugh denies protec- 
 tion ! [resurrection ! 
 And soon may they expire, unblest with 
 
 AULD BRIG. 
 
 Oh ye, my dear-remember' d ancient yeal- 
 
 ings, [ings ! 
 
 Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
 
 Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 
 
 "Wha in the paths o'righteousness did toil 
 
 aye; 
 Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveneers, 
 To whom our moderns are but causey- 
 cleaners ; 
 Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; 
 Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
 Wha meekly ga'e your hm-dies to the smi- 
 ters ; [writers ; 
 
 And (what would now be strange) ye godly 
 A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
 Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
 How wovdd your spirits groan in deep Texa- 
 
 tion. 
 To see each melancholy alteration ; 
 
 And agonising, curse the time and place 
 
 When ye begat the base, degen'rate race! 
 
 Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's 
 glory. [braid story ! 
 
 In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain 
 
 Nae longer thrifty citizens and douce. 
 
 Meet owre a pint, or in the councU-housc; 
 
 But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gen- 
 try. 
 
 The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
 
 Men, three parts made by tailors and by 
 barbers, [new Brigs and Harbours ! 
 
 Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d 
 
 NEW BRIG. 
 
 Now hand you there ! for faith you've 
 
 said enough, [through ; 
 
 And muckle mair than ye can mak to 
 As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little. 
 Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
 But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
 Abuse o' Jlagistrates might wecl be spar'd : 
 To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
 I needs must say, comparisons are odd. 
 In AjT, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 
 To mouth " a citizen," a term o' scandal ; 
 Nae mair the Council waddles down the 
 
 street. 
 In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
 Men wha grew wise priggiu' owre hops and 
 
 raisins, 
 Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 
 If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 
 Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
 And would to Common-sense for once 
 
 betray'd them, [them. 
 
 Plain, duU Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 
 
 What further clish-ma-claver might been 
 
 said, [shed. 
 
 What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to 
 No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
 A fairy train api)ear"d in order bright : 
 Adown the glitt'ring stream tliey featly 
 
 danc'd : [glanc'd : 
 
 Bright to the moon their various dresses 
 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. 
 Oh, had M'Lauchlan (131), thairm-inspiring 
 
 Sage, 
 Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
 When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore 
 
 with highland rage ; 
 Or when they struck old Scotia's melting 
 
 air. 
 The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
 
ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. 
 
 U» 
 
 H QV wnuW his hiprhland lug been nobler fir'd, 
 /Vnd ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 
 
 inspir'd ! 
 No sruess could tell what instniment appear'd, 
 But all the soul of Jlusic's self was heard ; 
 Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
 AVhile simple melody pour'd moviug on the 
 
 heart. 
 
 The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
 A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
 His hnavy head with water-lilies crown'd, 
 His manly leg with garter tangle bound : 
 Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
 Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 
 
 Spring ; [Joy, 
 
 Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Kural 
 And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
 All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
 Led yellow Autumn, wreath' d with nodding 
 
 com ; [show. 
 
 Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 
 Ry Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
 Next follow'd Courage, with his martial 
 
 stride ; [liifle (132) ; 
 
 From where the Feal wild woody coverts 
 Benevolence, with mild, benignant air. 
 A female form, came from the tow'rs of 
 
 Stair (133) ; 
 Learning and Worth in equal measures trode. 
 From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode 
 
 (134); _ [wreath, 
 
 I,ast, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 
 To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
 The broken iron instruments of death ; 
 At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 
 
 kiudhng wrath. 
 
 ^n (J^aptain BatHjriii ^Jpiihrsnn, 
 
 A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 
 
 FOB HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM 
 
 ALMIGHTY GOD. (135) 
 
 " Should the poor he flattered ?" — Suakspeare, 
 But now his radiant course is run, 
 
 For Matthew's course was bright ; 
 His soul was like the plorious sun, 
 
 A matchless heavenly light ! 
 
 Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
 
 The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
 
 Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 
 
 O'er hurcheon hides, 
 And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
 
 Wi' thy auld sides ! 
 
 He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 
 The ae best fellow e'er was boru ! 
 
 Thee Matthew, Nature's scl' shall moiiru 
 By wood and wild, 
 
 "Where, haply. Pity stray's forlorn, 
 Frae man exil'd ! 
 
 Ye hills ! near neighbours o' the stams. 
 That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
 Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns (13G), 
 
 Where echo slumbers ! 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
 
 My wailing numljcrs 1 
 
 Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
 
 Ye haz'ly shaws and briary dens ! 
 
 Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 
 
 W'i' toddliu' din, 
 Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
 
 Frae hn to lin ! 
 
 Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
 Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
 Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie. 
 
 In scented bow'rsj 
 Ye roses on your thorny tree. 
 
 The first o' flow'rs. 
 
 At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
 
 Droops with a diamond at its head. 
 
 At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 
 
 r th' rustling gale. 
 Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 
 
 Came join my wail. 
 
 Jlourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
 Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
 Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 
 
 Ye whistling plover ; 
 And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood I— • 
 
 He's gane for ever I 
 
 Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals 
 Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
 Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 
 
 Circling the lake ; 
 Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 
 
 Kair for his sake. 
 
 Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o* day, 
 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
 And when ye wing your annual way 
 
 Frae our cavild shore. 
 Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay 
 
 Wham we deplore. 
 
 Ye owlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
 
 In some auld tree, or eldritch tow*r. 
 
 What time the moon, wi' silent glow^ 
 
 Sets up her horn. 
 Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 
 
 Till waukrife morn I 
 
 Oh, rivers, forests, hills, and plains I 
 Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
 
146 
 
 BUKNS'S rOETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But, now, what else for me remains 
 
 But tales of woe ? 
 And frae my een the drapping rains 
 
 Maun ever flow. 
 
 Mourn, spring', thou darling: of the year ! 
 Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
 Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
 
 Shoots up its head, 
 Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 
 
 For him that's dead. 
 
 Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
 In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
 Thou, winter, hurling thro' the ait 
 
 The roaring blast. 
 Wide o'er the naked world declare 
 
 The worth we've lost ! 
 
 Jloum him, thou sun, great source of light ; 
 Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
 And you, ye twinkling starries bright. 
 
 My Matthew mourn ! 
 For through your orbs he's ta'en liis flight. 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 
 Oh, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
 And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
 And hast thou cross' d that unknown river. 
 
 Life's dreary bound ? 
 Like thee, where shall I find another. 
 
 The world around ? 
 
 Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great. 
 In a' the tinsel trash o' state I 
 But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 
 
 Thou man of worth ! 
 And weep the ae best fellow's fate 
 
 E'er lay in earth. 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief 
 
 And truth I shall relate, man ; 
 I tell nae common tale o' grief — 
 
 For Matthew was a great man. 
 If thou uncommon merit hast. 
 
 Yet spurri'd at fortune's door, man, 
 A look of pity hither cast — 
 
 For Matthew was a poor man. 
 If thou a noble sodger art. 
 
 That passest by this grave, man, 
 There moulders here a gallant heart— 
 
 For Matthew was a brave man. 
 If thou on men, their works and ways. 
 
 Canst throw uncommon light, man. 
 Here lies wha weal had won thy praise^ 
 
 For Matthew was a bright man. 
 If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
 
 AVad life itself resign, man. 
 Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'— 
 
 For Matthew was a kind man I 
 
 If thou art staunch without a stain, 
 
 like the unchanging blue, man. 
 This was a kinsman o' thine ain — 
 
 For Matthew was a true man. 
 If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
 
 And ne'er guid vnne did fear, man. 
 This was thy billie, dam, and sire— 
 
 For Slatthew was a queer man. 
 If ony whiggish whingin' sot. 
 
 To blame poor Matthew dare, man. 
 May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 
 
 For Matthew was a rare man. 
 
 ^m (D' tfljaiittr, 
 
 A TALE. (137) 
 
 " Of brownysis and of bogilis full is this buke." 
 
 GaWIN DoUGUk.8. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the street. 
 And drouthy neighbours, neighbours meet. 
 As market-days are wearing late. 
 And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy. 
 And gettin' fou and unco happy. 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
 That lie between us and our hame. 
 Where sits our sulky sullen dame. 
 Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 Tins truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
 For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
 Oh Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld the weal thou was a skellum, 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blelliim ; 
 That frae Novembei till October : 
 Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
 That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
 T'hou 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 Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Mon- 
 day. (138) 
 She prophesied, that, late or soon. 
 Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, 
 Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
 By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. 
 Ah, gentle dames 1 it gars me greet. 
 To think how mony counsels sweet. 
 How mony lengthcn'd sage advices. 
 The husband frae the wife despises; 
 But to our tale :— Ae market night, 
 Tam had got planted unco right, 
 
TAM 0' SHANTER. 
 
 147 
 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
 And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
 Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
 They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! 
 The night drave on wi' sangs and 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 drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
 O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
 
 You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
 
 Or like the snowfall in the river, 
 
 A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
 
 Or like the boiealis 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 approaches Tam maun ride ; 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 
 
 stane. 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast on ; 
 And sic a niglit he taks the road in 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
 The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd. 
 Loud, deep, and laug the thunder bellow'd: 
 That night, a child miglit understand. 
 The deil had business on his hand. 
 Weal mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
 A better never lifted leg. 
 Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
 Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet. 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scot's son- 
 net ; 
 Whiles glow'ring round wi pr\ident cares, 
 FiCSt bogles catcli him unawares. 
 Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh (139), 
 Where ghaists and owlets nightly cry. 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford. 
 Where in the siiaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
 And past the birks and meikle stane. 
 Where drunken Ctiarlie brak's neck bane; 
 And thro' the whins, and by the cairn. 
 Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
 
 14^ 
 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
 
 Where Mungo's mither hang'd lierseL 
 
 Before him Uoon 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 ; 
 
 AA'hen glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 
 Kirk-Ailoway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. 
 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 
 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
 
 What dangers thou can'st make us scorn I 
 
 Vk'i' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
 
 Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil ! — 
 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 
 
 Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 
 
 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 garb them skirl. 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 
 
 Coffins stood round, like open presses, 
 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 
 
 And by some devilish cantrip slight 
 
 Each in its cauld hand held a lights 
 
 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 bairns ; 
 
 A thief, new-cuttcd frae a rape, 
 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
 
 Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
 
 Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 
 A garter, which a babe had strangled, 
 
 A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
 
 The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : 
 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
 
 Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tamraie 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 
 
 cleckit, 
 Till ilka carline swat and reckit. 
 And coost her duddies to the wark. 
 And linket at it in her sark ; 
 Now Tam, oh Tam ! had thae been que.ins 
 A' plump and strapping, in their teen« ; 
 
 ) \ 
 
14S 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 Their sarks, instead o' creesliie flannen, 
 Been snaw-wliite seventeen-hunder linen ! 
 Their breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
 Tliat ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
 1 wad hae gi'en them otf my hurdies, 
 For ae blmk o' the bounie hurdies ! 
 
 But wither'd beldams, aidd and droll, 
 
 Kigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
 
 IjOiiping and finiging on a cummock, 
 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kenn'd what was wliat fu' brawlie ; 
 
 There was a w insome wench and walie. 
 
 That night enhsted 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 beer. 
 
 And kept the country-side in fear.) 
 
 Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham. 
 
 That while a lassie she had worn. 
 
 In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
 
 It was lier best. a:id she was vauutie — 
 
 Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
 
 I'hat sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
 
 AVi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 
 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 
 
 But liere my muse her wing maun cour. 
 
 Sic flights are far beyond lier pow'r ; 
 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
 
 (A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
 
 And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch'd. 
 
 And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
 
 Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain. 
 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' miglit and main : 
 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
 
 Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
 
 And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
 
 And in an instant all was dark : 
 
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
 
 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 j 
 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 
 Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 
 
 Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! 
 
 In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
 
 In V ain thy Kate awaits tliy comin' ! 
 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 
 tiow, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 
 And win the key-stane (140) o' the brig; 
 
 There at them thou thy tad may toss, 
 
 A running stream they darena cross ! 
 
 But ere the key-stane she could make. 
 
 The hent a tad she had to shake ! 
 
 For Nannie, far befora the rest. 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
 And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle. 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle— 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
 But left behind her ain grey tail ; 
 The carline cauglit her by the rump. 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
 Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
 Think ! ye may buy the joys over dear- 
 Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 
 
 Cragir /ragtiirnt, (Hi) 
 
 All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
 A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting vina.'n. 
 Still my heart melts at human wretchedness ; 
 And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs, 
 I view the helpless children of distress. 
 With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor 
 Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction. 
 Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 
 Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 
 Ye w horn the seeming good think sin to pity ; 
 Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds. 
 Whom vice, as usual, has turu'd o'er to ruin. 
 — Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 
 I liad been driven forth like you forlorn. 
 The most detested, worthless wretch among 
 you! 
 
 I^^intrr, a Birp. (i42) 
 
 The wintry west extends his blast. 
 
 And hail and rain does blaw; 
 Or the stormy north sends driving forth 
 
 The blinding sleet and snaw : 
 While tumbling brown, the burn comes down. 
 
 And roars frae bank to brae ; 
 And bird and beast in covert rest. 
 
 And pass the heartless day. 
 
 " The sweeping blast, the sky o'crcast" (143), 
 
 The joyless winter day 
 Let others fear, to me more dear 
 
 Than all the pride of May : 
 Tlie tempest's howl, it soothes my sou^ 
 
 My griefs it seems to join; 
 The leafless trees my fancy please, 
 
 Their fate resembles mine! 
 
 Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 
 
 These woes of mine fulfil. 
 Here, firm, I rest, they must behest. 
 
 Because they are thy wilU 
 
ELEGY ON ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 
 
 149 
 
 Then all I want (oh, do thou grant 
 This one request of mine !j 
 
 Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 
 Assist me to resign. 
 
 i ^^ratjEr, 
 
 UNDER THK PRESSURE OF VIOLENT 
 ANGUISH. (144) 
 
 Oh thou great Being! what thou art 
 
 Surpasses me to know : 
 Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 
 
 Are all thy works below. 
 Thy creature here before Tliee stands, 
 
 AH wretched and distrest; 
 Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
 
 Obey Thy high behest. 
 Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 
 
 From cruelty or wrath ! 
 Oh, free my weary eyes from tears. 
 
 Or close them fast in death ! 
 But if I must afflicted be. 
 
 To suit some wise design ; 
 Then man my soul with firm resolves, 
 
 To bear and not repine ! 
 
 £ ^3raiirr, 
 
 ON THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 
 
 On thou unknown. Almighty Cause 
 Of all my hope and fear ! 
 I In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 
 I Perhaps I must appear ! 
 i If I have wander'd in those paths 
 I Of life I ought to shun ; 
 I As something, loudly, in my breast, 
 I Remonstrates I have done. 
 I Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, 
 j With passions wild and strong ; 
 And list'ning to their witching voice 
 
 Has often led me wrong. 
 Where human weakness has come short. 
 
 Or frailty stept aside. 
 Do Thou, All-good ! for such thou art. 
 
 In shades of darkness hide. 
 Where with intention I have err'd. 
 
 No other plea I have. 
 But, Tliou art good ; and goodness still 
 Delighteth to forgive. 
 
 Itan'.as 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. (145) 
 
 Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 
 Have I so found it full of pleasing 
 charms? 
 
 Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
 tween : [storms : 
 Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
 Is it departing pangs my soid alarms ? 
 
 Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
 • For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arras ; 
 1 tremble to approach an angry God, 
 And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging 
 rod. 
 
 Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul of- 
 fence ! " 
 Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
 But should my Author health again dis- 
 pense. 
 Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
 Again in folly's path might go astray; 
 
 Again exalt the brute and sink the man; 
 
 Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. 
 
 Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 
 
 plan? [tation ran? 
 
 Wlio sin so oft have mourn' d, yet to temp- 
 
 Oh Thou, great Governor of all below I 
 
 If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
 Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
 blow, 
 Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
 With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 
 Those headlong furious passions to con- 
 fine; 
 For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. 
 To rule their torrent in the hallowed line; 
 Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence 
 Divine ! 
 
 flrgt) nn tjit IDfail; nf IRnhrrf Unissrani. 
 
 (146.) 
 Now Robin lies in his last lair. 
 He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 
 Cauld poverty, wi' Imngry stare, 
 
 Nae mair shall fear him; 
 Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care. 
 
 E'er mair come near him. 
 
 To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. 
 Except the moment that they crush't him; 
 For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 
 
 Tlio' e'er sae short. 
 Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. 
 
 And thought it sport. 
 
 Tlio' he was bred to kintra wark, 
 
 And counted was baith wight and stark. 
 
 Yet that was never Robin's mark 
 
 To inak a man ; 
 But tell him, he was learned and dark. 
 
 Ye roos'd him than ! 
 
150 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ffliE Calf. 
 
 TO THE KEV. MR. JAMES STEVEN. (147) 
 
 On his Text, M.\i-. iv. 2.— "And they shall po 
 forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall." 
 Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, . 
 
 Though Heretics may laugh ; 
 For instance, there's yoursel' just now, 
 
 God knows, an unco calf! 
 And should some patron be so kind. 
 
 As bless you wi' a kirk, 
 I doubt na. 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, ev'ry heavenly power 
 
 You e'er should be a Scot ! 
 Tho', when some kind, connubial dear. 
 
 Your but-and-ben adorns. 
 The like has been that you may wear 
 
 A noble head of horns. 
 And in your lug, most 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 I" 
 
 ^llB ®raa 23rrii5, 
 
 OR THE HOLY TULZIE. (148) 
 
 Oh a' ye pious godly flocks, 
 Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
 Wlia now will keep you frae the fox. 
 
 Or worrying tykes, 
 Or wha wiU tent the waifs and crocks. 
 
 About the dykes ? 
 Ilie twa best herds in a' the wast. 
 That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
 These live and twenty simmers past. 
 
 Oh ! dool to tell, 
 Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 
 
 Atween themsel. 
 Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
 How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
 Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle. 
 
 And think it fine : 
 The L — 's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 
 
 Sin' I ha'e mine. 
 0, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 
 Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 
 Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 
 
 To wear the plaid. 
 But by the brutes themselves eleckit. 
 
 To be their guide. 
 
 V\Tiat flock wi' Hoodie's flock could rank, 
 Sae hale and hearty every shank ! 
 Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank. 
 
 He let tliem taste, 
 Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank — 
 
 Oh sic a feast ! 
 
 The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod. 
 Well keun'd his voice through a' the wood, 
 He smelt their ilka hale and rod, 
 
 Baith out and in. 
 And weel he Uk'd to shed their bluid. 
 
 And sell their skin. 
 
 Wliat herd like Russell (149) tell'd his tale, 
 His voice was heard thro' mutr and dale. 
 He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. 
 
 O'er a' the height. 
 And saw gin they were sick or hale. 
 
 At the first sight. 
 
 He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 
 
 Or nobly fling the gospel club. 
 
 And New-Light herds could nicely drub. 
 
 Or pay their skin ; 
 Could shake them o'er the burning dub. 
 
 Or heave them in. 
 
 Sic twa — Oh ! do I live to see't. 
 Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
 And names like villain, liypocrite. 
 
 Ilk ither gi'en, 
 WTiile New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite. 
 
 Say neither's lyin' ! 
 
 A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 
 
 There's Duncan (150), deep, and Peebles, 
 
 shaul (151), 
 But chiefly thou, apostle Auld (152), 
 
 We trust in thee, 
 That thou wilt work them, het £bnd 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. 
 
 Dalrymple (153) has been lang our fae, 
 M'Gill (154) has wrought us meikle wae. 
 And tliat curs'd rascal ca'd M'Q,uhae (155), 
 
 And baith the Shaws (156), 
 That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 
 
 Wi' vengefu' paws. 
 
 Auld Wodrow (157) laug has hatch'd mischiel. 
 We thought aye death wad bring relief. 
 But he lias gotten, to our grief, 
 
 Ane to succeed him, 
 A chield wha'U soundly buff our beef; 
 1 I meikle dread him. 
 
HOLY WII.UE'S PKAYER. 
 
 ISl 
 
 And mony a ane that I could tell, 
 Wha fail! would openly rebel, 
 Forbye turu-coats ainaucj oursel. 
 
 There's Smith for ane, 
 I doubt he's but a grey-uick quill, 
 
 And that ye'll tin'. 
 Oh ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 
 By mosses, meadows, moors and fells. 
 Come, join your counsel and your skills 
 
 To cowe the lairds. 
 And get the br\ites the powers themsels 
 
 To choose their herds. 
 Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
 And Learning in a woody dance. 
 And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 
 
 That bites sae sair. 
 Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 
 
 Let him bark there. 
 Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
 M' Gill's close nervous excellence, 
 Ciuhae's pathetic manlv sense. 
 
 And guid xM'.Math, [153 
 
 Wi' Smith, wha thio' the heart can glance. 
 
 May a' pack aff. 
 
 m\\\ im\it'5 1^x^n. (159) 
 
 Oil Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwelt, 
 Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
 Semis ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 
 
 A' for thy glory. 
 And no for ony giude or ill 
 
 They've done afore thee ! 
 I bless and praise thy matchless might. 
 When thousands thou hast left in night, 
 That I am here afore thy siglit. 
 
 For gifts and grace, 
 A burnui' and a shiiiin* light 
 
 To a' this place. 
 What was I, or my generation, 
 That 1 should get sic exaltation, 
 I wha deserve sic just damnation. 
 
 For broken laws. 
 Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 
 
 Thro' Adam's cause. 
 When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
 Thou might hae plunged me into hell, 
 To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 
 
 In buniin' lake. 
 Where damned devils roar and yell, 
 
 Chuin'd to a stake. 
 Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 
 To show thy grace is great and ample; 
 I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 
 
 Strong as a rock, 
 A guide, B buckler, an example. 
 
 To a' thy flock. 
 
 But yet, oh Lord ! confess I must. 
 At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust , 
 And sometimes, too, wi' wardly trust. 
 
 Vile self gets in ; 
 But thou remembers we are dust, 
 
 Uetil'd in sin. 
 
 Maybe thou lets't this fleshly thorn. 
 
 Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 
 
 Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 
 
 'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
 If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne. 
 
 Until thou lift it. 
 
 Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
 For here thou hast a chosen race : 
 But God confound their stubborn face, 
 
 And blast their name, 
 Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 
 
 And public shame. 
 
 Lord, mind Gaw'ii Hamilton's deserts. 
 He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes. 
 Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 
 
 Wi' grat and sma', 
 Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 
 
 He steals awa'. 
 
 And when we chasten'd him therefor^ 
 Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
 As set the warld in a roar 
 
 O' laughin' at us ; — 
 Curse thou his basket and his storey 
 
 Kail and potatoes. 
 
 Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r. 
 
 Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 
 
 Thy strong right hand. Lord, mak it bare 
 
 Upo' their heads. 
 Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 
 
 For their misdeeds. 
 
 Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aikiii, 
 My very heart and saul are quakin'. 
 To think how we stood groauiu', shakia' 
 
 And swat wi' dread, 
 While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin'. 
 
 Held up his head. 
 
 Lord, in the day of vengeance try him. 
 Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 
 And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 
 
 Nor hear their pray'r; 
 But for thy people's sake destroy 'en^ 
 
 And dinna spare. 
 
 But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
 \\ 1' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
 That 1 for gear and grace may shine, 
 
 Excell'd by nane. 
 And a' the glory shall be thme, 
 
 Ameii, Amen ! 
 
152 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 (gpitajjlj m Snln XDillif. 
 
 Here Holy AVillie's sair-worn clay 
 
 Taks up its last abode ; 
 His soul 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 haud your nine-tail cat a wee, 
 
 Till ance you've heard my story. 
 Your pity I will not implore. 
 
 For pity ye hae nane ; 
 Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er. 
 
 And mercy's day is gaen. 
 But hear me, sir, deil as ye are. 
 
 Look something to your credit ; 
 A coof like him wad stain your name. 
 
 If it were keut ye did it. 
 
 (Bpistlj tn Snjiii d^nuiiiB nf lilmarnnilt. 
 
 ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS 
 ESSAYS. (160) 
 
 Oh Goudie! terror of the \\Tiig3, 
 Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
 Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 
 
 Girnin', looks back, 
 Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 
 
 VV^ad seize you quicL 
 Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
 Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
 Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician. 
 
 To see her water. 
 Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion 
 
 She'll ne'er get better. 
 Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple. 
 But now she's g t au unco ripple ; 
 Haste, gie' her name up i' the chapel. 
 
 Nigh unto death ; 
 See, how she fetches at the thrapple. 
 
 And gasps for breath. 
 Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
 Gane in a galloping consumption. 
 Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption. 
 
 Will ever mend her. 
 Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. 
 
 Death soon will end her. 
 Tis you and Taylor (161) are the chief, 
 Wha are to blame for this mischief. 
 But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 
 
 A toom tar-barrel 
 And twa red peats wad send relief. 
 
 And end the quarrel. 
 
 fpistlr In 3njm f\ankinB, 
 
 ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. (1G2) 
 
 On rough, rude, ready-witted Pvankine, 
 The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' I 
 There's mony godly folks are thinkin'. 
 
 Your dreams (16 i) and tricks 
 Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 
 
 Straught to Auld Nick's. 
 Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants. 
 And in your wicked, drunken rants. 
 Ye mak a devil o' the saunts. 
 
 And fill them fou (164); 
 And then their failings, flaws, and wanta. 
 
 Are a' seen through. 
 Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
 That holy robe, oh dinua 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 atf their back. 
 Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing. 
 It's just the blue-gown badge and claithmg 
 O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naethiug 
 
 To ken them by, 
 Frae ony unregenerate heathen 
 
 Like you or I. 
 I've sent you here some rhymmg ware^ 
 A' that I bargahi'd for, and mair ; 
 Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 
 
 I will expect 
 Yon sang (165), ye'll sen't wi' canny care. 
 
 And no neglect. 
 
 Cljirli Gfbik in Snljii faprtiilt. (les) 
 
 Septemher 13, 1785. 
 Good speed and furder to you, Johnny, 
 Guide health, hale ban's, and weather bonny; 
 Now when ye're nickau down fa' canny 
 
 The staff o' bread, 
 May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brau'y 
 
 To clear your head. 
 May Boreas never thresh your rigs. 
 Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
 Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and aaggs 
 
 Like drivin" wrack ; 
 But may the tapiuast grain that waga 
 
 Come to the sack. 
 I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it. 
 But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, 
 Sae my aidd stumpie pen I gat it 
 
 Wi' muckle wark. 
 And took my jotteleg and whatt' it, 
 
 Like ony dark. 
 
TAM O oHA.\"l'EK. 
 
 iie "piper Imul 'Uxd. [oxii.^r tle-W; 
 
EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 
 
 153 
 
 Ii's now twa mouth that I'm your debtor. 
 For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
 Abusin' rae for harsh ill nature 
 
 On holy men. 
 While deil a htrir yoursel' ye're better. 
 
 But mair profane. 
 But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
 ! JjCt's sing about our noble sel's ; 
 
 We'el cry nae jads frae heathen hills 
 I To help, or roose us, 
 
 But browster wives and whiskey stills, 
 
 They are the muses. 
 Yonr friendship. Sir, I winna q<iat it. 
 And if ye raak objections at it, 
 Then liau' iu nieve some day we'll knot it, 
 
 Aud witness take. 
 And when wi' usquebsc we've wat it. 
 
 It winna break 
 But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
 Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
 And a' the vittel in the yard. 
 
 And theekit right, 
 I mean your ingle-side to guard 
 
 Ae winter night. 
 Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitaj 
 Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty 
 I Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty. 
 
 And be as canty 
 As ye were nine year less than thretty. 
 
 Sweet ane and twenty ! 
 But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
 And now the sinn keeks in the west, 
 llien I maim rin amang the rest 
 
 And quat my chanter ; 
 Sae I suhscribe myself in haste 
 
 Your's Rab the Ranter. 
 
 epistlu in llic mm. SnjnTH'Batlj. (i67) 
 
 September 17, 1785. 
 While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
 To shun the bitter blaudin' sliow'r. 
 Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 
 
 To pass the time. 
 To you 1 dedicate the hour 
 
 In idle rhyme. 
 My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 
 On gown, and ban', and douse black bonnet. 
 Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 
 
 Lest they should blame her. 
 And rouse their holy thunder on it. 
 
 And anathem her. 
 I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
 Tliat I, a simple, countra bardie, 
 Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 
 
 AVha, if they ken me. 
 Can easy, wi' a single wonlic. 
 
 Louse h-ll upon me. 
 
 But I gae mad at their grimaces. 
 Their sighin', cantiu', grace-proud faces, 
 Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces 
 
 Their raxin' conscience, 
 Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces, 
 
 Waur uor their nonsense. 
 
 There's Gawn (168),misca't waur than a beasC 
 AVha has mair honour in his breast 
 Thau mony scores as guid's the i)riest 
 
 Wha sae abus't liiui. 
 And may a bard no crack his jest 
 
 What way they've use't him? 
 
 See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
 The gentleman iu word and deed, 
 Aud shall his fame and honour bleed 
 
 By worthless skclhuus. 
 And not a muse erect her head 
 
 To cowe the blellums ? 
 
 Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darta 
 To gie the rascals their deserts, 
 I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 
 
 And tell aloud 
 Tlieir jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 
 
 To cheat the crowd. 
 God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be^ 
 Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be. 
 But twenty times I rather wou'd be 
 
 An atheist clean. 
 Then under gospel colours hid be 
 
 Just for a screen. 
 An honest man may like a glass. 
 An honest man may like a lass, 
 But mean revenge, and malice fause, 
 
 He'll still disdain, 
 And then cry zeal for gospel laws. 
 
 Like some we ken. 
 
 Tliey take religion in their month ; 
 They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth. 
 For what ? — to gie their malice skouth 
 
 On some puir wight. 
 And hunt him down, o'er right aud ruth. 
 
 To ruin straight. 
 
 All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
 Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 
 Who iu her rough imperfect line. 
 
 Thus daurs to name thee j 
 To stigmatise false friends of thine 
 
 Can ne'er defame thee. 
 Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain. 
 And far unworthy of thy train. 
 With trembling voice 1 tune my strain 
 
 To join with those 
 Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 
 
 In spite o' foes : 
 In spite o' crowds, iu spite o' mobs. 
 In spite o' uudermiuing jobs. 
 
! 
 
 154 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In spite o' dark banditti stabs 
 
 At worth andrit 
 By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 
 
 But hellish spite. 
 Oh Ayr ! my dear, rriy native ground. 
 Within thy presbyterial bound 
 A candid lib'ral band is found 
 
 Of public teachers. 
 As men, as Christians too, renown'd. 
 
 And manly preachers. 
 Sir, in that circle you are nara'd ; 
 Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
 And some, by whom your doctrine's blara'd 
 
 (Which ffies you honour), 
 Ev'n Sir, by them your iieart's esteem'd. 
 
 And winning manner. 
 Pardon this freedom I have ta'eu. 
 And if impertinent I've been. 
 Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 
 
 Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye. 
 But to his utmost would befriend 
 
 Ought that belang'd ye. 
 
 ®!li! Mrarriran tlJar, 
 
 A FRAGMENT. (169) 
 
 When Guildford good our pilot stood. 
 
 And did our helm thraw, man, 
 Ae night, at tea, began a plea. 
 
 Within America, man : 
 Then up they gat the maskin'-pat. 
 
 And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
 And did nae less, in full Congress, 
 
 Than quite refuse our law, man. 
 Then thro' tiie lakes IMontgomery takes, 
 
 I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
 Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 
 
 And Carleton did ca' man ; 
 But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 
 
 -Montgomery -like did fa', man, 
 Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 
 
 Araang his en'mies a', man. 
 Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. 
 
 Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
 Till Willie Howe took o'er the kuowe 
 
 For Philadelphia, man : 
 Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 
 
 Guid Christian blood to draw, man : 
 But at New York, wi' knife and fork. 
 
 Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 
 Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip. 
 
 Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
 Then lost his way, ae misty day, 
 
 In Saratoga shaw, man. 
 Cornwallis fought as laiig's he dought. 
 
 And did the buckskins claw, man ; 
 But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 
 
 He hung it to the wa', man. 
 
 Then ilontague, and Guildford, too. 
 
 Began to fear a fa', man ; 
 And Sackville dour, wha stood the stourci 
 
 The German Chief to thraw, iiiui: : 
 For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 
 
 Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
 And Charlie Fox threw by the box. 
 
 And lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 
 Then Rockingham took up the game. 
 
 Till death did on him ca', man ; 
 When Shelburne meek held up his cheek. 
 
 Conform to gospel law, man ; 
 Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 
 
 They did his measures thraw, man. 
 For North and Fox united stocks. 
 
 And bore him to the wa', man. 
 Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes, 
 
 He swept the stakes awa', man. 
 Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race^ 
 
 liCd him a sair/^(i(.i' pas, man ; 
 The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 
 
 On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
 And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew, 
 
 " Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 
 Behind the throne then Grenville's gon 
 
 A secret word or twa, man ; 
 While slee Diindas arous'd the class. 
 
 Be-north the Roman wa', man ; 
 And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 
 
 (Inspired Bardies saw, man) 
 Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 
 
 Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?" 
 But, word and blow. North, Fox, and Co., 
 
 Gowlf'd Willie like a ba', man. 
 Till Suthroii raise, and coost their claise 
 
 Behind hiin in a raw, man ; 
 And Caledon threw by the drone. 
 
 And did her whittle draw, man ; 
 And swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood. 
 
 To make it guid in law, man. (170) 
 
 luinuii (Bpisilj in limt, 
 
 A BROTHER POET. 
 AULD NEIBOR, 
 
 I'm three times douWy o'er your debtor, 
 For your auld-farraut, frien'ly letter ; 
 The' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. 
 
 Ye speak sae fair. 
 For ray puir, silly, rhymiu' clatter 
 
 Some less maun sair. 
 Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle : 
 Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. 
 To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 
 
 O' war'ly cares. 
 Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 
 
 Your auld, gray hairs. 
 
THE FIRST PSALM. 
 
 156 
 
 But, Da\-ie laJ, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
 I'm tauld tlie muse ye hae negleckit; 
 And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 
 
 Until ye fyke ; 
 Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 
 
 Be hain't wha like. 
 
 For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
 Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
 Whyles daez't wi' love, why lea daez't wi' 
 drink, 
 
 Wi' jada or masons ; 
 And whyles, but aye owre late, I think 
 
 Braw sober lessons. 
 
 Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
 Commeu' me to the bardie clan ; 
 Except it be some idle plan 
 
 O' rhymin' chnk. 
 The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 
 
 They ever think. 
 
 Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o'liviu' 
 Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
 But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 
 
 And while ought's there. 
 Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 
 
 And fash nae mair. 
 
 Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
 My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
 At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure. 
 
 The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
 Tho' rough and raploch be her measure. 
 
 She's seldom lazy. 
 
 Haud to the Muse, my dainty Dane : 
 The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
 But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 
 
 Tho' e'er sae puir, 
 Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 
 
 Frae door to door. 
 
 All hail ! inexorable lord ! 
 
 At whose destruction-breathing word 
 
 The mightiest empires fall ! 
 Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
 The ministers of grief and pain, 
 
 A sullen welcome, all ! 
 With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 
 
 I see each aimed dart ! 
 For one has cut my dearest tie. 
 And quivers in my heart. 
 Then low'ring and pouring. 
 
 The storm no more I dread ; 
 Though thick'ning and black'uing 
 Round my devoted head. 
 
 And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
 While life a pleasure can afford. 
 
 Oh hear a wretch's prayer ! 
 No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
 I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
 To close this scene of care 1 
 Wlien 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 ! 
 
 f IjE /irst m ilrrsrs nf IIjb SSinrliEtli 
 ^3salra. 
 
 Oh Thou, the first, the greatest friend 
 
 Of all the human race ! 
 Whose strong right hand has ever been 
 
 Their stay and dwelling place ! 
 
 Before the mountains heav'd their heads. 
 
 Beneath Thy forming hand. 
 Before this ponderous globe itself 
 
 Arose at Thy command ; 
 
 That Pow'r which raised and still upholds 
 This universal frame, 
 [ From countless, unbeginning time 
 Was ever still the same. 
 
 Tliose mighty periods of years 
 
 Which seem to us so vast. 
 Appear no more before Thy sight 
 
 'i'han yesterday that's past. 
 
 Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man. 
 
 Is to existence brought ; 
 Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men. 
 
 Return ye into nought I " 
 
 Thou layest them with all their cares 
 
 In everlasting sleep ; 
 As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 
 
 With overwhelming sweep. 
 
 They flourish like the morning flow'r. 
 
 In beauty's pride array 'd; 
 But long here night, cut down, it lies 
 
 All wither'd and decay'd. 
 
 15 
 
 ®lu /irst ^c^salra. 
 
 The man, in life wherever plac'd. 
 
 Hath happiness in store, 
 Who walks not in the wicked's way. 
 
 Nor learns their guiliy lotel 
 
156 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
 Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
 
 But with humihty and awe 
 Still walks before his God. 
 
 That man shall flourish like the trees 
 VVliich by the streamlets grow ; 
 
 The fruitful top is spread ou high' 
 And firm the root below. 
 
 But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
 Sliall to the ground be cast. 
 
 And, like the rootless stubble,' tost 
 Before the sleeping blast. 
 
 For why ? that God the good adore 
 ^ Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 
 But hath decree(l that wicked men 
 Shall ne'er be truly blest. 
 
 I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
 You on an auld wife's flannen toy; 
 Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 
 
 On's wyliecoat ; 
 But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! (172) 
 
 How daur ye do't ? 
 Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
 And set your beauties a' abreadl' 
 Ye little ken what cursed speed 
 
 The blastie's makin' ! 
 Ihae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 
 
 Are notice takiii'! 
 
 Oil wad some power thegiftie gieus 
 To see oursels as others see us ! 
 It wad frae mony a blunder free us 
 
 And foolish notion : 
 What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us 
 
 And ev'n devotion ! 
 
 ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY's BONNET, 
 AT CHURCH. (171) 
 
 Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ! 
 Your impudence protects you sairly : 
 I canna say but ye struut rarely, 
 „, , Owe gauze and face ; 
 
 iiio, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 
 On sic a place. 
 
 Ye ugly, creepin', blastit woniier. 
 Detested, sliunn'd, by saunt and'sinner 
 How dare you set your feet upon her, ' 
 
 Sae fine a lady! 
 Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 
 
 On some poor body. 
 
 Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle • 
 There ye may creep, and sprawl and sprattle 
 Wi ither kindred, jumping cattle, 
 „„ In shoals and nations ; j 
 
 Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 
 
 Your thick plantations. | 
 
 Now hand you there, ye're out o' sio-ht 
 Below the fatt'rells, snug and tio-ht ■ ' 
 Na, faith ye yet ! ye'U no be right 
 
 Till ye've got on it, 
 Ihe vera tapmost, tow'ring height 
 
 O' Miss's bonnet. 
 
 My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out 
 As plump and grey as ony grozet ; 
 Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet,' 
 
 Or fell, red smeddum' 
 I d gie you sic a hearty dose o't. 
 
 Wad dress your droddum ! 
 
 CljE Snnrntnrij. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THH 
 SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, (173.) 
 
 Sir, as your mandate did request, 
 I send you here a faithfu' list 
 O' gudes and gear, and a' my graith. 
 To which I'm clear to gie my aith. ' 
 
 Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
 I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, ' 
 As ever drew afore a pettle 
 My han' afore's (174j a gude auld has been 
 And wight and wilfu' a' his days been 
 My han' ahin's (17.5) a weel gaun filly, 
 lliat aft has borne me hamefrae Killie (176), 
 And your auld burro' mony a time. 
 In days when riding was nae crime — 
 But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
 I like a blockhead boost to ride. 
 The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,' 
 (L— pardon a' my sins and that too !) 
 I I play'd my filly sic a shavie, 
 She'a a' bcdevil'd with the spavie. 
 My fur ahin's (177) a wordy beast. 
 As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
 The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
 A d— u'd red wud Ivilburnie blastie! 
 Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale. 
 As ever ran afore a tail. 
 If he be spar'd to be a beast. 
 
 He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least 
 
 Wheel carriages I hae but few. 
 Three carts, and twa a feckly new ; 
 Ae auld wheelbarrow, niair for token, 
 Ae leg and baith the trams are broke'a; 
 I made a poker o' the spin'le. 
 And my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 
 
I 
 
 WILLIE CHAL]\IERS. 
 
 167 
 
 For men, 1 re three mischievous boys. 
 Run dc'iis iuf rantin' and for noise; 
 A gaudsnian ane, a thrasher t'other. 
 Wee Davock hands the newt in father. 
 I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. 
 And aften labour them completely ; 
 And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
 I on the Questions targe them tightly ; 
 Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, 
 Tho' scarcely lauger than your leg. 
 He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling (178), 
 As fast as ony in the dwaOing. 
 I've nane in female servan' station, 
 (L — keep me aye frae a' temptation !) 
 I hae nae wife — and that my bliss is. 
 And ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
 And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
 I ken the devils dare na touch me. 
 \Vi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
 Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
 My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess (179), 
 She stares the daddy in her face. 
 Enough of ought ye like but grace; 
 But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, 
 I've paid enough for her already. 
 And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
 B' the L--! ye'se get them a' thegither. 
 
 And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
 Nae kind of licence out I'm takiu' ; 
 Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 
 Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
 My travel ao n foot I'll shank it, 
 I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
 Sae dinna put me in your buke. 
 Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 
 
 Tliis list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
 The day and date as under noted ; 
 Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
 Subscripsi huic, 
 
 Robert Burns 
 Mossgiel, February 22, 1786. 
 
 a Untf tn Qmn SJamiiinti, ^5^., 
 
 MAUCHLINE. 
 (recommending a boy.) 
 
 Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. 
 I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty, 
 To warn you how that Master Tootie, 
 
 Alias, Laird M'Gami, 
 Was here to hire yon lad away 
 "Bout whom ye spak the tither day. 
 And wad hae don't aff lian* : 
 
 But lest he learn the callan tricks. 
 
 As, faith, I muckle doubt him. 
 Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks (180), 
 And tellin' lies about them : 
 As lieve then, I'd have then. 
 
 Your clerkship he should sair. 
 If sae be ye may be 
 Not fitted other where. 
 
 Altlio' I say't, he's gleg enough. 
 
 And 'bout a house that's rude and rough, 
 
 The boy might learn to swear ; 
 But then wi' you he'll be sae taught, 
 A get sic fair example straught, 
 
 1 havena ony fear. 
 
 Ye'U catechise him every quirk. 
 
 And shore him weel wi' hell ; 
 
 And gar him follow to the kirk — 
 
 — Aye when ye gang yoursel. 
 
 If ye then maun be then 
 
 Frae hame this comin' Friday ; 
 Then please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, 
 The orders wi' your lady. 
 
 My word of honour I hae gien. 
 
 In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 
 
 To meet the warld's worm; 
 To try to get the t va to gree. 
 And name the airless (181) and the fe^ 
 
 In legal mode and form : 
 I ken he weel a snick can draw. 
 When simple bodies let him ; 
 And if a devil be at a'. 
 In faith he's sure to get him. 
 To phrase you, and praise you. 
 Ye, ken your Laureat scorns : 
 The pray'r still, you share still. 
 Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 
 
 Wm (Pljalinrrs. (182) 
 
 Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride. 
 
 And eke a braw new brechan. 
 My Pegasus I'm got astride. 
 
 And up Parnassus pechin; 
 Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, 
 
 The doited beastie stammers ; 
 Then up he gets and off he sets 
 
 For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 
 
 I doubt na, lass, that weel kenu'd name 
 
 May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
 I am nae stranger to your fame. 
 
 Nor his warm urged wishes. 
 Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 
 
 His honest heart enamours. 
 And faith ye'U no be lost a w hit, 
 
 Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 
 
158 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Aiild truth hersel' might swear j'e're fair. 
 
 And honour safely back her. 
 And modesty assume your air. 
 
 And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
 And sic twa love inspiring een 
 
 Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
 Nae wonder then they've fatal been 
 
 To honest Willie Chalmers. 
 
 I doubt na fortune may you shore 
 
 Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
 Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 
 
 And band upon his breastie : 
 But oh ! what signifies to you 
 
 His lexicons and grammars ; 
 The feeling heart's the royal blue, 
 
 Aad that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 
 
 Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 
 
 ]\Iay warsle for your favour ; 
 May claw his lug, and straik hia beard. 
 
 And hoast up some palaver. 
 Jly bonnie maid, before ye wed 
 
 Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
 Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 
 
 Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 
 
 Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 
 
 For ane that shares my bosom. 
 Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues, 
 
 For deil a hair I roose him. 
 May powers aboon unite you soon, 
 
 And fructify your amours. 
 And every year come in mair dear 
 
 To you and WiUie Chalmers. 
 
 f inrs miliEii nn a ©auk inip. (i83) 
 
 Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf. 
 
 Fell source o' a' my woe and grief : 
 
 For lack o' thee Pve lost my lass. 
 
 For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 
 
 I see the children of affliction 
 
 Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 
 
 I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
 
 Amid his hapless victim's spoil, 
 
 And, for thy potence, ^ainly wish'd 
 
 To crush the villain in the dust. 
 
 For lack o' thee I leave this much loved 
 
 shore. 
 Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 
 R. B.— Kyle. 
 
 Speaking silence, dumb confession. 
 
 Passion's birth, and infants' play. 
 Dove-like fondness, chaste concession. 
 
 Glowing dawn of brighter day. 
 Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action. 
 
 When ling'ring lips no more must join; 
 What words can ever speak affection. 
 
 So thrilling and sincere as thine ! 
 
 f n a 1Rts5. (184) 
 
 Humid seal of soft affections, 
 Tend'rest pledge of future bliss. 
 
 Dearest tie of young connections. 
 Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 
 
 ^jtrrsrs 'ttJrittrn nnhr ^inlznt §M. 
 
 (185) 
 
 Accept the gift a friend sincere 
 
 Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
 Remembrance oft may start a tear. 
 But oh ! that tenderness forbear. 
 
 Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 
 My 'morning raise sae clear and fair, 
 
 I thought sair storms wad never 
 Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 
 In wildest fury hae made bare 
 
 ]\Iy peace, ray hope, for ever ! 
 You think Pra glad ; oh, I pay weel. 
 
 For a' the joy I borrow. 
 In solitude — then, then I feel 
 I canna to mysel' conceal 
 
 My deeply ranklin' sorrow. 
 Farewell ! within thy bosom free 
 
 A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
 A tear may wet thy Uiugliin' ee, 
 For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee— 
 
 Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 
 
 LYING AT A FRIEND S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, 
 THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 
 
 IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. (18G) 
 
 Oh thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 
 
 I know thou wilt me hear, 
 Wlien for this scene of peace and love 
 
 I make my prayer sincere ! 
 The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. 
 
 Long, long, be pleased to spare. 
 To bless his filial Uttle flock 
 
 And show what good men are. 
 She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
 
 With tender hopes and fears. 
 Oh, bless her with a mother's joys. 
 
 But spare a mother's tears ! 
 Their hope, their stay, their darling youtk. 
 
 In manhood's dawning blush — 
 Bless hira, thou God of love and truth. 
 
 Up to a parent's wish 1 
 
EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 
 
 159 
 
 The beauteous, seraph sister-baud. 
 
 With earnest tears I pray, 
 Ihou know'st the snares on every hand — 
 
 Guide Thou their steps ahvay. 
 When soon or late they reach that coast. 
 
 O'er hfe's rough ocean driven. 
 May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
 
 A family in hea\ en ! 
 
 ^n air. B'ilhm, 
 
 or CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 
 
 Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 
 
 I trow it made me proud; 
 " See wha taks notice o' the bard !" 
 
 I lap and cried fu' loud. 
 Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 
 
 The senseless, gawky million : 
 I'll cock my nose aboon them a'^ 
 
 I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 
 TVas noble. Sir ; 'twas like yoursel. 
 
 To grant your high protection : 
 A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. 
 
 Is aye a blest infection. 
 Tho' by his (187) banes who in a tub 
 
 Match'd Macedonian Sandy! 
 On my aiu legs thro' dirt and dub, 
 
 I independent stand aye. 
 And when those legs to guid, warm kail, 
 
 ^Xi' welcome canna bear me; 
 A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
 
 A barley-scone shall cheer me. 
 Heaven spare you lang to kiss the b eath 
 
 0' many flow'ry simmers ! 
 And bless your bonnie lasses baith- - 
 
 I'm tauld they're loosome kimme rs ! 
 And God bless young Dunaskin's aird, 
 
 Tlie blossom of our gentry ! 
 And may he wear an auld man's Deard, 
 
 A credit to his country. 
 
 finrs nn Brrliiig niitlj SSasiljICiiri Satr. 
 
 (188) 
 
 This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
 I, RhjTner Robin, alias Burns, 
 
 October twenty-thir , 
 A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
 Sae far I sprachled up the b ae, 
 
 I diuner'd wi' a L )rd. 
 I've been at drucken writers' feasts. 
 Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 
 
 "\Vi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
 I've ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum. 
 When mighty squireships of the quorum. 
 
 Their hydra drouth did sloken. 
 
 1 
 
 But wi' a Lord ! — stand out my shin, 
 A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son I 
 
 Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
 And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa. 
 Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 
 
 As I look o'er my sonnet. 
 But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
 To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 
 
 And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
 When goavaii, as if led wi' branks, 
 And stumpiu' on his ploughman shanks. 
 
 He in the parlour hamiuer'd. 
 I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
 And at his Lordship steal't a look. 
 
 Like some portentous omen ; 
 Except good sense and social glee. 
 And (what surprised me) modesty, 
 
 I marked nought uncommon. 
 I watch'd the symptoms o' the great. 
 The gentle pride, the lordly state. 
 
 The arrogant assuming; 
 The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
 Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 
 
 JIair than an honest ploughman. 
 Then from his Lordship I shall learu. 
 Henceforth to meet with unconcern 
 
 One rank as weel's another; 
 Nae honest worthy man need care 
 To meet with noble youthful Paer, 
 
 For he but meets a orother. 
 
 fpistlp in m\n: iCngait. nso) 
 
 Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattiin' Willie! 
 Though fortune's road be rough and hilly 
 To every fiddling, rhyming billie. 
 
 We never heed, 
 But take it hke the unback'd tilly. 
 
 Proud o' her speed. 
 When idly goavan whyles we saunter 
 Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter 
 Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter. 
 
 Some black bog-hole. 
 Arrests us, then the scathe and banter 
 
 We're forced to thole. 
 Hale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddle 1 
 Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. 
 To cheer you through the weary widdle 
 
 O this wild warl', 
 Until you on a crummock driddle 
 
 A grey-hair'd carle. 
 Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon 
 Heaven send your heart-strings aye in 
 And screw your temper pins aboon 
 
 A fifth or mair. 
 The melancholious, lazy croon 
 
 O' cankrie care. 
 
160 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 May still your lite rrom day to day 
 
 Nae "lente largo" in the play. 
 
 But "allegretto forte" gay 
 
 Harmonious flow 
 
 A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 
 Encore ! Bravo ! 
 
 A blessing on the cheery gang 
 Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 
 And never think o' right and wrang 
 
 By square and rule. 
 But as the clegs o' feeling staiig 
 
 Are wise or fool. 
 
 My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
 The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
 Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 
 
 Their tuneless hearts 1 
 May fireside discords jar a base 
 
 To a' their parts ! 
 
 But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
 I'th' ither warl', if there's auither — 
 And that there is I've little swither 
 
 About the matter — 
 We cheek for chow shall jog thegither ; 
 
 I'se ne'er bid better. 
 
 We've faults and failings — granted clearly. 
 We're ft-ail backsliding mortals merely. 
 Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly 
 
 For our grand fa' ; 
 But still, but still, I like them dearly — 
 
 God bless them a' 1 
 
 Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
 When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers. 
 The witching curs'd delicious blinkers 
 
 Hae put me hyte. 
 And gart me weet my waukrife winkers., 
 
 Wi' girnin' spite. 
 
 But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin'» 
 And every star within my hearin' ! 
 And by her eeu wha was a dear ane 1 
 
 I'll ne'er forget; 
 I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 
 
 lu fair play yet. 
 
 My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
 I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
 Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 
 
 Some cantrip hour, 
 By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted. 
 
 Then, vive V amour I 
 
 Faites mes baissemains respectueuses. 
 
 To sentimental sister Susie, 
 
 Aud honest Lucky ; no to roose you. 
 
 Ye may be proud. 
 That sic a couple fate allows ye 
 
 To grace your blood. 
 
 Nae mair at present can I mehsure 
 
 And trowth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; 
 
 But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 
 
 Be't light, be't dark. 
 Sir baid will do himself the pleasure 
 
 To call at Park. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 Moatgiel, 30W Odoher 17S(j. 
 
 fainrnt, 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT 
 TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 
 
 0' ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone 
 
 mountain straying, [rave. 
 
 Where thewildwinds of winter incessantly 
 
 AVliat woes wring my heart while intently 
 
 surveying [the wave. 
 
 The storm's gloomy path on the breast of 
 
 Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 
 Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native 
 shore ; 
 Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in 
 Coila's green vale. 
 The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 
 
 No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll 
 
 wander, [the wave; 
 
 And smile at the moon's rirapled face in 
 
 No more shall my arms cling with fondness 
 
 around her, [her grave. 
 
 For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on 
 
 No more shall the soft tlu'dl of love warm my 
 
 breast, [shore ; 
 
 I haste with the storm to a far distant 
 
 Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall 
 
 rest. 
 
 And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 
 
 (!l>n a Irntrlj %zxX 
 
 GONE TO THE WEST INiBIES. 
 
 A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, 
 A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
 A' ye wha live and never think. 
 
 Come, mourn wi' met 
 Our billie's gieii vis a' jink. 
 
 And owre the sea. 
 
 Lament him a' ye raiitin' core, 
 Wlia dearly like a random-splore, 
 Nae mair he'U join the merry roar 
 
 In social key ; 
 For now he's taeii anither shore. 
 
 And owre the sea I 
 
 The bonny lasses weel may miss him. 
 And in their dear petitions place him; 
 
 (190) 
 
TO A HAGGIS. 
 
 161 
 
 The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 
 
 Wi tearfu' e'e ; 
 For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 
 
 That's owre the sea ! 
 Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
 Had'st thou taen aff some drowsy bumble, 
 Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 
 
 'Twad been uae plea ; 
 But he was gleg as ony wumble, 
 
 That's owre the sea ! 
 
 Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear 
 And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. 
 
 In flinders flee; 
 He was her laureat mony a year, 
 
 That's owre the sea ! 
 He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west; 
 Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
 A jillet brak his heart at last, 
 
 HI may she be ! 
 So, took a berth afore the mast. 
 
 And owre the sea. 
 
 To tremble under fortune's cummock. 
 On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
 Wi' his proud, independent stomach. 
 
 Could ill agree ; 
 So row't his hurdles in a hammock. 
 
 And owre the sea. 
 
 He ne'er was gien to great misguiding. 
 Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
 AVi' him it ne'er was under hiding — 
 
 He dealt it free : 
 The muse was a' that he took pride in. 
 
 That's owre the sea. 
 
 Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 
 And hap him in a cozie bid : 
 Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 
 
 And fou' o' glee ; 
 He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 
 
 That's owre the sea. 
 
 Fareweel, my rhjTne-composing billie ! 
 Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
 But may ye flourish like a lily. 
 
 Now bonnilie ! 
 1*11 toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 
 
 Tho' owre the sea ! 
 
 ON THE BLANK LEAF OP A COPY OP THE 
 POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEET- 
 HEART, THEN MARRIED. 
 
 Once fondly lov'd and still remembered dear; 
 
 Sweet early object of my youthful vows ! 
 Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. 
 
 Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 
 
 And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
 One friendly sigh for him — lie Bsks no more. 
 
 Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. 
 Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 
 
 QfljE /arrrarll. 
 
 " The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer 
 Or what does he regard his single woes ? 
 But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
 'J'o dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 
 To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon 
 
 him, 
 To helpless children!— then, oh then ! he feels 
 The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
 And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
 Such, such am I ! undone !" 
 
 Tuomson'3 Edward and Ehanora, 
 
 Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domain^ 
 Far dearer than the torrid plains 
 
 Where rich ananas blow ! 
 Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
 A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
 
 My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
 Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 
 
 Of my parental care ; 
 A faithful brother I have left. 
 My part in him thou'lt share ! 
 Adieu too, to you too. 
 
 My Smith, my bosom frieu'j 
 When kindly you mind me. 
 Oh then befriend my Jean ! 
 
 What bursting anguish tears my heart I 
 From thee, my Jeany, must I part ! 
 Thou, weeping, answ'rest " No !" 
 Alas ! misfortune stares my face. 
 And points to ruin and disgrace, 
 
 I for thy sake must go ! 
 Tliee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 
 
 A grateful, warm adieu ! 
 I, with a much indebted tear. 
 Shall still remember you ? 
 All-hail then, the gale then. 
 
 Wafts me from thee, dear shore I 
 It rustles, and whistles — 
 I'll never see thee more! 
 
 tfn a 
 
 is. (191) 
 
 Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 
 Great chieftain o' the puddiu'-race ! 
 Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 
 
 Painch, tripe, or thairm 
 Weel are ye wordy of a grace 
 
 As lang's my arm. 
 
 The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
 Your hurdics like a distant hill, 
 
162 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Your pin wad help to mend a mill 
 
 111 time o' need, 
 Wliile thro' your pores the dews distil 
 
 Like amber bead. 
 His knife see rustic labour diglit. 
 And cut you up wi' ready slight, 
 Trenching your gushing entrails bright 
 
 Like ony ditch ; 
 And then, oh what a glorious sight, 
 
 Warm-reekin', rich ! 
 Tlien horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
 Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
 Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 
 
 Are bent like drums ; 
 Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, 
 
 Bethankit hums. 
 Is there that o'er his French ragout 
 Or Olio that wad staw a sow, 
 Or fricassee wad make her spew 
 
 Wi' perfect scunner. 
 Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 
 
 On sic a dinner ! 
 Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
 As feckless as a wither'd rash. 
 His spindle shank a guid wiiip-lash. 
 
 His nieve a nit ; 
 Thro' bloody flood or field to dash. 
 
 Oh how unfit 1 
 But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
 The trembling earth resounds his tread. 
 Clap in his walie nieve a blade. 
 
 He'll mak it whissle ; 
 And legs, and arms, and heads wiU sned. 
 
 Like taps o' thrissle. 
 Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care. 
 And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
 Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 
 
 That jaups in luggies ; 
 But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 
 
 Gie her a Haggis ! 
 
 f n Biss f Egan, raitl; ^nillfs 1{km5, 
 
 AS A NEW year's GIFT, JAN. 1. 1787. 
 
 (192) 
 Again the silent wheels of time 
 
 Their annual round have driv'n, 
 And you, tlio' scarce in maiden prime. 
 
 Are so much nearer Heav'n. 
 No gifts have I from Indian coasts 
 
 The infant year to hail ; 
 I send you more than India boasts 
 
 In Edwin's simple tale. 
 Our sex with guile and faithless love 
 
 Is charg'd, perhaps, too true; 
 But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
 
 Au Edwin still to you I 
 
 (SitptnjinrB m tljE f nnrt nf Irssinn. 
 
 TUNE — Cillicrankie. 
 LORD ADVOCATE. (193) 
 
 He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. 
 
 He quoted and he hinted. 
 Till in a declamation-mist. 
 
 His argument he tint it : 
 He gaped for't, he graiped for't. 
 
 He fand it was awa, man ; 
 But what his common sense came short. 
 
 He eked out wi' law, man. 
 
 MR. ERSKINE. (194) 
 
 Collected Harry stood a wee. 
 
 Then open'd out his arm, man : 
 His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 
 
 And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
 Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail. 
 
 Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
 The bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 
 
 Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 
 
 (195) 
 "My cantie, ■witty, rhyming ploughman, 
 I hafflins doubt it is na' true, man, 
 That ye between the stilts was bred, 
 Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed 
 I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 
 Either frae grammar-school or college. 
 Guid troth, your saul and body baith 
 War better fed, I'd gie my aith. 
 Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch. 
 And bummil through the single Carritch. 
 Whaever heard tlie" ploughman speak, 
 Could tell gif Homer -was a Greek I 
 He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 
 As get a single line of Virgil. 
 And then sae slee ye crack your jokes 
 O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox : _ 
 Our great men a' sae wee! descrive, 
 And how to gar the nation thrive, 
 Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them. 
 And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. 
 But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 
 Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 
 And though the cauld I ill can bide, 
 Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride 
 O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, 
 Though my auld yad should gie a stumble, 
 To crack a winter night wi' thee. 
 And hear tliy sangs .and sonnets slee. 
 Oh gif I kenn'd but where ye baide, 
 I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 
 'Twad houd your shouthers warm and braw, 
 And douce at kirk or market shaw ; 
 Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, 
 A' honest Scotsmen loe the maud." 
 
 I MIND it weel in early date. 
 
 When 1 was beardless young, &vA l>late, 
 And first could thresh the barn ; 
 
 Or baud a yokin' at the pleugh ; 
 
 And tho' forfoughten sair eueug 
 Yet unco proud to learn : 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 163 
 
 When first amang the yellow com 
 
 A man I reckon'd was, 
 And wi' the lave ilk merry mom 
 Could rank my r\g and lass, 
 Still shearing, and clearings 
 
 The tither stocked raw, 
 Wi' claivers, and haivers. 
 Wearing the day awa. 
 
 E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r — 
 A wish that to my latest hour 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast — 
 That I, for poor aiild Scotland's sake. 
 Some usefu' plan or benk could make 
 
 Or sing a sang at least 
 The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide 
 
 Amang the bearded bear, 
 I tum'd the weeder-clips aside. 
 And spar'd the symbol dear : 
 No nation, no station. 
 
 My envy e'er could raise, 
 A Scot still, but blot still, 
 I knew nae higher praise. 
 
 But still the elements o' sang 
 
 In formless jumble, right and wrang, 
 
 "Wild floated in my brain ; 
 Till on that hur'st I said before. 
 My partner in the merry core. 
 
 She rous'd the forming strain : 
 I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 
 
 That lighted up her jingle. 
 Her witching smile, her pauky een 
 That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
 I fired, inspired. 
 
 At every kindling keek. 
 But bashing and dashing 
 I feared aye to speak. 
 
 Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel saya, 
 Wi' merry dance in winter days. 
 And we to share in common : 
 The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
 The saul o' life, the heaven below. 
 
 Is rapture-giving woman. 
 Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. 
 
 Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
 She, honest woman, may think shame 
 That ye're connected with her. 
 Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 
 That slight the lovely dears ; 
 To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
 Ilk honest birkie swears. 
 
 For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
 Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre. 
 
 Thanks to you for your line : 
 The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
 By me should gratefully be ware ; 
 
 *Twad please me to the uiue. 
 
 I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 
 
 Douce hingin' owre my curple^ 
 llian ony ermine ever lap. 
 Or proud imperial purple. 
 
 Fareweel then, lang heal then. 
 
 And plenty be your fa'. 
 May losses and crosses 
 Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 
 
 WRITTEN T7NDER THE PORTRAIT OP FERGUSSON, 
 THE POET, IN A COPY OP THAT AUTHOR'S 
 WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNQ LADY lU 
 EDINBURCH, MARCH 19, 1787. 
 
 Curse on ungrateful man, that can be 
 pleas'd, [pleasure ! 
 
 And yet can starve the author of the 
 Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune. 
 By far my elder brother in the muses. 
 With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
 Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
 Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 
 
 fnsrnptian 
 
 ON THE HEADSTONE OP FERGUSSON. 
 
 Here lies 
 
 KoBEET Fergusson, Poet, 
 
 Born, Sept. 5, 1751. 
 
 Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 
 
 No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
 " No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 
 
 This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
 To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HJS BENEFIT 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Monday, 16th April, 1787. (196) 
 
 When by a generous Public's kind acclaim. 
 That dearest meed is granted — honest fame: 
 When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
 Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
 What breast sodead to heav'nly Virtue's glow. 
 But heavesimpassion'dwiththegrateful throe. 
 
 Poor is the task to please a barb'rons 
 throng, [song. 
 
 It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's 
 But here an ancient nation fam'd afar. 
 For genius, learning high, as great in war— 
 Hail, Caledoni.\, name for ever dear ! 
 Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear I 
 
164 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Where every science — every nobler art — 
 That can inform tlie mind, or mend the heart, 
 Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found 
 Far as the rude barbarian marks the boimd. 
 Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, 
 Here holds her search by heaven-taught 
 
 Reason's beam ; 
 Here history paints with elegance and force. 
 The tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
 Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into 
 
 plan. 
 And Harley (197) rouses all the god in man, 
 "VVheu well-form'd taste and sparkling wit 
 
 unite 
 With manly lore, or female beauty bright 
 (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and 
 
 grace. 
 Can only charm us in the second place). 
 Witness my heart, how oft with panting 
 
 fear 
 As on this night, I've met these judges here! 
 But still the hope Experience taught to 
 
 live, 
 Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
 No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
 With decency and law beneath liis feet ; 
 Nor Insolence assumes fair Fi-eedom'sname; 
 Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 
 
 Oh thou dread Power ; whose empire- 
 giving hand [land 1 
 Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd 
 Strong may she glow with all her ancient 
 
 lire! 
 May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
 Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
 At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ! 
 Still self-dependent in her native shore. 
 Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest 
 roar, [no more. 
 
 Till fate the curtain drop on world's to be 
 
 £pi5tb k lliilliani torr^. 
 
 (198) 
 
 AtJLD chuckle Reekie's (199) sair distrest, 
 Down droops her ance weel-burnish'd crest, 
 Nae joy her bonuie buskit nest. 
 
 Can yield awa. 
 Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 
 
 Willie's ava ! 
 
 Oh Willie was a witty wight. 
 And had o' things an unco slight ; 
 Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight. 
 
 And trig and braw : 
 But now they'll busk her like a fright — 
 
 Willie's awa! 
 
 The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
 The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
 They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 
 
 Tliat was a law : 
 We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd — 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
 Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
 J\lay sprout like simmer puddock-stools 
 
 In glen or shaw ; 
 He wha could brush them down to mools, 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumei 
 
 (200) 
 IMay morn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 
 He was a dictionar and grammar 
 
 Amang them a' ; 
 I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer — 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 Nae mair we see his levee door 
 Philosophers and poets pour, 
 And toothy critics by the score. 
 
 In bloody raw ! 
 The adjutant o' a' the core, 
 
 Willie's awa! 
 
 Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
 Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
 Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 
 
 As Rome ne'er saw ; 
 They a' maun meet some ither place, 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna 
 
 quicken. 
 He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
 Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 
 
 By hoodie-craw ! 
 Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin'— 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum. 
 And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him ; 
 And self-conceited critic skellum 
 
 His quill may draw ; 
 He wha could brawlie ward their beUum, 
 
 WiUie's awa! 
 
 Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
 And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
 And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 
 
 While tempests blaw ; 
 But every joy and pleasure's fled — 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 May I be slander's common speech ; 
 A text for infamy to preach ; 
 And lastly, streekit out to bleach 
 
 In winter snaw ; 
 When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 
 
 Tho' far awa ! 
 
JOHN ANDERHON MY .1! 
 
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT. 
 
 165 
 
 May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
 May never v^icked men bamboozle him ! 
 Until a pow as aidd's Methusalem 
 
 He canty claw ! 
 Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 
 
 Fleet wing awa ! 
 
 <£>n till! JDratl; nf #ir '^mts Snittrr ffilair. 
 
 (201) 
 The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
 Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western 
 wave. [dark'ning air, 
 
 Th' inconstant blast howl'd through the 
 
 And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 
 Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. 
 Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal 
 train (202) ; [well (203), 
 
 Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd 
 Or mould'ring rwins mark the sacred faue. 
 (204) 
 Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling 
 rocks, [starry sky. 
 
 The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the 
 The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
 And shooting meteors caught the startled 
 eye. 
 The paly moon rose in the livid east. 
 
 And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately 
 form. 
 In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast. 
 And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
 storm. 
 Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
 
 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 
 Her form majestic-droop'd in pensive woe. 
 
 The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 
 Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
 
 Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
 That like a deathful mtteor gleam'd afar. 
 And brav'd the mighty mouarchs of the 
 world. 
 " My patriot son fills an untimely grave 1 " 
 With accents wild and lifted arms — she 
 cried ; [save, 
 
 " IjOW lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
 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 ; [bier ; 
 
 The drooping arts surround their patron's 
 And grateful science heaves the heart-felt 
 sigh ! 
 1 saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 
 
 I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
 But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
 Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 
 
 My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
 W^hile empty greatness saves a worthless 
 name ? 
 
 No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue. 
 And future ages hear his growing fame. 
 
 And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
 
 Thro' future times to make his virtue last ; 
 
 That distant years may boast of other 
 
 Blairs ! " — [blast. 
 
 She said, and vauish'd with the sweeping 
 
 (^K ^raring snrai; il^atrr-Zaml in fnri^- 
 C urit. 
 
 A WILD SCENE AMONG T»K UILLS OP OCnTEBTTKE. 
 
 Why ye tenants of the lake. 
 For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? 
 Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
 At my presence thus you fly? 
 W hy disturb your social joys. 
 Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
 Common friend to you and me. 
 Nature's gifts to all are free : 
 Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
 Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
 Or beneath the sheltering rock. 
 Bide the surging billows shock. 
 
 Conscious, blushing for our race. 
 Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
 ]Man, yoirr proud usurping foe. 
 Would be lord of all below : 
 Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. 
 Tyrant stern to all beside. 
 The eagle, from yon cliffy brow, 
 Miirking you his prey below. 
 In liis breast no pity dwells. 
 Strong necessity compels : 
 But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
 A ray direct from pitying Heav'n 
 Glories in his heart humane — 
 And creatures for his pleasure slain. 
 In these savage, liquid plains. 
 Only known to waud'ring swains. 
 Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
 Far from human haunts and ways ; 
 All on Nature you depend. 
 And life's poor season peaceful spend. 
 
 Or, if man's superior might 
 Dare invade your native right. 
 On the lofty ether borne, 
 Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
 Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
 Other lakes and other springs ; 
 And the foe you cannot brave. 
 Scorn, at least, to be his slave. 
 
166 
 
 BTJENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 ffljE Snm!i!p ^^rtitinii nf ©riiac itatrr. 
 
 TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATIIOLE. (205) 
 
 My Lord, I know your noble ear 
 
 Woe ne'er assails in vani ; 
 EmbolJen'd thus, I beg you'll hear 
 
 Your humble slave complain. 
 How saucy PhcEbus' scorching beams. 
 
 In flaming summer-pride. 
 Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. 
 
 And drhik my crystal tide. 
 
 The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts. 
 
 That thro' my waters play. 
 If, in their random, wanton spouts. 
 
 They near the margin stray ; 
 If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 
 
 I'm scorching up so shallow. 
 They're left the whitening stanes amang. 
 
 In gasping death to wallow. 
 
 Last day I grat wi' spite and teen. 
 
 As poet Burns came by. 
 That to a bard I should be seen 
 
 Wi' half my channel dry : 
 A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 
 
 Even as I was he shor'd mej 
 But had I in my glory been. 
 
 He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 
 
 Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. 
 
 In twisting strength I rin ; 
 There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 
 
 Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
 Enjoying large each spring and well. 
 
 As nature gave them me, 
 I am, altho' I say't raysel' 
 
 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 bonuie 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 mild and mellow ; 
 The robin pensive autumn cheer. 
 
 In all her locks of yellow. 
 
 This, too, a covert shall insure 
 To shield them from the storm; 
 
 And coward maukin sleep secure. 
 Low iu her grassy form : 
 
 Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 
 To weave his crown of flow'rs : 
 
 Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 
 From prone descending show'rs. 
 
 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 charms 
 
 The hour of heav'n to grace. 
 And birks extend their fragrant axms 
 
 To screen the dear embrace. 
 
 Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. 
 
 Some musing bard may stray. 
 And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 
 
 And misty mountain gray ; 
 Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 
 
 Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
 Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. 
 
 Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 
 
 Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 
 
 My lowly banks o'erspread. 
 And view, deep-bending in the pool. 
 
 Their shadows' water'y bed ! 
 Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 
 
 My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
 And, for the little songsters nest, 
 
 The close embow'ring thorn. 
 
 So may old Scotia's darling hope. 
 
 Your little angel band. 
 Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 
 
 Their honour'd native land ! 
 So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken. 
 
 To social flowing glasses. 
 The grace be — " Athule's honest men. 
 
 And Athole's bounie lasses ! " 
 
 CijiP irrmit. 
 
 ■WRITTEN ON A Marble sidecoard, in ihb 
 
 HKRJIITAGE BELO.N'GING TO THE DUKE OP 
 ATUOLE, IM THE WOOD OP ABERFELDY. 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading, 
 Think not, though from the world receding 
 I joy my lonely days to lead in 
 
 This desert drear ; 
 That fell remorse a conscience bleeding 
 
 Hath led me here. 
 
 No thought of guilt my bosom sours; 
 Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers ; 
 For well I saw in halls and towers 
 
 That lust and pride. 
 The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers. 
 
 In state preside. 
 
ELEGY ON LORD DUNDA8 
 
 167 
 
 i saw mankind wiili vice eiicrusteil ; 
 I suw that honour's sword was nistud; 
 That few for aujcht but folly lusted ; 
 That he was still deceiv'd who trusted 
 
 To love or friend ; 
 And hither came, with men disgusted, 
 
 jMy life to end. 
 In this lone cave, in garments lowly. 
 Alike a foe to noisy folly, 
 And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, 
 
 1 « ear away 
 My life, and in my office holy 
 
 Consume the day. 
 This rock my shield; when storms are blowing 
 The limpid streamlet yonder flowing 
 Supplying di-ink, the earth bestowing 
 
 JNIy simple food ; 
 But few enjoy the calm I know iu 
 
 This desert wood. 
 Content and comfort bless me more in 
 This grot, than e'er I felt before in 
 A palace — and with thoughts still soaring 
 
 To God on'^high, 
 Each night and morn with voice imploring. 
 
 This wish I sigh. 
 " Let me, oh Lord ! from life retire. 
 Unknown each guilty worldly fire. 
 Remorse's throb, or loose desire ; 
 
 And when I die. 
 Let me in this belief expire — 
 
 To God 1 fly." 
 Stranger, if full of youth and riot, 
 And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet, 
 Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 
 
 The hermit's prayer — • 
 But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 
 
 Thy fault or care ; 
 If thou hast known false love's vexation. 
 Or hast been exiled from thy nation. 
 Or guilt sitfrights thy contemplation. 
 
 And makes thee pine, 
 Oh I how must thou lament thy station. 
 
 And envy mine 1 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A PKNCIL OVER THE CnlMN'EY- 
 
 PIF.CE, IN THE PAULOUIt OF THE INN AT KEN. 
 
 MOltE, TAY.MOUTH. 
 
 Admiuing Nature in her wildest grace, 
 These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
 O'er many a winding dale and painful stL'cp, 
 Th' abodes of covied grouse and timid slieep. 
 My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
 Till faiu'd Breadclbane opens to my view. 
 The meeting clilfs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
 The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 
 sides ; 
 
 1 
 
 Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong 
 
 the hills. 
 The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
 The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
 The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
 The lawns, woodfriiig'd in Nature's native 
 
 taste ; [haste ; 
 
 Tlie hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless 
 
 The arches, striding o'er the new-born 
 
 stream ; [beam — 
 
 The village, glittering in the noontide 
 
 Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
 Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 
 The sweeping thtarre of hanging woods ; 
 Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
 floods- 
 
 Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taiight 
 
 lyre, 
 And look through nature with creative fire ; 
 Here, to the wrongs of fate half reeoncil'd 
 Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 
 
 wUd; 
 And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
 Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling 
 
 wounds : [stretch her scan. 
 
 Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 
 And iujur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 
 
 (Slrgi] nil tljp D.ntlj nf fnril ^JiTsiilEnt 
 iDunlias. (soo) 
 
 Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
 Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 
 
 rocks ; [rains, 
 
 Down from the rivulets, red with dashing 
 The gathering floods burst o'er the distant 
 
 plains ; 
 Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 
 The hollow caves return a sullen moaii. 
 
 Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 
 Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! 
 Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. 
 Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
 AVhere to the whistling blast and waters' roar 
 Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 
 Oh heavy loss, thy country ill coidd bear I 
 A loss these evil days can ne'er repair 1 
 Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
 Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd hef 
 
 rod ; 
 Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
 She sank, abandoii'd to the wildest woe 
 Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
 Now gay in hope explore the patlis of meu : 
 
168 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
 And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
 Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. 
 And stifle, dark, the feebly-burstiug cry. 
 Jlark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes 
 Housing elate in these degenerate times ; 
 View unsuspecting Innocence a prey. 
 As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 
 WhUe subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
 The life-blood equal sucks of Right and 
 
 Wrong : [tale, 
 
 Hark, injur'd Want recounts tli' unlisten'd 
 And much-wrong'd mis'ry pours th' unpitied 
 
 Wail! 
 
 Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly 
 
 plains. 
 To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
 Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
 Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
 Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. 
 Be nameless wilds and lonely waudermga 
 
 mine. 
 To mourn the woes my country must endure. 
 That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 
 
 itrrsrs 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL 
 OP FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 
 
 Among the heathy hills and ragged woods ; 
 The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods. 
 Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
 Where, thro' a shapeless beach, his stream 
 
 resounds, 
 As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
 As deep-recoiling surges foam below. 
 Prone down the rock the whitening sheet 
 
 descends. 
 And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 
 Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 
 
 show'rs. 
 The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs; 
 Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 
 And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — 
 
 ON HEADING IN A NEWSPAPER 
 
 f Ijc Dratli nf M)k M'lui, (Bsij., 
 
 BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICU- 
 LAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 
 
 Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 
 
 And rueful thy alarms — 
 Death tears the brother of her love 
 
 From Isabella's arms. 
 Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
 
 The morning rose may blow, 
 But cold successive noontide blasts 
 
 May lay its beauties low. 
 
 Fair on Isabella's mom 
 The sun propitious smil'd, 
 
 But, long ere noon, succeeding douds 
 Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 
 
 Fate oft tears the bosom cords 
 That Nature finest strung ; 
 
 So Isabella's heart was form'd. 
 And so that heart was wrung. 
 
 Were it in the poet's power, 
 Strong as he shares the grief. 
 
 That pierces Isabella's heart. 
 To give that heart rehef. 
 
 Dread Omnipotence, alone. 
 Can heal the wound lie gave— 
 
 Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
 To scenes beyond the grave. 
 
 Virtue's blossoms there shall blow. 
 And fear no with'ring blast ; 
 
 There Isabella's spotless worth 
 Shall happy be at last. 
 
 (Dtt Xmi'im IrailliL (207) 
 
 Shre-w'd Willie Smellie to Crochallan (208) 
 came, [same ; 
 
 The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the 
 His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
 'T\vas four long nights and days to shaving 
 night ; [thatch'd 
 
 His uncomb'd grizzly locks wOd staring, 
 A head for thought profound and clear ua- 
 
 match'd ; 
 Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
 His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 
 
 mms Itt air. IWWm ^i\\ln, 
 
 WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S 
 PICTURE. (209) 
 
 Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
 Of Stuart a name once respected — 
 
 A name which to love was the mark of a true 
 heart. 
 But now 'tis despised and neglected. 
 
 Tho' something like moisture conglobes in 
 my eye. 
 
 Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; [sigh, 
 A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
 
 Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 
 
 My fathers that name have rever'J on a 
 throne ; 
 
 My fathers have fallen to right it ; [son. 
 Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 
 
 That name should he scotfingly slight it. 
 
I 
 
 TO CLARLNDA. 
 
 169 
 
 btill in prayers for King George I most hear- 
 tily joiuj 
 
 The Uueen, and the rest of the gentry. 
 Be they wise, he they foohsh, is nothing of 
 mine ; 
 
 Their title's avowed by my country, 
 But wliy of that epocha make such a fuss, 
 
 That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
 If bringing them over was hicky for us, 
 
 I'm sure 'twas as hicky for them. 
 But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous 
 ground, 
 
 "Who knows how the fiishions may alter ? 
 The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
 
 To-morrow may bring us a halter ! 
 I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
 
 A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
 But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 
 
 Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 
 Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
 
 And ushers the long dreary night ; [eye. 
 But you like the star that athwart gilds the 
 
 Your course to the latest is bright, [sky 
 
 51 .fkrtrlj. (210) 
 
 A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart tripping wight. 
 And still his precious self his dear delight : 
 AMio loves his own smart shadow iu the 
 
 streets. 
 Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
 A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
 Learu'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour 
 So travelled monkies their grimace improve, 
 Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. 
 Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
 Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
 His solid sense — by inches you must tell. 
 But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ! 
 His meddling vanity, a busy fiend 
 Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 
 
 Qln 3ilh5 dTriiiksljanks. 
 
 A VERY YOUNG LADY. (211) 
 
 WMTTEM ON THE BLANK LEAP OF A BOOK PRE" 
 SENIED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
 Blooming in thy early IMay, 
 Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. 
 Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; 
 Never Boreas' hoary path. 
 Never Eurus' poisonous breath, 
 Never balcfid stellar lights, 
 Taint thee with uutimcly blights! 
 Never, never reptile thief 
 Riot on thy virgin leaf 1 
 
 Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
 Thy bosom blushing still with dew! 
 JIay'st thou long, sweet crnnson gem. 
 Richly deck thy native stem : 
 'Till some evening, sober, calm, 
 Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
 AMiile all around the woodland rings. 
 And every bird thy requiem suigs; 
 Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
 Shed thy dying honours round. 
 And resign to parent earth 
 The lovehest form she e'er gave birth. 
 
 Silt firtrmpnri! (Eifiisian, 
 
 ON BEING APPOINTED TO TUB EXCISE, 
 
 Searching auld wives barrels, 
 
 Och, hon ! the day ! 
 That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 
 
 But — what' 11 ye say I 
 These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans. 
 Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 
 
 ffin (fylarink, 
 
 with a present op a pair op drinking 
 
 glasses. (212) 
 Fair Empress of the Poet's soul. 
 
 And Q,ueen of Poetesses ! 
 Clarinda, take this little boon. 
 
 This humble pair of glasses. 
 And fill them high with generous juice. 
 
 As generous as your mind; 
 And pledge me in the generous toast— 
 
 " The whole of human kind ! " 
 " To those who love us! " — second fill; 
 
 But not to those whom we love ; 
 Lest us love those who love not us !^ 
 
 A third — " To thee and me, love ! " 
 
 Ctn (Clariniu, 
 
 ON niS leaving EDINBURCn. 
 
 Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 
 
 The measur'd time is run ! 
 Tlie wretch beneath the dreary pole 
 
 So marks his latest sun. 
 
 To what dark cave of frozen night 
 
 Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
 Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 
 
 The sun of all his joy. 
 We part — but, by these precious drops 
 
 That fill thy lovely eyes 1 
 No other light shall guide my steps 
 
 Till thy bright beams arise. 
 She, the foir sun of all her sex. 
 
 Has blest my glorious day; 
 And shall a glimmering planet fix 
 
 My worship to its ray ? 
 
170 
 
 BURXS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 In this strang:e laud, this uncouth chme, 
 A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 
 Where words ne'er crossed the muse's 
 Iv'or limpet in poetic shackles ; [heckles 
 
 A land that prose did never view it. 
 Except wlien drunk he stacher't thro' it ; 
 Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek. 
 Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 
 I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 
 I hear it^for in vain I leuk. 
 The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
 Euhusked by a fog infernal : 
 Here for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
 I sit and count my sins by chapters. 
 For life and spunk like ither Christians, 
 I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 
 \Vi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 
 \Vi' nae-kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes. 
 Jenny, my Pegaseaii pride ! 
 Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 
 
 And aye a westlin heuk she throws. 
 
 While tears hap o'er her auld browu nose ! 
 
 Was it for this, wi' canny care, 
 
 Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? 
 
 At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 
 
 And late or early never grumbled ? 
 
 Oh, had I power like inclination, 
 
 I'd heeze thee up a constellation. 
 
 To canter with the Sagitarre, 
 
 Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ! 
 
 Or turn the pole like any arrow; 
 
 Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 
 
 Down the zodiac urge the race. 
 
 And cast dirt on his godship's face; 
 
 For I could lay my bread and kail 
 
 He'd ne'er cast salt upo' thy tail. 
 
 W"i' a' this care and a' this grief, 
 
 And sina', sma' prospect of relief^ 
 
 And nought but peat-reek i' my head 
 
 How can 1 write what ye can read? 
 
 Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
 
 Ye'U find me in a better tune ; 
 
 But till we meet and weet our whistle, 
 
 Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 in pkiars' carse hermitage, on the 
 banks op nith. (214). 
 
 Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
 Be thou clad in russet weed, 
 Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
 Grave these maxims on thy soul. 
 Life is but a day at most, 
 Sprung from night ; in darkness lost; 
 Day, how rapid in its lliglit — 
 Day, how few must see tiie night ; 
 
 Hope not sunshine every hour. 
 
 Fear not clouds will always lower. 
 
 Happiness is but a name. 
 
 Make content and ease thy aim. 
 
 Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 
 
 Fame a restless idle dream : 
 
 Pleasures, insects on the wing 
 
 Rou nd Peace, the tend'rest flower of Spring j 
 
 Those that sip the dew alone. 
 
 Make the butterflies thy own ; 
 
 Those that would the bloom devour. 
 
 Crush the locusts — save the flower. 
 
 For the future be prepar'd. 
 
 Guard wherever thou can'st guard ; 
 
 But thy utmost duly done, 
 
 Welcome what thou can'st not shun. 
 
 Follies past, give thou to air. 
 
 Make their consequence thy care : 
 
 Keep the name of man in mind. 
 
 And dishonour not thy kind. 
 
 Reverence with lowly heart. 
 
 Him whose wondrous work thou art; 
 
 Keep his goodness still in view. 
 
 Thy trust — and thy example, too. 
 
 Stranger, go ; Heaven be thy guide 1 
 
 Quoth, the Beadsman on Nithside 
 
 Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
 Be thou clad in russet weed. 
 Be thou dcckt in sdken stole. 
 Grave these counsels on thy soul. 
 
 Life is but a day at most. 
 Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
 Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
 Fear not clouds will always lower. 
 
 As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
 
 Beneath thy morning star advance, 
 
 Pleasure with her siren air 
 
 May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
 
 Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup. 
 
 Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 
 
 As thy day grows warm and high. 
 
 Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
 
 Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 
 
 Life's proud summits would"st thou scalef 
 
 Check thy climbing step elate. 
 
 Evils lurk in felon wait : 
 
 Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
 
 Soar around each clilfy hold, 
 
 While cheerful peace, with linnet song. 
 
 Chants the lowly dells among. 
 
 As the shades of ev'ning close, 
 
 Beck'ning thee to long repose. 
 
 As life itself becomes disease. 
 
 Seek the chimney-neuk of ease ; 
 
 There ruminate with sober thought. 
 
 On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought J 
 
 And teach the sportive younkers round, 
 
 Saws of exiierience, sage and sound. 
 
ELEGY. 
 
 '71 
 
 Say, man's tme, genuine estimat«^ 
 The grand criterion of his fate. 
 Is not — art thou hii;h or low ? 
 Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
 Wast thou cottager or king ? 
 Peer or peasant ? — no such thing! 
 Did many talents gild thy span ? 
 Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
 Tell them, and press it on their mind. 
 As thou thyself must shortly find, 
 The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
 To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
 Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
 There solid self enjoyment lies ; 
 That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 
 Lead to the wretched, vile and base. 
 Thus resign 'd and quiet, creep 
 To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
 Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
 Night, where dawn shall never break. 
 Till future hfe, future no more. 
 To light and joy the good restore. 
 To light and joy unknown before. 
 Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
 Quoth, the Beadsman of Nith-side. 
 
 (BitrmpnrE tn CapiaiE f\iiiiirl> 
 
 OP GLENKIDDLE, ON KETURNING A 
 NEWSPAPER. (215) 
 
 ElUsland, Monday Evening. 
 
 Your news and review. Sir, I've read through 
 and through, Sir, 
 With little admiring or blaming ; 
 The papers are barren of home-news or 
 foreign. 
 No murders or rapes worth the naming. 
 Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers 
 and hewers, 
 Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; 
 But of 7>ieet or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 
 
 I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 
 My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your 
 goodness 
 Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; 
 Would to God 1 had one like a beam of the 
 sun. 
 And then all the world. Sir, should know it ! 
 
 i 3ilntljrr'i3 fantrnt. 
 
 POR THE DEATH OF HER SON. (216) 
 
 Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 
 And pierc'd my darling's heart ! 
 
 And with him all the joys are fled 
 Life can to me impart. 
 
 By cruel hands the sapling drops, 
 In dust dishouour'd laid : 
 
 So fell the pride of all my hopes. 
 My age's future shade. 
 
 The mother linnet in the brake 
 
 Bewails her ravish'd young; 
 So I, for my lo-st darling's sake, 
 
 Lament the live-day long. 
 Dearh, oft I've fcar'd thy fatal blow. 
 
 Now, fond I bare my breast. 
 Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 
 
 With liim I love, at rest ! 
 
 Clrgil 
 
 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 reflec' ! 
 A towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
 Oh Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
 M'hat dire events ha'e taken place ! 
 Of what enjoyments thou hast reft usi 
 In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 
 
 The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
 And my aidd teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
 The tuizie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
 And our giiidwife's wee birdie cocks ; 
 The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
 But to the hen-birds unco civil : 
 The tither's something dear o' treadin', 
 But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 
 Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit' 
 And cry till ye be hoarse or roupit. 
 For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. 
 And gied you a' baith gear and meal; 
 E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck. 
 Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 
 
 Ye bonnie lasses' dight your e'en. 
 For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
 In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'cn, 
 What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 
 Observe the very nowte and sheep, 
 How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
 Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. 
 For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 
 
 Oh Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
 And no o\^Te auld, I hope, to learn ! 
 Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care. 
 Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
 Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzl'd, hap-shackl'd Kc- 
 But like himsel', a full free agent, [geut. 
 Be sure ye follow out the plan 
 Nae waur than he did, honest man I 
 As muckle better as you can. 
 
 16^ 
 
172 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 iE!ikp55 tn t.liP Cnnilj-arliE. 
 
 My curse upon thy venom'd stang', 
 That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
 Aud thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 
 
 Wi' gnawhig vengeance; 
 Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 
 
 Like racking engines ! 
 \^'hen fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
 Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
 Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 
 
 Wi' pitying moan ; 
 But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 
 
 Aye mocks our groan ! 
 Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
 I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle. 
 As round the fire the giglets keckle. 
 
 To see me loup ; 
 While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 
 
 Were in their doup. 
 0' a' the num'rous human dools, 
 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. 
 Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 
 
 Sad sight to see ! 
 The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools — 
 
 Thou bear'st the gree. 
 Where'er that place be priests ca' hell. 
 Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
 And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 
 
 In dreadfu' raw, 
 Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 
 
 Amang them a' ! 
 Oh thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
 That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
 TiU daft mankind aft dance a reel 
 
 In gore a shoe-thick ! — 
 Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 
 
 A towmond's Toothache ! 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OP MRS. 
 OSWALD. (217) 
 
 Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
 Hangman of creation, mark ! 
 Who in widow-weeds appears, 
 Ijaden with unhonoured years. 
 Noosing with care a bursting purse. 
 Baited with many a deadly curse ! 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 View the wither'd beldam's face — 
 
 Can thy keen inspection trace 
 
 Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 
 
 Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
 
 Pity's flood there never rosj. 
 
 See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save. 
 
 Hands that took — but never gave. 
 
 Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
 
 Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
 
 She goes, but not to realms of everlasting resti 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
 (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 
 Seest thou whose step, imwilling, hither 
 
 bends? 
 No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
 Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 
 She, tardj', hell- ward plies, 
 
 EPODE. 
 
 And are they of no more avail. 
 
 Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year? 
 
 In other words, can Mammon fail. 
 
 Omnipotent as he is here ? 
 
 Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
 
 While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 
 
 The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 
 
 clear. 
 Expires in rags, imknown, and goes to Heav*!!. 
 
 f ritrr In Sainrs Qlrnnant, 
 
 OF GLENCONNER. (218) 
 
 AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner. 
 How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 
 How do you this blae, eastlin wind. 
 That's like to blaw a body blind ? 
 For me, my faculties are frozen, 
 And ilka member nearly dozen'd. 
 
 I've sent you here, by Johnnie Sirason, 
 Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on :— 
 Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
 And Eeid, to common sense appealing. 
 Philosophers have fought and wrangled. 
 And meikle Greek and Latin mangled. 
 Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd. 
 And in the depth of science mir'd. 
 To common sense they now appeal. 
 What wives and wabsters see and feel. 
 But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly, 
 Peruse them, and return them quickly. 
 For now I'm grown sae curpud douce 
 I pray and ponder butt the house ; 
 My shins, my lane, I therf .fiit roastin'. 
 Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston j 
 Till bye and bye, if I baud on, 
 I'll gnmt a blouset gospel groan : 
 Already I begin to try it. 
 To cast my e'en up like a pyet. 
 When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
 Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore: 
 Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
 A burning and a shinhig light. 
 
ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE. 
 
 173 
 
 My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
 
 The ace and wale o' honest men : 
 
 "When bending down wi' auld grey hairs. 
 
 Beneath the load of years and cares, 
 
 Jlay He who made him still support him. 
 
 And views beyond the grave comfort him. 
 
 His worthy fam'ly, far and near 
 
 God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 
 
 Jly auld schoolfellow, preacher Wilhe, 
 
 The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
 
 And Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 
 
 If he's a parent, lass or boy. 
 
 May he be dad, and Meg the mither. 
 
 Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 
 
 And no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
 
 I'm told he offers very fairly. 
 
 And, Lord remember singing Sannock, 
 
 Wi' hale breeks, sexpence, and a bannock ; 
 
 And next my auld acquaintance Nancy, 
 
 Since she is litted to her fancy ; 
 
 And her kind stars hae airted till her 
 
 A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
 
 My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 
 
 To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 
 
 TeU them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 
 
 For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious. 
 
 And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel. 
 
 May guardian angels tak a spell. 
 
 And steer you seven miles south o' helL 
 
 But first, before you see heaven's glory. 
 
 May ye get mony a merry story, 
 
 Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 
 
 And aye enough o' ueedfu' chnk. 
 
 Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you. 
 
 For my sake this I beg it o' you. 
 
 Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
 
 Ye'll fin' him just an honest man : 
 
 Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 
 
 Your's, saint or sinner, 
 
 Rob the Ranter. 
 
 i /ragnipiit. 
 
 rSSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 
 
 How wisdom and folly meet, mix and unite ; 
 How virtue and vice blend their black and 
 
 their white ; 
 How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
 Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
 diction — [bustle, 
 I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
 I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 
 
 But now for a patron, whose name and 
 
 whose glory 
 At once may illustrate and honour my story. 
 
 Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
 Yet whose parts and acquirements seem 
 mere lucky hits; 
 
 With knowledge so vast, and with judgmeui 
 so strong, [wTong ; 
 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 
 With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 
 
 right ; — 
 A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
 For using thy uame offers fifty excuses. 
 
 Good Ij — d, what is man ? for as simple he 
 looks ; [crooks. 
 
 Do but try to develope his hooks and his 
 
 With his depths and his shallows, his good 
 and his evil, [devil. 
 
 All in all he's a problem must puzzle the 
 
 On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 
 
 labours, 
 That, like th' Hebrew walking-switch, eats 
 
 up its neighbours ; 
 Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would 
 
 you know him ? 
 Pull the string, ruling passion the picture 
 
 will show him. 
 AVhat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
 One trifling, particular truth should have 
 
 miss'd him ; 
 For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
 JMankind is a science defies definitions. 
 
 Some sort all our qualities, each to its tribe. 
 And think human nature they truly describe ; 
 Have you found this, or t'other 1 there's 
 
 more in the wind, [you'll find. 
 
 As by one drunken fellow his comrades 
 But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 
 In the make of that wonderful creature call'd 
 
 man. 
 No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 
 Nor even two different shades of the same. 
 Though like as was ever twin brother to 
 
 brother, [other. 
 
 Possessing the one shall imply you've the 
 
 <tn Iwing a tUniinilrli Sm 
 
 LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST 
 SHOT. (21 9j 
 
 Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
 And blasted be thy nuirdei-aiming eye; 
 May never pity soothe thee with a sigh 
 
 Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 
 
 Go hve, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 
 
 The bitter little that of life remains ; 
 
 No more the thickening brakes and ver- 
 dant plains 
 To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 
 
274 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
 
 rest. 
 
 No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
 
 The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
 
 head, 
 
 The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 
 
 Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
 The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
 I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 
 
 And curse the ruffian's aim, and mouru thy 
 hapless fate. 
 
 $Iji! IRirk'3 iHIarni. 
 
 A SATIRE. (220) 
 
 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. JIac (221), 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 (222), town of Ayr, 
 
 It was mad, I declare. 
 To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
 
 Provost John (223) is still deaf 
 
 To the church's relief. 
 And orator Bob (224) is its ruin. 
 
 D'rymple mild (225), 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 and twa. 
 
 Rumble John (226), Rumble John, 
 
 Mount the steps wi' a groan. 
 Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; 
 
 Then lug out your ladle. 
 
 Deal brimstone like adle. 
 And roar every note of the damn'd. 
 
 Simper James (227), Simper James, 
 
 Leave the fair Killie dames. 
 There's a holier chase in your view ; 
 
 I'll lay on your head. 
 
 That the pack ye'U soon lead. 
 For puppies like you, there's but few. 
 
 Singet Sawney (228), Singet Sawney, 
 
 Are ye huirding the penny. 
 Unconscious what evil await ; 
 
 Wi, a jump, yell, and howl. 
 
 Alarm every soul. 
 For the foul thief is just at your gate. 
 
 Daddy Auld (229), Daddy Auld. 
 
 There's a tod in the faulil, 
 A tod meikle waur than the clerk (230) : 
 
 Though ye do na skaith, 
 
 Ye'll be in at the death. 
 And if ye canna bite, ye may bark. 
 
 Davie Bluster (231), Davie Bluster, 
 
 If for a saint ye do muster. 
 The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
 
 Yet to worth let's be just. 
 
 Royal blood ye might boast. 
 If the ass was the king of the brutes. 
 
 Jamy Goose (232), Jamy Goose, 
 
 Ye ha'e made but toom roose. 
 In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
 
 But the Doctor's your mark. 
 
 For the L — d's haly ark ; 
 He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin int. 
 
 Poet WiUie (233), Poet WiUie, 
 
 Gie the Doctor a volley, 
 Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit; 
 
 O'er Pegasus' side 
 
 Ye ne'er laid a stride. 
 Ye but smelt, man, the place where he • • 
 
 Andro Gouk (234), 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 (235), Barr Steenie, 
 
 What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
 If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. 
 
 Ye may hae some pretence 
 
 To bavins and sense, 
 Wi' people wha ken ye know better. 
 
 Irvine side (236), 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 (237), Muirland Jock. 
 
 When the Lord 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 (238), Holy Will, 
 
 There was wit i' your skull. 
 When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 
 
 The timmer is scant, 
 
 AMien ye're ta'en for a saunt, 
 Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, 
 
SKETCH— NEW YEAR'S DAT. 
 
 175 
 
 Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. 
 
 Seize your spir'tiial guns, 
 Ammunitioti you never can need; 
 
 Your hearts are the stutf, 
 
 AA'ill be powther enough, 
 And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 
 
 Poet Burns, Poet Bums, 
 
 Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 
 
 "WTiy desert ye your auld native shire ? 
 Your muse is a gipsie : 
 E'en though she were tipsie. 
 
 She could ca' us nae waiu: than we are. 
 
 ffn Br. Slarklnrk, 
 
 IW ANSWER TO A LETTER. 
 
 ElUsland, 2lst Oct. 1789. 
 
 Wow, but your letter made me vaixntie ! 
 And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
 I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie. 
 
 Wad bring ye to : 
 Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye. 
 
 And then ye'll do. 
 
 The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! (239) 
 And never drink be near his drouth ! 
 He tauld mysel by word o' mouth. 
 
 He'd tak my letter ; 
 I lippen'd to the chield in trouth. 
 
 And bade (240) nae better. 
 
 But aiblins honest Master Heron 
 Had at the time some dainty fair one 
 To ware his theologic care on. 
 
 And holy study ; 
 And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on. 
 
 E'en tried the body. 
 
 But what d'ye think, my tnisty fier, 
 I'm turned a gauger — Peace be here ! 
 Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 
 
 Ye'll now disdain me ! 
 And then my fifty pounds a-year 
 
 Will little gain me. 
 
 Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
 Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
 Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 
 
 Ye ken, ye ken, 
 That Strang necessity supreme is 
 
 'ilang sous o' men. 
 
 I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 
 
 They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 
 
 Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 
 
 I need na vaunt, 
 But I'll sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies. 
 
 Before they want. 
 
 Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
 I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
 Not but I hae a richer sliare 
 
 Than mony ithers ; 
 But why should ae man better fare. 
 
 And a' men brithers ? 
 
 Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van. 
 Thou stalk o' carl hemp in man ! 
 And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 
 
 A lady fair : 
 Wha does the utmost that he can, 
 
 V\'ill whyles do mair. 
 
 But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
 (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
 To make a happy tire-side clime 
 
 To weans and wife. 
 That's the true pathos and sublime 
 
 Of human life. 
 
 My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
 And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
 I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 
 
 As e'er tread clay ! 
 And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 
 
 I'm yours for aye. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 Mm, (241) 
 
 Fair the face of orient day, 
 Fair the tints of op'niiig rose; 
 
 But fairer still my Delia dawn<. 
 More lovely far her beauty shows. 
 
 Sweet tlie lark's wild warbled lay, 
 Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
 
 But, Delia, more delightful still, 
 Steal thine accents on mine car. 
 
 Tlie flower-enamoured busy bee, 
 The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
 
 Sweet the streamlet's limpid !a;)se 
 To the suu-brown'd Arab's lip. 
 
 But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
 Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; 
 
 Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss. 
 
 For, oh ! my soul is parched with lovet 
 
 Ikrtrlj— JSEni-f'riir's IDai;. 
 
 TO MRS DUNLOP. (242) 
 
 This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
 To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
 I see the old, bald-pated fellow. 
 With ardent eyes, complexion sallow. 
 Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
 To wheel the equal, full routine. 
 
176 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The absent lover, minor heir. 
 In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
 Deaf as ray friend, lie sees them press, 
 Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
 Will you (the Major's (243) with the hounds. 
 The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
 Coila's fare Rachel's (244) care to-day, 
 And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
 From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
 — That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
 And join with me a-moralizing : 
 This day's propitious to be wise in. 
 First, what did yesternight deliver? 
 "Another year is gone for ever." 
 And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
 " The passing moment's all we rest on 1 " 
 Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
 Or why regard the passing year ? 
 Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore^ 
 Add to our date one minute more ? 
 A few days may — a few years must- 
 Repose us in the silent dust. 
 Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
 Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
 The voice of Nature loudly cries. 
 And many a message from the skies, 
 That something in us never dies : 
 That on this frail, uncertain state. 
 Hang matters of eternal weight : 
 That future life in worlds unknown 
 Must take its hue from this alone ; 
 Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
 Or dark as misery's woeful night. 
 Since, then, my honour'd, first of friends. 
 On this poor being all depends. 
 Let us th' important now employ. 
 And live as those who never die. 
 Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. 
 Witness that filial circle round, 
 (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
 A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 
 Others now claim your chief regard; 
 Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 
 
 spoken at the theatre, dumfries, on 
 new-year's-day evening. [1790] 
 
 No song nor dance I bring from yon great 
 
 city 
 That queens it o'er our taste — the more's 
 
 the pity : 
 Tho', by-the-bye, abroad why will you 
 
 roam? 
 Good sense and taste are natives here at 
 
 home : 
 Eut not for panegyric I appear, 
 I come to wish you all a good new yeai I 
 
 Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
 Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
 The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade 
 
 me say, 
 " You're one year older this important day." 
 If wiser, too — he hinted some suggestion. 
 But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the 
 
 question ; 
 And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 
 He bade me on you press this one word — 
 
 "think!" 
 
 Ye sprightly youths quite flushed with hope 
 
 and spirit, 
 Wlio think to storm the world by dint of 
 
 merit. 
 To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
 In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
 He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless 
 
 rattle, 
 Tliat the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
 That tho' some by the skirt may try to 
 
 snatch him, 
 Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. 
 That whether doing, suflfering, or forbearing, 
 Y'ou may do miracles by perseverving. 
 
 Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
 Angehc forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
 To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 
 
 brow. 
 And humbly begs you'll mind the important 
 
 Now ! 
 To crown your happiness he asks your leaver 
 And offers bUss to give and to receive. 
 
 For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours. 
 With grateful pride we own your many 
 
 favours ; 
 And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
 Beheve our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 
 
 ^rnlngiip, 
 
 FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit night, 
 
 DUMFRIES. 
 
 What needs this din about the town o' 
 Lon'on, 
 
 How this new play and that new sang is 
 comin' ? 
 
 "VMiy is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
 
 Docs nonsense mend like whiskey, when im- 
 ported ? 
 
 Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
 
 Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame ? 
 
 For comedy abroad he needna toil, 
 
 A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
 
 Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
 
 To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
 
Wn.LlE BKEWD A PECK- U 'ALU' 
 
PEG NICHOLSON. 
 
 177 
 
 Tliere's themes enouyli in Caledonian story, 
 AV^ould show the tragic muse in a' lier glory. 
 
 Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
 How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless 
 
 fell? 
 AV here are the muses fled that could produce 
 A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce , 
 How here, even here, he first imsheath'd the 
 
 sword, 
 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; 
 And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
 AVrench'd his dear country from the jaws of 
 
 ruin ? 
 Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene 
 To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen 1 
 Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
 'Gainst headlong, rutliless, mad Rebellion's 
 
 arms. 
 She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
 To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
 A woman — tho' the phrase may seem un- 
 civil — 
 As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
 One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page. 
 But Douglasses were heroes every age : 
 And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
 A Douglas followed to the martial strife. 
 Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right suc- 
 ceeds. 
 Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 
 
 As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
 Would take the muses' servants by the 
 
 hand; 
 Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 
 And where ye justly can commend, commend 
 
 them; 
 And aiblins when they winna stand the test. 
 Wink hard and say the folks hae done their 
 
 best! 
 Would a' the land do this, then I'll be cau- 
 tion 
 Yell soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
 Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
 And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! 
 For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
 "Wha's aught thae duels maks a' this bus- 
 tle here?'' 
 My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
 We have the honour to belong to you ! 
 We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye 
 
 like. 
 But like glide mithers, shore before you 
 
 strike. 
 And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
 For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
 We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks ; 
 God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get 
 but thanks. 
 N 
 
 tl'ritira 
 
 TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT TUE POET A 
 
 NEWSPAPEK, AND OKFEKED TO CONTINUE IT 
 
 FE.EE OP EXPENSE, 
 
 Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. 
 
 And, faith, to me 'twas really new ! 
 
 How guessed ye. Sir, what maist I wanted ? 
 
 This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. 
 
 To ken what French mischief \ias brewin'. 
 
 Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 
 
 That vile doup-skelper. Emperor Joseph, 
 
 If Venus yet had got his nose off; 
 
 Or how the collieshangie works 
 
 Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 
 
 Or if the Swede, before he halt, 
 
 Woidd play anither Charles the Twalt : 
 
 If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 
 
 Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 
 
 How cut-throat Prussian blades were 
 
 hingin ; 
 How libbet Italy was singin ' ; 
 If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
 Were sayiu' or takin' aught amiss ; 
 Or how our merry lads at hame. 
 In Britain's court, kept up the game ; 
 How royal George, the Lord leuk o'ei 
 
 him ! 
 Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; 
 If sleekit Chatham Will was hvin'. 
 Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
 How daddie Burke the plea was cookin'. 
 If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 
 How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 
 
 Or if bare yet were tax'd ; 
 
 The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 
 Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; 
 If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
 Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails ; 
 Or if he was grown oughtlins dousef. 
 And na o' perfect kintra cooser. 
 A' this and mair I never heard of. 
 And but for you I might despair'd of. 
 So gratefu', back your news I send you. 
 And pray, a' guid things may attend you 1 
 Ellisland, Monday Morning. 
 
 ^Jrg Hirlinlsnii. (245) 
 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
 
 As ever trod on aim ; 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 
 And past the mouth o' Cairn. 
 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
 And rode thro' thick and thin ; 
 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 And wautins e'en the skin. 
 
178 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
 
 And aiice she bore a priest ; 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 
 For Solway fish a feast. 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
 
 And the priest he rode her sair ; 
 And much oppressed and bruis'd she was. 
 
 As priest-rid cattle are — 
 
 QJn M^ M. (246) 
 
 Thou bed, in which I first began 
 
 To be that various creature — Man I 
 
 And when again the Fates decree, 
 
 The place where I must cease to be ; — 
 
 When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 
 
 To soothe my pain, or close mine eye ; — 
 
 When cares surround me, where I v>eep. 
 
 Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — 
 
 When sore with labour, whom I court. 
 
 And to thy downy breast resort — 
 
 Where, too ecstatic joys I find. 
 
 When deigns my Delia to be kind — 
 
 And full of love, in all her charms, 
 
 Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms. 
 
 The centre thou — where grief and pain. 
 
 Disease and rest, alternate reign. 
 
 Oh, since within thy little space. 
 
 So many various scenes take place ; 
 
 Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 
 
 As sages dictate — churchmen preach ; 
 
 And man, convinced by thee alone, 
 
 This great important truth shall own : 
 
 " That thin partitions do divide 
 
 The bounds where rjood and ill reside; 
 
 That nought is perfect here below; 
 
 But BLISS still bordering upon woe." (247) 
 
 /irst ^FpistlB ti 32r. (IJraljani 
 
 OF FINTRY. 
 
 When Nature her great masterpiecedesigned, 
 And fram'd her last best work, the human 
 
 mind. 
 Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 
 She formed of various parts the various man. 
 Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
 Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
 Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of 
 
 earth, [birth: 
 
 And merchandise' whole genus take their 
 Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
 And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
 Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
 The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
 The caput mortuum of gross desires [squires ; 
 Makes a material for mere knights and 
 
 The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
 She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
 Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave 
 
 designs. 
 Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
 Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
 Tlie flashing elements of female souls. 
 The order'd system fair before her stood. 
 Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; 
 But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
 Half-jest, she cried one curious labour more. 
 Some spumy, fierj', ignis fatuus matter, 
 Such as the slightest breath of air might 
 
 scatter ; 
 With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
 fNature may have her whim as well as we. 
 Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to showit) 
 She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 
 Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
 ^A'hen blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow, 
 A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
 Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 
 
 ends: 
 A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife. 
 Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
 Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
 Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
 Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 
 Yet frequently unheeded in his own. 
 
 But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
 She laugh'datfirst, then felt for her poorwork. 
 Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
 She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
 And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
 Attach'd hira to the generous truly great, 
 A title, and the only one I claim. 
 To lay strong hold for help on bounteous 
 
 Graham. 
 Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
 Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main! 
 Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
 That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough; 
 The little fate allows, they share as soon. 
 Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 
 
 boon. 
 The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
 Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 
 
 friend!" 
 Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
 Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
 Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
 (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
 \^T\o make poor will do wait upon I should— 
 We own they're prudent, but who fsele 
 
 they're good! 
 Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! 
 God's image rudely etr.h'd ou base alloy ! 
 But, come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
 Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bes.ow! 
 
THE TIVE CARLINES. 
 
 179 
 
 Whose arms of love would grasp the human 
 
 race: [grace; 
 
 Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's 
 Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! 
 Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
 Why shrinks my soulhalf blushing, half afraid. 
 Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid? 
 I know my need, I know thy giving liand, 
 I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 
 But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
 Heavens! should the branded character be 
 
 mine! [flows. 
 
 Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 
 Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
 Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
 Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 
 Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
 Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
 So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song 
 
 ascends. 
 But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
 Ill all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
 They dim benevolence with shameless front; 
 Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. 
 They persecute you all your future days! 
 Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain! 
 My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
 The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; 
 On eighteen-pence a-wcek I've liv'd before. 
 Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 
 
 last shift ! 
 I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: 
 That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for 
 
 height. 
 Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 
 My muse may imp her wing for some sub- 
 
 limer flight. 
 
 ®}ir fim (U^arlinES. (248) 
 
 There were five carlines in the south. 
 
 They fell upon a scheme, 
 To send a lad to Lon'on town. 
 
 To bring them tidings harae. 
 
 Nor only bring them tidings hame. 
 
 But do their errands there. 
 And aiblins gowd and honour baith 
 
 !Might be that laddie's share. 
 
 There was IMaggy by the banks o' Nith, 
 
 A dame with pride eneugh. 
 And Marjory o' the Monylochs, 
 
 A carline auld and teugh. 
 
 And blinkin' Bess o' Annandale, 
 Tliat dwelt near Solwayside, 
 
 And whisky Jean, that took her gill. 
 In Galloway sae wide. 
 
 17 
 
 And black Joan, firae Crichton Peel, 
 
 O' gipsy kith and kin — 
 Five wighter carlines warna foun' 
 
 The south countra vrithin. 
 
 To send a lad to Lon'on town. 
 
 They met upon a day. 
 And mony a knight, and mony a laird. 
 
 Their errand fain would gae. 
 
 mony a knight and many a laird. 
 
 This errand fain would gae ; 
 But nae ane could their fancy please, 
 
 O ne'er a ane but twae. 
 
 The first he was a belted knight (249), 
 
 Bred o' a border clan. 
 And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 
 
 Might nae man him withstan'. 
 
 And he wad do their errands weel. 
 
 And meikle he wad say. 
 And ilka ane at Lon'on court 
 
 Would bid to him guid day. 
 
 Then next came in a sodger youth (250), 
 
 And spak wi' modest grace. 
 And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 
 
 If sae their pleasure was. 
 
 He wadna hecht them courtly gifts. 
 
 Nor meikle speech pretend. 
 But he wad hecht an honest heart. 
 
 Wad ne'er desert a friend. 
 
 Now, wham to choose, and wham refuse. 
 
 At strife their carlines fell ! 
 For some had gentle folks to please. 
 
 And some would please themsel. 
 
 Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 
 
 And she spak up wi' pride. 
 And she wad send the sodger youth, 
 
 WTiatever might betide. 
 
 For the auld guidtnan o' Lon'on court (251; 
 
 She didna care a pin ; 
 But she wad send the sodger youth 
 
 To greet his eldest son. (252) 
 
 Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, 
 
 And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
 That she wad vote the border knight. 
 
 Though she should vote her lane. 
 
 For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair. 
 
 And fools o' change are fain ; 
 But I hae tried the border knight. 
 
 And I'll try him yet again. 
 
 Says black Joan frac Crichton Peel, 
 
 A carline stoor and grim. 
 The auld guidman, and the young g\iidman. 
 
 For me may snik or swim ; 
 
ISO 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Tor fools will freat o' right or MTang, 
 Wliile knaves laugh them to scorn ; 
 
 But the sodger's friends hae blawn the 
 best, 
 So he shall bear the horn. 
 
 Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink. 
 
 Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
 Tlie auld guidman o' Lon'on court. 
 
 His back's been at the wa'; 
 
 And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup. 
 
 Is now a fremit wight: 
 But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — ■ 
 
 I'll send the border knight. 
 
 Tlien slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 
 
 And wrinkled was her brow. 
 Her ancient weed was russet grey. 
 
 Her auld Scots bluid was true ; 
 
 There's some great folks set light by me — 
 
 I set as light by them; 
 But I will send to Lon'on town 
 
 \'\niam I like best at hame. 
 
 Sae how this weighty plea may end, 
 
 Nae mortal wight can tell : 
 God grant the king and ilka man 
 
 May look weel to himsel. 
 
 inuli (IFfiisllE tn Blr- tojjatn, 
 
 OF FINTRY. (253). 
 
 FiNTRY, my stay in worldly strife. 
 Friend o' ray muse, friend o' my life. 
 
 Are ye as idle's I am ? 
 Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg. 
 O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 
 
 And ye shall see me try him. 
 
 I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
 Who left the all-important cares 
 
 Of princes and their darlings ; 
 And bent on winning borough towns. 
 Came shaking hands wi' wabster loans. 
 
 And kissing barefit carliiis. 
 
 Combustion through our boroughs rode 
 Wliistling his roaring pack abroad. 
 
 Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
 As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd. 
 And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 
 
 To every Whig defiance. 
 
 But Queensberry, cautious, left the war. 
 The unmanuer'd dust might soil his star. 
 
 Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
 But left behind him heroes bright. 
 Heroes in Csesarean light 
 
 Or Ciceronian pleading. 
 
 O for a throat like huge Mons-meg (254), 
 To muster o'er each ardent Wliig 
 
 Beneath Drumlanrig's banners j 
 Heroes and heroines commit 
 All in the field of politics. 
 
 To win immortal honours. 
 
 M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 
 
 (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,) 
 
 Led on the loves and graces ; 
 She won each gaping burgess' heart 
 While he, all conquering, play'd his part 
 
 Among their wives and lasses. 
 
 Craigdarroch led a light-arm' d corps; 
 Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour. 
 
 Like Hecla streaming thunder ; 
 Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins. 
 Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 
 
 And bar'd the treason under. 
 
 In either wing two champions fought. 
 Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 
 
 The wildest savage Tory. 
 And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his grouui^ 
 High wav'd his magnum boaum round 
 
 With Cyclopean fury. 
 
 Miller brought up the artillery ranks. 
 The many pounders of the Banks, 
 
 Resistless desolation ; 
 While Maxwelton, that baron bold. 
 Mid Lawsou's port entrench' d his hold. 
 
 And threaten'd worse damnation. 
 
 To these, what Tory hosts oppos'd ; 
 With these, what Tory warriors clos'd. 
 
 Surpasses my descriving : 
 Squadrons extended long and large. 
 With furious speed rush'd to the charge. 
 
 like raging devils driving. 
 
 What verse can sing, what prose narrate. 
 The butcher deeds of bloody fate 
 
 Amid this mighty tulzie ? 
 Grim horror grinn'd ; pale terror roar'd 
 As murther at his thrapple shor'd ; 
 
 And hell mist in the brulzie ! 
 
 As Highland crags, by thunder cleft. 
 When lightnings fire the stormy lift. 
 
 Hurl down wi' crashing rattle; 
 As flames amang a hundred woods; 
 As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 
 
 Such is the rage of battle. 
 
 Tlie stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
 As soon the rooted oaks would fly. 
 
 Before th' approaching fellers ; 
 The Whigs come ou like ocean's roar 
 Whju all his wintry billows pour 
 
 Against the Buchan Bullers. (255) 
 
CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS. 
 
 181 
 
 Lo, from the shades of death's deep night. 
 Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. 
 
 And think on former daring ; 
 The muffled murtherer of Charles (256), 
 The Magna Charta flag unfurls. 
 
 All deadly gules its bearing. 
 
 Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame ; 
 Bold Scrimgeour (257) follows gallant Gra- 
 hame— (258) 
 
 Auld Covenanters shiver — 
 (Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd ]\Iontrose ! 
 ■WTiile death and hell engulf thy foes. 
 
 Thou Uv'st on liigh for ever ! ) 
 
 Still o'er the field the combat bums ; 
 The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; 
 
 But fate the word has spoken — 
 For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
 Alas ! can do but what they can — 
 
 The Tory ranks are broken ! 
 
 Oh that my e'en were flowing burns ! 
 My voice a lioness that mourns 
 
 Her darling cub's undoing ! 
 That I might greet, that I might cry, 
 W'hile Tories fall, while Tories fly. 
 
 And fttrious Whigs pursuing ! 
 
 WhAt Whig but wails the good Sir James ; 
 Dear to his country by the names 
 
 Friend, Patron, Benefactor? 
 Not Pulteny's wealth can Pulteny save ! 
 And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 
 
 And Stuart bold as Hector 1 
 
 Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow. 
 And Thurlow growl a curse of woe. 
 
 And Melville melt in wailing ! 
 Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
 And Burke shall sing, " Oh prince, arise ! 
 
 Thy power is all-prevailing ! " 
 
 For your poor friend, the Bard afar. 
 He hears, and only hears the war, 
 
 A cool spectator purely ; 
 So when the storm the forest rends. 
 The robin in the hedge descends 
 
 And sober chirps securely. 
 
 (0n iCaptain (^rnsr's ^c^rrrgrinalinns 
 
 THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE 
 ANTiaUlTIES OF THAT KINGDOM. (259) 
 
 Hear, land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
 Frae Maidenkirk (200) to Johnny Groats; 
 If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
 
 I rede you tent it : 
 A chield'g amang you taknig notes, 
 
 And, faith, he'll prent it. 
 
 If in your bounds ye chance to ligbt 
 
 Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, 
 
 O' 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, 
 ^A'i' deils, they sa\', Lord save's ! coUeaguin' 
 
 At some black art. 
 
 Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumcr, 
 
 Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, 
 
 And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar, 
 
 W^arlocks and witches ; 
 Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 
 
 Ye midnight bitches. 
 
 It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
 And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
 But now he's quat the spurtle blade. 
 
 And dog skin wallet. 
 And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 
 
 I think they call it. 
 
 He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets. 
 Rusty aird caps and juiglin' jackets, 
 W^ad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 
 
 A towmont guid ; 
 And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets. 
 
 Before the Flood. 
 
 Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
 Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender* 
 That which distinguished the gender 
 
 O' Balaam's ass ; 
 A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 
 
 AVeel shod wi' brass. 
 
 Forbye, he'll shape 3'ou afl', fu' gleg. 
 The cut of Adam's philabeg ; 
 The knife that nicket Abel's craig. 
 
 He'll prove you fully, 
 It was a faulding jocteleg, 
 
 Or lang-kail gully. 
 
 But wad ye see him in his glee. 
 For meikle glee and fun has he. 
 Then set him down, and twa or threo 
 
 Guid fellows wi' him. 
 And port. Oh port ! shine thou a wee. 
 
 And then ye'll see him ; 
 
 Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
 Thou art a dainty chiel, oh Grose ! — 
 Whae'er 0' thee shall ill suppose. 
 
 They sair miscd' thee; 
 I'd take the rascal by the nose, 
 
 W^ad aay, shan'e fa' theft 
 
1^:2 
 
 HURNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 
 
 tltritffii in an ifnurlujit, 
 
 ENCLOSING A LliTTER TO CAPTAIN 
 GROSE. (261) 
 
 Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 
 
 Igo and ago, 
 If he's amang his friends or foes? 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 Is he south or is lie north ? 
 
 Igo and ago, 
 Or drowned in the river Forth ? 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? 
 
 Igo and ago, 
 And eaten like a wether haggis ? 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 
 
 Igo and ago, 
 Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 AVhere'er he be, the IjOiiI be near him ; 
 
 Igo and ago. 
 As for the deil, he daurna steer him, 
 
 Irani, coram, dago. 
 But please transmit the enclosed letter, 
 
 Igo and ago, 
 Which will oblige your humble debtor, 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 
 
 Igo and ago, 
 The very stanes that Adam bore, 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 So may ye get in glad possession, 
 
 Igo and ago. 
 The coins o' Satan's coronation! 
 
 Irum, coram, dago. 
 
 Sltoss nf ffiprlirliiili 
 
 TO THE PRESIDENT OP THE HIGHLAND 
 SOCIETY. (2(J2) 
 
 Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, 
 Unscaith'd by hunger'd Iligliland boors ; 
 Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
 Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
 May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
 She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 
 
 Faith, you and A s were right 
 
 To keep the Highland hounds in sight; 
 I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
 Than let them ance out owre the water; 
 Then up amang thrae lakes and seas 
 They'll mak what rules and laws they please ; 
 Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
 May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin' ; 
 Some Washirigton again may head them. 
 Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, 
 Till God knows what may be effected 
 When by such heads and iiearts directed — 
 
 Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
 May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
 Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 
 To watch and premier o'er the pack vile. 
 And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
 To bring them to a right repentance, 
 To cowe the rebel generation. 
 And save the honour o' the nation ? 
 
 They and be d d ! what right hae they 
 
 To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 
 
 Far less to riches, pow'r or freedom. 
 
 But what your lordship likes to gie them? 
 
 But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
 
 Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 
 
 Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 
 
 I canna say but they do gaylies ; 
 
 They lay aside a' tender mercies. 
 
 And tirl the hallions to the birses ; 
 
 Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 
 
 They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; 
 
 But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 
 
 And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 
 
 The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; 
 
 JjCt wark and hunger mak them sober ! 
 
 The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 
 
 Jjct them in Drury-lane be lesson'd I 
 
 And if the wives and dirty brats 
 
 E'en thigger at your doors and yetta 
 
 FlafTan wi' duds and grey wi' beas*, 
 
 Frightin' awa your deucks and geese. 
 
 Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 
 
 The langest thong, the fiercest growler. 
 
 And gar the tattered gypsies' pack 
 
 Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 
 
 Go on, my Lord I I lang to meet you. 
 
 And in my house at hame to greet you; 
 
 Wi' common lords ye slianna mingle. 
 
 The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 
 
 At my right han' assigned your seat 
 
 "JVeen Herod's hip and Polycrate— 
 
 Or if you on your station tarrow. 
 
 Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
 
 A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
 
 And till ye come — Your humble servant, 
 
 BEELZEBUa 
 
 June \st, Anno Mundi, 5790. 
 
 f aiiirnt nf ffiari] diurrn nf fmb, 
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 Now Nature hangs her mantle green 
 
 On every blooming tree, 
 And spreads her sheet o' daises white 
 
 Out o'er the grassy lee : 
 Now Phrebus cheers the crystal streams, 
 
 And glads the azure skies ; 
 But ncmglit can glad the weary wight 
 
 That fast in durance lies. 
 
TiiE WHISTLE. 
 
 ISo 
 
 Now (av'rocks wake the merry morn. 
 
 Aloft oil dewy wing ; 
 The merle, in Ins noontide bow'r 
 
 Makes woodland echoes ring : 
 The mavis wdd wi' mony a note, 
 
 Sings drowsy day to rest : 
 In love and freedom they rejoice, 
 
 Wi' care nor thrall opprcst. 
 Now blooms the lily by the bank, 
 
 '1 he primrose down the brae ; 
 The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 
 
 And milk-white is the slae ; 
 The meanest hind in fair Scotland 
 
 May rove their sweets amang ; 
 Cut I, the Ciueen of a' Scotland, 
 
 .Maun lie in prison Strang ! 
 I was the Qncen o' bonnie France. 
 
 Where happy I hae been ; 
 Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 
 
 As blytlie lay down at e'en : 
 And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 
 
 And mony a traitor there ; 
 V'et here I he in foreign bauds. 
 
 And never-ending care. 
 Dnt as for thee, thou false woman! 
 
 My sister and my fae. 
 Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 
 
 That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
 The weeping blood in woman's breast 
 
 Was never known to thee ; 
 Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 
 
 Frae woman's pitymg e'e. 
 My sou ! my son ! may kinder stars 
 
 Upon thy fortune shine ! 
 And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 
 
 That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
 God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 
 
 Or turn their hearts to thee : 
 And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 
 
 Kemciuber him for me ! 
 Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns 
 
 Nae mair light up the morn ! 
 Nae mair, to me, the autiunn winds 
 
 ^\?^\e o'er the yellow corn ! 
 And in the narrow house o' death 
 
 Let winter round me rave : 
 And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 
 
 Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 
 
 CljC lXi\)hlk. (263). 
 
 I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
 I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, 
 Was brought to the court of oiir irood 
 Scottisli king, [shall ring. 
 
 And long with this whistle all Scotland 
 
 1 
 
 Old Loda, (264) still rueing the arm of 
 Fmgal, [ball— 
 
 The god of the bottle sends down from his 
 
 " This whistle's your challenge — to Scotland 
 get o'er, [me more !" 
 
 And drink them to hell. Sir! or ne'er see 
 
 Old poets have sung, and old chronicles 
 tell, [fell ; 
 
 What champions ventur'd, what champions 
 The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
 And blew on the whistle his reijuiem shrill. 
 
 Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
 Scaur, [war, 
 
 Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in 
 
 He drank his poor godship as deep as the 
 sea. 
 
 No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 
 
 Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 
 gain'd, [remaineil ; 
 
 ■^^Hiich now in his house has for ages 
 
 Till three noble chieftains, and all of his 
 blood. 
 
 The jovial contest again have renew'd. 
 
 Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 
 as flaw ; [law ; 
 
 Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 
 
 And trusty Gleiiriddel, so skill'd in old 
 coins ; [wines. 
 
 And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old 
 
 Craigdarroch began, with a tongue sinootli 
 
 as oil, 
 Desiring Glenriddle to yield up the spoil ; 
 Or else he would muster the heads of the 
 
 clan, [the man. 
 
 And once more, in claret, try which was 
 
 "By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddcl 
 
 replies, 
 " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
 I'll conjure the ghost of the great Roiie 
 
 More (265), [times o'er." 
 
 And bumper his horn with him twenty 
 
 Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would 
 pretend, [or his friend. 
 
 But he ne'er turned his back on his foe — • 
 
 Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the 
 field, [yield. 
 
 And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd 
 
 To the board of Glenriddcl our heroes 
 repair, [care ; 
 
 So iioied for drowning of sorrow and 
 
 But for wine and for welcome not more 
 known to fame [lovely dame. 
 
 Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet 
 
 A bard was selected to witness the fr.iy, 
 .■Vnd tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
 
ISl 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 
 
 A ' ard who detested all sadness and spleen. 
 And \\ ish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
 been. 
 
 The dinner being o'er the claret they ply, 
 And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 
 In the bands of old friendship and kindred 
 
 so set, [they were wet. 
 
 And the bands grew the tighter the more 
 Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
 Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a 
 
 core, [forlorn, 
 
 And vow'd that to leave them he was quite 
 Q'ill Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 
 
 Six bottles a-piece bad well wore out the 
 night, [light. 
 
 When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the 
 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. [wage ; 
 
 No longer the warfare, ungodly, would 
 A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
 He left the foul business to folks less divine. 
 
 The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
 But who can with fate and quart-bumpers 
 
 contend ? 
 Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light ; 
 So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell 
 
 the knight. 
 Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in 
 
 drink: — [sink; 
 
 "Craigdarroch.thou'lt soar when creation shall 
 But if thou would flourish nuriiortal in rhyme, 
 Come — one bottle more — and have at the 
 
 sublime! 
 
 Thy line, that have struggled for freedom 
 
 with Bruce, 
 Shall 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!" 
 
 €lrgii 
 
 ON MISS BURNET OP MONBODDO. 
 
 Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
 As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
 Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow. 
 As that which laid til' accomphshed Burnet low. 
 
 Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 
 In richest ore the brightest jewel set I 
 In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 
 As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
 known. 
 
 In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 
 
 Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery 
 shore. 
 Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves. 
 
 Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more I 
 
 Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; 
 
 Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
 stor'd ; 
 Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens. 
 
 To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 
 
 Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
 worth, 
 
 Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? 
 And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth. 
 
 And not a muse in honest grief bewail*^ 
 
 We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
 And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
 spheres ; 
 
 But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
 Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 
 
 The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. 
 That heart howsunk, a prey to grief andcare; 
 
 So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; 
 So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 
 
 faiiitnt 
 
 FOK JAMES, EARL OP GLENCAIRN (2G0.) 
 
 The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 
 
 By fits the sun's departing beam 
 Look'd on the fading yellow woods 
 
 That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: 
 Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 
 
 Laden with years and nieikle pain. 
 In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
 
 W^hom death had all untimely ta'en. 
 
 He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 
 
 Wliose trunk was mould' ring down with 
 years ; 
 His locks were bleached white with time, 
 
 His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
 And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 
 
 And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
 The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 
 
 To echo bore the notes alang. 
 
 "Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 
 
 The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
 Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 
 
 The honours of the aged year ! 
 A few short months, and glad and gay. 
 
 Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e ; 
 But nought in all revolving time 
 
 Can gladness bring agaiu to me. 
 
 I am a bending aged tree, 
 
 Tliat long has stood the wind and raiii : 
 
THIRD EPISTLE TO MB. GRAHAM. 
 
 185 
 
 But now has come a cniel blast, 
 And my last hold of earth is gane: 
 
 Kae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 
 Nae simmer sun exalt iny bloom ; 
 
 But I maun lie before the storm, 
 And ithers plant them in my room. 
 
 I've seen sae mony chansrefu' years. 
 
 On earth I am a stranger grown; 
 I wander in the wa^'s of men. 
 
 Alike unknowing- and uuknownj 
 Unheard, mipitied, unrelieved, 
 
 I bear alane my lade o' care, 
 For silent, low, on beds of dust, 
 
 IJe a' that would my sorrows share. 
 
 And last (the snra of a' my griefs!) 
 
 My noble master lies in clay ; 
 The flow'r amang our barons bold. 
 
 His country's pride ! his country's stay — 
 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 I resound thy latest lay — 
 
 Then sleep in silence evermair 1 
 And thou, my last, best, only friend. 
 
 That fiUest an untimely tomb, 
 Accept this tribute from the bard 
 
 Thou brought'st from fortune's mirkest 
 gloom. 
 
 In poverty's low barren vale 
 
 Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
 Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 
 
 Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
 Thou found'st me like the morning sun. 
 
 That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
 Tlie friendless bard and rustic song 
 
 Became alike thy fostering care. 
 
 Oh! 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 I 
 Why did I live to see that day? 
 
 A day to me so full of woe! — ■ 
 Oh ! 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 ! " 
 
 finrs 
 
 SENT TO SIR JOHN -WHITEFOUD, BART., OB 
 
 whitefoud, with the pukegoing poem. 
 Tiiou, 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 tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
 The friend 'thou valued' St, I, the ]iatron,lov'd. 
 His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd; 
 We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
 And tread the dreary path to that dark 
 
 world unknown. 
 
 Kliitti (Epistle la 3Hr. feljam, 
 
 OF FINTRY. 
 
 L.\TE crippl'd of an arm, and now a lej. 
 About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 
 Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
 (Nature is adverse to a cripple's restj ; 
 Will generous Graham list to his Poet's 
 
 wail ? [tale), 
 
 (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 
 And hear him curse the light he first 
 
 survey'd, [trade ? 
 
 And doubly curse the luckless rhyming 
 
 Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 
 Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
 The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
 One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 
 
 ground : 
 Thou givs't the ass his hide, the snail his 
 
 shell, [cell ; 
 
 Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his 
 Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour. 
 In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; 
 Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
 The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
 Toads with their poison, doctors with their 
 
 drug, [snug; 
 
 The priest and hedgehog in their robes are 
 Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts. 
 Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 
 
 darts ; — 
 But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard. 
 To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 
 
 Bard! 
 A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
 And half an idiot, too, more helpless stih ; 
 No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; 
 No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
 No horns, but those by luckless Hymea 
 
 worn. 
 And those, alas ! not Amalthca's horn : 
 No nerves olfact'ry, Manimon's trusty cur, 
 Clad in rich duluess' c(mifortable fur : — 
 
ISO 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Ill nuked feelinj,', and in acliinsj pride, 
 
 He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry 
 
 side : 
 Vampyre booksellers drain hira to the heart. 
 And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 
 
 Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name. 
 Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of 
 fame : [(267) 
 
 Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
 lie hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 
 
 His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung. 
 By blockhead's dariiia: into madness stutig ; 
 His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
 By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig 
 
 must wear : [strife, 
 
 Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal 
 The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
 Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
 And fled each muse that glorious once 
 
 inspired. 
 Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
 Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page. 
 He heeds or feels no more the ruthless 
 
 critic's rage ! 
 
 So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
 ceased. 
 For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
 By toil and famine worn to skin and bone. 
 Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 
 
 Oh dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
 Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
 Thy spns ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
 Of fortune's polar frost or torrid beams. 
 If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
 AVith sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
 Conscious the bounteous meed they well 
 
 deserve. 
 They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. 
 The grave sage hern thus easj picks his frog. 
 And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
 When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
 And thro' disast'rous night they darkling 
 
 grope. 
 With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
 And just conclude that " fools are fortune's 
 
 care." 
 So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
 Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 
 Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
 Not such the workings of their moon-struck 
 
 brain ; 
 In equanimity they never dwell. 
 By turns in scaling heav'n, or vaulted hell. 
 
 I dread thee fate, relentless and severe, 
 AVith all a poet's, husband's father's fear ! 
 Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
 Glencairu, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
 
 (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon ajipcars.. 
 And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
 Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish, pray 'r! — 
 Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
 Thro' a long bfe his hopes and wishes crown ; 
 And bright in cloudless skies his sun go 
 
 down ; 
 May bliss domestic smooth his private path. 
 Give energy to life, and soothe his latest 
 ,, breath, [death I 
 
 v/ith many a filial tear circling the bed 
 
 /nitrtlj ^iiistls tn Ml Cmlym, 
 
 OF FINTRY ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. (268) 
 
 I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
 A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; 
 1 r end of my life I my ardent spirit burns. 
 And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
 For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
 The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 
 Thou orb of day 1 thou other paler light ! 
 And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
 If aught that giver from my mind efface. 
 If 1 that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
 Then roll to me.alang your wandering spheres. 
 Only to number out a villain's years ! 
 
 AX OCCASIONAL ADDRESS .SPOKEN BY MISS 
 FONTE.NELLE ON IIEU BENEFIT NIGHT. 
 
 [NOV. 26, 1792.] 
 While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty 
 
 things. 
 The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
 While quacks of state must each produce 
 
 his plan. 
 And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
 Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, . 
 The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 
 First, in the sexes' intermixed connection. 
 One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
 The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. 
 Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate. 
 Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
 Unless your shelter ward th' impending 
 
 storm. 
 
 Our second right — but needless here, is 
 
 caution. 
 To keep that right inviolate's the fashion ; 
 Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
 He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
 'I'heie was. indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
 A time, when rough rude man had naughty 
 
 ways ; 
 Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 
 
 riot. 
 Nay even thus invade a lady'.s quiet. 
 
TO ME. MAXWELL. 
 
 187 
 
 Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times 
 are fled ; [bred — 
 
 Now, well-bred men — and you are all well 
 
 Most justly think (and we are much the 
 gainers) [ners. (269) 
 
 Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor man- 
 
 For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
 
 dearest, [nearest. 
 
 That right to fluttering female hearts the 
 Which even the Rights of Kings in low 
 
 prostration [tion ! 
 
 Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear adraira- 
 In that blest sphere alone we live and move: 
 There taste that life of life — immortal love. 
 Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtatious, 
 
 airs, 
 'Gains't such au host what flinty savage 
 
 dares ? — [charms. 
 
 When a\vful Beauty joins with all her 
 Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 
 
 But truce with kings and truce with consti- 
 tutions. 
 With bloody armaments and revolutions. 
 Let majesty your first attention summon. 
 Ah! ca iral the majesty of woman. 
 
 ia iuslnn. 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower (270), 
 
 Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. 
 Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower. 
 
 And tells the midnight moon her care ; 
 The winds were laid, the air was still. 
 
 The stars they shot alang the sky; 
 The fox was howling on the hill. 
 
 To the distant-echoing glens reply. 
 The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
 
 AVas rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 
 Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
 
 Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 
 The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
 
 Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 
 Athwart the lift they start and shift. 
 
 Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 
 By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
 
 And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 
 A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
 
 Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 
 Had I a statue been o' stane. 
 
 His darin' look had daunted lae; 
 And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. 
 
 The sacred motto — " Libertie !" 
 
 And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 
 
 Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear; 
 
 But oil ! it was a tale of woe, 
 Ao ever met a Briton's ear. 
 
 He sang wi' joy the former day. 
 He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 
 
 But what he said it was nae play — 
 I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 
 
 f ibprtu— i /ragmrnt. 
 
 Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
 Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song 
 
 To thee I turn with swimming eyes ! 
 Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
 Immingled with the mighty dead ! [lies ! 
 
 Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace 
 Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death I 
 
 Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; 
 
 Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
 Nor give the coward secret breath. 
 
 Is this the power in freedom's war. 
 
 That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
 Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. 
 
 Crushing the despot's proudest bearing 
 Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state 
 
 When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death 
 is wearing. 
 
 ffn Ml 3IIaimrll, 
 
 OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! 
 Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
 Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 
 
 This natal morn ; 
 I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 
 
 Scarce quite half worn. 
 Tliis day thou metes'st three score eleven. 
 And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
 (The second sight, ye ken, is given 
 
 To ilka poet) 
 On thee a tack o' seven times seven 
 
 Will yet bestow it. 
 If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 
 Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow. 
 May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow. 
 
 Nine miles an hour, 
 Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 
 
 In brimstane shoure — 
 But for thy friends, and they are mouy, 
 Baith honest men and lasses bonnie. 
 May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. 
 
 In social glee, 
 Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny. 
 
 Bless them and thee 1 
 Fareweel, auld birkie I Lord be near ye. 
 And then the deil he daurna steer ye : 
 Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye^ 
 
 For me, shame fa' me. 
 If near'st my heart Minna wear ye 
 
 Willie BuitNs they ca' me I 
 
18S 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ^n fastnral ^Eitrti. (271 ) 
 
 Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
 In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 
 Frae common sense, or sunk urmerv'd 
 
 'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
 And och ! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd. 
 
 Mid a' thy favours ! 
 
 Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
 While loud, the trump's heroic clang. 
 And sock or buskin skelp alang 
 
 To death or marriage ; 
 Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 
 
 But wi' miscarriage? 
 
 In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
 Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
 Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 
 
 Horatiau fame ; 
 In thy sweet sang, Barhauld, survives 
 
 Ev'u Sappho's flame. 
 
 But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
 They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
 Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 
 
 O' heathen tatters : 
 I pass by hundred, nameless wretches. 
 
 That ape their betters. 
 
 In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
 Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
 Blaw sweetly in its native air 
 
 And rural grace ; 
 And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share 
 
 A rival place ? 
 
 Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
 There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
 Thou need na jouk behuit the hallan, 
 
 A chiel sae clever ; 
 The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 
 
 But thou's for ever ! 
 
 Thou paints auld nature to the nines. 
 
 In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 
 
 Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 
 
 Where Philomel, 
 Wliile nightly breezes sweep the vines. 
 
 Her griefs will tell ! 
 
 Ill goweny glens thy burnie strays. 
 Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
 Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 
 
 Wi' hawthorns grey. 
 Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 
 
 At close o' day. 
 
 Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
 Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
 Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 
 
 0' witchin' love ; 
 That charm that can the strongest quell. 
 
 The sternest move. 
 
 .fDniirl, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE 25tH JANUARY 1793, THl 
 
 BIRTHDAY OP THE AUTHOR, ON HKAKINO A 
 
 THllUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 
 
 Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless 
 bough, 
 Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
 See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 
 
 At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 
 
 So in lone Poverty's dominion drear. 
 
 Sits meek Content with light unanxious 
 
 heart, [part. 
 
 Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 
 
 Nor asks if they bring ought 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 mita 
 with thee I'll share. 
 
 ^i Cm nf f ilirrtii. (272) 
 
 Heard ye o' the tree o' France, 
 
 I watna what's the name o't ; 
 Around it a' the patriots dance, 
 
 Weel Europe kens the fame o't. 
 It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 
 
 A prison built by kings, man. 
 When Superstition's hellish brood 
 
 Kept France in leading strings, man. 
 
 Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit. 
 
 Its virtue's a' can tell, man ; 
 It raises man aboon the brute. 
 
 It maks hnn ken himself, man. 
 If ance the peasant taste a bit 
 
 He's greater than a lord, man. 
 And wi' the beggar shares a mite 
 
 O' a' he can afford, man. 
 
 This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth. 
 
 To comfort us 'twas sent, man : 
 To gie the sweetest blush o' health. 
 
 And niak us a' content, man. 
 It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 
 
 Maks high and low guid friends, man; 
 And he wha acts the traitor's part. 
 
 It to perdition sends, man. 
 
 My blessings aye attend the chiel, 
 Wha pitied Gallia's ^^iaves, man, 
 
 Ard staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil, 
 frae yon't the wjsteru waves, man. 
 
DITNCAN GRAY. 
 
MONODY. 
 
 189 
 
 Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care. 
 And now she sees wi' pride, man 
 
 How weel it buds and blussoms there. 
 Its branches spreading wide, man, 
 
 Lut vicious folk aye hate to see 
 
 The works o" Virtue thrive, man ; 
 The co\irtly vermin's banned the tree. 
 
 And fjrat to see it thrive, man. 
 King Loui' thought to cut it down, 
 
 When it was unco' sma', man ; 
 For this the watchman cracked hia crown. 
 
 Cut aff his head and a', man. 
 
 A wicked crew syne, on a time. 
 
 Did tak a solemn aith, man, 
 It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 
 
 I wat they pledged their faith, man ; 
 Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade. 
 
 Like beagles hunting game, man. 
 But soon grew weary o' the trade, 
 
 And wished they'd been at hame, man. 
 
 For Freedom, standing by the tree. 
 
 Her sons did loudly ca', man ; 
 She sang a song o' liberty. 
 
 Which pleased them ane and a', man. 
 By her inspired, the new-born race 
 
 Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
 The hirelings ran — her foes gied chase. 
 
 And banged the despot weel, man. 
 
 Let Britain boast her hardy oak. 
 
 Her poplar and her pine, man, 
 Auld Britain ance could crack her joke. 
 
 And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
 But seek the forest round and round. 
 
 And soon 'twill be agreed, man. 
 That sic a tree can not be found, 
 
 'Twixt London and the Tweed, man. 
 
 Without this tree, alack this life 
 
 Is but a vale o' woe man ; 
 A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, 
 
 Nae real joys we know, man. 
 We labour soon, we labour late. 
 
 To feed the titled knave, man ; 
 And a' the comfort we're to get. 
 
 Is that ayout the grave, man. 
 
 Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow. 
 
 The warld would live in peace, man ; 
 The sword would help to mak a plough. 
 
 The din o' war wad cease, man. 
 Like brethren in a common cause. 
 
 We'd on each other smile, man ; 
 And equal rights and equal laws 
 
 Wad gladden every isle, man. 
 
 Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat 
 Sic whalesome, dainty cheer, man ; 
 
 I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet. 
 To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 
 
 Syne let us pray, aulJ England may 
 Sure plant tliis far-famed tree, man ; 
 
 And blytlie we'll sing, and hail the day 
 That gave us liberty, man. 
 
 ^n §mu\ Dumnnrirr. 
 
 A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (273) 
 
 You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
 You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. 
 How does Dampiere do ? 
 Ay and Bonrnonville too? 
 Why did they not come along with you, 
 Dumourier? 
 
 I will fight France with yon, Dumourier ; 
 I will light France with you, Dumourier 
 I wdl tight France with you ; 
 I will take my chance with you ; 
 By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, 
 Dumourier. 
 
 Tlien let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
 
 Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 
 
 Then let us fight about, 
 
 Tdl freedom's spark is out. 
 
 Then we'll be damn'd,no doubt — Dumouner. 
 
 Einrs 
 
 SENT TO A GENTLEMAJJ WH0.M HE HAD OFFENDED. 
 
 (274) 
 
 The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. 
 The fumes of wine infuriate send 
 
 (Not moony madness more astray) — 
 Who but deplores that hapless friend? 
 
 Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. 
 
 Ah, why should I such scenes outlive 1— 
 
 Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
 ' Tis thine to pity and forgive. 
 
 ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE, (275) 
 
 How cold is that bosom which folly once 
 fir'd. 
 How pale is that cheek where the rouge 
 lately glisten'd : [tired, 
 
 How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
 How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
 listen'd 1 
 If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 
 From friendship and dearest affection 
 remov'd ; 
 How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, pov'd. 
 Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived'st un- 
 
I'JC 
 
 BURNs'S POETTCAT, WORKS. 
 
 Lovea, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ! 
 So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
 tear: 
 But come, all ye offsprino^ of folly so true, 
 And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold 
 bier. 
 
 We'll search through the garden for each 
 
 silly flower, [weed; 
 
 We'll roam through the forest for each iiile 
 
 But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
 
 For none e'er approached 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 in life's 
 beam : 
 
 Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
 Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 
 
 dFjit. 
 
 itstiB frnm dtsnpiis tn Baria. 
 
 (27G) 
 From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells. 
 Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
 Wliere turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. 
 And deal from iron hands the spare repast. 
 Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin. 
 Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
 Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar. 
 Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no 
 
 more : 
 '\^^lere tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 
 Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 
 From these dire scenes my wretched liuea 
 
 I date. 
 To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 
 
 "Alas! I feel I am no actor here !" 
 
 'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear 
 
 Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 
 
 Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 
 
 Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy 
 
 poU'd, 
 By barber woven, and by barber sold. 
 Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest 
 
 care, 
 Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
 Tlie hero of the mimic scene, no more, 
 I .siart iu Hamlet, iu Othello roar ; 
 
 Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms. 
 In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms , 
 While sans culottes stoop up the mountain 
 
 high. 
 And steal from me Maria's eye. 
 Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest 
 
 dress. 
 Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, 
 I see her wave thy towering plumes afar. 
 And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; 
 I see her face the first of Ireland's sons (277), 
 And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 
 The crafty colonel (278) leaves the tartaneil 
 
 lines 
 For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 
 The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. 
 Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head, 
 Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display. 
 That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 
 The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 
 And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich 
 
 hulks ; [state 
 
 Though there, his heresies in church and 
 Jlight well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: 
 Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 
 And dares the pubhc like a noontide sun. 
 (What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger. 
 The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ; 
 Whose spleen e'en worse than Burn's veuoro, 
 
 when 
 He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen. 
 And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 
 Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine. 
 The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 
 And even th' abuse of poesy abused : 
 Who call'd her verse a parish 'Workhouse, 
 
 made [stray 'd?) 
 
 For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or 
 
 A Workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my 
 
 woes. 
 And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
 In durance vile here must I wake and weep. 
 And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! 
 That straw where many a rogue has lain of 
 
 yore. 
 And verrain'd Gipsies litter'd heretofore. 
 Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants 
 
 pour; 
 Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
 Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. 
 And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
 Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee 
 
 worse ; 
 The vices also, must they club their curse? 
 Or must no tiny sin to others fall. 
 Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? 
 
 Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 
 In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
 
THE VOWELS. 
 
 191 
 
 As thou at all mankind the flaij unfurls, 
 Who uu my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? 
 Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
 A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
 Who says that fool alone is not thy due. 
 And (]iiotes thy treacheries to prove it true? 
 Our force united on thy foes we'll turn 
 And dare the war with all of woman born : 
 For who can write and speak as thou and I? 
 My periods tliat decyphcrinjj defy. 
 And thy still matchless tongue that conquers 
 all reply. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL OP 
 GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1/94. {279J 
 
 No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 
 
 Nor pour your descant, grating, on my 
 
 soul : [dant stole. 
 
 Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- 
 
 More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
 
 wildest roar. 
 
 How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 
 
 dyes ? [friend ! 
 
 Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 
 
 How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 
 
 That strain flows round th' untimely tomb 
 
 where Riddel lies I 
 
 Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
 And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: 
 The ]Man of Worth, who has'uot left his 
 peer. 
 
 Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 
 
 Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 
 
 greet. 
 Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 
 
 finpramptii 
 
 ON MRS riddel's BIRTH-DAY. (280) 
 
 Old W^inter, 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 suns 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. 
 
 To counterbalance all this evil ; 
 
 Give me, and I've no more to say. 
 
 Give me Maria's natal day I 
 
 That brilliant gift shall so enrich me. 
 
 Spring, summer, autumn, cnunot match me." 
 
 " 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story. 
 And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 
 
 t^rrsrs tn Bliss fraljfini 
 
 OF FINTRY. (281) 
 
 Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
 lives, [join'd. 
 
 In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
 Accept the gift; — tho' humble he who gives. 
 
 Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 
 
 So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast. 
 Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 
 
 But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
 Or love ecstatic wake his sera^^h song. 
 
 Or pity's notes in luxury of tears. 
 
 As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 
 
 While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
 And h°aveu-born piety her sanction seals. 
 
 f IjE Ifatirds, 
 
 thon" 
 
 'TwAS where the birch and sounding 
 
 are plied. 
 The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 
 Where ignorance her dark'ning vapour 
 
 throws. 
 And cruelty directs the thick' ning blows; 
 Upon a time. Sir A-be-ce the great. 
 In all his pedagogic powers elate. 
 His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 
 And call the trembhng vowels to account. 
 
 First entcr'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight. 
 But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
 His twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
 And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai.' 
 
 Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
 The jostling tears ran down his honest face ' 
 That name, that well-worn name, and all his 
 
 own. 
 Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ; 
 The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
 Not all his niongreldiphthongscan compound; 
 And next the title following close behind, 
 He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd 
 
 The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded, Y ? 
 In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
 The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
 And knock'd the groaning vowel to the 
 ground ! 
 
 In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
 
 The wailing minstrel of despairing woP; 
 
192 
 
 EUllN'S'S roKTICAL WOllKS. 
 
 Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
 Might there have learnt new mysteries of 
 
 his art ; 
 So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering TJ, 
 His dearest friend and brotlier scarcely 
 
 knew ! 
 As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
 The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
 In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
 Baptjz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his 
 
 siirht. 
 
 i'^rrsrs tn ^nljii f\ankinE, 
 
 Ane day, as Death, that gnisome carle. 
 Was driving to the tither warl' 
 A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad. 
 And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
 Black gowns of each denomination. 
 And thieves of every rank and station. 
 From him that wears the star and garter. 
 To him that wintles in a halter : 
 Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches. 
 He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
 "By G — , I'll not be seen behint them. 
 Nor 'maiig the sp'ritual core present them, 
 AVithout, at least, ane honest man. 
 To grace this d — d infernal clan." 
 By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
 "L — God !" quoth he, "I have it now. 
 There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
 And quickly etoppit Rankiue'y breath. 
 
 i^v. Irnsiliilitti, 
 
 TO MT DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FBIEND, 
 MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 
 
 Sensibility how charming. 
 
 Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : 
 
 But distress with horrors arming. 
 Thou hast also known too well ! 
 
 Fairest flower, behold the lily. 
 
 Blooming in the sunny ray : 
 Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. 
 
 See it prostrate on the clay. 
 
 Hear the wood-lark charm the forest. 
 
 Telling o'er his little joys : 
 Hapless bird 1 a prey the surest, 
 
 'To each pirate of the skies. 
 
 D«arly bought, the hidden treasure. 
 
 Finer feelings can bestow ; 
 Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 
 
 Tlirill the deepest notes of woe. 
 
 51t!llT55 
 
 SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BKNEPIT 
 
 NIGHT (282). 
 
 Still anxious to secure your partial favour. 
 And not less anxious, sure, this night, than 
 
 ever, 
 A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
 'Twoiild vamp my bill, said I, if nothing 
 
 better ; 
 So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
 Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
 Said, nothing hke his works was ever 
 
 printed; 
 And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
 " Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 
 
 rhymes, [times : 
 
 " I know your bent — these are no laughing 
 Can you — but Miss, I own I have my 
 
 fears — 
 Dissolve in sighs — and sentimental tears. 
 With laden breath, and solemn-rounded 
 
 sentence, [Repentance ; 
 
 Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell 
 Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
 Waving on high the desolating brand, 
 CalUng the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
 
 land?" 
 
 I could no more — askance the crcritnre 
 
 eyeing, [crying? 
 
 D'ye think, said I, this face was made tor 
 I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world 
 
 shall know it ; 
 And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet i 
 Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
 That Misery's another word for Grief; 
 I also think — so may I be a bride ! — - 
 That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 
 Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
 Still under bleak ilijfortune's blasting eye ; 
 Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
 To make three guineas do the work of five : 
 Laugh in Misfortime's face — the beldam 
 
 witch ! — 
 Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 
 Thou other man of care, the wretch in love 
 Who long with jiltish arts and au-s hast 
 
 strove; 
 WTio, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
 Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope— 
 
 thy neck — 
 Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep^ 
 Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
 Would'st thou be cur'd.thou silly, moping elf! 
 Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
 Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
 And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 
 To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 
 And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 
 
THE ELECTION. 
 
 193 
 
 Sn (Cljlnris. fsss) 
 
 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young:, fair 
 Nor thou the gift refuse, [frieuJ, 
 
 Nor with un-wilhiig- ear attend 
 The moralising muse. 
 
 Since thou, in all thy youth and charms. 
 
 Must bid the world adieu, 
 (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 
 
 To join the friendly few. 
 
 Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 
 Chill came the tempest's lower; 
 
 (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
 Did nip a fairer flower.) 
 
 Since life's gay scenes must charm no more. 
 
 Still much is left behind; 
 Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 
 
 The comforts of the mind! 
 
 Thine is the self-approving glow. 
 
 On conscious honour's part; 
 And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
 
 Thine friendship's truest heart. 
 
 The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
 
 ■With every muse to rove: 
 And doubly were the poet blest. 
 
 These joys could he improve. 
 
 Siikpss tn \\)t lljak nf Qtljnnisiin, 
 
 ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 
 EOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 
 
 While virgm spring, by Eden's flood. 
 Unfolds her tender mantle green. 
 
 Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
 Or tunes EoUan strains between: 
 
 ■\Vhile Summer with a matron grace 
 Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 
 
 JTet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
 The progress of the spiky blade: 
 
 Wliile Autumn, benefactor kind. 
 By Tweed erects his aged head. 
 
 And sees, with self-approving mind. 
 Each creature on his bounty fed: 
 
 While maniac Winter rages o'er 
 
 The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 
 
 Bousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
 Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: 
 
 So long, sweet Poet of the year! 
 
 Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
 While Scotia, with exulting tear, 
 
 Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 
 
 Mhh m 3lh. irrnn's (Blrrtinns. 
 
 [ballad first] (284.) 
 Whom will you send to London town. 
 
 To Parliament and a' that ? 
 Or wha in a' the c:)uutry round 
 The best deserves to fa' that? 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 Tliro' Galloway and a' that ; 
 Where is the laird or belted knight 
 That best deserves to fa' that? 
 Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett. 
 
 And wha is't never saw that ? 
 WTia ever wi' Kerroughtree met 
 And has a doubt of a' that? 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
 The independent patriot, 
 The honest man, and a' that. 
 Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
 St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
 Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, 
 And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
 The independent commoner 
 Shall be the man for a' that. 
 But why should we to nobles jouk? 
 
 And is't against the law that? 
 For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
 Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
 A lord may be a lousy loun, 
 Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
 A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 
 
 Wi' uncle's purse and a' that; 
 But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
 A man we ken, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
 For we're not to be bought and sold 
 Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that. 
 Then let us drink the Stewartry, 
 
 Kerroughtree's laird, and a" that, 
 O'lr representative to be, 
 
 For weel he's worthy a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
 A House of Commons such as he. 
 They would be blest that saw tliat. 
 
 [ballad second.] 
 
 tE'ljE (Blrrtinn. 
 
 Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
 For there will be bickeriu' there; 
 
 For JIurray's light-horse are to muster. 
 And oh, how the heroes will swear! 
 
194 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And there will be Murray commander, 
 And Gordon the battle to win ; 
 
 like brothers they'll stand by each other, 
 Sae knit in alliance an' sin. 
 
 And there will be black lippit Johnnie (285). 
 
 The tongue o' the trump to them a'; 
 An' he get iia hell for his haddin', 
 
 Tlie deil gets na justice ava'; 
 And there will be Kerapleton's birkie, 
 
 A boy no sae black at the bane, 
 But, as for his fine nabob fortune. 
 
 We'll e'en let the subject alane. (286) 
 
 And there will be "Wigton's new sheriff ; 
 
 Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped. 
 She's gotten the heart of a Busby, 
 
 But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
 And there will be Cardoness (287), Esquire, 
 
 Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
 A wight that will weather damuation. 
 
 For the devil the prey will despise. 
 
 And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), 
 
 New christ'ning towns far and near ; 
 Abjuring their democrat doings. 
 
 By kissing the — o' a peer ; 
 And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, 
 
 Wliose honour is proof to the storm. 
 To save them from stark reprobation. 
 
 He lent then his name to the firm. 
 
 But we winna mention Redcastle, 
 
 The body, e'en let him escape ! 
 He'd venture the gallo\Ts for sUler, 
 
 An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
 And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 
 
 Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
 The billie is gettin' his questions. 
 
 To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 
 
 And there will be lads o' the gospel, 
 
 Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true : 
 And there will be Buittle's apostle, 
 
 Wlia's more o' the black than the blue ; 
 And there will be folk from St. Mary's, 
 
 A house o' great merit and note. 
 The deil ane but honours them higldy — 
 
 The deil ane will gie them his vote ! 
 
 And there will be wealthy young Richard, 
 
 Dame fortune should hing by the neck ; 
 For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing. 
 
 His merit had won him respect : 
 And there will be rich brother nabobs, 
 
 Tho' nabobs yet men of the first. 
 And there will be Colheston's whiskers. 
 
 And Q,uintin, o' lads not the warst. 
 
 And there will be stamp-office Johnnie 
 Tak tent how ye purchase a dram ; [(28i; 
 And there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
 
 .liu Liieic «iu uc; gay Casseucarrie, 
 And there will be gleg Colonel Tarn 
 
 And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 
 Whose honour was ever his law, 
 
 If the virtues were packed in a parcel. 
 His worth might be sample for a'. 
 
 And can we forget the auld major, 
 
 Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 
 Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other. 
 
 Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
 And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 
 
 And also Barskimming's guid knight. 
 And there will be roarin' Birtwliistle, 
 
 Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 
 
 And there frae the Niddesdale borders. 
 
 Will mingle the jMaxvvells in droves ; 
 Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Walie 
 
 That griens for the fishes and loaves; 
 And there will be Logan Mac Douall, 
 
 Sculdudd'ry and he will be there. 
 And also the wild Scot of Galloway, 
 
 Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. 
 
 Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 
 
 And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
 It may send Balraaghie to the Commons, 
 
 In Sodom 'twould make him a kmg ; 
 And hey for the sanctified Murray, 
 
 Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; 
 He founder'd his horse among harlots. 
 
 But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 
 
 [ballad third.] 
 
 in (firrilriit 3lm Inng^ 
 
 Tune — Buy broom besoms, 
 
 Wha will buy my troggin (290), 
 
 Fine election ware ; 
 Broken trade o' Broughton, 
 A' in high repair. 
 
 Buy braw troggin, 
 
 Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
 Who wants troggin 
 Let him come to me. 
 
 There's a noble Earl's 
 
 Fame and high renown (291), 
 For an auld sang — 
 
 It's thought the gudes were strown 
 Buy braw troggin, &c. 
 Here's the worth o' Broughton (292), 
 
 In a needle's ee : 
 Here's a reputation 
 
 Tint by Balmaghie. (293) 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &c. 
 
 Here's an honest conscience 
 
 Might a prince adorn ; 
 Frae the downs o' Tinwald^ 
 
 So was never worn. (294) 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &a 
 
 1 
 
ON TOE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD. 
 
 19:5 
 
 Here its stuff and lining, 
 
 Cardoncss's head ; 
 Fiue for a sodger 
 
 A' the wale o' lead. 
 
 Buy braw troggiii, &C. 
 
 Here's a little wadset 
 
 Buittle's scrap o' truth, 
 Pawn'd in a gin shop 
 
 Quenching holy drouth. 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &c. 
 
 Here's armorial bearings, 
 
 Frae the manse o' Urr ; 
 The crest, an auld crab-apple (295) 
 
 Rotten at the core. 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &c. 
 
 Here is Satan's picture, 
 
 like a bizzard gled, 
 Pouncing poor Redcastle 
 
 Sprawhu' as a taed. 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &a 
 
 Here's the worth and wisdom 
 
 CoUieston can boast ; 
 By a thievish midge 
 
 They had been nearly lost. 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &C. 
 
 Here is Murray's fragments 
 
 0' the ten commands ; 
 Gifted by black Jock 
 
 To get them aff his hands. 
 
 Buy braw troggin, &C. 
 
 Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 
 
 If to buy ye're slack, 
 Hornie's turnin' chapman — 
 He'll buy a' the pack. 
 
 Buy braw troggin 
 
 Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
 Wha wants troggin 
 Let him come to me. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTEP. 
 (296) DUMFRIES, 1796. 
 
 My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
 Your interest in the poet's weal : 
 Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 
 
 The steep Parnassus, 
 Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 
 
 Aud potion glasses. 
 
 Oh what a canty warld were it, 
 
 Would pain and care and sickness spare it ; 
 
 Vud fortune favour worth and merit. 
 
 As they deserve ! 
 (Aud aye a rowth roast beef and claret ; 
 
 Syne wha wad starve ?) 
 
 Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
 And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
 Oh! flickering, feeble, aud uusicker 
 
 I've found her still 
 Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, 
 
 'Tweeu good and ill. 
 Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satau, 
 Watches like baudrons by a rattan. 
 Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 
 
 Wi' felon ire ; 
 Syne, wliip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on- 
 
 He's aff like fire. 
 
 Auld Nick ! auld Nick 1 it is na fair. 
 First showing us the tempting ware. 
 Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 
 
 To put us daft ; 
 Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 
 
 O' hell's damu'd waft. 
 Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
 And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
 Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 
 
 And hellish pleasure ; 
 Already in thy fancy's eye. 
 
 Thy sicker treasure ! 
 
 Soon heel's-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
 And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
 Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 
 
 And murd'ring wrestle. 
 As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 
 
 A gibbet's tassel. 
 But lest you tliink I am uncivil. 
 To plague you with this draunting drivel. 
 Abjuring a' intentions evil, 
 
 I quat my pen : 
 The Lord preserve us a' frae the devil 1 
 
 Amen! Amen! 
 
 Sii5iriptinii 
 
 FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. (297) 
 
 Thou of an independent mind. 
 
 With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 
 
 Prepar'd Powers proudest frown to brave. 
 
 Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 
 
 Virtue alone who dost revere. 
 
 Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 
 
 Approach this sluine, and wor.'hip here. 
 
 (3)ii lljE Dratji nf a /annnritB 
 
 (298) 
 Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of the 
 
 My dear little "angel, for ever ; [grave. 
 For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slave. 
 
 His hopes from existence to sever. 
 
 11 
 
196 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORES. 
 
 Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st 
 
 thy head, 
 , In the dark silent mansions of sorrow. 
 The spring shall return to thy low narrow 
 bed. 
 Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 
 
 The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet 
 seraph form, 
 Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
 Wlien thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the 
 loud winter storm. 
 And nestled thee close to that bosom 
 
 Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death. 
 Reclined on the lap of thy mother; 
 
 When the tear trickled bright, when the 
 short stifled breath. 
 Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 
 
 My child, thou art gone to the home of 
 thy rest, 
 Wliere suffering no longer can harm ye, 
 Where the songs of the good, where the 
 hymns of the blest. 
 Through an endless existence shall charm 
 thee. 
 
 While he, thy fond parent, must sighing 
 sojourn. 
 Through the dire desert regions of sorrow. 
 O'er the hope and misfortune of beuig to 
 mourn. 
 And sigh for this life's latest morrow. 
 
 gn air. aiiirljrll, 
 
 COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 
 
 Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
 VATia, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
 Alack ! alack ! the meikle diel 
 
 Wi' a' his witches 
 Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 
 
 In my poor pouches ! 
 
 I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 
 That one pound one, I sairly want it; 
 If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. 
 
 It would be kind ; 
 And while my heart wi' lif-blood daunted, 
 
 I'd bear't in mind. 
 
 So may the auld year gang out moaning 
 To see the new come laden, groaning, 
 Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 
 
 To thee -and thuie ; 
 Domestic peace and comforts crowning 
 
 The hale desisn. 
 
 POSTCRIPT. 
 
 Ye've heard this while how I've been Lcket, 
 And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
 Grim loan I he got 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 shore o't. 
 And by that life, I'm promised mair o't 
 My hale and weel, I'll tak a care o't, 
 
 A tentier way; 
 Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 
 
 For ance and aye 1 
 
 QfflE Sluinrli Blaiii's tmtnl 
 
 Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love, 
 
 Oh sairly do I rue. 
 That e'er I heard your flattering tongue^ 
 
 That e'er your face I knew. 
 
 Oh, I hae tent my rosy cheeks. 
 Likewise my waist sae sma' ; 
 
 And I hae lost my lightsome heart. 
 That httle wist a fa'. 
 
 Now I maim thole the scornfu' sneer 
 
 O' mony a saucy quean ; 
 When, gin the truth were a' but kent. 
 
 Her Ufe's been warse than mine. 
 
 Whene'er my father thinks on me. 
 
 He stares into the wa' ; 
 My mither, she has taen the bed 
 
 Wi' thinking on my fa'. 
 
 Whene'er I hear ray father's foot. 
 My heart wad burst wi' pain ; 
 
 Whene'er I meet ray mither's ee. 
 My tears rin down like rain, 
 
 Alas 1 sae sweet a tree as love 
 
 Sic bitter fruit should bear ! 
 Alas ! that e'er a bonnie face 
 
 Should draw a sauty tear I 
 
 ^lli; Draii nf tjiB /arnltij. 
 
 A NEW BALLAD. (299) 
 
 Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 
 
 That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
 And dire the discord Langside saw. 
 
 For beauteous hapless ilary : 
 But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 
 
 Or were more in fury seen. Sir, [job— 
 Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famoua 
 
 Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 
 
ON MR. M'MUEDO. 
 
 107 
 
 This Hal for genus, wit, and lore, 
 
 Among the first was number'd ; 
 But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 
 
 Commandment ten remeniber'd. 
 Yet simple Bob the victory got. 
 
 And won his heart's desire ; 
 Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot, 
 
 Though the devil's in the fire. 
 
 Squire Hal besides had in this case 
 
 Pretensions rather brassy. 
 For talents to deserve a place 
 
 Are qualifications saucy ; 
 So their worships of the " Faculty" 
 
 Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
 Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see. 
 
 To their gratis grace and goodness. 
 
 As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 
 
 Of a son of Circumcision, 
 So may be, on this Pisgah lieight, 
 
 Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
 Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 
 
 'Till for eloquence you hail him, 
 And swear he has the Angel met 
 
 That met the Ass of Balaam. 
 
 ifrrsrs 
 
 ON THE DESTKXJCTION OP THE WOODS NE.\R 
 DUUMLANEIG. (300) 
 
 As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 
 
 Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed. 
 And traced its bonnie howes and haughs. 
 
 Where linties sang and lambkins play'd, 
 ^ sat me down upon a craig. 
 
 And drank my fill o' fancy's dream. 
 When, from the eddying deep below. 
 
 Uprose the genius of the stream. 
 
 Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. 
 
 And troubled, like his wintry wave. 
 And deep, as sighs the boding wind 
 
 Amaug his eaves, the sigh he gave — 
 " And came ye here, my son," he cried, 
 
 " To wander in my birken shade ? 
 To muse some favourite Scottish theme. 
 
 Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 
 
 "There was a time, it's nae lang syne. 
 
 Ye might hae seen me in my pride. 
 When a' my banks sae bravely sav 
 
 Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
 When hanging beech and spreading elm 
 
 Shaded my stream sae clear and cool ; 
 And stately oaks their twisted arms 
 
 Threw broad and dark across the pool ! 
 
 ** When glinting, through the trees, appeared 
 The wee white cot aboon the mill. 
 
 And peacefu' rose its ingle reek. 
 That slowly curled up the hilL 
 
 But now the cot is bare andcauld. 
 
 Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
 And scarce a stinted birk is left 
 
 To shiver in the blast is lane." 
 " Alas! " said I, " what ruefu' chance 
 
 Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees ? 
 Has laid your rocky bosom bare? 
 
 Has stripp'd the deeding o' your braes? 
 Was it the bitter eastern blast. 
 
 That scatters blight in early spring? 
 Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs. 
 
 Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ? " 
 "Nae easthn blast," the sprite replied: 
 
 " It blew na here sae fierce and fell, 
 And on my dry and whalesome banks 
 
 Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
 Man ! cruel man ! " the genius sigh'd — 
 
 As through the cliffs he sank him down— 
 "The worm that gnav/'d my bonnie trees. 
 
 That reptile wears a ducal crown." 
 
 (Dn tljc iDiikj nf dl^iirriislnini. (30i) 
 
 How shall I sing Druralanrig's Grace — 
 Discarded remnant of a race 
 
 Once great in martial story' 
 His forbears' virtues all contrasted— 
 The very name of Douglas blasted— 
 
 His that inverted glory. 
 
 Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
 But he has superadded more. 
 
 And sunk them in contempt; 
 Follies and crimes have stain'd the name. 
 But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim. 
 
 From ought that's good exempt. 
 
 [with a prese.nt op books.] (302.) 
 Oh, could I give thee India's wealth 
 
 As I this trifle send. 
 Because thy joy in both would be 
 
 To share them with a friend. 
 But golden sands did never grace 
 
 The Heliconian stream ; 
 Then take what gold could never buy— 
 
 An honest Bard's esteem. 
 
 dDii air. M'Mm^u. 
 
 INSCRIBED ON A PANE OF GLASS IN 
 HIS HOUSE. 
 
 Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! 
 No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; 
 No WTinkle furrowed by the hand of care. 
 Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! 
 Oh, may no son the father's honour stain. 
 Nor ever daughter give the motlier paiu! 
 
les 
 
 BURNS'S TOETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Smprnni;iiu nn IDIIHe .Ifpraart. (303) 
 
 You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
 You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
 There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 
 That's half sae welcome's thou art. 
 Come, bumpers high, express your joy. 
 
 The bowl we maun renew it; 
 The tappit-hen gae bring her ben. 
 
 To welcome Willie Stewart. 
 May foes be Strang, and friends be slack. 
 
 Ilk action may he rue it; 
 May woman on him turn her back. 
 
 That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. 
 
 Cn Mis5 !Sb531j ICrraars. 
 
 [with a present of books.] 
 Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
 And with them take the Poet's prayer — 
 That Fate may in her fairest page. 
 With ev'ry 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 faithful friend the Bard. 
 
 f ibliif, % Ijap srrn ilji Dai]. (304) 
 
 Tune — Invercauld's Reel. 
 On Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
 
 Ye wad na been sae shy ; 
 For lack o' gear ye slighted me. 
 But, trowth, 1 care na by. 
 Yestreen 1 met you on the moor. 
 Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; 
 Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 
 
 But fient a hair care I. 
 I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 
 Because ye hae the name o'clink. 
 That ye can please me at a wink. 
 
 Whene'er ye like to try. 
 But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
 Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
 Wha follows ony saucy quean, 
 
 That looks sae proud and high. 
 Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
 If that he want the yellow dirt, 
 Ye'U cast your head another airt. 
 
 And answer him fu' dry. 
 But if he hae the name o' gear, 
 ^'e'll fasten to him like a brier, 
 Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 
 
 Be better than the kye. 
 
 But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
 Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; 
 The deil a ane wad spier your price. 
 Were ye as poor as I. 
 
 There lives a lass in yonder park, 
 I would na gie her in her sark, 
 For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; 
 Ye need na look sae high. 
 
 Jllontgnmrrii's ^<3rggi|. (305) 
 
 Tune — Galla-fVater. 
 Altho' my bed were in yon muir 
 
 Amang the heather, in my plaidie. 
 Yet happy, happy would I be, 
 
 Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
 
 When o'er the hill beat surly storms. 
 And winter nights were dark and rainy; 
 
 I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
 I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
 
 Were I a baron proud and high. 
 
 And horse and servants waiting ready, 
 
 Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 
 
 The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy. 
 
 Sannij '\hm ^J'snn. (306) 
 
 Tune — Braes o' Balquhidder. 
 
 CHORUS, 
 
 I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
 
 And I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 
 
 And rU kiss thee, yet, yet. 
 My bonnie Peggy Alison ; 
 
 Dk care and fear, when thou art near, 
 
 I ever mair defy iliem, O ; 
 Young kings upon their hansel throne 
 
 Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
 
 Wlien in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
 I clasp my countless treasure, O, 
 
 I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
 Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
 
 And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
 I swear I'm thine for ever, O ! 
 
 And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
 And break it shall I never, O ! 
 
 Mnfs In 11)1] SJraltlj, m\ ffiunnij fass, 
 
 Tune — Larjr/an Burn. 
 Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
 
 Guid night, and joy be wi' tbee; 
 I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door. 
 
 To tell thee that I loe thee : 
 
JOHN BARLEYCORN. 
 
 19!) 
 
 Oh (liiiiia think, my pretty pink. 
 
 But I can live without thee : 
 I vow and swear I dinna care 
 
 How lang ye look about ye. 
 
 Thou'rt aye sfie free informing me 
 
 'niou hast nae mind to marry; 
 I'll be as free lul'urming thee 
 
 Nae time hae I to tarry. 
 I ken thy friends try ilka means, 
 
 Frae wedlock to delay thee; 
 Depending on Bome higher chance— 
 
 But fortune may betray thee. 
 
 I ken they scorn my low estate. 
 
 But that does never grieve me ; 
 But I'm as free as any he, 
 
 Sma' siller will relieve me. 
 I count my health my greatest wealth, 
 
 Sae long as I'll enjoy it : 
 I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 
 
 As lang's I get employment. 
 
 But far off fowls hae feathers fair. 
 
 And aye until ye try them : 
 Tho' they seem fair, still have a care. 
 
 They may prove worse than I am. 
 But at twilit night, when the moon shines 
 
 bright, 
 iVly dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
 For the man that loes his mistress weel, 
 
 Na£i travel makes him weary. 
 
 Tune — Last li:iie I came o'er the Muir. 
 
 You.N'G Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 
 
 Her blush is like the morning, 
 The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 
 
 With early gems adornmg : 
 Her eyes outslime the radiant beams 
 
 That gild the passing shower, 
 And glitter o'er tlie crystal streams. 
 
 And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 
 
 Iler lips, more than the cherries bright, 
 
 A richer dye has graced them ; 
 They charm th' admiring gazer's sight. 
 
 And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
 Her smile is, as the evening mild, 
 
 When featlier'd tribes are courting, 
 And Uttle lambkins wanton wdd. 
 
 In playfvd b.\nds disporting. 
 
 Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 
 iSuch sweetness wouUl relent her 
 
 As blooming spring unbends the brow 
 Of surly, savage winter. 
 
 Detraction's eye no aim can gain. 
 Her winning powers to lessen ; 
 
 And fretful envy grins in vain 
 The poison'd tooth to fasten. 
 
 Ye pow'rs of honour, love and truth. 
 
 From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
 Inspire the highly-favour'd youth. 
 
 The destinies intend her : 
 Still fan the sweet connubial flame 
 
 Responsive in each bosom. 
 And bless the dear parental name 
 
 With many a filial blossom. 
 
 ffljjn Sarlriirarn. 
 
 A BALLAD. (308) 
 
 There were three kings into the east. 
 Three kings both great and high ; 
 
 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 John Barleycorn should die. 
 
 They took a plough and plough'd him down, 
 
 Put clods upon his head ; 
 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 
 John Barleycorn was dead. 
 
 But the cheerful spring came kindly on 
 
 And show'rs began lo fall ; 
 John Barleycorn got up again. 
 
 And sore surpris'd them all. 
 
 The sultry suns of summer came. 
 And he grew thick and strong ; 
 
 His head weel arin'd wi' pointed spears, 
 That no one should him wrong. 
 
 The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
 
 AVheu he grew wan and pale ; 
 His bending joints and drooping head 
 
 Show'd he began to fad. 
 
 His colour sicken'd more and more. 
 
 He faded into age ; 
 And then his enemies began 
 
 To show their deadly rage. 
 
 Tliey've taen a weapon, long and sharp, 
 
 And cut him by the knee ! 
 They tied him fast upon a cart. 
 
 Like a rogue for forgerie. 
 
 They laid him down upon his back. 
 
 And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
 They hnug him up before the storm. 
 
 And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 
 
 They filled up a darksome pit 
 
 With water to the brim ; 
 They heaved in Juliii P.arleycom, 
 
 There let him sink or swim. 
 
200 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 They laid him out upon the floor 
 
 To work him farther woe; 
 And stil], as sitfns of life appear'd. 
 
 They toss'd him to and fro. 
 
 They wasted o'er a scorching flame 
 
 The marrow of his bones ; 
 But a miller us'd him worst of all, 
 
 For he crush'd him 'tween two stones. 
 
 And they hae taen his very heart's blood. 
 And drunk it round and round ; 
 
 And still the more and more they drank. 
 Their joy did more abound. 
 
 John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 
 
 Of noble enterprise ; 
 For if you do but taste his blood, 
 
 'Twill make your courage rise. 
 
 'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 
 
 'Twill heighten all his joy : 
 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 
 
 Tho' the tear were in her eye. 
 
 Then let us toast John Barleycorn. 
 
 Each man a glass in hand ; 
 And may his great posterity 
 
 Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 
 
 ^\}t fvigs n* Sarlrij. (soo) 
 
 Tune — Corn Rigs are bonuie. 
 
 It was upon a Lammas night. 
 
 When corn rigs are boiiiiie, 
 Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 
 
 I heft awa to Annie : 
 The time flew by wi' tentless heed. 
 
 Till 'tween the late and early, 
 W^i' sma' persuasion she agreed 
 
 To see me thro' the barley. 
 
 The sky was blue, the wind was still. 
 
 The moon was shining clearly ; 
 I set her down wi' right good will 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
 I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 
 
 I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
 I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
 
 Araang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 
 
 Her heart was beating rarely : 
 My blessings on that happy place, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
 But by the moon and stars so bright. 
 
 That shone that hour so clearly ! 
 She aye shall bles.t that happy night, 
 
 Amaiijj vhe rrgs o' barley. 
 
 I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 
 
 1 hae been merry drinkin' ; 
 I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 
 
 I hae been happy thinkin' ; 
 But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
 
 Tho' three times doubl'd fairly. 
 That happy night was worth them a', 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Com rigs, and barley rigs. 
 And corn rigs are bonnie : 
 
 I'll ne'er forget that happy night 
 Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 
 
 Ctu '^tUnnglimaii, 
 
 Tune — Up tvi' the Ploughman. 
 
 The ploughman he's a bonnie lad. 
 
 His mind is ever true, jo ; 
 His garters knit below his knee. 
 His bonnet it is blue, jo. 
 Then up wi' my ploughman lad. 
 
 And hey my merry ploughman 1 
 Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
 Commend me to the ploughman. 
 
 My ploughman he comes hame at e'eii. 
 
 He's aften wat and weary ; 
 Cast off the wat, put on the dry. 
 
 And gae to bed, my dearie ! 
 
 I will wash my ploughman's hose, 
 And I will dress his o'erlay ; 
 
 I will mak my ploughman's bed. 
 And cheer him late and early. 
 
 I hae been east, I hae been west, 
 I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 
 
 The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
 Was the ploughman laddie daucin*, 
 
 Snaw-white stockins on his legs. 
 
 And siller buckles glaucin' ; 
 A guid blue bonnet on his head — 
 
 And oh, but he was handsome I 
 
 Commend me to the barn-yard. 
 
 And at the corn-mou, man ; 
 I never gat my coggie fou. 
 
 Till I meet wi' the ploughman. 
 
 ^nng rniiifinsrli in Slitgust. (3io) 
 
 Tune — / had a horse, 1 had nae mair. 
 
 Naw westling winds and slaught'ring guns 
 Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 
 
 The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 
 Amang the blooming heather : 
 
 l( 
 
■WHEN WTT;1' \v-Af/s- i.K'M.ix- pi,/^<^r,, ^_^g BLAm, 
 
MY NANNEE, 0. 
 
 201 
 
 I Now 'cravin!:^ ffrain, wide o'er the plain, 
 
 Delij^lits the weary farmer ; ["'gilt 
 
 ' AjkI the raoon shines bright, when I rove at 
 To muse upon my charmer. 
 
 I The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 
 
 The plover loves the mountains ; 
 I Tlie woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 
 
 The soaring hern the fountains ; 
 jThro' lofty groves the cushat roves. 
 
 The path of man to shun it ; 
 lie hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 
 
 The spreading thoru the linnet. 
 
 [Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find. 
 
 The savage and the tender ; 
 Some social join, and leagues combine : 
 
 Some solitary wander : 
 |Avaunt, away ! the cr\iel sway, 
 
 TjTannic man's dominion ; 
 j The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry. 
 
 The flutt'riug gory pinion. 
 
 [ But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear. 
 
 Thick flies tlie skimming swallow ; 
 he sky is blue, the fields in view. 
 
 All fading-green and yellow; 
 ICome, let us stray our gladsome way. 
 
 And view the charms of nature; 
 [ The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 
 
 And every happy creature. 
 
 |We'lI gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
 Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
 111 grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 
 
 Swear how I love thee dearly : 
 lot vernal show'rs to budding ilow'n^ 
 
 Not autumn to the farmer. 
 So dear can be as thou to me. 
 My fair, my lovely charmer I 
 
 f nn WiWi Bnssti J^Iniiiitfiins. (3ii) 
 
 Tune — Yon wild tnossy Mountains. 
 
 ON wild mossy mountaius sae lofty aiul 
 
 wide, [Clyde, 
 
 That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 
 
 AVhore the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 
 
 heather to feed. 
 And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 
 on his reed. 
 Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' 
 
 the heather to feed. 
 And the shepherd tents his flock as he 
 pipes on his reed. 
 
 Not Cowrie's rich vallies, nor Forth's sunny 
 
 shores. 
 To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 
 
 moors ; 
 
 For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
 
 Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
 
 dream. [stream. 
 
 For there, by a lanely and sequester'd 
 
 Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and 
 
 my dream. 
 
 Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 
 
 path, [strath : 
 
 'Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 
 
 For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 
 
 While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 
 
 love. [rove, 
 
 For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I 
 
 While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours 
 
 o' love. 
 
 She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
 
 O' nice education but sma, is her share ; 
 
 Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
 
 But 1 loe the dear lassie because she loes me. 
 Her parentage humble as humble can be : 
 But 1 loe the dear lassie because she loes 
 
 To beauty what man but maun yield him a 
 
 prize, [sighs ! 
 
 In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 
 
 And when wit and refinement hae poUsh'd 
 
 her darts. 
 
 They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 
 
 And when wit and refinement hae polish'd 
 
 her darts, [hearts. 
 
 They dazzle our een, as they flee to oiur 
 
 But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond 
 
 sparkling e'e. 
 Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
 And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 
 
 her arms, [charms ! 
 
 Oh, these, are my lassie's all-conquenn» 
 
 And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'ti 
 
 in her arms. 
 Oh, these are my lassie's aU-couqueriug 
 
 charms 1 
 
 Bi] 
 
 mnm, 6. (312) 
 
 Tune — My Nannie, O. 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
 'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 
 
 The wintry sun the day has clos'd. 
 And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 
 
 The westlin wind hlaws loud and shrill ; 
 
 The night's baith mirk and rainy, ; 
 But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal. 
 
 And owre the lulls to Nannie, 0. 
 
202 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 My Nannie's charminfr, sweet, aud young 
 
 Nae artfu' wues to win ye, O : 
 May ill bcfa' the flattering ton<;ue 
 
 That wad beguile ray Nannie, O. 
 Her face is fair, her heart is true. 
 
 As spotless as she's boniiie, O: 
 Th;; op'ning gowan, wet wi dew, 
 
 Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 
 
 A country lad is my degree. 
 
 And few there be that ken me, O; 
 
 But what care I how few they be? 
 I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
 
 My riches a's my penny-fee, 
 
 And 1 maun guide it cannie, O ; 
 
 But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
 My thoughts are a' my Naimie, O, 
 
 Our auld guidman delights to view 
 His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
 
 But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh. 
 And has nae care but Nannie, O. 
 
 Come weel, come woe, I care nae by, 
 I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 
 
 Nae ither care in life have I, 
 
 But live, and love my Nannie, O. 
 
 §mn ^mm. tljc Sliisljcs. (sis) 
 
 Tune — Green grow the Rashes. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O ! 
 Green grow the raslies, O ! 
 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
 Are spent amang the lasses, O. 
 There's nought but care on ev'ry hau', 
 
 in every hour that ]iasses, O : 
 Wliat signifies the life o' man. 
 
 An 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
 The warily race may riches chase. 
 
 And riches still may fly them, O ; 
 And tho' at last they catch them fast. 
 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0, 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en. 
 
 My arras about my dearie, O ; 
 And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly mea. 
 
 May a' gae tapsalteene, O. 
 For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
 
 Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: 
 The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 
 
 He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
 Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
 
 Her noblest work she classes, O : 
 Her 'prentice han' she tried on mau. 
 
 And then she made the lasses, O. 
 
 ■iHllD (Cnri fnr- all Care, 
 
 Tune — Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the 
 Tavern let's fly. 
 
 No churchman am I for to rail and to write. 
 No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
 No sly man of business contriving a snare — 
 For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my 
 care. 
 
 The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
 I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
 But a club of good fellows, like those that 
 
 are here. 
 And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 
 
 Here passes the squire on his brother — liis 
 
 horse ; 
 There centum per centum, the cit with his 
 
 purse ; 
 But see you The Crown, how it waves in the 
 
 air ! 
 There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 
 
 The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
 For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
 I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
 That a big-belhed bottle's a cure for all care. 
 
 I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
 A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
 But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 
 
 stairs. 
 With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 
 
 " life's cares they are comforts." (314)— o 
 
 maxim laid down 
 By the liard, what d'ye call him, that wore 
 
 the black gown ; [hair ; 
 
 And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a 
 For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 
 
 ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 
 
 Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow. 
 And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
 May every true brother of the compass aud 
 square [care ! 
 
 Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with 
 
 (Dii <0r5£imrk Sanlts. 
 
 Tune — If he he a Butcher neat and trim. 
 On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
 
 Could I describe her shape and mien; 
 The graces of her weel-faur'd face, 
 
 Aud the glancin' of her sparklin' een ! 
 
 She's fresher than the morning dawn 
 W hen rising Phoebus first is seen, 
 
 When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklm' een. 
 
FEOM THEE, ELIZA. 
 
 203 
 
 Slie's stately like yon youthful ash, 
 Tliat grows the cowshp braes between. 
 
 And shoots its liead above each bush ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin" een. 
 
 She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, 
 
 With flow'rs so white, and leaves so green. 
 
 When purest in the dewy morn ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her looks are like the sportive lamb 
 ■When flow'ry i\Iay adorns the scene. 
 
 That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin een. 
 
 Iler hair is like the curling mist 
 
 That shades the mountain -side at e'en. 
 
 When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her forehead's like the show'ry bow. 
 When shining sunbeams intervene. 
 
 And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
 And she's twa glaucm' sparklin' eeu. 
 
 Her voice is like the evening thrush 
 That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 
 
 ■\'\Tiile his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
 And she's twa glancin* sparklin' een. 
 
 Her lips are like the cherries ripe 
 
 That sunny walls from Boreas screen — 
 
 They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 Her teeth are hke a flock of sheep, 
 With fleeces newly washen clean. 
 
 That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin' eeu. 
 
 Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
 That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 
 
 ■UTien Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; 
 And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
 
 But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
 Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen. 
 
 But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
 And chiefly in her sparklin' een. 
 
 ffiljB Sigjjlanlr tmn. (sis) 
 
 Tune — The Beuks dang o'er my Daddy I 
 
 Nae gentle dames, tho* e'er sae fair. 
 
 Shall ever be my muse's care : 
 
 Their titles a' are empty sliow : 
 
 Gie me my highland lassie, O. 
 
 Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
 Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, 
 I set me down wi' right good will. 
 To sing my higldand lassie, O. 
 
 Oh, were you hills and vallics mine. 
 Yon palace and yon gardens line ! 
 Tlie world then the love should know 
 I bear my highland lassie, O. 
 
 But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
 And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
 But while my crimson currents flow, 
 I'll love my highland lassie, O. 
 
 Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
 I know her heart will never change. 
 For her bosom burns with honour's glow. 
 My faithful highland lassie, O. 
 
 For her I'll dare the billows' roar. 
 For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
 That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
 Around my highland lassie, O. 
 
 She has my heart, she has my hand. 
 By sacred truth and honour's baud I 
 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low 
 I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 
 
 Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
 Farewell the plain sae rushy, O I 
 To other lands I now must go. 
 To sing ray highland lassie, O. 
 
 '^nrarrs IJrltstial. 
 
 Tune — Blue Bonnets. 
 Powers celestial ! whose protection 
 
 Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
 Wliile in distant climes I wander, 
 
 Let my iMary be your care : 
 Let her form sae fiiir and faultless. 
 
 Fair and faultless as your own, 
 Let my Mary's kindred spirit 
 
 Draw your choicest influence down. 
 
 Make the gales you waft around her 
 
 Soft and peaceful as her breast. 
 Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 
 
 Soothe her bosom into rest : 
 Guardian angel ! oh protect her. 
 
 When in distant lands I roam ; 
 To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 
 
 Make her bosom still my home. 
 
 /rnm iljrr, (BliiJ. 
 
 Tune — Gilderoy, or Donald. 
 
 From thee, Eliza, I must go. 
 And from my native shore, 
 
 The cruel Fates lietween us tlirow 
 A boundless ocean's roar • 
 
 19 
 
204 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But boundless oceans roaring wide. 
 
 Between my love and me. 
 They never, never can divide 
 
 My heart and soul from thee^ 
 
 Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 
 
 The maid that I adore 1 
 A boding voice is in mine ear. 
 
 We part to meet no more I 
 The latest throb that leaves my heart. 
 
 While death stands victor by. 
 That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 
 
 And thine that latest sigh I 
 
 Mum. 
 
 Tone — Johnny's grey Breelcs. 
 
 Again rejoicing nature sees 
 
 Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
 Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
 All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
 And maun I still on Menie doat 
 
 And bear the scorn that's in her ee ? 
 For it's jet, jet black, and like a hawk. 
 And winna let a body be. 
 
 In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
 In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
 
 In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
 The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
 
 Tlie merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
 \Vi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 
 
 But life to me's a weary dream, 
 A dream of aue that never wauka. 
 
 The wanton coot the water skims, 
 Amang the reeds the duckhngs cry, 
 
 The stately swan majestic swims. 
 And everything is blest but I. 
 
 The shepherd steeks his faulding slap. 
 And owre the moorland whistles shrill; 
 
 Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
 I meet him on the dewy hill. 
 
 And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
 Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
 
 And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
 A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 
 
 Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
 And raging bend the naked tree : 
 
 Tliy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
 When nature all is sad like me ! 
 
 Sljc /arcracU. 
 
 TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JA.MES's LODOE, 
 TARBOLTON. 
 
 Tune — Good-night, and joy be wi' you <fl 
 
 Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 
 
 Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
 Ye favour'd, ye enligliten'd few. 
 
 Companions of my social joy; 
 Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 
 
 Pursuing Fortune's slipp'ry ba'. 
 With melting heart and brimful eye, 
 
 I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 
 
 Oft have I met your social band. 
 
 And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
 Oft honour'd with supreme command. 
 
 Presided o'er the sous 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.' 
 
 May freedom, harmony, and love 
 
 Unite you iu the grand design, 
 Beneath th' Omniscient eye above. 
 
 The glorious Architect divine ! 
 That you may keep th' unerring line. 
 
 Still rising by the plummet's law. 
 Till order bright completely shine. 
 
 Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 
 
 And you, farewell ! whose merits claim. 
 Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
 
 Ileav'n bless your honour'd, noble name. 
 To masonry and Scotia dear; 
 
 A last request permit me liere. 
 When yearly ye assemble a'. 
 
 One round — I ask it with a tear- 
 To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 
 
 (01]E %im n' Sallnrljiinilc. (3i6) 
 
 Tune — The Braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 
 
 The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, 
 Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green. 
 
 But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
 Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 
 
 Hersel iu beauty's bloom the while. 
 And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 
 
 Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! 
 
 Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 
 
 Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
 Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 
 
 Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
 But, here, alas 1 for me nae raair 
 
 Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile; 
 Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 
 
 Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle I 
 
THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
 
 205 
 
 €l!i fans n* Sallniiimiib. (3i7) 
 
 Tune — Miss Furbcs's Farewell to Banff. 
 TwAS even — the dewy fields were green, 
 
 On every blade the pearlies hang, 
 The zephyr wantou'd round the bean. 
 
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
 In ev'ry glen the mavis sang. 
 
 All nature list'ning seem'd the while, 
 Except where greenwood echoes rang, 
 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 With careless step I onward stray'd. 
 
 My heart rejoiced in nature's joy. 
 When, musing in a lonely glade, 
 
 A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
 Her look was like the morning's eye. 
 
 Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
 Perfection whispet'd passing by. 
 
 Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 
 
 Fair is the morn in flow'ry I\Iay, 
 
 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; 
 Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 
 
 By the bouuie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 Oh, had she been a country maid. 
 
 And I the happy country swain, 
 Tho' shelter'd ia the lowest shed 
 
 That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
 Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 
 
 With jo3% with rapture, I would toil ; 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 
 The Bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle ! 
 
 Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 
 
 'Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 
 
 Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
 Give me the cot below the pine. 
 
 To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
 And ev'ry day have joys divine 
 
 AVith the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 CjlB (Slnmiii; Jligjit is (fi^Htljrring /ast. 
 
 (318) 
 Tune — Roslin Castle. 
 The gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 
 Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; 
 Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
 I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
 Tlie hunter now has left the moor. 
 The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
 While here I wander, prest with care. 
 Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 
 
 The autumn mourns her rip'ning com. 
 
 By early winter's ravage torn ; 
 
 Across her placid, azure sky, 
 
 She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
 
 Chill rims my blood to hear it rave— 
 
 I think upon the stormy wave, 
 
 AMiere many a danger I must dare. 
 
 Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr 
 
 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
 
 'Tis 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 woimd* 
 
 These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
 
 To leave the bonny banks of Ayr. 
 
 Farewell old Coila's hills and dales. 
 
 Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
 
 The scenes v here wretched fancy roves. 
 
 Pursuing past, luihappy loves ! 
 
 Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
 
 My peace with these, my love with those— 
 
 The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
 
 Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 
 
 ^{rs Sanks n' Snnn. (3i9) 
 
 Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
 How can ye chant, ye httle birds. 
 
 And I sae weary fu' o' care ? 
 Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 
 
 That wanton'st thro' the flowering thoru : 
 Thou minds'st me o' departed joys. 
 
 Departed — never to return ! 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 
 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 And my fuse luver stole my rose. 
 
 But, ah 1 he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 Q^ljE Sirks nf 511irrfrlili;. (320) 
 
 'Tune — The Birks of Ahergeldy. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 Will ye go, will ye go ; 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 
 To the birks of Aberfeldy? 
 
 Now simmer blinks on flowTy braes. 
 And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; 
 Come, let us spend the lightsome days 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
206 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Tlie little birdies blythcly sing, 
 \Vliile o'er their heads the hazels hing. 
 Or liglitly flit on wanton wing 
 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
 The braes ascend, like lofty wa'a. 
 The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
 O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws. 
 
 The birks of Aberfeldy. 
 The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers. 
 White o'er the linns the biirnie po>ir3, 
 And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
 
 The bilks of Aberfeldy. 
 Let tortune's gifts at random flee. 
 They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me 
 Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
 
 In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 S'm nturs ^nting In 3Harrij f^rt. 
 
 Tune — I'm owre young to marry yet. 
 
 1 AM my mammy's ae bairn, 
 
 Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir; 
 And if I gang to your liouse, 
 
 I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie. Sir. 
 
 I'm owre young to marry yet • 
 I'm owre young to marry yet j 
 
 I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
 To take me frae my mammy yet 
 
 Hallowmas is come and gane. 
 
 The nights are lang in winter. Sir; 
 
 And you and I in wedlock's bands. 
 In troth, I dare not venture. Sir. 
 I'm owre young, &c. 
 
 Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
 
 Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir; 
 
 But if ye come this gate again, 
 I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
 I'm owTe youug, &c. 
 
 BI'^t^jlErsnn's /arrraill. (321) 
 
 Tune — M'PIierson's Rant. 
 
 Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
 
 Tlie wretch's destinie : 
 Macpherson's time will not be long 
 On yonder gallows-tree. 
 
 Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
 
 Sae dauntingly gacd he ; 
 He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round. 
 Below the gallows-tree. 
 
 Oh, what is death but parting breath ?^ 
 
 On many a bloody plwu 
 I've dar'd his face, and in this place 
 
 I scoru him yet again ; 
 
 Untie these bands from off my hands. 
 
 And bring to me my sword ; 
 And there's no man in all Scotland, 
 
 But I'll brave him at a word. 
 
 I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 
 . I die by treacherie : 
 It burns my heart I must depart, 
 And not avenged be. 
 
 Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, 
 
 And all beneath the sky ! 
 May coward shame distain his name^ 
 
 The wretch that dares not die I 
 
 Mm f niig Hnh Drraq is tlrs Sligp. 
 
 How long and dreary is the night 
 
 Wlien I am frae my dearie ! 
 I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
 Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 
 I sleepless lie frae e'en to mom. 
 The' I were ne'er sae weary. 
 
 "S^Tien I think on the happy days 
 
 I spent wi' you, my dearie. 
 And now what lands between us lit^ 
 How can I be but eerie ! 
 
 And now what lands between us lio, 
 How can I be but eerie ! 
 
 How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
 
 As ye were wae and weary ! 
 It was na sae ye glinted by. 
 When I was m' my dearie. 
 It was na sae ye glinted by. 
 When I was wi' my dearie. 
 
 Mm*5 fl Staltlj ta ilirni lljat's ania. 
 
 Tune — Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's a health to them that's awa; 
 And wha wiima wish guid luck to our cause^ 
 May never guid luck be their fa' ! 
 It's guid to be merry and wise. 
 It's guid to be honest and true. 
 It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 
 And bide by the bulT and the blue. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
 Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 
 Altho' that his band be sma'. 
 May liberty meet wi' success ! 
 'May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
 May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist. 
 And wander their way to the devil 1 
 
MY PEGGY'S FACE. 
 
 207 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's a heallh to them that's awa ; [laddie, 
 Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland 
 That lives at the \ng o' the law ; 
 Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 
 Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
 There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 
 
 he heard, 
 But they wham the truth wad indite. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's a health to them that's awa; 
 Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth 
 
 gow'd, 
 Tlio' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
 Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 
 And friends on both sides of the Tweed ; 
 And wha wad betray old Albion's rights. 
 May they never eat of her bread. 
 
 Itratljalkn's f amrnt. (322) 
 
 Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 
 
 Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
 Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 
 
 Still surround my lonely cave ! 
 
 Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
 Busy haunts of base mankind. 
 
 Western breezes softly blowing, 
 Suit not my distracted mind. 
 
 In the cause of right engaged, 
 Wrongs injurious to redress, 
 
 Honour's war we strongly waged, 
 But the heavens denied succesa. 
 
 Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
 Not a hope that dare attend : 
 
 Tlie wide world is all before us — 
 But a world without a friend. 
 
 QIljE 5BanIt5 nf tijf ^mm. (323) 
 
 Tune — Bhannerach dlion na chri. 
 
 How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
 
 Devon, [blooming fair ! 
 
 With green spreading bushes, and flowers 
 
 But the bonuiest flower on the banks of the 
 
 Devon [Ayr. 
 
 Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
 
 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 
 
 Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
 AVith chUl hoary wing, as ye usher the 
 dawn ; [seizes 
 
 And far b:; thou distant, thou reptile that 
 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 adonis the green vallies. 
 Where Devon, sweet Devon, meanderuig 
 flows. 
 
 Srauing Mngrq l^intrr's Itnrms. (324) 
 
 Tune — Neil Gow's Lamentation for 
 Ahcrcairuy. 
 
 Where, braving angry winter's storma. 
 
 The lofty Ochils rise. 
 Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 
 
 First blest my wondering eyes ; 
 
 As one, who by some savage stream, 
 
 A lonely gem surveys, 
 Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam. 
 
 With arts most polish'd blaze. 
 
 Blest be the wild sequester'd shade. 
 
 And blest the day and hour. 
 Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd. 
 
 When first I felt their pow'r ! 
 
 The tyrant death, with grim control. 
 May seize my fleeting breath ; 
 
 But tearing Peggy from my soul 
 Must be a stronger death. 
 
 3Hii 1<5rggij'5 /are. 
 
 Tune — My Peggy's Face. 
 
 My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
 The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
 My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
 IMight charm the first of human kind. 
 1 love my Peggy's angel air. 
 Her face so truly, heavenly fair. 
 Her native grace so void of art. 
 But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
 The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
 The kindling lustre of an eye : 
 Who but owns their magic sway! 
 Who but knows they all decay ! 
 The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
 The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear. 
 The gentle look, that rage disarms — 
 These are all immortal charms. 
 
 19^ 
 
208 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 laning Winh arnunii Ijrr Slnming. 
 
 (325) 
 Tune — Macgrerjor of Ruara's Lament. 
 Raving winds around her blowing. 
 Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing. 
 By a river hoarsely roaring, 
 Isabella stray'd deploring — 
 "Farewell hours that late did measure 
 Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
 Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
 Cheerless night that knows no morrow! 
 
 O'er the past too fondly wandering. 
 On the hopeless future pondering; 
 Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
 Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
 Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
 Load to misery most distressing. 
 Gladly how would I resign thee. 
 And to dark oblivion join thee !" 
 
 SJi.qljlanlr Sjarri}. (326) 
 
 My Harry was a gallant gay, 
 
 Fu' stately strode he on the plain t 
 But now he's banish'd far away, 
 I'll never see hira back again. 
 Oh for him back again ; 
 
 Oh for him back again ! 
 I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 
 For Highland Harry back again. 
 
 When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
 
 I wanaer dowie up the glen : 
 1 sit me down and greet my fill. 
 
 And aye I wish him back again. 
 Oh were some villians hangit high. 
 
 And ilka body had their ain ! 
 Then I might see the joyfu' sight. 
 
 My Highland Harry back again. 
 
 3Eiising na IIie IRnaring i^mn. (327) 
 
 Tune — Dniimion Dubh. 
 Musing on the roaring ocean 
 
 Which divides my love and me ; 
 Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
 
 For his weal where'er he be. 
 
 Hope and fear's alternate billow 
 Yielding late to nature's law, 
 
 'WTiisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
 Talk of him that's far awa. 
 
 Ye whom sorrow never wounded. 
 
 Ye who never shed a tear, 
 Cai-e-untroubled, joy surrounded, 
 
 Gaudy day to you is dear. 
 
 Gentle night, do thou befriend me : 
 Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
 
 Spirits kind, again attend me. 
 Talk of him that's far awa ! 
 
 Mi\\l}i mas IIje. (328) 
 
 Tune — Andro and his Cutty Gun, 
 
 CH0RU3. 
 
 Blythe, blythe and merry was she^ 
 Blythe was she butt and ben : 
 
 Blythe by the banks of Em, 
 And blythe in Glentwrit glen. 
 
 By Auchtertyre grows the aik. 
 
 On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; 
 
 But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
 Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
 
 Iler looks were like a flower in May, 
 Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 
 
 She tripped by the banks o' Em, 
 As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
 
 Her bonnie face it was as meek 
 
 As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
 The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
 
 As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
 
 The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
 And o'er the lowlands I hae been ; 
 
 But Phemie was the blythest lass 
 That ever trod the dewy green. 
 
 ®I;e mm Wmm, 
 
 Tune — The Weaver's March. 
 
 Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea. 
 By mony a flow'r and spreading tree^ 
 There hves a lad, the lad for me. 
 He is a gallant weaver. 
 
 Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine. 
 They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
 And I was fear'd my heart would tine. 
 And I gied it to the weaver. 
 
 My daddie sigu'd my tocher-band. 
 To gie the lad that has the land ; 
 But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
 And gie it to the weaver. 
 
 Wliile birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
 While bees delight m op'uing flowers ! 
 While com grows green in simmer showerts 
 I'll love my gallant weaver. 
 
WHEN JANUAU' WIND. 
 
 ao9 
 
 Ilje Slu!ir-rr!i '£d5p at fwk inaij Slam. 
 
 Tune — To daunton me. 
 
 The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw. 
 The simmer lillies bloom in snaw. 
 The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
 But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
 
 To daunton me, and me so young, 
 Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue 
 That is the thing you ne'er shall see : 
 For an old man shall never daunton me. 
 
 For a' his meal and a' his maut. 
 For a' his fresh beef and his saut. 
 For a' his gold and white monie. 
 An auld man shall never daunton me. 
 
 His gear may buy him kye and yowes. 
 His gear may buy him glens and knowes; 
 But me he shall not buy nor fee. 
 For an auld man shall never daunton me. 
 
 He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, 
 
 Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
 
 And the rain rains down from his red bleer'd 
 
 ee — 
 That auld man shall never daunton me. 
 
 i f\E5r-liiiii iiti inij (0arlij W^lk. (329) 
 
 Tu.VE— ne Rose-hud. 
 
 A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
 Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
 Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 
 
 All on a dewy morning. 
 Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
 In a' its crimson glory spread. 
 And drooping rich the dewy head. 
 
 It scents the early morning. 
 
 Within the bush, her covert nest, 
 A little linnet fondly prest. 
 The dew sat chilly on her breast 
 
 Sae early in the morning. 
 She soon shall see her tender brood. 
 The pride, the pleasure o' tlie wood, 
 Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 
 
 Awake the early moriiing. 
 
 So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair I 
 On trembling string or vocal air, 
 Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
 
 That tends thy early morning. 
 So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
 Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
 And bless the parent's evening ray 
 
 That watch'd thy early morning. 
 
 iSaiinip C'stlj d?nrltii!i. 
 
 Tune — Mo rag. 
 
 Stream-s that glide in orient plains, 
 Never bound by winter's chains; 
 
 Glowing here on golden sands. 
 There commix'd with foulest stains 
 
 From tyranny's empurpled bands; 
 These, their richly gleaming waves, 
 I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
 Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
 
 The banks by Castle-Gordou. 
 
 Spicy forests, ever gay. 
 Shading from the burning ray 
 
 Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
 Or the ruthless native's way, 
 Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; 
 AVoods that ever verdant wave, 
 I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
 Give me the groves that lofty bravo 
 
 The storms by Castle-Gordon. 
 
 Wildly here without control. 
 Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
 
 In that sober pensive mood. 
 Dearest to the feeling soul. 
 
 She plants the forest, pours the flood : 
 life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
 And find at night a sheltering cave. 
 Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
 
 By bonnie Castle-Gordon. 
 
 IVljm Saimar' X^int (sso) 
 
 Tune — The Lass that made the Bed lo Me. 
 
 When Januar' wind was blawing cauld. 
 As to the north I took my way. 
 
 The mirksome night did me enfauld, 
 I knew iia where to lodge till day, 
 
 By my good luck a maid I met. 
 
 Just in the middle o' my care; 
 And kindly she did me invite 
 
 To walk into a chamber fair. 
 
 I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
 And thank'd her for her courtesie, 
 
 I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
 And bade her mak a bed to me. 
 
 She made the bed baith large and ■<!n'i», 
 Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; 
 
 She put the cup to her rosy lips. 
 
 And drank, " Young man, uow sleep ye 
 Boun'." 
 
 She snatch'd the candle in her hand. 
 And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 
 
 But I call'd her quickly back again 
 To lay some mair below my heiuL 
 
flO 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 A cod she laid below my head. 
 And served me wi' due respect ; 
 
 And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
 I put my arms about her neck. 
 
 " Haud aff your bauds, young man," she 
 says, 
 
 " And dinna sae uncivil be : 
 If ye hac ony love for me, 
 
 Oh wrang na my virginitie '." 
 
 Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 
 
 Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
 Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 
 
 The lass that made the bed to me. 
 Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
 
 Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 
 Her limbs the polish'd marble stane. 
 
 The lass that made the bed to me. 
 I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
 
 And aye she wist na what to say ; 
 T laid her 'tween me and the wa'— 
 
 The lassie thought na lang till day. 
 Upon the morrow when we rose, 
 
 I tliaiik'd ht?t for her courtesie ; 
 But aye sh*- olush'd, and aye she sigh'd. 
 
 And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
 I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne. 
 
 While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; 
 I said, " My lassie, dinna cry. 
 
 For ye aye shall mak the bed to me." 
 She took her mither's Holland sheets. 
 
 And made them a' in sarks to me : 
 Blythe and merry may she be. 
 
 The lass that made the bed to me. 
 Tlie bonnie lass made the bed to me. 
 
 The braw lass made the bed to me : 
 I'll ne'er forget till the day I die. 
 
 The lass that made the bed to me ! 
 
 % f^nnng iigljlanJr Unnir. 
 
 Tune— jlfora^. 
 
 Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 
 
 The anaws the mountains cover ; 
 Like winter on me seizes, 
 
 Since my young Highland Rover 
 
 Far wanders nations over. 
 Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 
 
 Jlay Heaven be his warden. 
 Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
 
 And bounie Castle-Gordon ! 
 The trees now naked groaning. 
 
 Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 
 The birdies dowie moaning. 
 
 Shall a' be blythely singing. 
 
 And every f wcr be spri. ^ing. 
 
 Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 
 When by his mighty warden 
 
 My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
 And bonuie Castle-Gordon. 
 
 Snniiic SInit. (331) 
 
 Air — Ye gallants bright. 
 
 Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. 
 
 Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
 Her comely face sae fu' of grace. 
 
 Your heart she will trepan. 
 Her een sae bright, like stars by night. 
 
 Her skin is like the swan ; 
 Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, 
 
 Tliat sweetly ye might span. 
 Youth, grace, and love attendant more. 
 
 And pleasure leads the van : 
 In a' their charms, and conquering arms. 
 
 They wait on bonnie Ann. 
 The captive bands may chain the hands. 
 
 But love enslaves the man; 
 Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 
 
 Beware o' bonuie Ann 1 
 
 Slnnming ItUij. 
 
 Tune — On a Bank of Flowers. 
 
 On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. 
 
 For simimer lightly drest, 
 The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 
 
 With love and sleep opprest ; 
 WTien Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood. 
 
 Who for her favour oft had sued, 
 He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 
 
 And trembled where he stood. 
 
 Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd. 
 
 Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
 Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd. 
 
 It richer dy'd the rose. 
 The springing lilies sweetly prest, 
 
 Wild— wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; 
 He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd- 
 
 His bosom iU at rest. 
 Her robes light waving in the breeze. 
 
 Her tender limbs embrace ; 
 Her lovely form, her native ease. 
 
 All harmony and grace : 
 Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
 
 A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 
 He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blusb'd — 
 
 And sigh'd his very soul. 
 As flies the partridge from the brake. 
 
 On fear-inspired wings. 
 So Nelly starting, half awake. 
 
 Away affrighted springs : 
 
OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 
 
 211 
 
 But 'VVillie follow'd, as he should. 
 He overtook her in the wood ; 
 
 lie vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
 Forgiving all and good. 
 
 HIij %mm 3}!an[. (332) 
 
 Tune — Go fetch to vie a Pint o' Tllne. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 
 
 And fill it in a silvei^assie ; 
 Tliat I may drink, before I go, 
 
 A. service to my bonny lassie : 
 The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry ; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonnie ilary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
 
 Tlie glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar, 
 
 Tlie battle closes thick and bloody ; 
 But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — ■ 
 
 It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 5lnr /nnli Hiss. (333) 
 
 Tune — Rory Ball's Port. 
 
 Ane fond kiss and then we sever; 
 Ane fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
 \Miile the star of hope she leaves him ? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy 
 But to see her was to love her; 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
 Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 
 Never met — or never parted, 
 AVe had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare the weel, thou best and dearest 1 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
 Ane fond kiss, and then we sever; 
 Ane fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wTung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee 1 
 
 ffJfE litttling Spring. 
 
 Tune— The Bonny Bell. 
 
 The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 
 
 And surly winter grimly flies ; 
 Now crystal clear are the falling waters. 
 
 And bonnie blue are the sunny skies. 
 Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
 morning, 
 
 The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
 All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 
 
 And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 
 The flowery spring leads sunny summer. 
 
 And yellow autumn presses near, 
 Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 
 
 Till smiling spring again appear. 
 Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 
 
 Old Time and Nature their changes tell. 
 But never ranging, still unchanging, 
 
 I adore my bonnie Bell. 
 
 Tune — The Lazy Mist. 
 
 The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 
 
 hill, [rill; 
 
 Concealing the course of the dark winding 
 How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, 
 
 appear 1 
 As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
 The forests are leafless, the meadows are 
 
 brown, 
 .^nd all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
 Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
 How quick time is flying, how keen fate 
 
 pursues ! 
 
 How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd 
 
 in vain ! 
 How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 
 What aspects old Time, in his progress, has 
 
 worn ! 
 What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 
 How foolish, or worse, till our summit is 
 
 gain'd 1 
 And downward, how weaken'd, how dark- 
 
 en'd, how pain'd ! [give — 
 
 This life's not worth having with all it can 
 For something beyond it poor man sure 
 
 must live. 
 
 (Df a' ilji! Mitts l\)t Winli m Slam. 
 
 (334) 
 
 Op a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives. 
 
 The lassie I loe best : 
 
212 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 
 
 And Tuony a hill between ; 
 liut day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair : 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air ; 
 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings. 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
 
 Araang the leafy trees, 
 Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 
 
 Bring hame the laden bees ; 
 And bring the lassie back to me 
 
 That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
 Ane smile o' her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae charming is my Jean 1 
 
 What sighs and vows amang the knowes 
 
 Hae passed atween us twa ! 
 How fond to meet, how wae to part. 
 
 That night she gaed awa ! 
 The powers aboon can only ken. 
 
 To whom the heart is seen. 
 That nane can be sae dear to me 
 
 As my sweet lovely Jean .' 
 
 Tune. — 3I>/ Love is lost to me. 
 
 Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
 Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
 That I might catch poetic skill. 
 
 To sing how dear I love thee. 
 But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
 My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
 On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell. 
 
 And write how dear I love thee. 
 
 Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
 For a' the lee-lang snnmer's day 
 I couldna sing, I couldna say. 
 
 How much, how dear, I love thee. 
 I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
 Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. 
 Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 
 
 By heaven and earth I love thee ! 
 
 By night, by day, a-field, at harae. 
 
 The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
 
 And aye I muse and sing thy name — 
 
 I only live to love thee. 
 Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
 .Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
 Till my last weary sand was run ; 
 
 Till then — and tiien I love thee. 
 
 % (Pjjriiallirr's famrnt. (336) 
 
 Tune — Captain O'Kean. 
 
 The small birds rejoice in the gi-een leaves 
 
 returning, [the vale ; 
 
 The murm'ring streamlet winds clear thro' 
 
 The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of 
 
 the morning, [green dale : 
 
 And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the 
 
 But what can give pleasure, or what can 
 
 seem fair, [by care? 
 
 While the lingering moments are numbered 
 
 No flowers gaily springing, nor birds 
 
 sweetly singmg. 
 
 Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 
 
 The deed that I dared, could it merit their 
 malice, 
 A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
 His right are these hills, and his right are 
 these vallies, 
 Where the wild beasts find shelter, but 
 I can find none. [forlorn ; 
 
 But 'tis not my suff'erings thus wretched, 
 My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I 
 mourn ! [trial — 
 
 Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody 
 Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 
 
 3IIij jBrart'fl in tljE SJigjjIaiitis. 
 
 Tune — Failte na Miosg. 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 
 not here, [deer ; 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands achasing the 
 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
 roe — 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
 North, [worth ; 
 
 The birth-place of valour, the country of 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 
 
 Farewell to the mountains high covered 
 with snow ; [below : 
 
 Farewell to the straths and green vallies 
 
 Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 
 woods ; [floods. 
 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart ia 
 not here, [deer : 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 
 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
 roe — 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 
Ai'hLD JjANCt SYa;; 
 
on, WILLIE BREWD. 
 
 213 
 
 ^nlin ^In&rrsnn. 
 
 Tune — John Anderson my jo. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 When we first acqiient. 
 Your locks were like the raven. 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent; 
 But now your brow is bald, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessincfs on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither. 
 And n\ony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' aiie anither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in liand we'll go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 f n Hlarij in Srnnrn. (337) 
 
 I Tune — Death of Captain Cook. 
 
 Tnou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray. 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
 Again thou ushcr'st in the day 
 My Jlary from my soul was torn. 
 On Mary ! dear departed shade I 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Ste'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 I Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
 breast ? 
 That sacred hour can I forget. 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 WHiere by the winding Ajt we met. 
 
 To live one day of parting love 1 
 Eternity will not eflface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past; 
 Thy image at our last embrace. 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning 
 green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Tnin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene ; 
 Tlie flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest. 
 The birds sang love on every spray- 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 I Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 I Time but th' impression stronger makes. 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade 1 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 
 Hear'st thou the fproans that rend his 
 1 . breast ? 
 
 f nnng Snrkru. 
 
 Tune — Yonwj Jockey. 
 
 Young Jockey was the blythest lad 
 
 In a' our town or here awa : 
 Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, 
 
 Fu' lightly danced he in the ha', 
 lie roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, 
 
 lie roosed my waist sae genty sma', 
 And aye my heart came to my raou' 
 
 A\'hen ne'er a body heard or saw. 
 My Jockey toils upon the plain, 
 
 Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and sna\f 
 And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, 
 
 When Jockey's owsen hameward ca' 
 And aye the night comes round again, 
 
 When in his arms he takes me a'. 
 And aye he vows he'll be my ain. 
 
 As Ling's he has a breath to draw. 
 
 CljE Dati Uttiirns. (338) 
 
 TuNK — Seventh of November. 
 
 The day returns, my bosom burns, 
 
 The blissful day we twa did meet, 
 Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 
 
 Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
 Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 
 
 And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
 Tlian kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 
 
 Heav'n gave me more — it made thpe mine 
 
 A^Hiile day and night can bring delight. 
 
 Or nature aught of pleasure give, 
 While joys above my mind can move. 
 
 For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
 When that grim foe of life below 
 
 Comes in between to make us part. 
 The iron hand that breaks our band. 
 
 It breaks my bliss — it breaks mv heart I 
 
 (JMj. WMi %xm% (339) 
 
 Tune. — U^illie hrew'd a Peck o' Mult. 
 
 On, Willie hrew'd a peck o' maut. 
 
 And Rob and Allan cam to pree : 
 Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. 
 Ye wad na find in Christcndie. 
 
 We are nae fou', we're no that fou'. 
 
 But just a drappie in our ce ; 
 Tlie cock may craw, the day may daw, 
 And aye we'll taste the barley bre«. 
 
 Here are we met, three merry boys. 
 Three merry boys, I trow, are we; 
 
 And mony a night we've merry becu. 
 And mony mae we hope to be 1 
 
l\\ 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
 
 That's bliiikin' m the Hft sae hie ; 
 She shines sae brig^ht to wile us harrfe, 
 
 But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
 Wlia first shall rise to gang awa', 
 
 A cuckold, coward loon is he I 
 Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 
 
 He is the kina; amang us three ! 
 
 S gapjt a IVarfii' Mt ft^Amn. (340) 
 
 Tune — The Blue-eyed Lass. 
 I GAED a waefn' gate yestreen, 
 
 A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
 I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
 
 Twa lovely eeu o' bonnie blue. 
 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 
 
 Her lips like roses wet wi' dew. 
 Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 
 
 It was her een sae bonnie blue. 
 k:he talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd ; 
 
 She charm'd my soul — I wist na how ; 
 And aye the stound, the deadly wound. 
 
 Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
 Eut spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 
 
 She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
 Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 
 
 To her twa een sae bonnie blue 
 
 (fljc SSanks nf llitl;. 
 
 Tune — Eobie donna Gorach. 
 The Tliames flows proudly to the sea, 
 
 Where royal cities stately stand ; 
 But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 
 
 AMiere Cummins ance had high command ; 
 When shall I see that honour'd land. 
 
 That windnig stream I love so dear ! 
 Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 
 
 For ever, ever keep me here '? 
 How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 
 
 Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! 
 How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 
 
 Where lambkins, wanton thro' the broom ! 
 Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 
 
 Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
 May there my latest hours consume, 
 
 Amang the friends of early days ! 
 
 Bif Ijrart is a-lirraking, Btar liitVit ! 
 
 Tune— Tam Glen. 
 My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie! 
 
 Some counsel unto me come len'. 
 To anger them a' is the pity. 
 
 But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? . 
 
 I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow 
 In poortith I might make a fen'; 
 
 What care I in riches to wallow. 
 If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 
 
 Tliere's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller, 
 " Guid day to you, brute !" he comes ben; 
 
 He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
 
 But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 
 
 My minnie does constantly deave me. 
 And bids me beware o' young men; 
 
 They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
 But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 
 
 My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
 He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten; 
 
 But if it's ordain'd I maun take him. 
 Oh wha will I get but Tam Glen? 
 
 Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 
 My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; 
 
 For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
 And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 
 
 Tlie last Halloween I was waukin 
 My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 
 
 His likeness cam up the house staukin. 
 And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! 
 
 Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 
 I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
 
 Gif ye will advise me to marry 
 The lad I loe dearly, Tam Glen 
 
 1[\}m'li nrnrr bt '^.IrarF. 
 
 Tune — There are few guid fellows when 
 Willie's awa. 
 
 By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
 I heard a man snig, though his head it was 
 
 grey ; 
 And as he was singing, the tears down came, 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
 The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 
 Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
 We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's 
 
 to blame. 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
 
 JTy seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
 And now I greet round their green beds in 
 
 the yerd. [dame- 
 
 It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
 Now life is a burthen that bows me down. 
 Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
 But till my last moments my words are the 
 
 same — 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hamel 
 
WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 
 
 2!5 
 
 Bfiklr iljiiiks ini] ICnnp. 
 
 Tune — My Tocher's the Jewel. 
 
 Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 
 
 And meikle thinks my lave o' my kiu ; 
 But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 
 
 My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
 It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 
 
 It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
 My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 
 
 He canna hae luve to spare for me. 
 
 Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny, 
 
 My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
 But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 
 
 Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
 Y'e're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
 
 Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
 Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 
 
 And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 
 
 Mnm ran S hi %h\\\}t anti Qkl. 
 
 Tune — The bunnie Lad that's far awa. 
 
 On how can I be blythe and glad. 
 
 Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 
 When the bonnie lad that I loe best 
 Is owre the hills and far awa ? 
 
 Wlien tiie bonnie lad that I loe best 
 Is owre the hills and far awa ? 
 
 It's no the frosty winter wind. 
 
 It's no the driving drift and snaw; 
 But aye the tear comes in my ee, 
 To think en him that's far awa. 
 But aye the tear conies in my ee. 
 To tliiiik oil him that's far awa. 
 
 My father pat me frae his door. 
 
 My friends they hae disown'd me a'. 
 But I hae ane will tak my part, 
 Tiie bonnie lad tliat's far awa. 
 But I hae ane will tak my part, 
 The bonnie laJ that's far awa. 
 
 A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 
 
 And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 
 And I will wear them for his sake, 
 The bonnie lad that's far awa. 
 
 And I will wear them for his sake, 
 The bunnie lad that's far awa. 
 
 ^ in ranfcsj tljnii art sac /air. (34i) 
 
 I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
 I wad been owre the lugs in love. 
 
 Had I na found the slightest prayer 
 
 That lips could speak thy heart could move. 
 
 I do confess thee sweet, but tiiid 
 
 Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 
 Thy favours are the silly wind. 
 
 That kisses ilka thing it meets. 
 See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 
 
 Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
 How sune it tines its scent and hue 
 
 When pou'd and worn a common toy t 
 Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 
 
 Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ! 
 Y'"et sune thou shalt be thrown aside 
 
 Like ony common weed and vile. 
 
 23iinting lang. 
 
 Tune — I red you beware at the hunting. 
 
 The heather was blooming, the meadowi 
 
 were mawn. 
 
 Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the dawn. 
 
 Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a 
 
 glen, [lien. 
 
 At length they discover'd a bonnie moor- 
 
 I red you beware at the hunting, young 
 
 men ; [men ; 
 
 I red you beware at the hunting young 
 
 Tak some on the wing, and some as they 
 
 spring, 
 But canndy steal on a bonnie moorhen. 
 Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
 ther bells. 
 Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
 Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the 
 
 spring, 
 And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
 
 I red you beware, &c. 
 Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the 
 
 hill, 
 In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
 He levell'd his rays wliere she bask'd on the 
 
 brae — 
 His rays were outshone, and but mark'd 
 where she lay. 
 I red you beware, &c. 
 They hunted the valley, they 'luntcd the hill ; 
 The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
 But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
 Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
 I red you beware, &c. 
 
 WUi ran a '^^niing ICassir. 
 
 Tune — ir/iat can a young lassie do wP an 
 auld man. 
 
 What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
 
 lassie, [man ? 
 
 What can a voung lassie do wi' an aulJ 
 
 20 
 
2iri 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Bad luck on the penny that tempted my 
 
 miuuie 
 
 To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' 1 
 
 Bad luck on the penny that tempted my 
 
 miniiie [lau' ! 
 
 , To sell her poor Jenny for siller and 
 
 He's always compleenin' frae mornin to 
 
 e'eniii', [lang ; 
 
 He hoasts and he hirples the weary day 
 
 He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is 
 
 frozen, [man 1 
 
 Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld 
 
 He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it 
 
 is frozen, 
 
 Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld 
 
 man ! 
 
 lie hums and he hankers, he frets and he 
 cankers, 
 I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
 He's peevish and jealous of a the young 
 fellows : 
 Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an old man ; 
 He's peevish and jealous of a' the young 
 fellows : 
 Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an 
 auld man ! 
 
 My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
 I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
 I'll cross h'm, and wrack him, until I heart- 
 break him, 
 And then his auld brass will buy me a 
 new pan. 
 I'll cross him, and wrack him, \intil I 
 heart-break him, 
 And then his auld brass will buy me 
 a new pan. 
 
 QJIjr Snitnie Wit filing. 
 
 Tune — Bonnie wee thing. 
 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
 
 Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
 I wad w ear thee in ray bosom, 
 
 Lest ray jewel I should tine. 
 Wishfully 1 look and languish, 
 
 In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
 And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 
 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
 
 Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 
 
 In ane constellation shine ; 
 To adore thee is my duty, 
 
 Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
 
 Lovely wee thnig, wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
 
 Lest my jewel 1 should tine 1 
 
 fDnrli; l^anirs. 
 
 Tune — Miss Muir. 
 
 now shall T, unskilfu', try 
 The poet's occupation. 
 
 The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 
 
 1'hat whispers inspiration? 
 Even they mauu dare an effort mair 
 
 Than aught they ever gave us. 
 Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 
 
 The charms o' lovely Havies. 
 
 Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 
 
 Like Phoebus in the morning. 
 When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 
 
 The garden is adorning. 
 As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 
 
 When winter-bound the wave is ; 
 Sae droops our heart when we maun part 
 
 Frae charming lovely Davies. 
 
 Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 
 
 That maks us mair than princes ; 
 A scepter'd hand, a king's command. 
 
 Is in her darting glances ; 
 The man in arms, 'gainst female charms. 
 
 Even he her willing slave is ; 
 He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 
 
 Of conquering, lovely Davies. 
 
 My muse to dream of such a theme. 
 Her feeble powers surrender ; 
 
 The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
 The sun's meridian splendour : 
 
 1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
 The deed too daring brave is ; 
 
 I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
 The charms o' lovely Davies. 
 
 (DIj, fnr anr-aiii-trarntij, ^m. 
 
 Tune — The Moudiewort. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 And oh, for ane-and-twenty. Tarn, 
 And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, 
 
 I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang 
 An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
 They snool me sair, and baud me down. 
 
 And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 
 But three short years will soon wheel roun*— 
 
 And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
 A gleib o' lau', a claut o' gear. 
 
 Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
 At kitli or kin I need na spier, 
 
 An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
 They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
 
 Tlio' I raysel' hae plenty, Tam; 
 Bat hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof— 
 
 I'm tliine at aue-and-tweiity, Tam. 
 
IN snrjrER, when the hay was mawn. 
 
 217 
 
 l^riiiiiiirr'5 nn anii '^ma. (3^2) 
 
 TuN'E — O/i Kenmure's on and awa, Willie. 
 On Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! 
 
 Oh Kenmure's on and awa! 
 And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 
 
 Tliat ever Galloway saw. 
 
 Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 
 
 Success to Kenmure's band ; 
 There's ua a heart that fears a Whij, 
 
 That rides by Kenmure's hand. 
 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 
 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; [blude. 
 There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 
 
 Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 
 
 Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie I 
 
 Oh Kenmure's lads are men ; 
 Their hearts and swords are metal true — 
 
 And that their faes shall ken. 
 
 Tliey'U live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 
 
 They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
 But soon, wi' sounding victorie. 
 
 May Kenmure's lord come hame. 
 
 Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 
 
 Here's him that's far awa ! 
 And here's the flower that I love best — 
 
 The ro«e that's like the snaw ! 
 
 ©rns ani jirr Spinning IDIjrrl, 
 
 Tune — The sweel lass that toes me. 
 
 On leeze me on my spinning-wheel. 
 Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
 Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
 And haps me fiel and warm at e'en I 
 I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
 AVTiile laigh descends the simmer sun. 
 Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
 Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 
 On ilka hand the burnies trot. 
 And meet below my theckit cot; 
 The scented birk and hawthorn white. 
 Across the pool their arms unite, 
 Ahke to screen the birdies nest, 
 And little fishes' caller rest : 
 The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. 
 Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. 
 On lofty aiks the cushats wail. 
 And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
 The lintwbites in the hazel braes. 
 Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
 The craik amang the clover hay. 
 The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. 
 The swallow jinkin' round my shiel. 
 Amuse mo at my spinning-wheeL 
 
 ^Vi' sma' to sell, and less to bny, 
 Aboon distress, below envy, 
 Oh wha wad leave this humble state. 
 For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
 Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
 Amid their cumbrous, dinsonie joys. 
 Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
 Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel? 
 
 (C»!j turn mill f^riitiirs in. 
 
 Tune — The Posie. 
 
 On hive will venture in where it dauma well 
 
 be seen ; [has been ; 
 
 Oh luve will venture in where wisdom ance 
 
 But I will down yon river rove, among the 
 
 wood sae green — 
 
 And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 
 
 year, [dear. 
 
 And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 
 
 For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 
 
 without a peer — 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
 
 in view, [mou' ; 
 
 For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 
 
 The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its un 
 
 changing blue — 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jlay 
 
 Tlie lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
 
 And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily 
 
 there ; [air — 
 
 The daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The hawthorn I will pu' «i' its locks o' sillei 
 
 gn-ey. [day. 
 
 "VVliere, like an aged man, it stands at break of 
 
 But the songster's nest within the bush I 
 
 winna tak away — • 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 in i'mwm, mljrii Hji Eiij mas Jtlainii. 
 
 Tune — The Country Lass. 
 
 In simmer, when the hay was mawn. 
 
 And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
 While claver blooms white o'er the lea. 
 
 And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
 Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. 
 
 Says—" I'll be wed, come o't what wilL" 
 Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 
 
 " O' guid advisement comes nae ilL 
 
218 
 
 BURNVS POETICAL WORKS 
 
 It's ye liae wooers moiiy ane. 
 
 Ami, lassie, ye're but young, ye keu; 
 Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 
 
 A routliie butt, a routhie ben : 
 There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
 
 Fu' is liis barn/fu' is his byre ; 
 Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 
 
 It's plenty feeds the luver's tire." 
 
 "For Johnnie o* the Bnskie-glen, 
 
 I dinna care a single flie ; 
 He loes sae weel his craps and kye. 
 
 He has nae luve to spare for me : 
 But blythe's the blink o' Robie's ee. 
 
 And, weel I wat, lie loes me dear : 
 Ane blink o' him 1 wad na gie 
 
 For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 
 
 "Oh tlioughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 
 
 The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
 But aye fou han't is fechtin best. 
 
 And hungry care's an unco care : 
 But some wdl spend, and some will spare. 
 
 And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
 Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 
 
 Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 
 
 "Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 
 
 And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
 But the tender heart o' leesome luve 
 
 The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
 We may be poor — Robie and I, 
 
 Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
 Content and luve brings peace and joy — 
 
 What mair hae queens upon a throne?" 
 
 Jfiirii again Hjnii /air llija. (343) 
 
 Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 
 
 Ane kind blink before we part, 
 Bue on thy despairing lover ! 
 
 Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
 Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 
 
 If to love thy heart denies. 
 For pity hide the cruel sentence 
 
 Under friendship's kind disguise ! 
 
 Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 
 
 The offence is loving thee : 
 Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 
 
 Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
 "While the life beats in my bosom, 
 
 Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
 Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 
 
 Ane sweet smile on me bestow. 
 
 Not the bee upon the blossom. 
 In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
 
 Not the little sporting fairy. 
 All beneath the simmer moon ; 
 
 isot the poet in the moment 
 Fancy lightens on his ee. 
 
 Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 
 That thy presence gies to me. 
 
 imiii i^asilr. (344) 
 
 Tune— r/ie Eii)ht Men ofMoidart. 
 
 Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
 
 The spot they called it Linkum-doddie: 
 Willie was a wabster guid, 
 
 Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie. 
 He had a wife was dour and din, 
 
 Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither. 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 
 I wad na gie a button for her. 
 She has an ee — she has but ane, 
 
 The cat has twa the very colour : 
 Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
 • A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
 A whiskin' beard about her mou'. 
 
 Her nose and cliin they threaten ither.- 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 
 I wad na gie a button for her. 
 She's bongh-hough'd, she's hein-shinu'd, 
 
 Ane limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter ; 
 She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
 
 To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
 She has a hump upon her breast. 
 
 The twin o' that upon her shouther. 
 Sic a wife as W^illie had, 
 
 I wad na gie a button for her, 
 Anld baudrons by the ingle sits. 
 
 And wi' her loof her face a-washiu' ; 
 But 'Tillie's wife is nae sae trig. 
 
 She dights her grunzie wi' a hushiou ; 
 Her Malie nieves like midden-creels. 
 
 Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water. 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 
 I waJ na gie a button for her. 
 
 ' lurl; a parrrl nf IRngurs in a Jlatiaii. 
 
 Tune — A parcel ofrorjues in a nation. 
 Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 
 
 Fareweel our ancient glory, 
 Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 
 
 Sae fam'd in martial story. 
 Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands. 
 
 And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
 To mark where England's province stands:-* 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 
 What force or guile could not subdue, 
 
 Thro' many warlike ages. 
 Is wrought now by a coward few. 
 
 For hireling traitors' wages. 
 
LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 
 
 219 
 
 Tlie Ensrlisli s;teel we coiild disdain, 
 
 Secure in valour's station ; 
 But English gold has been our bane:— 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! 
 Oh would I had not seen the day 
 
 That treason thus could fell us. 
 My auld grey head had lien in clay, 
 
 Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
 But pith and power, till my last hour, 
 
 I'll niak tnis declaration ; 
 We're buught and sold for English gold: — 
 
 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 
 
 #Dng Ef iDratl;. (345) 
 
 Tune — Oran an Diog. 
 
 Scene — A tield of battle. — Time of the day, 
 evenins?. — The wounded and dying of the 
 victorious army are supposed to join In 
 the foUowingf song : — 
 
 Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
 and ye skies. 
 Now g;iy with the bright setting sun ; 
 Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
 ties — 
 Our race of existence is run ! 
 
 Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
 foe! 
 GO; frighten the coward and slave ; 
 Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
 know, 
 No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 
 
 Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in 
 the dark. 
 Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
 Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious 
 mark ! 
 He falfs in the blaze of his fame ! 
 
 In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
 our hands. 
 Our king and our country to save — 
 While victory shines on life's last ebbing 
 sands. 
 Oh ! who would not die with the brave ! 
 
 Hjp*5 /air anil fusv. 
 
 Tune — She's fair and fuuse. 
 
 She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 
 
 I loed her meikle and lang ; 
 She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart. 
 
 And I may e'en gae hang. 
 A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
 
 And ( iiae tnit my dearest dear; 
 But womai^ is but warld'a gear, 
 
 Sac let the bouuie lassie gang. 
 
 20 
 
 Whae'er ye be that woman love. 
 
 To this be never blind, 
 Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 
 
 A woman has't by kind. 
 
 Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! 
 
 Ati angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
 'Twad been owre meikle to gien tliee mair — 
 
 I mean an angel mind. 
 
 /Inra im\\\% $mni Mhw. (346) 
 
 Tune — The yellow-haired Laddie. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
 
 braes, 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
 ]\Iy Jlary's asleep by thy murmurnig stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
 
 dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro* 
 the glen, [den, 
 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 
 
 Thou green-ciested lapwing thy screaming 
 forbear, 
 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering f;\ir. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 
 liills, [rills ; 
 
 Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green vallies 
 below ; [blow; 
 
 Wliere wild in the woodlands the primroses 
 There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my I\Iary 
 and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, howlovely it glides. 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary residt-s; 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
 As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy 
 clear wave. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among tliy green 
 braes, [lays ; 
 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of iny 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
 dream. 
 
 QijIE f nnrlii f ass nf Snncrnrss. 
 
 Tune — Lass of Inverness. 
 
 The lovely lass o' Inverness, 
 
 Nae joy nor pleasure can she see* 
 
 For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 
 And aye the sant tear blui's her ee ■ 
 
220 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Dnimossle moor — Drumossie day — 
 
 A wacfu' clay it was to me ! 
 For there 1 lost my father dear. 
 
 My father dear, and brethren three. 
 
 Their \*'inding sheet the bhiidy clay. 
 
 Their graves are growing green to see : 
 And by them lies the dearest lad 
 
 That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
 Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 
 
 A blnidy man I trow thou be ; 
 Fjr mony a heart thou hast made sair. 
 
 That ne'er did wrong to thhie or thee. 
 
 51 rrii, rri t\m. (347) 
 
 Tune — Graham's Strathspey. 
 
 On, my hive's like a red, red rose 
 
 That's newly sprung in June : 
 Oh, my hive's like the melodic. 
 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 
 
 So deep in luve am I : 
 And I will luve thee still, my dear. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 
 I will luve- thee still, my dear, 
 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 
 
 And fare thee weel a while ! 
 And I will come again my luve, 
 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 f niiis raljat rrrk S hi; iljw. 
 
 Tune — Louis, what reck I by thee. 
 
 Louis, what reck I by thee. 
 Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
 
 Dyvor, beggar louns to me — 
 I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 
 
 Let her crown my love her law. 
 And in her breast enthrone me: 
 
 Kings and nations — swith, awa ! 
 Reif randies, I disown ye ! 
 
 ®lji i.Tri5niiaii. (348) 
 
 Tune — The deil cam fiddling through 
 the town. 
 
 The deil cam fiddling through the town, 
 A nd danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 
 
 And ilka wife cries — " Aidd Mahoun, 
 I wish you luck o' the prize man 1" 
 
 The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 
 
 The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
 
 He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa. 
 He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman ! 
 
 We'll niak our maut, we'll brew our drink. 
 AA'e'U dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
 And mony braw thanks to the nieikle black 
 deil 
 That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 
 The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 
 
 The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
 He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 
 He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 
 
 There's threesome reels, there's foursome 
 reels. 
 There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
 But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land 
 Was — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
 The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 
 
 The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
 He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa. 
 He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 
 
 Ininrlinlii! ! 
 
 Tune — For the sake of somehody. 
 
 My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
 My heart is sair for somebody; 
 I could wake a winter night 
 For the sake of somebody. 
 Oh-ho, for somebody 1 
 Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
 I could range the world around. 
 For the sake o' somebody ! 
 
 Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 
 
 Oh, sweetly smile on somebody I 
 Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
 And send me safe my somebody. 
 Oh-ho, for somebody 1 
 Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
 I wad do — what wad I not ! 
 For the sake o' somebody ! 
 
 S'll ai|i! la'in lii] ijnii 'Hmu. 
 
 Tune — I'll gae nae mair to yon town. 
 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 
 
 And by yon garden green, again ; 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 
 
 And see my bonnie Jean again. 
 There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess. 
 
 What brings me back the gate again. 
 But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. 
 
 And stownliiis we sail meet again; 
 
COULD OUGHT OF SONG. 
 
 221 
 
 She'll wanilir by the tiikcn tree, 
 
 AVhen trystin-tiiiie draws near again; 
 And when her lovely form I see, 
 
 Oh haith, she's doubly dear again ! 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 
 
 And by yon garden green, agaia; 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 
 
 And see my bonnie Jean again. 
 
 Wdt lljnti lip mij DrarJE? (349) 
 
 Air — The Sutor's Dochter. 
 
 Wilt thou be my dearie ? 
 
 When sorrow wrings thy geiitle heart. 
 
 Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 
 
 By the treasure of my soul. 
 
 That's the love I bear thee ! 
 
 I swear and vow that only thou 
 
 Shall ever be my dearie. 
 
 Only thou, I swear and vow. 
 
 Shall ever be my dearie. 
 
 Lassie, say thou Iocs me ; 
 Or if thou wilt nae be my ain. 
 Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
 If it winna, canna be. 
 Thou, for thine may choose me. 
 Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
 Trusting that thou loes me. 
 Lassie, let me quickly die. 
 Trusting that thou loes me. 
 
 ^, Wnt ijF tV^a's in i;nn Otnmn. (350) 
 
 Tune — I'll gae nae mair to yon town. 
 
 On, wat ye wha's in yon town. 
 
 Ye see the e'enin' sun upon P 
 The fairest dame's in yon town, 
 
 The e'enin' sun is shining on. 
 
 Now haply down you gay green shaw, 
 She wanders by you spreading tree ; 
 
 IIow blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw. 
 Ye catch the glances o' her ee ! 
 
 How blest ye birds that round her sing. 
 And welcome in the blooming year ! 
 
 And doubly welcome be the sjiring. 
 The season to my Lucy dear. 
 
 The sun blinks blythe on yon town. 
 And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 
 
 But my delight in yon town. 
 And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 
 
 Without my love, not a' the charms 
 O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 
 
 But gie me Lucy ni my arms. 
 
 And welcome Lapland's dreary sky ! 
 
 Jly cave wad be a lover's bower, 
 Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 
 
 And she a lovely little flower. 
 That I wad teut and shelter there. 
 
 Oh sweet is she in yon town. 
 
 Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon; 
 
 A fairer than's in yon town 
 
 His setting beam ne'ei^ shone upoii. 
 
 If angry fate is sworn my foe. 
 
 And suflering I am doom'd to bear ; 
 
 I careless quit ought else below, 
 
 But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear I 
 
 For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
 Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 
 
 And she — as fairest is her form ! 
 She has the truest, kindest heart I 
 
 Snt Jatrlii ' mn. 
 
 Tune— r/ie Winter of Life. 
 
 But lately seen in gladsome green. 
 
 The woods rejoiced the day ; 
 Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers, 
 
 In double pride were gay ; 
 But now our joys are fled 
 
 On winter blasts awa 1 
 Yet maiden May, in rich array. 
 
 Again shall bring them a'. 
 
 But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 
 
 Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
 My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 
 
 Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
 Oh ! age has weary days. 
 
 And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
 Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 
 
 AVhy comes thou not again ? 
 
 Cnnlil nugbt nf f nitg. 
 
 Tune — Could ought of song. 
 
 Could ought of song declare my pains, 
 
 Could artful numbers move thee, 
 The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 
 
 Oh Mary, how I love thee I 
 They who but feign a wounded heart 
 
 May teach the lyre to languish; 
 But wiiat avails the pride of art. 
 
 When wastes the soul with angu'tjh? 
 
 Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
 The heart-felt pang discover ; 
 
 And in the keen, yet tender eye. 
 Oh read th' imploring lover I 
 
222 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 For well I know thy gentle mind 
 Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
 
 Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 
 The voice of nature prizing. 
 
 <^l), Itm lirr ^. 
 
 Tune — Oh steer her up, and hand her gaun. 
 
 Oh steer her up and hand her gaun — 
 
 Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
 And gif she winna take a man, 
 
 E'en let her take her will, jo; 
 First shore her wi' a kindly kiss. 
 
 And ca' another gill, jo. 
 And gif she take the thing amiss, 
 
 E'ven let her flyte her till, jo. 
 
 Oh steer her up, and be na blatc. 
 
 And gif she take it ill, jo. 
 Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 
 
 And time nae langer spill, jo : 
 Ne'er break your heart for ane rebate, 
 
 But think upon it still, jo ; 
 Then gif the lassie winna do't, 
 
 Ye'U find anither will, jo. 
 
 St mas a' far mir fxigljtfii' Uling. (35i) 
 
 Tune — It was a' for our rightfu' king. 
 
 It was a' for our rightfu' king 
 We left fair Scotland's strand; 
 
 It was a' for our rightfu' king 
 We e'er saw Irish land. 
 
 My dear ; 
 We e'er saw Irish land. 
 
 Now a' is done that men can do, 
 
 And a' is done in vain ; 
 My love and native land farewell. 
 
 For I maun cross the main. 
 My dear ; 
 
 For I maun cross the main. 
 
 He turned him right, and round about 
 
 Upon the Irish shore ; 
 And gie his bridle-reins a shake. 
 
 With adieu forevermore. 
 My dear ; 
 
 With adieu for evermore. 
 
 Tlie sodger from the wars returns. 
 
 The sador frae the main ; 
 But I hae parted frae my loTCv 
 
 Never to meet again. 
 My dear ; 
 
 Never to meet again. 
 
 When day is gane. and night is come, 
 And a' folk bound to sleep ; 
 
 I think on him that's far awa'. 
 The lee-lang night and weep. 
 
 My dear ; 
 The lee-lang night and weep. 
 
 (Djj iBIja is ^lii; tljat f nss ra?. 
 
 Tune — Morag. 
 
 Oil wha is she that loes me. 
 
 And has my heart a-keeping? 
 Oh sweet is she that loes me, 
 As dewsio' simmer weeping. 
 In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
 Oh that's the lassie o' my heart 
 
 !My lassie ever dearer ; 
 Oh that's the queen o' womankind. 
 And ne'er a ane to peer her. 
 
 If thou shalt meet a lassie 
 
 In grace and beauty charming. 
 
 That e'en thy chosen lassie, 
 
 Erewhile thy breast sae wanning. 
 Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
 
 If thou hadst heard her talking. 
 And thy attentions plighted. 
 
 That ilka body talking, 
 
 But her by thee is slighted. 
 And thou art all delighted. 
 
 If thou hast met this fair one ; 
 
 When frae her thou hast parted. 
 If every other fair one. 
 
 But her, thou hast (leserted. 
 And thou art broken-hearted ; 
 Oh that's the lassie o' my heart. 
 
 My lassie ever dearer ; 
 Oh that's the queen o' womankind, 
 And ne'er a ane to peer her. 
 
 Calriinnla. 
 
 Tone — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 
 
 There was once a day — but old Time then 
 was young — [line, 
 
 That brave Caledonia, the chief of her 
 From some of your northern deities sprun.,', 
 (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's 
 divine ?) 
 From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 
 To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
 would : 
 Her heav'nly relations there fixed her 
 reign. 
 And pledg'd lier their godheads to war- 
 rant it good. 
 
GLOOMY DECESIBER. 
 
 223 
 
 A lamlikin in peace, but a lion in war, 
 The iiridc of her kindred the heroine 
 grew : 
 Her grandsire old Odin, triumphantly swore 
 " Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' en- 
 counter shall rue ! " [sport, 
 With tillage or pasture at times she would 
 To feed her fair flocks by her green 
 rustling corn ; [resort, 
 Dut chiefly the woods were her fav'rite 
 resort, [the horn. 
 Her darling amusement the hounds and 
 
 Long quiet she reigu'd; till thitherward 
 
 steers 
 
 A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
 
 Eepeated, successive, for many long years, 
 
 They darken'd the air, and they pluuder'd 
 
 the land ; [cry. 
 
 Their pounces were murder, and terror their 
 
 They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
 
 She took to her hills, and her arrows let 
 
 fly— [died. 
 
 The daring invaders they fled or they 
 
 The fell harpy-raven took wing from the 
 north, [the shore ; 
 
 The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
 The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
 To wanton in carnage, and wallow in 
 gore : [prevail'd. 
 
 O'er countries and kingdoms their fury 
 No arts could appease them, no arms 
 could repel ; 
 But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed. 
 As Largs well can witness and Loncartie 
 tell. 
 
 The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 
 With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and 
 strife ; 
 Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 
 And robb'd him at once of his hopes and 
 his life : 
 The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 
 Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's 
 silver flood : 
 But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 
 He learned to fear in his own native wood. 
 
 Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and 
 free, [run : 
 
 Her bright course of glory for ever shall 
 For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 
 I'll prove it from Euclid as dear as the 
 sun : 
 Eectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose. 
 The upright is Chance, and old Time is 
 the base ; 
 But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; 
 Then ergo, she'll match them, and match 
 them always. 
 
 ^, lai) tljii ICnnf in Mm, Tass 
 
 Tune — Cordwainer's March. 
 
 On lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
 In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
 And swear on thy white hand, lasi^ 
 That thou wilt be my ain. 
 
 A slave to love's unbounded sway. 
 He aft h.is wrought me meikle wae; 
 But now he is my deadly fae. 
 Unless thou be my ain. 
 
 There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
 That for a bhnk I hae lo'ed best ; 
 But thou art queen within my breast. 
 For ever to remain. 
 
 Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
 In mine, lass, in mine, lass : 
 And swear on thy white hand, la?s. 
 That thou wUt be my ain. 
 
 5lnna, ilji] Cljarms. 
 
 Tune — Bonnie Mary. 
 
 Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 
 
 And waste my soul with care ; 
 But, ah ! how bootless to admire. 
 
 When fated to despair ! 
 Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 
 
 To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
 For sure 'twere impious to despair. 
 
 So much in sight of Heav'a, 
 
 §km\\ irrrinliEr. 
 
 Tune — Wandering Willie. 
 
 Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decern 
 her ! 
 Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
 Sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
 member. 
 Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
 Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful plea- 
 sure, [hour ; 
 Hope beaming mild on the soft ])artiiig 
 But tlie dire feeling, oh farewell for ever, 
 Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 
 
 Wild as the wnter now tearing the forest, 
 Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
 
 Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 
 Since my last hope and last comfort is 
 gone. 
 
224 
 
 Still as I hail thee, tliou g:loomy December, 
 Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
 
 For sad was the parting thou uiakest me re- 
 member, 
 Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKis. 
 
 (!!)l) aiallifs rarrk, Blallifs srarrt. 
 
 On Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 
 
 Mally's modest and discreet, 
 Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 
 
 Jlally's every way complete. 
 
 As I was walking up the street, 
 A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; 
 
 But oh the road was very hard 
 For that fair maiden's tender feet. 
 
 It were mair meet that those fine feet 
 Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon. 
 
 And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
 Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 
 
 Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 
 
 Comes triiikling down her swan-white neck; 
 
 And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 
 Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 
 
 fosillis' 5Bank3. 
 
 Now bank and brae are claith'd in green, 
 
 And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; 
 By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 
 
 The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
 To Cassillis' banks when e'enhig fa's, 
 
 There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
 There catch her ilka glance of love. 
 
 The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee I 
 Tlie child wha boasts o' warld's wealth 
 
 Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
 But Mary she is a' my ain — 
 
 Ah ! fortune cannie gie me mair. 
 Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 
 
 Wi' her, the lassie dear to me. 
 And catch her ilka glance o' love. 
 
 The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 
 
 BItj f aiii's §mn, lljrrf's Mb npn't. 
 
 Tune — Gregg's Pipes. 
 
 My Lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. 
 And gowden flo^^■ers sae rare upon't; 
 But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. 
 My lord thinks mickle mair upon't. 
 
 ]\Iy lord a-hunting he is gane. 
 
 But hounds or hawks wi' him are naue j 
 
 By Cohn's cottage hes his game. 
 
 If Coliu's Jenny be at hame. 
 
 My lady's white, my lady's red. 
 And kith and kin o' Cassillis' bluid ; 
 But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
 Were a' the charms his lordship loed. 
 
 Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss, 
 Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass. 
 There wons anld Colin's bonnie lass, 
 A lily in a wilderness. 
 
 Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs, 
 Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
 The diamond dew is her een sae blue. 
 Where laughing love sae wanton swims, 
 
 ]My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
 The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
 But the lassie that a man loes best. 
 Oh that's the lass to make him blest. 
 
 ^\}i ^t\t (JJlj^inptrp. (352) 
 
 Tune — Killkrankie. 
 
 On wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 
 
 To do our errands there, man ? 
 Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's hous(^ 
 
 O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
 Or will we send a man-o'-law ? 
 
 Or will we send a sodger ? 
 Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 
 
 The meikle Ursa-Major ? 
 
 Come, will ye court a noble lord. 
 
 Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
 For worth and honour pawn their word, 
 
 Thdir vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
 Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 
 
 Anither gies them clatter ; 
 Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste. 
 
 He gies a Fete Champetre. 
 
 ■Wlien Love and Beauty heard the news. 
 
 The gay green-woods amang, man ; 
 Where,gathering flowers and busking bowers, 
 
 They heard the blackbird's sang, man : 
 A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss 
 
 Sir Politics to fetter. 
 As theirs alone, the patent-bliss. 
 
 To hold a Fete Champetre. 
 
 Then mounted ]\Iirth, on gleesome wing, 
 Owre hill and dale she flew, man ; 
 
 Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring. 
 Ilk glen and shaw she knew, maa : 
 
U l.J'Vr ME IN -THIK AE ^ICtHT. 
 
■ I 
 
LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 
 
 225 
 
 She summon'd every social sprite. 
 
 That sports by wood or water, 
 On th' boniiie banks of Ayr to meet. 
 
 And keep this Ffite Champetre. 
 
 Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 
 
 AVere bound to stakes like kye, mau : 
 And C^nithia's car, o' silver fu', 
 
 Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
 Reflected beams dwell in the streams. 
 
 Or down the current shatter ; 
 The western breeze steals through the trees 
 
 To view this Fete Champetre. 
 
 Dow many a robe sae gaily floats I 
 
 AMiat sparkling jewels glance, man 1 
 To Harmony's enchanting notes, 
 
 As moves the mazy dance, man. 
 The echoing wood, the winding flood. 
 
 Like Paradise did glitter, 
 AA'hen angels met, at Adam's yett, 
 
 To hold their Fete Champetre. 
 
 When Politics came there to mix 
 
 And make his ether-stane, man : 
 He circled round the magic ground. 
 
 But entrance found he nane, man : (353) 
 He blushed for shame, he quat his name. 
 
 Forswore it, every letter, 
 Wi' humble prayer to join and share 
 
 This festive Fete Champetre. 
 
 (CIjE Dnmfrirs ITnlnntrrrs. 
 
 Tune — Push about the Jorum. 
 
 Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 
 
 Then let the loons beware. Sir ; 
 Tliere's wooden walls upon our seas. 
 
 And volunteers on shore. Sir. 
 The Nith shall run to Corsicon, 
 
 And Criffel sink in Sol way. 
 Ere we permit a foreign foe 
 
 On British ground to rally I 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 Oh, let us not like snarling tykea 
 
 In wrangling be dinded ; 
 Till, slap, come in an unco loon. 
 
 And wi' a rung decide it. 
 Be Britain still to Britain true, 
 
 Among oursels united ; 
 For never but by British hands 
 
 Maun British wrangs be righted 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 Tlie kettle o' the kirk and state. 
 Perhaps a claut may fail iu't : 
 
 But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
 
 Shall ever ca' a nail iu't. 
 
 Q 
 
 Our father's bluid the kettle bought. 
 And wlia wad dare to spoil it ; 
 
 By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 
 Shall fuel be to boil it. 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 
 
 And the wretch his true-born brother. 
 Who would set the mob aboon the throne. 
 
 May they be damned together ! 
 Who will not sing " God save the King." 
 
 Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
 But while we sing " God save the King," 
 
 We'll ne'er forget the Peonle. 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 ^, rarrt Qlljaa in tjiB fonlii Slast. (354) 
 
 Tune — Lass o' Livistone. 
 
 On, wert thou in the cauld blast 
 
 On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
 My plaidie to the angry airt, 
 I'd shelter thee, Pd shelter thee : 
 Or did misfortune's bitter storms 
 
 Around the 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 I monarch o' the globe, 
 
 Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
 The brightest jewel in ray crown 
 
 Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 
 
 f nnrlij ^.^nlli; IJrraarh 
 
 Tune — Ye' re welcome, Charlie Slewatt. 
 Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 
 
 Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
 There's not a flower that blooms in May 
 
 That's half so fair as thou art. 
 The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's. 
 
 And art can ne'er renew it ; 
 But worth and truth eternal youth 
 
 Will give to Polly Stewart. 
 
 May he whose arms shall fauld thy chamu 
 
 Possess a leal and true heart ; 
 To him be given to ken the heaven 
 
 He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
 Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 
 
 Oh charming Polly Stewart I 
 There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 
 
 That's half so sweet as thou art. 
 
226 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Tune — Banks of Banna. 
 
 Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 
 
 A place where body saw na' ; 
 Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 
 
 The gowden locks of Anna. 
 The hungry Jew in wilderness 
 
 Rejoicing o'er his mauna, 
 Was naething to my hinny bliss 
 
 Upon the lips of Anna. 
 
 Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 
 
 Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
 Gie me within my straining grasp 
 
 The melting form of Anna. 
 There I'll despise imperial charms. 
 
 An empress or sultana, 
 While dying raptures in her arms 
 
 I give and take with Anna ! 
 
 Awa, thou flaunting god o' day 1 
 
 Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
 Hk star gae hide thy twinkling ray. 
 
 When I'm to meet my Anna. 
 Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'j 
 And bring an angel pen to WTite 
 
 My transports wi' my Anna 1 
 
 Tune — The Lea rig. 
 
 When o'er the hill the eastern star 
 
 Tells bughtin time is near, my jo ; 
 And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 
 
 Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
 Down by the burn, wliere scented birka 
 
 Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
 111 meet thee on the lea-rig. 
 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 
 In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
 
 I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
 If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 
 
 lily ain kind dearie O. 
 Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. 
 
 And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
 I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 
 The hunter loes the morning sun, 
 
 To rouse the mountain deer, my jo } 
 At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 
 
 Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
 Gie me the hour o' gloamiu grey. 
 
 It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
 To meet thee on the lea-rig. 
 
 My ain kind dearie O. 
 
 l5nn!tiB f tsltij. (355) 
 
 Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lassie, 
 
 Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
 
 As she gaed owre the border ? 
 
 She's gane, like Alexander, 
 To spread her conquests farther. 
 
 To see her is to love her. 
 
 And love but her for ever ; 
 For nature made her what she is. 
 
 And never made anither ! 
 
 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
 Thy subjects we, before thee; 
 
 Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 Tlie deil he could na scaith thee. 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
 And say " I canua wrang thee." 
 
 The powers aboon will tent thee ; 
 ■ Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
 Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 
 That ill they'll ne'er let near theet 
 
 Return again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie ! 
 That we may brag, we hae a lass 
 
 There's nane again sae bonnie. 
 
 ^ill ijB §rs. h tijE SnMrs, m\\ Mm- (356) 
 
 Tune — The Eive-buchts. 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
 And leave aidd Scotia's shore ? 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
 Across the Atlantic's roar ? 
 
 Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, 
 
 And the apple on the pine ; 
 But a' the charms o' the Indies 
 
 Can never equal thine. 
 
 I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
 I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 
 
 And sae may the Heavens forget me. 
 When I forget my vow 1 
 
 Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 
 And plight me your lily-white hand ; 
 
 Oh pliglit me your faith, my Mary, 
 Before I leave Scotia's strand. 
 
 We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 
 
 In mutual alfection to join ; 
 And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 
 
 The hour and the moment o' time! 
 
DUNCAN GKAY. 
 
 227 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing. 
 She is a handsome wee thing. 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never loe'd a dearer ; 
 
 And neist my heart I'll wear he» 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 On leeze me on my wee thing. 
 My bonnie blythesome wee thing; 
 Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
 I'll think my lot divine. 
 
 Tho' warld's care we share ot. 
 And may see meikle mair o't ; 
 Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
 And ne'er a word repine. 
 
 SigljIanJi 31Iari;. (357) 
 
 Tune — Katharine Ogie. 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first imfauld her robes. 
 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 0' my sweet Highland ilary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
 As underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
 Tlie golden hours, ou angel wings. 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life. 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 WV mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 A\'e tore oursels asunder ; 
 But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 
 
 Tliat nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Kow green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary 1 
 
 Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that loe'd me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 Slitlli fvnh 3MiFrri5. 
 
 There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 
 glen, [men ; 
 
 He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld 
 
 He has goud in his coffers, he has owsen and 
 kine, 
 
 And ane bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 
 
 She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May » 
 She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new 
 hay : [lea. 
 
 As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the 
 And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 
 
 But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a 
 laird, [and yard ; 
 
 And my daddie has naught but a cot-house 
 A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 
 The wounds I must hide that will soou be 
 my dead. 
 
 The day comes to me, but delight brings me 
 nane; [gane: 
 
 The night comes to me, but my rest it is 
 
 I wander my lane hke a night-troubled 
 ghaist, [breast. 
 
 And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 
 
 Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
 I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 
 me ! [bliss. 
 
 Oh, how past describing had then been my 
 As now my distraction no words can express! 
 
 Snnrait feij. 
 
 Duncan Gray came here to woo. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
 On blythe Yule night when we were fii'. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
 Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
 Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
 
 Duncan flcech'd, and Duncan pray'd; 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
 Grat his eeu baith bleert and h]ia\ 
 Spake o' lowpin' owre a hnn ; 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 
 Time and chance are but a tide, 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Slighted love is sair to bide. 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 21 
 
li2S 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
 For a haughty hizzie die ? 
 She may gae to — France for me ! 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 
 How it comes let doctors tell. 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Meg grew sick — as he grew heal. 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Something in her hosom wrings. 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 And oh, her een, they speak sic things 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace. 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Maggie's was a piteous case. 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 Duncan could na be her death. 
 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
 Now they're crouse and canty baith; 
 
 Ha, ha, &c. 
 
 f nnrtitl; l^anli. 
 
 Tune — I had a Horse. 
 
 Oh poortith cauld, and restless love. 
 
 Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
 Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 
 
 An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
 Oh why should fate sic pleasure have, 
 
 Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
 Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
 
 Depend on Fortune's shining? 
 
 This warld's wealth when I think on. 
 Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
 
 Fie, fie on silly coward man. 
 That he should be the slave o't. 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
 How she repays my passion ; 
 
 But prudence is her o'erword aye. 
 She talks of rank and fasliion. 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 Oh wha can prudence think upon. 
 
 And sic a lassie by him ? 
 Oh wha can prudence think upon. 
 
 And sae in love as I am ? 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 
 
 He wooes his simple dearie ; 
 The silly bogles, wealth and state. 
 
 Can never make Ihem eerie. 
 Oh why, &c. 
 
 Msi Wain, (358) 
 
 There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
 
 That wander thro' the blooming heather; 
 But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws. 
 
 Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 
 But there is ane, a secret ane, 
 
 Aboon them a' I loe him better; 
 And I'll be his and he'll be mine. 
 
 The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 
 
 Altho' his daddie was nae laird. 
 And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; 
 
 Yet rich in kindness, truest love. 
 
 We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. 
 
 It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was we»lth. 
 That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 
 
 The bands and bliss o' mutual love. 
 
 Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure I 
 
 fnrir tognrij. 
 
 Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 
 
 And loud the tempests roar ; 
 A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 
 
 Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 
 
 An exile frae her father's ha'. 
 
 And a' for loving thee ; 
 At least some pity on me shaw. 
 
 If love it may na be. 
 
 Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gtovo 
 
 By bonnie Irwine side. 
 Where first I own'd that virgin-love 
 
 I lang, lang had denied ? 
 
 How aften didst thou pledge and vow 
 
 Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
 And ray fond heart, itsel sae true. 
 
 It ne'er mistrusted thine. 
 
 Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 
 
 And flinty is thy breast : 
 Thou dart of heaven that flashest by. 
 
 Oh wilt thou give me rest ! 
 
 Ye mustering thunders from above 
 
 Your willing victim see; 
 But spare and pardon my fause love, 
 
 Hia wrauffs to Heaven and me 1 
 
 SHanj Hnrisnn. (359) 
 
 Tune — Bide ye yet. 
 
 Oh Mary, 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 : 
 
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 
 229 
 
 How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
 
 Could I the rich reward secure. 
 The lovely JNIary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen when to the trembling string, 
 
 The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
 Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 
 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 I sigh'd, and said amang them a' 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morisou." 
 
 Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
 If lo^e for love thou wilt na gie. 
 
 At least be pity to me shown; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
 ^anhring l^illip. 
 
 Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
 Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 
 Come to my bosom, my aiu only dearie, 
 Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 
 
 Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our 
 
 parting. 
 Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; 
 Welcome now simmer and welcome my 
 
 Willie, 
 The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 
 
 Rest, ye wild storms, iu the cave of your 
 
 slumbers. 
 How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
 Wauken, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows ! 
 And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
 
 arms ! 
 
 But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his 
 
 Nannie, 
 Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ! 
 May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
 But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain I 
 
 ^t hMtfs fxctiirn. (3co) 
 
 AiR — The mill, mill 0. 
 
 When wild war's deadly blast was blawn. 
 
 And gentle peace returning, 
 Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
 
 Aud mouy a widow mourning : 
 
 I left the lines and tented field, 
 Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
 
 My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
 A poor but honest sodger. 
 
 A leal, light heart was in my breast. 
 
 My hand unstain'd wi' plunder : 
 And for fair Scotia, hame again, 
 
 I cheery on did wander. 
 I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 
 
 I thought upon my Nancy ; 
 I thought upon the witching smile 
 
 That caught my youthful fancy. 
 
 At length I reach'd the boniiie glen 
 
 Where early life I sported ; 
 I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn. 
 
 Where Nancy aft I courted : 
 Wha spied I but my ain dear maid 
 
 Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
 And turn'd me round to hide the flood 
 
 That in my een was swelling. 
 
 Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 
 
 Sweet as you hawthorn's blossom. 
 Oh ! happy, happy may he be. 
 
 That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
 Jly purse is light, I've far to gang. 
 
 And fain would be thy lodger ; 
 I've served my king and country lang- 
 
 Take pity on a sodger !" 
 
 Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 
 
 And lovelier was than ever ; 
 Quo' she, " A sodger ance I loe'd, 
 
 Forget him shall I never : 
 Our humble cot and hamely fare 
 
 Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
 Tliat gallant badge, the dear cockade, 
 
 Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 
 
 She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 
 
 Syne pale like ony lily ; 
 She sank within my arms, and cried, 
 
 " Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" 
 " By Him who made yon sun and sky. 
 
 By whom true love's regarded, 
 I am the man ; and thus may still 
 
 True lovers be rewarded. 
 
 The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 
 
 And find thee still true-hearted ! 
 Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. 
 
 And mair we're ne'er be parted." 
 Quo' she, "Jly grandsire left me gowd, 
 
 A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
 And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 
 
 For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
 The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
 
 But glory is the sndger's prize. 
 The sodger's wealth is honour. 
 
230 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The brave poor sodsrer ne'er despise. 
 Nor count him as a stranger : 
 
 Remember he's his country's stay 
 In day a,nd hour of danger. 
 
 SIiiiljE jiaB % hnn m pn Mil 
 
 Tune — Liggeram Cosh. 
 Blythe hae I been on yon hill. 
 
 As the lambs before me ; 
 Careless ilka thought and free. 
 
 As the breeze flew o'er me : 
 Now nae lj;iger sport and play. 
 
 Mirth or sang can please me ; 
 Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
 
 Care and anguisli seize me. 
 Heavy, heavy is the task. 
 
 Hopeless love declaring : 
 Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 
 
 Sighnig, dr.mb, despairing ! 
 If she winna ease the tliraws 
 
 In ray bosom swelling. 
 Underneath the grass-green sod. 
 
 Soon maun be my dwelling. 
 
 fngan I3rars. (sei) 
 
 Tune — Logan Water. 
 
 Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
 That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
 And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. 
 Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
 But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
 Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
 AVhile my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 Again the merry month o' May 
 
 Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 
 
 The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
 
 The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 
 
 Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye. 
 
 And evening's tears are tears of joy: 
 
 My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 
 
 While Wilhe's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
 Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
 Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
 Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
 But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
 Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
 Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Oh, wae upon you, men o' state, 
 That brethren rouse to deadly bate! 
 As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
 Sae may it on your heads return ! 
 
 How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
 The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
 But soon may peace bring happy days. 
 And Willie hame to Logau braes I 
 
 (Dlf, gin tnij tnm ram' pit IRrtt IRdsj! (362) 
 
 Air — Hughie Graham. 
 
 On, gin my love were yon red rose 
 That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
 
 And I mysel a drap o' dew, 
 luto her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
 
 Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
 I'd feast on beauty a' the night ! 
 
 Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
 Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 
 
 Oh, were my love yon lilach fair, 
 Vi'i' purple blossoms to the spring. 
 
 And I, a bird to shelter there, 
 
 Wlien wearied on my little wing-^ 
 
 How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
 By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
 
 But I wad sing on wanton wing. 
 
 When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 
 
 %Um %tn. (363) 
 
 There was a lass, and she was fair. 
 At kirk and market to be seen ; 
 
 When a' the fairest maids were met. 
 The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 
 
 And aye she wrought her mammie's wark. 
 And aje she sang sae merrilie : 
 
 The blythest bird upon the bush 
 Had ne'er a Ughter heart than she. 
 
 But hawks will rob the tender joys 
 That Idess the little lintwhite's nest ; 
 
 And frost will blight the fairest flowers; 
 And love will break the soundest rest. 
 
 Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
 The flower and pride of a' the glen; 
 
 And he had owscn, sheep, and kye. 
 And wanton naigies nine or ten. 
 
 He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
 He danc'd wi Jeanie on the down ; 
 
 And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 
 
 Her heart was tint, her peace was stown 
 
 As in the bosom o' the stream 
 
 The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 
 
 So trembling, pure, was tender love 
 Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 
 
ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 
 
 231 
 
 And now she works her mammie's wark. 
 And aye slie sij;hi wi' care and pain; 
 
 Yet wist na what her ail miifht be. 
 Or what wad mak her weel again. 
 
 But did na Jeanie's heart loup hght. 
 And did na joy blink in her ee. 
 
 As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
 Ae e'enin on tlie lily lea ? 
 
 Tlie sun was sinking in the west. 
 The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 
 
 His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
 And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 
 
 " Oh Jeanic fair, I loe thee dear ; 
 
 Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ; 
 Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 
 
 And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 
 
 At barn or bjTe thou shalt na drudge. 
 Or niiething else to trouble thee ; 
 
 But stray amang the heather-bells, 
 And tent the waving corn wi' me." 
 
 Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 
 
 She had nae will to say him na ; 
 At length she blush'd a sweet consent. 
 
 And love was aye between them twa. 
 
 3i!rg n' ijji! Bill. 
 
 Air — OhBonnieLasswillyouUeinaBarrach? 
 
 Oh ken ye wha Meg o'the Mill has gotten? 
 And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 
 
 gotten ? 
 She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o* siller. 
 And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 
 
 The Miller was strappin', the Miller was 
 
 ruddy ; 
 A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
 The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; — 
 She's left the guidfc-llow and taen the churl. 
 
 The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and 
 loving ; [moving, 
 
 The Laird did address her wi' matter more 
 A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
 A whip by her side, and a bonuie side-saddle. 
 
 Oh wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ! 
 And wae on the love that is fixed on a maden ! 
 A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
 But gie me my lo\e, and a fig for the warl 1 
 
 (Djirn tljr Dnnr ia 3Hp, dIj 
 
 "On! open the door, some pity to show. 
 Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! [true, 
 
 Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove 
 Oh ! open the door to me, oh 1 
 
 2V 
 
 Canld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 
 But caukler thy love for me, oh ; 
 
 The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 
 Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 
 
 The wan moon is setting behind the wliitc 
 wave. 
 
 And time is setting with me, oh ! 
 False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 
 
 I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh !" 
 
 She has open'd the door, she has open'd it 
 wide ; 
 She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 
 "My true love !" she cried, and sauk dowa 
 by his side. 
 Never to rise again, oh ! 
 
 ^nnng %m\t. 
 
 Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 
 
 True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
 Yarrow, [the Ayr, 
 
 And fair are the maids on the banks o' 
 But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
 river. 
 
 Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
 To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
 
 To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain : 
 Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 
 
 And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
 
 Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy 
 morning. 
 And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
 But in the fair presence o' lovely young 
 Jessie 
 Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
 Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring: 
 
 Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law; 
 And still to her charms she alone is a 
 stranger — 
 Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'! 
 
 iHhmn minMng Hiil; % iiii IPaiiirr. 
 
 Tune — The Mucking o' Geordic's Byre, 
 
 Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
 To mark the sweet flowers as they spring 
 
 Adown winding Nith I did wander. 
 Of riiiUis to muse and to sing. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Awa wi' your belles and your beautie3. 
 They never wi' her can compare; 
 
 Whaever has met wi' my I'hiilis, 
 Has met wi' the aucen o' the fair. 
 
232 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 The Jaisy amus'd my fond fancy. 
 
 So artless, so simple, so wilfl ; 
 Tliou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
 
 For she is simplicity's child. 
 
 The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer. 
 Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 
 
 How fair and how pure is the lily. 
 But fairer and purer her breast. 
 
 Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
 They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 
 
 Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine. 
 It's dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 
 
 Her voice is the song of the morning, 
 That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove. 
 
 When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. 
 On music, and pleasure, and love. 
 
 But, beauty, how frail and how fleeting — 
 The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
 
 Wliile worth in the mind o' my Philhs 
 Will flourish without a decay. 
 
 iatr % E €m. (364) 
 
 Tune — Robin Adair. 
 
 Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
 Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
 roar; 
 There would I weep my woes. 
 There seek my lost repose, 
 Till grief my eyes should close. 
 Ne'er to wake more ! 
 
 Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
 All thy fond-plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 
 
 To thy new lover hie. 
 
 Laugh o'er thy perjury; 
 
 Then in thy bosom try 
 What peace is there ' 
 
 is till! /air. (3G5) 
 
 Tune — Robin Adair. 
 
 While larks with the wing, 
 
 Fann'd the pure air. 
 Tasting the breathing spring. 
 
 Forth I did fare ; 
 Gay the sun's golden eye, 
 Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
 Such thy morn ! did I cry, 
 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 Li each bird's careless song. 
 
 Glad did I share ; 
 Wliile yon wild flowers among. 
 
 Chance led me there ; 
 Sweet to the opening day, 
 Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
 Such thy bloom ! did I say, 
 
 Phillis the fair. 
 Down in a shady walk. 
 
 Doves cooing were; 
 I mark'd the cruel hawk 
 
 Caught in a snare ; 
 So kind may fortune be, 
 Such make his destiny. 
 He who would injure thee, 
 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 ®i} Mu ?Irrara % rljanr'h in f\mt. 
 
 Tune — Allan Water. 
 
 By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove. 
 
 While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi; (366) 
 The winds were whispering thro' the grove. 
 
 The yellow corn was waving ready : 
 I listen'd to a lover's sang, 
 
 A nd thought on youthfu' pleasures monyj 
 And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 
 
 Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie 1 
 Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 
 
 Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
 Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 
 
 The place and time I met my dearie I 
 Her head upon my throbbing breast. 
 
 She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!" 
 Wliile mony a kiss the seal imprest. 
 
 The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 
 The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 
 
 The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
 How cheery thro' her shortening day. 
 
 Is autumn in her sveeds o' yellow ! 
 But can they melt the glowing heart, 
 
 Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? 
 Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 
 
 Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 
 
 i/mu Irt rar take '^\}n in raij Srrast. 
 
 Air — Cauld Kail. 
 
 Come, let me take thee to my breast. 
 
 And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
 And I shall spurn as vilest dust 
 
 The warld's wealth and grandeur: 
 And do I hear my Jeanie own 
 
 That equal transports move her? 
 I ask for dearest life alone 
 
 That I may live to love her. 
 
BEHOLD THE HOUR. 
 
 233 
 
 Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 
 
 1 clasp my countless treasure ; 
 I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 
 
 Thau sic a moiuent's pleasure : 
 And by thy een sae bonuie blue, 
 
 I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
 And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
 
 And break it shall I never I 
 
 Tune — iniislle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
 
 Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
 Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
 Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
 Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
 
 But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
 And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
 Sjme up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
 And come as ye were na comiu' to me. 
 And come, &c. 
 
 At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
 Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ; 
 But steal me a blink o' your bounie black ee. 
 Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 
 Yet look, &c. 
 
 Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
 And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
 But court nae anither, tho' jokiu' ye be. 
 For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. 
 For fear, &c. 
 
 Sainlij Sanir. (367) 
 
 Tune — Dainty Davie. 
 
 Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
 To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
 And now come in my hapjiy hours. 
 To wander wi' my Davie. 
 
 Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
 Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; 
 
 There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
 My ain dear dainty Da\ie. 
 
 The crystal waters round us fa'. 
 The merry birds are lovers a'. 
 The scented breezes round us blaw. 
 A-wandering wi' my Davie. 
 
 When purple morning starts the hare; 
 To steal upon her early fare. 
 Then thro' the dews I will repair. 
 To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
 
 When day, expiring in the west, 
 The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
 I flee to his arms I loe best, 
 And that's my aiu dear Davie. 
 
 ffirnrc's mxm. (368) 
 
 TvtiE— Hey Tuttie Taitlie. 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has afteu led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed. 
 Or to victorie ! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
 See the front o' battle lour ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power- 
 Chams and slavery ! 
 
 Wlia will be a traitor knave ? 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 ■Ulia for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
 Freeman stand, or Freeman fa'. 
 Let him follow me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains I 
 By your sous in servile chains ! 
 We ^vill drain our dearest veins. 
 But they shall be free ! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low i 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! — 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
 ffirljnlJi ilip ianr. (3gd> 
 
 Tune — Oran Gaoil. 
 
 Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
 
 Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! 
 Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 
 
 But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
 I'll often greet this surging swell. 
 
 Yon distant isle will often hail : 
 " E'en here I took the last farewell ; 
 
 There latest mark'd her vanish'd saiL" 
 
 Along the solitary shore. 
 
 While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. 
 Across the rolling, dashing roar, 
 
 I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; 
 Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say. 
 
 Where now my Nancy's path may be I 
 While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray. 
 
 Oh, tell me, does she muse on me! 
 
234 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 iEnlJr fang Ipj. 
 
 Should auUl acquaintance be forgot. 
 And never brought to mind ? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 And days o' lang syne ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes. 
 
 And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
 But we've wandered niony a weary foot, 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, 
 
 Frae raornin' sun till dine ; 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
 And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 And surely ye'll be your pint stoup. 
 
 And surely I'll be mine ; 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 120\)m m tilt Snijs? 
 
 Tune — Saw ye my father? 
 
 Where are the joys I have met in the 
 morning. 
 
 That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 
 Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring. 
 
 At evening the wild woods among ? 
 
 No more a-winding the conrse of yon river, 
 And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 
 
 No more I trace the light footsteps of 
 pleasure. 
 But sorrow and sad sighing care. 
 
 la it that summer's forsaken our vallies. 
 And grim surly winter is near ? 
 
 No, no ! the bees humming round the gay 
 roses. 
 Proclaim it the pride of the year. 
 
 Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 
 
 Yet long, long too well have I known, 
 All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 
 
 Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 
 Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 
 
 Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
 Come then, enamour'd and fond of my 
 anguish. 
 
 Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 
 
 Cljait Ijast f rft mi! (Bntr. 
 
 Tune — Fee him, Father. 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left 
 me ever, [me ever ; 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left 
 
 Aiten hast thou vow'd that death only should 
 us sever, 
 
 Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun 
 see thee never, Jamie, 
 I'll see thee never. 
 
 Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me 
 forsaken, [forsaken ; 
 
 Tliou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me 
 
 Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is 
 breaking : 
 
 Soon my weary een I'll close — never mail 
 to waken, Jamie, 
 Ne'er mair to waken. 
 
 Drliiiirli §mm, lljp ^tllrasnrf. 
 
 Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 Deluded swain, the pleasure 
 The fickle Fair can give thee. 
 
 Is but a fairy treasure — 
 Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 
 
 The billows on the ocean. 
 
 The breezes idly roaming. 
 The clouds' uncertain motion. 
 
 They are but types of woman. 
 
 Oh ! art thou not ashamed 
 
 To doat upon a feature ? 
 If man thou would'st be named, 
 
 Despise the silly creature. 
 
 Go, find an honest fellow ! 
 
 Good claret set before thee : 
 Hold on till thou art mellow. 
 
 And then to bed in glory. 
 
 f Ijinp S am, mii /aitljfiil /air. 
 
 TUNB — Liggeram Cosh [the Quaker's wife}. 
 
 Thine am I, my faithful fair. 
 
 Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
 Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
 
 Ev'ry ro\ing fancy. 
 
 To thy bosom lay my heart, 
 There to throb and languish : 
 
 Tlio' despair had wrung its core. 
 That would heal its anguish. 
 
ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 
 
 235 
 
 Take away tliese rosy lips. 
 Rich with biihuy treasure : 
 
 Turn away thine eyes of love, 
 IjCSt I die with pleasure. 
 
 What is life when wanting love? 
 
 Night without a morning : 
 Love's the cloudless summer sun. 
 
 Nature gay adorning. 
 
 3ilr[ ?|iDU5p, jilanri?. 
 
 Tune — My Jo Janet. 
 
 "Hdsband, husband, cease your strife. 
 
 Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
 Tho' I am your wedded wife. 
 
 Yet I am not your slave, sir." 
 
 " One of two must still obey, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy ; 
 Is it man, or woman, say. 
 
 My spouse, Nancy ?" 
 
 "If 'tis still the lordly word. 
 
 Service and obedience ; 
 I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 
 
 And so good-bye allegiance !" 
 
 " Sad will I be, so bereft, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy, 
 Yet I'll try to make a shift. 
 
 My spouse, Nancy." 
 
 " My poor heart then break it must. 
 
 My last hour I'm near it : 
 Wlien you lay me in the dust, 
 
 Thiuk, think how you will bear it." 
 
 "I will hope and trust in heaven, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy, 
 Strength to bear it will be given. 
 
 My spouse, Nancy." 
 
 " Well, sir, from the silent dead. 
 
 Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
 Ever round your midnight bed 
 
 Horrid sprites shall haunt you." 
 
 * I'll wed another like my dear, 
 
 Nancy, Nancy ; 
 Then all hell will fly for fear. 
 
 My spouse, Nancy." 
 
 3;{iB Saiiks nf fep. 
 
 Tune— r/ie Banks of Cree. 
 
 Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
 All underneath the birchen shade ; 
 
 The village-bell has toU'd the hour. 
 Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 
 
 'Tis not ]\Iaria's whispering call ; 
 
 'Tis but the balmy-breatiiiiig gale, 
 Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall. 
 
 The dewy stars of eve to hail. 
 
 It is Maria's voice I hear ! — 
 
 So calls the woodlark in the grove. 
 
 His little faithful mate to cheer ! 
 At once 'tis music and 'tis love. 
 
 And art thou come ? — and art thou true ? 
 
 Oh welcome, dear to love and me 
 And let us all our vows renew. 
 
 Along the flowery banks of Cree. 
 
 (Da llii; Iras anil /ar Sraaij. 
 
 Tune— O'er the hills, ^-c. 
 
 How can my poor heart be glad. 
 When absent from my sailor lad ? 
 How can I the thought forego, 
 He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
 Let me wander, let me rove, 
 Still my heart is with my love ; 
 Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
 Are with him that's far away. 
 
 On the seas and far away. 
 On stormy seas and faraway; 
 Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
 Are aye with him that's far away. 
 
 When in summer's noon I faint. 
 As weary flocks around me pant. 
 Haply in the scorching sun 
 My sailor's thund'ring at his gun ; 
 Bullets spare my only joy ! 
 Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
 Fate, do with me what you may, 
 Spare but him that's far away ! 
 
 At the starless midnight hour. 
 
 When winter rules with boundless power; 
 
 As the storms the forest tear, 
 
 And tliunders rend the howling air. 
 
 Listening to the doubling roar. 
 
 Surging on the rocky shore. 
 
 All I can — I weep and pray. 
 
 For his weal that's far away. 
 
 Peace, thy olive wand extend. 
 
 And bid wild war his ravage end, 
 
 Man with brother man to meet. 
 
 And as a brotlier kindly greet : 
 
 Tiien may Heaven with prosperous galea, 
 
 Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 
 
 To my arms their charge convey. 
 
 My dear lad that's far away. 
 
231 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 €&' iljB ^nrars tn tljE IRnnmrs. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where tlie heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the buriiie rows. 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Hark the mavis' evening sang 
 Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
 Then a-faulding let us gang, 
 My bounie dearie. 
 
 We'll gae down by Clouden side 
 Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
 To the moou sae clearly. 
 
 Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
 Where at moonshine, midnight hours. 
 O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
 Fairies dance sae cheery. 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
 Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
 Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
 My bonuie dearie. 
 
 J'air and lovely as thou art. 
 Thou hast stown my very heart; 
 I can die — but canna part. 
 My bonuie dearie. 
 
 ■V^Tiile waters wimple to the sea ; 
 AVhile day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
 I'ill clay-cauld death shall bliu' my ee. 
 Ye shall be my dearie. 
 
 Tune — Omujli's Lock, 
 
 Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 
 
 Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
 Bewitchingly o'er-arching 
 
 Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
 Her smiling, sae wiling. 
 
 Would make a wretch forget his woe : 
 What pleasure, what treasure, 
 
 Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
 Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 
 
 When first her bonnie face I saw. 
 And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 
 
 She says she loes me best of a'. 
 
 Like harmony her motion ; 
 
 Her pretty ancle is a spy 
 Betraying fair proportion. 
 
 Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
 Sae warming, sae cliarming. 
 
 Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
 Ilk feature — auld nature 
 
 Declared tlwt she could do nae mair. 
 
 Hers are the willing chains o' love. 
 
 By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
 And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 
 
 She says she loes me best of a'. 
 Let others love the city. 
 
 And gaudy show at sunny noon; 
 Gie me the lonely valley. 
 
 The dewy eve, and rising moon 
 Fair beaming, and streaming, 
 
 Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
 While falling, recalling. 
 
 The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
 There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 
 
 By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
 And hear my vows o' truth and love. 
 
 And say thou loes me best of a' ! 
 
 lam qt mij ^^Ijilli)? 
 
 Tune — TMien she cam hen she bobhit. 
 Oh, saw ye ray dear, my Philly ? 
 Oh, saw ye my dear, my Philly ? 
 She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love^ 
 
 She winna come hame to her Willie. 
 Wliat says she, my dearest, my Philly ? 
 What says she, my dearest, my Philly ? 
 She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
 
 And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. 
 Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
 Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
 As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
 
 Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 
 
 ^m fnng an!r Drrarii is llji; Jligjit? 
 
 (370) 
 Tune — Cauld kail in Aberdeen. 
 How long and dreary is the night 
 
 When I am frae my dearie ? 
 
 I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
 
 Tho' I we're ne'er sae weary. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For oh ! her lanely nights are lang, 
 
 And oh ! her dreams are eerie. 
 And oh ! her widow'd heart is sair. 
 That's absent frae her dearie. 
 When I think on the lightsome days 
 
 I spent wi' thee, my dearie. 
 And now what seas between us roar. 
 How can I be but eerie ? 
 For oh ! &c. 
 How slow ye move, ye heavy hours I 
 
 The joyless day, how dreary I 
 It was na sae ye glinted by. 
 When I was wi' my dearie. 
 For oh 1 &c. 
 
Ain.D T^r^BlN r,Ti AY 
 
 ray fniii"! <-'.\i.f|ui wrk- uiv iu'''li''i' •■.■nilTin sjmi,- 
 lt6il'i day anBnij^lit, tiii. Qieir lirpa.3 I cbii'daa wixL 
 
FAEEWELL THOU STREAM THAT "WINDING FLOWS. 
 
 237 
 
 ttt nnt Wmm I'rr Cnmjilain. 
 
 Tune — Duncan Cray. 
 
 Let not woman e'er complain 
 
 Of inconstancy iu love ; 
 Let not woman e'er complain 
 
 Fickle man is apt to rove. 
 
 Look abroad through Nature's range. 
 Nature's mighty law is change ; 
 Ladies, would it not be strange, 
 Man shoidd then a monster prove? 
 
 Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 
 
 Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
 Sun and moon but set to rise. 
 
 Round and round the seasons go, 
 
 "WTiy then ask of silly man 
 To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
 We'll be constant while we can — 
 You can be no more, you know. 
 
 ilnfsi fUljiiir, nr aUak'st lljnu? (37i) 
 
 Tune — Deil talc the wars. 
 
 Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 
 
 Rosy morn now lifts his eye, [ture ? 
 
 Numbering ilka bud, which Nature 
 
 Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 
 
 Now thro' the leafy woods. 
 
 And by the reeking floods. 
 Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray : 
 
 The lintwhite in his bower 
 
 Chants o'er the breathing flower. 
 
 The lav'rock to the sky 
 
 Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
 While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 
 Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning. 
 
 Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
 Nature gladd'ning and adorning ; 
 
 Such to me my lovely maid. 
 
 When absent from my fair. 
 
 The murky shades o' care 
 With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 
 
 But when in beauty's light. 
 
 She meets my ravish'd sight, 
 
 When through my very heart 
 
 Her beaming glories dart, 
 Tia then I wake to life, to hght, and joy. 
 
 Bij Cljlnris, tiiarit Ijnra Smn Ijjp dFrniirs. 
 
 Tune — My lodging is on the cold ground. 
 
 My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 
 
 The primrose banks how fair ; 
 The balmy gales awake the flowers. 
 
 Ami wavt! thy flaxen hair. 
 
 Tlie lav'rock shuns the palace gay. 
 
 And o'er the cottage sings : 
 For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 
 
 To shepherds as to kings. 
 Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 
 
 In lordly lighted ha' : 
 The shepherd stops his simple reed, 
 
 Blythe, in the birken shaw. 
 The princely revel may survey 
 
 Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
 But are their hearts as light as ours 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 
 The shepherd, in the flowery glen. 
 
 In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
 The courtier tells a finer tale. 
 
 But is his heart as true ? 
 These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
 
 That spotless breast o' thine : 
 The courtier's gems may witness love^ 
 
 But 'tis ua love like mine. 
 
 It mas iljB (lliarniiiig Slnntfj iif 3Haq. 
 
 (372) 
 Tune — Dainty Davie. 
 It was the charming month of May, 
 When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. 
 One morning, by the break of day. 
 
 The youthful, charming Chloe,— 
 From peaceful slumber she arose. 
 Girt on her mantle and her hose. 
 And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, — 
 
 The youtliful, charming Cliloe. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Lovely was she by the dawn. 
 
 Youthful Chloe, charming Chloek 
 Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
 The youtliful, charming Chloe. 
 Tlie feather'd people, you might see 
 Persh'd all around on every tree, 
 In notes of sweetest melody. 
 
 They hail the charming Chloe ; 
 
 Till, i)ainting gay the eastern skies, 
 
 The glorious sun began to rise, 
 
 Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
 
 Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
 
 Lovely was she, &c. 
 
 /arriiirll, tlinn Itrram lljat tiOin&ing 
 /Inins. 
 
 Tune — Nancy's to the greenwood gone. 
 Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
 
 Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
 Oh mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
 
 Within my bosom swelling : 
 
238 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Coiiflemn'.i to drag a hopeless chain. 
 
 And yet in secret languish. 
 To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 
 
 Nor dare disclose my anguish. 
 Love's veriest WTetch, unseen, unknown^ 
 
 I fain my griefs would cover : 
 The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan. 
 
 Betray the hapless lover. 
 I know thou doom'st me to despair. 
 
 Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
 But, oh ! Eliza, hear one prayer. 
 
 For pity's sake, forgive me ! 
 The music of thy voice I heard. 
 
 Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
 I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 
 
 TUl fears no more had sav'd me. 
 Th' unwary sailor thus aghast. 
 
 The wheeling torrent viewing, 
 'Jlid circling horrors sinks at last 
 
 In overwhelming ruin. 
 
 f asisiE mi' Ijjp lint-mljitE fnrki. 
 
 TcNE — Rothiemurche's Rant. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
 
 Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
 
 Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocka^ 
 
 Wilt thou be my dearie ? 
 
 Now Nature deeds the flowery lea. 
 
 And a' is young and sweet like thee : 
 
 Oh, wilt thou share its joj' wi' me. 
 
 And say thou'lt be my dearie O ? 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
 And when the welcome simmer-shower 
 Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
 We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
 At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
 Wlien Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
 The weary shearer's ham e ward way, 
 Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray. 
 And talk o' love, ray dearie O. 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
 And when the howling wintry blast 
 Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest. 
 Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
 I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 
 
 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Ac. 
 
 I^jilln anH Xnillii. 
 
 Tone— r/(e Soiu's Tail 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 Oh Philly, happy be that day 
 'Yhen roving through the gather'd hay. 
 My youtlifu' heart was stowii away. 
 And by thy charms, my Philly. 
 
 PIIILLY. 
 
 Oh Willy, aye I bless the grove 
 Where first I owu'd my maiden love, 
 Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above 
 To be my ain dear ^Villy. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 As songsters of the early year 
 Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
 So ilka day to me mair dear 
 And charming is my Philly. 
 
 PHILLY. 
 
 As on the briar the budding rose 
 Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
 So in my tender bosom grows 
 The love I bear my Willy. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 The milder sun and bluer sky. 
 That crown my harvest cares wi' joy. 
 Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
 As is a sight o' Philly. 
 
 PHILLY. 
 
 The little swallow's wanton wing, 
 Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
 Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring. 
 As meeting o' my Willy. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
 Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
 Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
 Upon the lips o' Philly. 
 
 PIIILLY. 
 
 The woodbine in the dewy weet. 
 When evening shades in silence meet. 
 Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
 As is a kiss o' Willy. 
 
 WILLY. 
 
 Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 
 And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; 
 My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
 And that's my ane dear Philly. 
 
 PHILLY. 
 
 What's a' the joys that gowd can gieP 
 I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
 The lad I love's the lad for me. 
 And that's my ain dear Willy. 
 
 Cnntrntrit mi' f ittli. 
 
 Tune — Lmnps o' Pudding. 
 Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair. 
 Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
 I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
 Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish 
 sang. 
 
MY NANNIE'S AAVA. 
 
 239 
 
 I whilea claw the elbow o' troublesom 
 
 thought ; 
 But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
 My mirth and good humour are coin in my 
 
 pouch. 
 And ray freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 
 
 dare touch. 
 A towTimond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
 A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
 When at the blythe end of our journey at 
 
 last, [past ? 
 
 Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
 Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on 
 
 her way : [gae : 
 
 Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade 
 Come ease, or come travail: come pleasure, 
 
 or pain, [again !" 
 
 My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 
 
 Cau'st llinir tuut mc Cjiiis, nii} ISaiq. 
 
 (373) 
 TvuE— Roy's Wife. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
 Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
 Well thou know'st my aching heart. 
 And canst thou leave me thus for pity? 
 
 Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
 Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
 
 Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
 An a£hing, broken heart, my Katy? 
 
 Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
 That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
 
 Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
 But not a love hke mine, my Katy. 
 
 /nr a' Qllint, aiili a' itliat. 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty. 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
 The coward slave we pass him by. 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Our toil's obscure, and a' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp, (374) 
 
 The man's the goud for a' that. 
 
 What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 
 
 Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ; 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that ; 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
 
 l» king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
 Tlio' hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 lie's but a coof for a' that : 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His riband, star, and a' that. 
 The man of independent mind. 
 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that : 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 
 Guid faith he maunna fa' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that. 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 
 
 Are higher ranks than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may. 
 
 As come it will for a' that. 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 It's coming yet, for a' that. 
 That man to man, the warld o'er; 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 3Hij Jdannif's 5lnia. 
 
 Tune — There'll never he peace, §t. 
 
 Now in her green mantle blythe nature 
 arrays, [braes. 
 
 And Ustens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 
 
 While birds warble welcome in ilka green 
 shaw ; 
 
 But to me it's deUghtless — my Nannie's awa. 
 
 The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 
 
 adorn. 
 And violets bathe in the weet o' the mom ; 
 They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they 
 
 blaw, 
 Tliey mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 
 
 Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of 
 the lawn, ' [dawn. 
 
 The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking 
 
 And thou mellow mavis that hails the 
 night-fa'. 
 
 Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 
 
 Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and 
 
 grey, 
 And soothe me wi' tidings o nature s decay ; 
 The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving 
 
 snaw, 
 Alaue can delight me — now Nannit 's awa. 
 
 22 
 
240 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 totgiThiirti Wut (375) 
 
 Tune — Crmcjiehurn wood. 
 
 Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, 
 And blythe awakes the morrow ; 
 
 But a' the pride o' spring's return 
 Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 
 
 I see the flowers and spreading treei, 
 I hear the wild birds singing; 
 
 But what a weary wight can please. 
 And care his bosom wringing? 
 
 Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. 
 
 Yet dare na for your anger ; 
 But secret love will break my heart. 
 
 If I conceal it langer. 
 
 If thou refuse to pity me. 
 
 If thou shalt love auither> 
 When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 
 
 Around my grave they'll wither. (376) 
 
 (Dji f assie art lljan ^krping i;rt? 
 
 Tune — Let me in this ane Night. 
 
 Oh lassie art thou sleeping yet? 
 Or art thou wakin', I would wit ? 
 For love has bound me hand and foot, 
 And I would fain be in, jo. 
 
 Oh let me in this ane night. 
 This ane, ane, ane night ; 
 
 For pity's sake this aue night. 
 Oh rise and let me in, jo ! 
 
 Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
 Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
 Tak pity on my weary feet, 
 And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
 
 The bitter blast that round me blaws 
 Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
 The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
 Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
 
 Reply to the foregoing. 
 
 Oh tell na me o' wind and rain. 
 Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain; 
 Gae back tiie gait ye cam again, 
 I wiuna let you in, jo I 
 
 I tell you now this ane night. 
 This ane, ane, ane night ; 
 
 And ance for a' this ane night, 
 I wiuna let you in, jo. 
 
 The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. 
 That round the pathless wand'rer poiua. 
 Is nocht to what poor she endures 
 That's trusted faithless man, jo.' 
 
 The sweetest flower that deck'd the me&d. 
 Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
 Let simple maid the lesson read. 
 The weird may be her ain, jo. 
 
 The bird that charm'd his summer- day. 
 Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
 Let witless, trusting, woman say 
 How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
 
 TUNE- 
 
 %.Wm in iljE l^nMarlt. 
 
 -Where'll honnie Ann lie ? or, LocS. 
 Eroch Side. 
 
 Oh stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay. 
 Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
 A hapless lover courts thy lay. 
 Thy soothing, fond complaining. 
 
 Again, again that tender part. 
 That I may catch thy melting art : 
 For surely that wad touch her heart, 
 'Wha. kills me wi' disdaining. 
 
 Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
 And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
 Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join'd. 
 Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 
 
 Tliou tells o' never-ending care : 
 O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
 For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair. 
 Or my poor heart is broken ! 
 
 6z (^jilnris Mug 111. 
 
 Tune — Aye wakin O. 
 
 Long, long the night, 
 HeavT^ comes the morrow. 
 
 While my soul's delight 
 Is on her bed of sorrow. 
 
 Can I cease to care, 
 
 Can I cease to languish. 
 
 While my darling fair 
 Is on the couch of anguish? 
 
 Every hope is fled. 
 
 Every fear is terror; 
 Slumber even I dread. 
 
 Every dream is horror. 
 
OH THIS US KO MY AIN LASSIE. 
 
 241 
 
 Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 
 
 Oh ! in pity liear ine ! 
 Take aught else of mine, 
 
 But my Chloris spare me ! 
 
 Cljrir (Pranrs n' Irarrt Mi\iilt. 
 
 Tune — Humours of Glen. 
 
 Their ^oves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 
 
 lands reckon, [perfume ; 
 
 Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 
 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green 
 
 breckan, [broom. 
 
 Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
 
 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom 
 
 bowers, [unseen : 
 
 ■\Vhere the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 
 
 For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 
 
 flowers, [Jean. 
 
 A-listeiiing the linnet, aft wanders my 
 
 Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny 
 
 rallies. 
 
 And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
 
 Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
 
 proud palace, [and slave ! 
 
 What are they ? — the haunt of the tyrant 
 
 The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
 
 fountains, 
 
 Tlie brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
 
 lie wanders as free as the winds of his 
 
 mountains, [his Jean ! 
 
 Save love's willing fetters — the chains o' 
 
 imn Crel m llj? '^h: ill. 
 
 ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGIvISH SONG. 
 
 Tune — John Anderson my Jo. 
 
 How cruel are the parents, 
 
 A\Tio riches only prize : 
 And to the wealthy booby. 
 
 Poor woman sacrifice ! 
 Meanwhile the hapless daughter 
 
 lias but a choice of strife ; — 
 To shun a tyrant father's hate. 
 
 Become a wretched wife. 
 
 The rav'ning hawk pursuing, 
 
 The trembling dove thus flies 
 To shun impelling ruin 
 
 Awhile her pinion tries : 
 Till of escape despairing. 
 
 No shelter or retreat. 
 She trusts the ruthless falconer, 
 
 And drops beneath his feet. 
 
 'Umas iia jirr Snnnii Sin? 6b mas 
 nttj IRuiii. 
 
 Tune — Laddie, lie near me. 
 'TwAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin; 
 Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did 
 mind us, [o' kindness. 
 
 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance 
 Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
 Sair do 1 fear that despair maun abide me ; 
 But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever. 
 Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 
 Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
 And thou hast plighted me love the dearest I 
 And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
 Sooner the sun in lus motion would falter. 
 
 3}Iark pn ^^nniii nf C^nstltj /asliinii. 
 
 Tune — Deil tak the Wars. 
 Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 
 
 Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
 But when compar'd with real passion. 
 
 Poor is all that princely pride. 
 
 What are the showy treasures ? 
 
 What are the noisy pleasures ? 
 The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
 
 The polish'd jewel's blaze 
 
 May draw the wond'ring gaze. 
 
 And courtly grandeur bright 
 
 The fancy may delight. 
 But never, never can come near the heart. 
 
 But did you see my dearest Chloris, 
 
 In simplicity's array ; 
 Ijovely as yonder sweet op'ning Sower is, 
 
 Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
 
 Oh then the heart alarming, 
 
 And all resistless charming. 
 In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 
 willing soul ! 
 
 Ambition would disown 
 
 The world's imperial crown. 
 
 Even Avarice would deny 
 
 His worshipp'd deity. 
 And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roIL 
 
 (J^lj lljis 15 nn mij 5lin Xassif, 
 
 Tune — This is no my ain House. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Oh this is no my ain lassie. 
 
 Fair tho' the lassie be ! 
 
 Oh %veel ken I my ain lassie. 
 
 Kind love is in her ee. 
 
I 
 
 242 
 
 BURNS' S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I see a form, I see a face, 
 
 Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
 
 It wants, to me, the witching grace. 
 
 The kind love that's in her ee. 
 She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
 And lang has had ray heart in thrall ; 
 And aye it charms my very saul. 
 
 The kind love that's in her ee. 
 A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
 To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
 But gleg as light are lovers' een. 
 
 When kind love is in the ee. 
 It may escape the courtly sparks, 
 It may escape the learned clerks ; 
 But weel the watching lover marks 
 
 The kind love that's in her ee. 
 
 SIqiu #pring Ijas Clali tjjc §xui in foin. 
 
 (377) 
 
 Now spring has clad the grove in green. 
 
 And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 
 The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 
 
 Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
 While ilka thing in nat\ire join 
 
 Their sorrows to forego. 
 Oh why thus all alone are mine 
 
 The weary steps of woe ! 
 The trout within yon winipling bum 
 
 Glides swift— a silver dart ; 
 And safe beneath the shady thorn 
 
 Delies the angler's art. 
 My life was ance that careless stream, 
 
 That wanton trout was I ; 
 But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 
 
 Has scorch'd my fountains diry. 
 The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 
 
 In yonder cliff that grows, 
 Wliich, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 
 
 Nae ruder visit knows. 
 Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 
 
 And blighted a' my bloom. 
 And now beneath the with'ring blast 
 
 lily youth and joy consume. 
 The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs. 
 
 And climbs the early sky. 
 Winnowing blythe her dewy \vings 
 
 In morning's rosy eye. 
 As little reck'd I sorrow's power. 
 
 Until the flowery snare 
 O' witching love, in luckless hour. 
 
 Made me the thrall o' care. 
 Ob, had my fate been Greenland snows. 
 
 Or Afric's burning zone, 
 Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 
 So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
 
 The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair," 
 What tongue his woes can tell ! 
 
 Within whase bosom, save despair, 
 Nae kinder spirits dwell. 
 
 (J>li ^mm mas unit t.m] ®rht. 
 
 Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier. 
 
 That blooms so far frae haunt o' man; 
 And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 
 
 It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 
 
 Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 
 
 How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 
 
 But purer was the lover's vow 
 
 They witnessed in their shade yestreen. 
 
 All in its rude and prickly bower. 
 
 That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ; 
 
 But love is far a sweeter flower 
 Amid life's thorny path o' care. 
 
 The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 
 Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
 
 And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
 Its joys and griefs alike resign. 
 
 /nrlEttt rail tmt, im (IPnnrfnrt ntar. 
 
 Tune — Let me in this ane Night. 
 
 Forlorn my love, no comfort near. 
 Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
 Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
 At which I most repine, love. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Oh wert thou, love, but near me ; 
 But near, near, near me : 
 How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
 And mingle sighs with mine, love. 
 
 Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
 That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
 And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
 Save in those arms of thine, love. 
 
 Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 
 To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
 Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
 And say that fate is mine, love. 
 
 But dreary tho' the moments fleet. 
 Oh let me think we yet shall meetl 
 That only ray of solace sweet 
 Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
 
JESSY. 
 
 243 
 
 Hitj fnr H Ias3 m* a furljEr. 
 
 Tune — Balinamona ora. 
 
 A.WA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
 The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 
 
 arms. 
 Oh, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms. 
 Oh, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 
 
 Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey 
 
 for a lass wi' a tocher. 
 Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice 
 
 yellow guineas for me. 
 
 Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 
 
 blows, 
 And withers the faster, the faster it grows : 
 But the rapturous charm o' the bounie green 
 
 Lnowes, [yowes. 
 
 Ilk spring they're new deckit wi bonnie white 
 
 And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
 blest, [possest ; 
 
 The brightest o' beauty may cloy when 
 
 But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie 
 imprest, [carest. 
 
 The langer ye hae them, the mair they're 
 
 fast 3Hai] a Srara X^nnrr. 
 
 Tune — The Lothian Lassie. 
 
 Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
 glen, 
 And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
 I said there was naething I hated like men — 
 The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, beheve 
 
 me. 
 The de\ice gae wi'm to believe me. 
 
 He spaK o' the darts o' my bonnie black een. 
 And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
 
 I said he might die when he liked for Jean — 
 The Lord forgie me fnr lying, for lying, 
 The Lord forgie me for lying ! 
 
 A well-stocked inailcn, himsel for the laird. 
 And marriage aff-hand, were his protfers : 
 
 I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
 But thought I might hae waur offers, 
 
 waur offers. 
 But thought I might hae waur offers. 
 
 But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or 
 less, 
 Tlie deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
 He up the lang loan to my black cousin 
 Bess (378), [could bear her. 
 
 Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 
 Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 
 
 22 
 
 But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
 I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
 
 And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 
 I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
 I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 
 
 But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
 Ix;st neibors might say I was saucy ; 
 
 My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink. 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear 
 
 lassie. 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 
 
 I s))ier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 
 Gin she had recovered her hearin', 
 
 And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't 
 feet, [a-swearin'. 
 
 But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 
 But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 
 
 He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife. 
 Or else I wad kill him wi, sorrow : 
 
 So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
 I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to- 
 morrow, 
 I thiuk I maun wed him to-morrow. 
 
 /ragrarnt. 
 
 Tune — The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 
 
 Why, why tell thy lover. 
 
 Bliss he never must enjoy ? 
 Why, why undeceive him. 
 
 And give all his hopes the lie ? 
 
 Oh why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
 Chloris, Chloris all the theme. 
 
 Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 
 Wake thy lover from his dream ? 
 
 f rssij. (379) 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here's a health to ane I loe dear ! 
 Here's a health to ane I loe dear ! [meet. 
 Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover's 
 And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 
 
 Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
 
 Altho' even hope is denied : 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 
 
 Then aught in the world beside — Jessy 1 
 
 I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
 As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 
 
 But welcome the dream o' sweet slumljcr, 
 For then I am lock't in thy arms — Jessy I 
 
2 4 
 
 BUENS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 
 
 I guess by the dear angel smile, 
 I guess by the love rolling ee ; 
 
 But why urge the tender confession, 
 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree- 
 Jessy ! 
 
 /airrst Mmi nn Drann Sanks. 
 
 Tune — Rothiemurche. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Fairest maid on Devon banks. 
 Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
 
 Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
 
 And smile as thou were wont to do. 
 
 Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
 Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ? 
 Oh, did not love exclaim " Forbear, 
 Nor use a faithfu' lover so !" 
 
 Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
 Those wonted smiles, oh let me share ! 
 
 And, by thy beauteous self I swear. 
 No love but thine my heart shall know. 
 
 iaiifeDtnt Ml (380) 
 
 Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass. 
 
 Ay, and I love her still ; 
 And whilst that honour warms my breast, 
 
 I'll love my handsome Nell. 
 
 As bonnie lasses I hae seen. 
 
 And mony full as braw ; 
 But for a modest gracefu' mieu. 
 
 The like I never saw. 
 
 A bonnie lass, I will confess. 
 
 Is pleasant to the ee. 
 But without some better qualities. 
 
 She's no the lass for me. 
 
 But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 
 
 And, what is best of a'. 
 Her reputation is complete. 
 
 And fair without a flaw. 
 
 She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 
 
 Both decent and genteel : 
 And then there's something in her gait 
 
 Gars ony dress look weel. 
 
 A gaudy dress and gentle air 
 May slightly touch the heart ; 
 
 But it's innocence and modesty 
 That polishes the dart. 
 
 •Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
 
 'Tis this enchants my soul; 
 For absolutely in my breast 
 
 She reigns without control. 
 
 JHij ^Fatjirr tnas a /arinpr. (ssi) 
 
 Tune — The Weaver and his shuttle, 0. 
 
 My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 
 border, O, [order, O ; 
 
 And carefully he bred me in decency and 
 
 lie 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. 
 
 Then out into the world, my course I did 
 determine, O ; 
 
 Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to bo 
 great was charming, O : i 
 
 My talents they were not the worst, nor yet 
 my education, O ; 
 
 Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my 
 situation, O. 
 
 In many a way, and vain essay, I courted 
 fortune's favour, O ; 
 
 Some cause unseen still stept between, to 
 frustrate each endeavour, O. 
 
 Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
 times by friends forsaken, O; 
 
 And when my hope was at the top, I still 
 was worst mistaken, O. 
 
 Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with 
 fortune's vain delusion, O, 
 
 I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 
 came to this conclusion, O — 
 
 The past was bad, and the future hid; its 
 good or ill untried, O ; 
 
 But the present hour was in my pow'r, and 
 so I would enjoy it, O. 
 
 No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor per- 
 son to befriend me, O ; 
 
 So I must toil, and sweat and broil, 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. 
 
 Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* 
 life I'm doom'd to wander, O, 
 
 Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlas- 
 ting slumber, O. 
 
 No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
 breed me pain or sorrow, O ! 
 
 I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to- 
 morrow, O. 
 
 But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch 
 in a palace, O, 
 
 Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, 
 with all her wonted malice, O : 
 
 I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can 
 make it farther, O ; 
 
 But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not 
 much regard her, O. 
 
HER FLOWING LOCKS. 
 
 245 
 
 When sometimes by my labour I earn a 
 
 little mony, O, 
 Some uuforseen misfortune comes gen'rally 
 
 upon nie, O : 
 Jfischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my 
 
 good-natur'd fully, ; 
 •But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll 
 
 ne'er be melancholy, O. 
 
 All you who follow wealth and power with 
 
 unremitting ardour, O, 
 The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 
 
 your view the farther, O : 
 Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 
 
 to adore you, O, 
 A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer 
 
 before you, O. 
 
 Up in ilji! Bnrning rarltj. 
 
 Tune — Cold blows the Wind. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Up in the morning's no for me. 
 
 Up in the morning early : 
 ■When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 
 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west. 
 
 The drift is driving sairly; 
 Sae louu and shrill I hear the blast, 
 
 I'm sure its winter fairlj'. 
 
 The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
 A' day they fare but sparely ; 
 
 And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 irti, iljp iDiiDtn Billrr. 
 
 Tune— r/(e Dusly Miller. 
 
 Hey, the dusty miller. 
 
 And his dusty coat ; 
 
 He will win a shilling, 
 
 Or he spend a groat. 
 
 Dusty was the Coat, 
 
 Dusty was the colour. 
 Dusty was the kiss 
 That 1 got frae the raUler. 
 
 Hey, the dusty miller. 
 And his dusty sack ; 
 Leeze me on the calling 
 Fills the dusty peck — • 
 Fills the dusty peck. 
 
 Brings the dusty siller ; 
 I wad gie my coatie 
 For the dusty miller. 
 
 Unliiii. (382) 
 
 Tune — Dainty Davie, 
 
 There was a lad was bom in Kyle, 
 But whatna day o' whatna style 
 I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
 To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
 Robin was a rovin' boy, 
 
 Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 
 Robin was a rovin' boy, 
 Rantin' rovin' Robin I 
 
 Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
 Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
 'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win' 
 Blew hansel in on Robin. 
 
 The gossip keekit in his loof. 
 Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof. 
 This waly boy will be nae coof ; 
 I think we'll ca' him Robin. 
 
 He'll hae misfortunes great and sma'. 
 But aye a heart aboon them a'; 
 He'll be a credit till us a' — 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
 
 But sure as three times three mak nine. 
 I see by ilka score and line. 
 This chap will dearly like our kin'. 
 So leeze me on thee, Robin. 
 
 f !jb Srlls nf Stlaiirljlinr. (38'3) 
 
 In JIauchline there dwells six proper young 
 belles, [hood a'. 
 
 The pride of the place and its neighbour- 
 Their carriage and dress, a stranger would 
 gfues3, 
 In Loii'on or Paris they'd gotten it a*. 
 Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine. 
 Miss Smith she has wit, and !Miss Betty 
 is braw, [Morton ; 
 
 There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss 
 But Armour's the jewel for me o' them 
 a'. (384) 
 
 2Jrr /Inniing Inrks, (3S5) 
 
 Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
 Adowu her neck and bosom hing ; 
 How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
 
 And round that neck entwine her ! 
 Her lips are roses wat wi' dew. 
 Oh, what a feast her bonnie mou' I 
 Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
 
 A crimson still diviner. 
 
24fi 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS 
 
 iliE Inns nf m IRillip. (386) 
 
 Tune — Sliawuhoy. 
 Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 
 
 To follow the noble vocation ; 
 Your thrifty old mother has scarce such 
 another 
 
 To sit in that honoured station. 
 I've little to say, but only to pray, 
 
 As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
 A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 
 
 'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 
 Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
 tide. 
 
 Who marked each element's border ; 
 Who formed this frame with beneficent aim. 
 
 Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
 Within this dear mansion may wayward 
 contention 
 
 Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
 May secrecy round be the mystical bound. 
 
 And brotherly love be the centre. 
 
 Tune — Magfjy Lauder. 
 I MARRIED with a scolding wife. 
 
 The fourteenth of November; 
 She made me weary of my life. 
 
 By one unruly member. 
 Long did I bear the heavy yoke^ 
 
 And many griefs attended ; 
 But, to my comfort be it spoke. 
 
 Now, now her life is ended. 
 We lived full one-and-twenty years, 
 
 A man and wife together ; 
 At length from me her course she steer' d. 
 
 And gone I know not whither : 
 Would I could guess, I do profess, 
 
 I speak, and do not flatter, 
 Of all the women in the world, 
 
 I never could come at her. 
 Her body is bestowed well, 
 
 A handsome grave does hide her; 
 But sure her soul is not in hell. 
 
 The deil would ne'er abide her ! 
 I rather think she is aloft, 
 
 And imitating thunder ; 
 For why ? — methinks I hear her voice 
 
 Teering the clouds asunder ! 
 
 ^, a^jiari; Mil iina M ? (386) 
 
 Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 
 O, WHARE did you get that hauver meal ban- 
 nock ? 
 Oh silly blind body, oh dinna ye see ? 
 
 I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie. 
 
 Between Saint Johnston and bonuie Bun- 
 dee, 
 Oh, gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 
 
 Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
 May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie. 
 
 And send him safe hame to his babie and 
 me ! 
 My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie. 
 
 My blessin's upon thy bonnie ee-bree ! 
 Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger 
 laddie, 
 
 Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 
 But I'll big a bower on yon boiuiie banks. 
 
 Where Tay rins wimpliu' by sae clear ; 
 And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae line. 
 
 And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 
 
 ^jirr? mas a f ass. 
 
 Tune — Duncan Davison. 
 
 There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 
 
 And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
 Tliere was a lad that follow'd her. 
 
 They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
 The moor was driegh, and Meg was skeigh. 
 
 Her favour Duncan cotdd ua win ; 
 For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 
 
 And aye she shook the temper-pin. 
 As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 
 
 A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
 Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks. 
 
 And aye she set the wheel between : 
 But Duncan swore a haly aith 
 
 That Meg should be a bride the morn. 
 Then ]\Ieg took up her spinnin' graith. 
 
 And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 
 We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 
 
 And we will live like king and queen, 
 Sae blythe and merry we will be 
 
 When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
 A man may drink and no be drunk ; 
 
 A man may fight and no be slain ; 
 A man may kiss a bonnie lass. 
 
 And aye be welcome back again. 
 
 f antilaiiii, fount Hje tmlnl 
 
 Tune — Hey tuttie, taitie. 
 
 L.\ndlady, count the lawin. 
 
 The day is near the dawin ; 
 
 Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
 
 And I'm but jolly fou. 
 
 Hey tuttie, taitie. 
 
 How tuttie, taitie — 
 
 Wha's fou now ? 
 
FIRST WHE25 MAGGY WAS ]\IY CARE. 
 
 247 
 
 Cog, an ye were aye fou. 
 Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
 I wad sit and sing to you. 
 If ye were aye foil. 
 
 VVeel may ye a' be ! 
 Ill may we never sec ! 
 God bless tlie king, boys. 
 And the companie 1 
 
 mattlitt' ffinaiitt' aiJillip. 
 
 Tune — Raltlin' roarin' nilUe. 
 
 Oh, rattlin' roarin' Willie, 
 
 Oh, he held to the fair. 
 And for to sell his fiddle, 
 
 And buy some other ware; 
 But parting wi' his fiddle, 
 
 The saut tear blin't his ee; 
 And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 
 
 Ye're welcome hame to me ! 
 
 Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. 
 
 Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
 Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. 
 
 And buy a pint o' wine. 
 If I should sell my fiddle. 
 
 The warl would think I was mad ; 
 For mony a rantin' day 
 
 My fiddle and I hae had. 
 
 As I cam by Crochallan, 
 
 I caunily kcekit ben — 
 Rattlin' roarin' A^'il^c 
 
 Was sitting at y. n bo ird en' — 
 Sitting at yon bo:i d m'. 
 
 And amang giiid couipaoie; 
 Rattlin roaring' Willie, 
 
 Ye're welcome hame to me ! 
 
 Tunis — Aye ivaukin O. 
 
 Simmer's a pleasant time. 
 Flowers of every colour ; 
 
 The water rins o'er the heugh. 
 And I long for my true lover. 
 
 Aye waukin O, 
 
 Waukm still and wearie : 
 Sleep I can get naiie 
 
 For thinking on my dearie 
 
 When I sleep I dream, 
 When I wauk I'm eerie : 
 
 Sleep I can get nane 
 
 For thinking on my dearie. 
 
 Lanely night comes on, 
 A' the lave are sleeping ; 
 
 I think on my bonnie lad. 
 And bleer my een wi' greetin'. 
 
 31!rj tmi sIie's lint a lassis ijtt. 
 
 Tune — Lady Badinscoth's Reel. 
 
 My love she's but a lassie yet, 
 
 My love she's but a lassie yet. 
 We'll let her stand a year or twa. 
 
 She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
 I rue the day I sought her, O, 
 
 I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
 Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, 
 
 But he may say he's bought her, O ! 
 
 Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet. 
 
 Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 
 Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 
 
 But here I never miss'd it yet. 
 We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 
 
 We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
 The mmister kiss"d the fiddler's wife. 
 
 And could na preach for thinking o't 
 
 Cijr Captain's Xailii. 
 
 Tune — O Mount and Go. 
 
 Oil mount and go. 
 
 Mount and make you ready; 
 Oh mount and go. 
 
 And be the captain's lady; 
 
 When the drums do beat. 
 And the cannons rattle. 
 
 Thou shalt sit in state, 
 
 .And see thy love in battle. 
 
 When the vanquish'd foe 
 Sues for peace and quiet. 
 
 To the shades we'll go. 
 And ill love enjoy it. 
 
 /irst mljrn 3tlaggi| mas mtj Car?. 
 
 Tune — Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 
 FiKST when IMaggy was my care. 
 Heaven I thought was in her air; 
 Isow we're married — spier nae mair — 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
 Bonnie Meg was nature's child; 
 Wiser men than me's beguil'J — 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 
248 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 How vre live, my Mej;- and me, 
 How we love, and how we 'gree, 
 1 care na by how few may see — 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 Wlia I wish were maggot's meat 
 Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
 I could write — but Meg maun see't- 
 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
 
 Oh aye my wife she dang me. 
 And aft my wife did bang me. 
 
 If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
 
 Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergajig ytt 
 
 ijirir's a l^niitlj in lljis (Kitij. 
 
 To a Gaelic Air. 
 
 There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
 pity 
 That he frae our lasses should wander awa ; 
 For he's bonnie and braw, weel favoured 
 and a', 
 And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
 His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 
 His fecket is white as the new-driveu 
 snaw ; 
 His hose they are blae, and his shoon like 
 the slae. 
 And his clear siller buckles they dazzle 
 us a'. 
 
 For beauty and fortune the laddie's been 
 
 courtiti'; [and braw; 
 
 Weel-featured,weel-tocher'd,weel-mounted, 
 
 But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang 
 
 till her. 
 
 The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
 
 There's Meg wi' the mailen that fain wad 
 
 a-haen him ; [lia' ; 
 
 And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the 
 
 There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters 
 
 his fancy — [of a'. 
 
 But the laddie's dear sel' he Iocs dearest 
 
 ^^ Si]\i mij WiU sl]p Smig me. 
 
 Tune — My wife she Bang me. 
 
 AYE my wife she dang me. 
 
 And aft my wife did bang me. 
 If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
 
 Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
 On peace and rest my mind was bent. 
 
 And fool I was I married; 
 But never honest man's intent 
 
 As cursedly miscarried. 
 
 Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 
 When a' my days are done, man ; 
 
 My pains o' hell on earth are past, 
 I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
 
 0{ijiij Bair. 
 
 Tune — My Eppic. 
 
 And oh ! my Eppie, 
 My jewel, my Eppie ! 
 Wha wadna be happy 
 
 Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
 By love, and by beauty. 
 By law, and by duty, 
 I swear to be true to 
 
 My Eppie Adair 1 
 
 And oil ! my ]']ppie. 
 My jewel, my Eppie, 
 Wha wadna be happy 
 
 Wi' Eppie Adair? 
 A' pleasure exile me. 
 Dishonour defile me. 
 If e'er I beguile thee. 
 
 My Eppie Adair ! 
 
 CljB ^attb Df lljtrriff-BIttit. 
 
 Tune — Cameronian Rant. 
 
 " Oh cam ye here the fight to shun. 
 
 Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? 
 Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 
 
 And did the battle see, man?" 
 " I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
 And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. 
 My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough. 
 To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
 O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, , 
 Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, maiL 
 
 The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades. 
 To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
 They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 
 
 And mony a bouk did fa', man ; 
 The great Argyle led on his files, 
 I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : 
 They hack'd and hash'd while broadsw^ord» 
 
 clash'd, 
 Andthro'they dash'd,and hew'd,and smash'd. 
 Till fey men died awa, man. 
 
 But had you seen the philabegs. 
 And skyrin tartan trews, man; 
 
 When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs, 
 And covenant true blues, man ; 
 
THKhK vvA^^ A i,-\- 
 
THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE MARY. 
 
 249 
 
 In ]me^ extended lang and large, 
 ■yVhen bayonets opposed the targe, 
 And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
 \Vi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
 Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 
 They fled like frighted doos, man." 
 
 " Oh how die], Tam, can that be true ? 
 
 The chase gaed frae the North, man ; 
 1 saw myself, they did pursue 
 
 The horseman back to Forth, man ; 
 And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, 
 They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
 And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
 But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
 And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 
 
 For fear amaist did swarf, man !" 
 
 ' My sister Kate cam up the gate 
 
 Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
 She swore she saw some rebels run 
 
 Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
 Their left-hand general had nae skill. 
 The Angus lads had nae good will 
 That day their neibor's blood to spill ; 
 For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
 Then: cogs o, brose — all crying woes ; 
 
 And so it goes you see, man. 
 
 They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
 Amang the Higliland clans, man : 
 
 I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. 
 Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 
 
 Now wad ye sing tliis double fight. 
 
 Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 
 
 But mony bade tlie world guid-night ; 
 
 Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 
 
 By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
 
 Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell. 
 And Whigs to hell did flee, man." 
 
 Clie iigljlantt lliihra's lamrnt. (388) 
 
 Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 
 
 Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
 Without a penny in my purse. 
 
 To buy a meal to me. 
 
 It was na sae in the Highland hills, 
 
 Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
 Nae woman in the country wide 
 
 Sae happy was as me. 
 
 For then I had a score o' kye, 
 
 Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
 Feeding on yon hills so high. 
 
 And giving milk to me. 
 
 And there I had three score o' yowes, 
 
 Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
 Skipping on yon bonnie knowes. 
 
 And casting woo' to me. 
 
 I was the happiest of a' the clan, 
 
 Sair, sair may I repine ; 
 For Donald was the brawest lad. 
 
 And Donald he was mine. 
 
 Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 
 
 Sae far to set us free ;■ 
 My Donald's arm was wanted thea, 
 
 For Scotland and for me. 
 
 Their warfu' fate what need I tell ? 
 
 Right to the wrang did yield : 
 My Donald and his country fell 
 
 Upon Culloden's field. 
 
 Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 
 
 Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
 Nae woman in the world wide 
 
 Sae wretched now as me. 
 
 Tun e — Killiecrankie. 
 
 Wii.\RE hae ye been sae braw, lad? 
 
 Where hae ye been sae brankie, O ? 
 Oh, wharc hae ye been sae braw, lad? 
 
 Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 
 An ye had been whare I hae been. 
 
 Ye wad nae been sae cantie, O; 
 An ye had seen wliat I hae seen. 
 
 On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 
 
 I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 
 
 At hanie I fought my auntie, O ; 
 But I met the devil and Dundee, 
 
 On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
 The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 
 
 And Clavers got a clankie, O ; 
 Or I had fed an Athole gled, 
 
 On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O, 
 
 (!:!jrnirl 3}Ii:n|iE's SuniiiE 5i!an}. 
 
 Tune— r/ie Ruffian's Rant. 
 
 In coming by the brig o' Dye, 
 
 At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
 As day was dawin in the sky. 
 
 We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
 Theniel Menzie's bonnie JIary, 
 
 Theniel Menzie's bonnie !Mary ; 
 Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
 Kissiu' Tlieniel's bonnie Mary. 
 
 Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. 
 Her hatfet locks as brown's a berry ; 
 
 And aye they dimpl't wi' a smile. 
 The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 
 
250 
 
 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 We lap and danced the lee lang day. 
 Till piper lads were wae and weary: 
 
 Bat Charlie gat the spring to pay, 
 For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 
 
 /rat ijjB /ritnis aiili faiiii i f nire. 
 
 Air — Carron Side. 
 
 Frae the friends and land I love 
 
 Driv'n by fortune' felly spite, 
 Frae my best belov'd I rove. 
 
 Never mair to taste dcliji'l t ; 
 Never mair maim hope to tiud 
 
 Ease frae toil, relief frae care: 
 When remembrance wracks the miad. 
 
 Pleasures but unveil despair. 
 
 Brightest climes shall mirk appear. 
 
 Desert ilka blooming shore. 
 Till the fates nae mair severe. 
 
 Friendship, love, and peace restore; 
 Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 
 
 Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
 And ilk loyal bonnie lad 
 
 Cross the seas and win his ain. 
 
 §mit is lljE Sail. 
 
 Tone — Guidwife, Count the Lawin. 
 
 Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
 But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light. 
 For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
 And bluid-red wine's the rising sun. 
 
 Then guidwife, count the lawin, 
 The lawin, the lawin ; 
 Then guidwife, count the lawin. 
 And bring a coggie mair ; 
 
 There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
 And simple folk maun fight and fen; 
 But here we're a' in ae accord. 
 For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
 
 My coggie is a haly pool. 
 
 That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
 
 And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
 
 An ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. 
 
 f JIE fitljfr 31Inrn. 
 
 Tune — To a Iligldand air 
 
 The tither morn, when I forlorn 
 Aneath an aik sat moaning, 
 
 I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 
 Beside rae, gain the gloaming. 
 
 But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig, 
 
 And dawtingly dii' cheer me. 
 When I, what reck, uid least expec'. 
 
 To see my lad so near me. 
 
 His bonnet he, a thought ajee, 
 
 Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; 
 And I, I wat, wi' fainness grat. 
 
 While in his grips he press'd me. 
 Deil tak the war ! I late and air, 
 
 Hae wish'd since Jock departed; 
 But now as glad I'm wi my lad. 
 
 As short syne broken-hearted. 
 
 Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, 
 
 When a' were blythe and merry, 
 I car'd na by, sae sad was I, 
 
 In absence o' my dearie. 
 But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest, 
 
 I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 
 At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there. 
 
 And be as canty's ony. 
 
 fnniE ©nat hie n'rr ta (Cljarlip. 
 
 Tune — O'er the Water to Charlie. 
 
 Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er. 
 Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
 
 ril gie John Ross another bawbee. 
 To boat me o'er to Charlie. 
 
 We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea. 
 We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
 
 Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go 
 And live or die wi' Charlie. 
 
 I loe weel my Charlie's name 
 Tho' some there be abhor him : 
 
 But oh, to see auld Nick gaiin hame. 
 And Charlie's face before him ! 
 
 I swear and vow by moon and stars. 
 And sun that shines so early. 
 
 If 1 had twenty thousand lives, 
 I'd die as aft for Charlie. 
 
 St is na, Iran, iljii ©nnnir ^m. 
 
 Tune — The Maid's Complaint. 
 
 It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 
 
 Nor shape that I admire, 
 Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 
 
 Might weel awake desire. 
 Something, in ilka part o' thee. 
 
 To praise, to love, I find ; 
 But dear as is thy form to me, 
 
 Still dearer is thy mind. 
 
AS I "WAS A-TVANDERING. 
 
 251 
 
 Nae mair unsren'rous vriish I hae. 
 
 Nor stronger in my breiist, 
 Than if I canna mak thee sae, 
 
 At least to see thee Idlest. 
 Content am I, if Heaven shall give 
 
 But happiness to thee : 
 And as ^^•i' thee I'd wish to live. 
 
 For thee I'd bear to die. 
 
 % ^u a Wlft n' mil Sin. (389) 
 
 Tun e — Naehody. 
 
 I HAE a wife o' my ain — • 
 
 I'll partake wi' naebody; 
 I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
 
 I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 
 I hae a penny to spend. 
 
 There — thanks to naebody ; 
 I liae naethiug to lend, 
 
 I'll borrow frae naebody, 
 
 I am naebody's lord — 
 
 I'll be slave to naebody; 
 I hae a guid braid sword, 
 
 I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 
 I'll be merry and free, 
 
 I'll be sad for naebody ; 
 If naebody care for me, 
 
 I'll care for naebody. 
 
 XlatljshlB's ilirlrnmo Sum?. 
 
 The noble Maxwells and their powers 
 
 Are comhig o'er the border. 
 And they'll gae bigg Terreagles towers, 
 
 And set them a' in order. 
 And they declare Terreagles fair. 
 
 For their abode they chuse it ; 
 There's no a heart in a' the land, 
 
 But's lighter at the news o't. 
 
 Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 
 
 And angry tempests gather, 
 The happy hour may soon be near 
 
 That brings us pleasant weather: 
 The weary night o' care and grief 
 
 May hae a joyful morrow ; 
 So dawning day has brought relief— 
 
 Fareweel our niRht o' sorrow 1 
 
 ain Cnllirr Xaiiiilj. 
 
 Tune — The Collier Laddie, 
 
 Where live ye, my bonnie lass? 
 
 And tell me what they ca' ye ; 
 My name, she says, is Jlistrcss Jean, 
 
 And I follow the Collier Laddie. 
 
 Jly name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
 And I follow the Collier Laddie. 
 
 See you not yon hills and dales, 
 The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 
 
 They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 
 Gin ye'll leave your Collier I^addie. 
 
 They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 
 Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 
 
 Ye shall sjang in gay attire, 
 
 Wecl buskit up sae gaudy ; 
 And ane to wait on every band. 
 
 Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie, 
 And ane to wait on every hand, 
 
 Gin ye'll leave your CoUier Laddie. 
 
 Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
 And the earth conceals sae lowly; 
 
 I wad turn my back on you and it a'. 
 And embrace my Collier Laddie. 
 
 I wad turn my back on you and it a*. 
 And embrace my Collier Laddie. 
 
 I can win my five pennies in a day, 
 A nd spen 't at night fu' brawlie ; 
 
 And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
 And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie, 
 
 And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
 And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 
 
 Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 
 
 Tho' the wee cot-house should hand me; 
 
 And the world before me to win my bread. 
 And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 
 
 And the world before me to win my bread. 
 And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 
 
 23 
 
 Sis S mas a-IVaniirring, 
 
 Tune — Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh. 
 
 As I was a-wanderieg ane midsummer e'enin'. 
 
 The pipers and youngsters were making 
 
 their game ; 
 
 Amang tlicta I sjned my faithless fause lover. 
 
 Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour 
 
 again. 
 
 Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure 
 
 gae wi' him ; [plain. 
 
 I may be distress'd, but I winna com- 
 
 I flatter my fancy I may get anithcr. 
 
 My heart it shall never be broken for 
 
 ane. 
 
 I couldna get sleeping till dawin for greetin'. 
 The tears trickled down like the liail and 
 the rain ; 
 
 Had I ua got greetin', my heart wad a broken. 
 For oh I love forsaken's a torraentnig pain. 
 
252 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Allliou^h he lias left me for greed o' the 
 siller, 
 
 I diniia envy liim the gains he can win ; 
 I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 
 
 Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 
 
 f^E Sarnliitrs hif SlaniB. 
 
 Tune — Ye Jacobites by Name. 
 Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give auear ; 
 Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
 Ye Jacobites by name. 
 
 Your fautes I will proclaim. 
 
 Your doctrines 1 maun blame — 
 You shall hear. 
 What is right and what is wrang, by the law, 
 by the law ? [law ? 
 
 What is nglit and what is wrang by the 
 What is right and what is wrang? 
 A short sword and a lang, 
 A weak arm, and a Strang 
 For to draw. 
 Wliat makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd 
 afar ? 
 What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar ? 
 What makes heroic strife ? 
 To whet th' assassin's knife. 
 Or hunt a parent's life 
 Wi' bluidie war. 
 Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in 
 the state ; 
 Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
 Then let your schemes alone. 
 Adore the rising sun. 
 And leave a man undone 
 To his fate. 
 
 ts^v, 3ilHn{ Sinn. 
 
 Tune — Craigtown's growing. 
 
 Oh, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle 
 
 wa' ; 
 She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba' ; 
 The youngest he was the flower amang them 
 
 a' — [yet. 
 
 Jly bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' 
 
 Oh father ! oh father ! an ye think it fit. 
 We'll send him a year to tlie college yet : 
 We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat. 
 And that will let them kea he's to marry 
 
 yet. 
 
 Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew. 
 
 Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 
 
 And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it 
 
 grew : [yet. 
 
 For the hly in the bud will be bonnier 
 
 Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of 
 an aik ; [makes, 
 
 Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was it : 
 The sun took delight to shine for its sake. 
 And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 
 
 The simmer is gane when the leaves they 
 
 were green. 
 And the days are awa that we hae seen ; 
 But far better days I trust will come again. 
 For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's 
 
 growin' yet. 
 
 M un iljp /aillj. 
 
 Tune — Charlie Gordon's Welcome Hame. 
 
 Out over the Forth I look to-the north, 
 But what is the noith and its Highlands 
 to me ? 
 
 The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
 The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 
 
 But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
 That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
 may be ; 
 
 For far in the west lives he I Ice best. 
 The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 
 
 Snrkrij's tarn ilii; ^^arting IRiss. ■ 
 
 Tune — Jockey's taen the Parting Kist. 
 
 Jockey's taen the parting kiss. 
 
 O'er the mountahis he is gane ; 
 And within him is a' my bliss. 
 
 Nought but griefs with me remain. 
 Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
 
 Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
 Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
 
 Drifting o'er the frozen plain 
 
 Wien the shades of evening creep 
 
 O'er the day's fair, glads<jme ee, 
 Sound and safely may he sleep. 
 
 Sweetly blythe his waukening be I 
 He will think on her he loves. 
 
 Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
 For where'er he distant roves. 
 
 Jockey's heart is still at bame. 
 
 €^i Carlrs n' Diisart, 
 
 Tune — Hey ca' thro' 
 
 Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
 And the lads o' Buckliaven, 
 
 And the kimmers o' Largo, 
 And the lasses o' Leven. 
 
SAE FAR AWA. 
 
 253 
 
 Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
 For we liae mickle ado ; 
 
 Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
 I'or we hae mickle ado. 
 
 We hae tales to tell. 
 
 And we hae sangs to sing ; 
 We hae pennies to spend. 
 
 And we hae pints to bring. 
 
 We'll live a' our days. 
 
 And them that come behin'. 
 Let them do the like. 
 
 And spend the gear they win. 
 
 f aUij M'lt, 
 
 Tune — The Ruffian's Rant. 
 
 A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, 
 
 When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
 They'll step in and tak a pint 
 Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky I 
 Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 
 
 Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky I 
 I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
 The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 
 
 Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 
 
 I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 
 
 And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 
 
 Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky I 
 
 Lady Oulie, honest Lucky, 
 
 Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
 I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
 The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 
 
 ^nnitg %mii, l^klh nf a' tjis '^31ain. 
 
 Tune — 2'Ae Carlin o' the Glen. 
 
 Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
 Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; 
 Thro' a' our lasses he did rove. 
 And reigned resistless king of love : 
 But now wi' sighs and starting tears. 
 He strays araang the woods and briers ; 
 Or in the glens and rocky caves 
 His sad complaining dowie raves. 
 
 I wha sae late did range and rove. 
 And chang'd with every moon my love, 
 I little thought the time was near. 
 Repentance 1 should buy sae dear : 
 The slighted maids my torment see^ 
 And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
 While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair. 
 Forbids me e'er to see her mair ! 
 
 ^rnnq's a' mat, ;innr ©Diri|. 
 
 Tune — Coming throwjh the Rye. 
 
 Coming through the rye, poor body, 
 
 Coming throTigh the rye. 
 She draiglct a' her petticoatie, 
 Cuming through the rye. 
 Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 
 
 Jenny's seldom dry ; 
 She draiglct a' her petticoatie, 
 
 Coming through the r3'e. 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Coming through the rye, 
 Gin a body kiss a body, 
 
 Need a body cry ? 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Coming through the glen. 
 Gin a body kiss a body. 
 Need the world ken ? 
 
 Clji! Cariiiii' n't. 
 
 Tune — Salt-fish and Dumplings. 
 
 I COFT a stane o' haslock woo'. 
 
 To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
 For Johnny is my only jo, 
 I loe him best of ony yet. 
 
 The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't. 
 
 The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
 When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
 The tailor staw the linin o't. 
 For though his locks be lyart grey. 
 
 And though his brow be held abooQ; 
 Yet I hae seen him on a day. 
 The pride of a' the parisben. 
 
 ®n tijrj, Innrii M\). 
 
 To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
 AVhere late wi' careless thought I rang'il, 
 
 Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe. 
 To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 
 
 I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
 Tho' meni'ry there my bosom tear ; 
 
 For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
 Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear 1 
 
 lai far 3raa. 
 
 Tune — Dalkeith Maiden Bridge. 
 
 On, sad and heavy should I part. 
 But for her sake sae far awa ; 
 
 Unknowing what my way may thwart 
 My native land sae far awa. 
 
251 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Tho\i that of a' tlin<rs Maker art, 
 Tliat form'd this ftiir sae far awa, 
 
 Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 
 At this my way sae far awa. 
 
 How true is love to pure desert. 
 
 So love to her, sae far awa : 
 And nocht can heal my bosom's smart. 
 
 While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
 I'Jane other love, nane other dart, 
 
 I feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
 But fairer never touch'd a heart 
 
 Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 
 
 Wsii is iiitj 3?rart. 
 
 Tune — Wae is my Heart. 
 
 Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
 Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
 Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear. 
 And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in 
 my ear. 
 
 Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I 
 loved : [proved ; 
 
 Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I 
 
 But this bruised heart that now bleeds in 
 my breast, 
 
 I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 
 
 Oh, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
 Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle- 
 green ; [me. 
 For there he is wand'ring, and musing on 
 Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee. 
 
 ilinang Hje Iwps. 
 
 Tune — The King of France, he rade a Race. 
 
 Amang the trees where humming bees 
 
 At buds and flowers were hinging, O, 
 Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 
 
 And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
 'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels. 
 
 She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O, 
 When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels. 
 
 That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 
 
 Their capon craws and queer ha, ha's. 
 
 They made our lugs grow eerie, O ; 
 The hungry bike did scrape and pike 
 
 Till we were wae and weary, O. 
 But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd, 
 
 A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
 He fir'd a fiddler in the North 
 
 That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. 
 
 Tvt^E— If thouHt Play me Fair Play. 
 The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 
 
 Bonnie Highland laddie. 
 On his head a bonnet blue, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
 His royal heart was firm and true, 
 
 Bonnie Higliland laddie. 
 
 Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 
 
 Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; 
 And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 
 
 Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
 Glory, honour, now invite, 
 
 Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie. 
 For freedom and my king to fight, 
 
 Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
 
 Tlie sun a backward course shall take, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
 Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 
 
 Bonnie Highland laddie. 
 Go ! for yourself procure renown, 
 
 Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie; 
 And for your lawful king his crown, 
 
 Bonnie Highland laddie. 
 
 SJannnrks n' ©arljij. 
 
 Tune — The Killogie, 
 
 Bannocks o' bear meal. 
 
 Bannocks o' barley ; 
 Here's to the Highlandraan's 
 
 Bannocks o' barley. 
 Wha in a brulzie 
 
 Will first cry a parley ? 
 Never the lads wi' 
 
 The bannocks o' barley ! 
 
 Bannocks o' bear meal. 
 
 Bannocks o' barley ; 
 Here's to the lads wi' 
 
 The bannocks o' barley I 
 Wha in his wae-days 
 
 Were loyal to Charlie?— 
 Wha but the lads wi' 
 
 The bannocks o' barley? 
 
 fxnbin IJjnrE k MslxA, 
 
 Robin shure in hairst, 
 I shure wi' him ; 
 
 Fient a heuk had I, 
 Yet I stack by him. 
 
THE LADDIES BY TUE BANKS O'NITH. 
 
 255 
 
 I gaed up to Dunse, 
 
 To warp a wab o' plaiden ; 
 At his (laddie's yett, 
 
 Wha met mc but Robiu? 
 Was na Robin bauld, 
 
 Though I was a cotter, 
 Play'd nie sic a trick, 
 
 And me the eller's dochterP 
 Robin promised me 
 
 A' my winter vittlc ; 
 Fient liaet he had but three 
 
 Goose feathers and a whittle. 
 
 Imrrtrst M^. 
 
 Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; 
 Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
 As thy constant slave regard it ; 
 For its faith and truth reward it. 
 Proof o' shot to birth or money. 
 Not the wealthy but the bounie ; 
 Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
 la love's silken band can bind it. 
 
 €l}t fass nf (Errlrfrrljan. 
 
 Tune — Jachj Latin. 
 
 Gat ye me, oh gat ye me. 
 
 Oh gat ye me wi' naethin^ 
 Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 
 
 A mickle quarter basin. 
 Bye attour, my gutcher has 
 
 A Inch house and a laigh ane, 
 A' forbye my bonnie sel'. 
 
 The lass of Ecclefcchan. 
 
 Oh hand your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 
 
 Oh hand your tongue and jannier ; 
 I held the gate till you I met. 
 
 Syne I began to wander : 
 I tint my whistle and my sang, 
 
 I tint my peace and pleasure : 
 But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 
 
 Wad airt me to my treasure. 
 
 Mm's K SottlE ani an Unnrst .hm'ii. 
 
 Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 
 
 AVha wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
 Wha kens, before his life may end, 
 
 AVhat his share may be o' Cire, man? 
 Then catch the moments as they fly. 
 
 And use them as ye ought, man :— 
 Believe me, happiness is shy. 
 
 And comes na aye when sought, man. 
 
 (!^^ a '^cMDiigljraan. 
 
 As I was a-wand'ring ane morning in spring, 
 I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to 
 
 sing ; 
 And as he was singing these words, he did say. 
 There's uae life like the iiloughman's in the 
 
 month o' sweet JIay. 
 
 The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae 
 her nest, [breast. 
 
 And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 
 
 And wi' t!ie merry ploughman she'll wliistle 
 and sing, [again. 
 
 And at night she'll return to her nest back 
 
 Tune— r/ie Weanj Pwul o' Tow. 
 
 The weary pund, the weary puud. 
 
 The weary pund o' tow ; 
 I think my wife will end lier life 
 
 Before she spin her tow. 
 
 I bought my wife a stane o' lint 
 
 As guid as e'er did grow ; 
 And a' that she has made o' that. 
 
 Is ane poor pund o' tow. 
 
 There sat a bottle in a bole, 
 
 Beyont the ingle lowe. 
 And aye she took the tither souk. 
 
 To drouk the stowrie tow. 
 
 Quoth \, for shame, ye dirty dame, 
 
 Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
 She took the rock, and wi' a knock 
 
 She brak it o'er my pow. 
 
 At last her feet — I sang to see't — 
 Gaed foremost o'er the kuowe ; 
 
 And ere I wad anither jad, 
 I'll wallop in a tow. 
 
 (TiljB tM\n hij tljc %mh n' Jflitlj. (soo) 
 
 Tune — Up and waur them a'. 
 
 The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
 Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 
 
 But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king. 
 Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 
 
 Up and waur them a', Jamie, 
 
 Up and waur them a' ; 
 The Johnstones hae the guidiu' o't. 
 
 Ye turncoat whigs, awa. 
 
 23^ 
 
276 
 
 BUlt>rS-S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The day lie stude his country's friend. 
 Or gied lier faes a daw, Jamie, 
 
 Or frae puir mati a lilessin' wan, 
 That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 
 
 But wha is he, his country's boast ? 
 
 Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
 There's no a callant tents the kye. 
 
 But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 
 
 To end the wark, here's Wliistlebirci, 
 Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 
 
 And Maxwell true o' sterling blue. 
 And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 
 
 cltplgrninij, ^r. 
 
 (Dn f aptain <S)rnsj^ 
 
 THE CELEBRATED ANTiaUARY. (391) 
 
 The Devil got notice that Grose was 
 
 a-dying, [flying; 
 
 So whip! at the summons, old Satin came 
 
 But when he approach'd where poor Francis 
 
 lay moaning. 
 And saw each bed-post with its burden a- 
 groaning (392), 
 
 Astonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, " By 
 
 I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load,' 
 
 dttn a SJrnprrkril (i^niintrtj liiitirp. 
 
 Oh death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
 
 Whom we this day lament. 
 We freely wad exchang'd the wife. 
 
 And a' been weel content. 
 
 E'en as he is, caulJ in his graff. 
 
 The swap we yet will do't ; 
 Tak thou the carlin's carcase aff, 
 
 Thou'se get the saul to boot. 
 
 Sniit|)pr na \}b XUihni. 
 
 One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
 When deprived of her husband she loved so 
 
 well, [show'd her. 
 
 In respect for the love and affection he 
 She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank oflf 
 
 the powder. 
 
 But Clueen Netherplace, of a different cora« 
 plexion, [tion. 
 
 When call'd on to order the fun'ral direc- 
 
 Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender 
 pretence, [expense ! 
 
 Not to show her respect, but — to save the 
 
 i)ii f IpIjinstnaE's 
 franslatinns nf ^llartial's digrams. 
 
 (393) 
 
 Oh thou, whom poesy abhors, 
 AVhom prose has turned out of doors, 
 Heard'st thou that groan — proceed no 
 
 further ; 
 Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther I 
 
 i^n BIi53 S Irnlt, nf Iqr. 
 
 Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times. 
 Been Jeany Scott, as thou art; 
 The bravest heart on English ground. 
 Had yielded like a coward. 
 
 ^n an lllitrrah irntlmaa, 
 
 who had a fine library. 
 
 Free through the leaves, ye maggots, make 
 
 your windings ; [bindings ! 
 
 But for the owner's sake, oh spare tha 
 
 UNDERTHE picture of MISS BURNS. (394) 
 
 Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings. 
 Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 
 
 True it is, she had one failing- 
 Had a woman ever less ? 
 
 X^rittra nn a XViaiiDra nf iljp iaa 
 
 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 whan we tirled at your door. 
 Your porter dought na hear us ; 
 
 Sae may, should we to hell's yetts corner 
 Your billy Satan sair us I 
 
ON THE EARL OF * ♦ • * 267 
 
 WtlWu m a '^3anE nf §\m QUjt ,f nlrran I^ragnu ul dTnnrnaDt. 
 
 IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. (395) 
 
 ASK why God made the gem so small. 
 And why so huge the granite ? 
 
 Because God meant mankind should set 
 The higher value on it. 
 
 /raginrnt. (396) 
 
 The black-headed eagle 
 
 Aa keen as a beagle, 
 He hunted o^^tc height and owre howe ; 
 
 But feU in a trap 
 
 On the braes o' Gemappe, 
 E'en let him come out as he dowe. 
 
 i^n Snrinilitij sIididii Ijira at Snarrnarij. 
 
 (397) 
 
 Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 
 
 I pity much his case, 
 Unless he come to wait upon 
 
 The Lord their God, his Grace. 
 
 There's naething here but Highland pride. 
 And Higliland scab and hunger ; 
 
 If providence has sent me here, 
 'Twas surely in his auger. 
 
 iigljlanli i^s{Iitalit^. (398) 
 
 When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
 A time that surely shall come. 
 
 In Heaven itself I'll ask no more. 
 Than just a Higliland welcome 
 
 lints nil Biss IRrmbh. 
 
 Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 
 
 Of Moses and his rod ; 
 At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 
 
 The rock with tears had flow'd. 
 
 ^n l.IjE lirk at f amingtnn. 
 
 A CAULD day December blew, 
 A cauld kirk, and iu't but few, 
 A caulder minister never spak — 
 They'll a' be warm ere I come back. 
 
 (399) 
 
 The Solemn League and Covenant 
 
 Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears : 
 
 But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
 If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 
 
 di'ii a Crrtaln '^.^irsnn's f nnks. 
 
 That there is falsehood in his looks 
 
 I must and will deny ; 
 They say their master is a knave— 
 
 And sure they do not lie. 
 
 <^\i Irring tljB IJraiitifnl .frat 
 
 OF THE EARL OF 
 
 What dost thou in that mansion fair? — 
 
 Flit, * * * * and find 
 Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave. 
 The picture of thy mind ! 
 
 H llic (0arl d* • • • 
 
 No Stewart art thou, * » * » 
 The Stewarts all were brave ; 
 
 Besides, the Stewarts were but fools. 
 Not one of them a knave. 
 
 On the Same. 
 
 Bright ran thy line, oh * » * • 
 Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 
 
 So ran tlie far-fam'd Roman way. 
 So ended in a mire. 
 
 To the Same, 
 
 ON the author being threatened 
 with his resentment. 
 
 Spare me thy vengeance, • » * ( 
 
 In quiet let me Uve : 
 I ask no kindness at thy hand. 
 
 For thou hast none to give. 
 
258 
 
 DURNS'S POETICAL WORK&. 
 
 (Dii an (Smirfti ^JTrllDiii, 
 
 WHO IN COMPANY ENGROSSED THE CONVERSATION 
 WITH AN ACCOUNT OP HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 
 
 No more of your titled acquaintances boast, 
 And what nobles and gentles you've seen ; 
 
 An insect is still but an insect at most, 
 Tho' it crawl on the curl of a Q,ueea ! 
 
 WiWim m a 1{hM nf &h5% 
 
 ON THE OCCASION OP A NATIONAL 
 THANKSGIVING FOR A NAVAL VICTORY. 
 
 Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks ? — 
 To murder men, and gie God thanks ! 
 For shame ! gie o'er, proceed no further — 
 God won't accept your thanks for murther ! 
 
 ^^ f rnB fnpl Mlm. (4oo) 
 
 Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song 
 In uproar and riot rejoice the night long : 
 From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 
 But where is your shield from the darts o' 
 contempt ? 
 
 Qiisrriptinn nil a §Mit 
 
 There's death in the cup — sae beware! 
 
 Nay, more — there is danger in touching 
 But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 
 
 The man and his wine's sae bewitching I 
 
 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. 
 
 Sn 3Hr. Ipp, 
 
 WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 
 
 On, had the malt thy strength of mind. 
 Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
 
 'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
 A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 
 
 QIIlB €m]i Ef ^JnHcrtti. (40i) | 
 
 In politics if thou would'st mix, 
 
 And mean thy fortunes be. 
 Bear this in mind : — be deaf and bliu^ 
 
 Let great folks hear and see. 
 
 miltrn in a f aiiii's f nrkpt-SSnnit. 
 
 Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may 
 live, [give. 
 
 To see the miscreants feel the pains they 
 Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air. 
 Till slave and despot be but things which 
 
 Qf-n M)R laijlnr. (402) 
 
 With Pegasus upon a day, 
 
 Apollo weary flying. 
 Through frosty hills the journey lay. 
 
 On foot the way was plying. 
 
 Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 
 
 Was but a sorry walker ; 
 To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 
 
 To get a frosty calker. 
 
 Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
 Threw by his coat and bonnet. 
 
 And did Sol's business in a crack; 
 Sol paid him with a sonnet. 
 
 Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 
 
 Pity my sad disaster ; 
 My Pegasus is poorly shod — 
 
 I'll pay you like my master. 
 
 f n Biss /nntEnrllp, 
 
 ON SEEING HER IN A FAVOURITE 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 Sweet naivete of feature. 
 Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 
 
 Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
 Thou art acting but thyself. 
 
 Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
 Spurning nature, torturing art; 
 
 Loves and graces all rejected. 
 Then indeed thou'd'st act a part 
 
GRACES BEFORE MEAT. 
 
 259 
 
 (CIjp f nast. (403) 
 
 Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a 
 
 toast — 
 Here's the memory of those on the twelth 
 
 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. [King! 
 
 The next in succession, I'll give you — the 
 Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 
 
 swing ; [tution. 
 
 And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
 As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
 And longer with politics not to be cramm'd. 
 Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd : 
 And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
 May his son be a hangman, and he his first 
 
 trial. 
 
 £xn5mm Itninrrsal, 
 
 WRITTEN ON A 'WINDOW. (404) 
 
 Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer- 
 ing [hearing, 
 'Gainst poor excisemen ? give the cause a 
 Vrha.t are your landlords' rent-rolls ? teazing 
 ledgers : [mighty gangers : 
 ■\Vhat premiers— what ? even raonarchs' 
 Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly 
 
 wise men ? 
 What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen ? 
 
 ■ffin Dr. Harrarll, 
 
 ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 
 
 Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 
 
 That merit I deny — 
 You save fair Jessy from the grave I 
 
 An angel could not die. 
 
 (Dn Smsii tmm. (405) 
 
 Talk not to me of savages 
 
 From Afric's burning sun ; 
 No savage e'er could rend my heart. 
 
 As, Jessy, thou hast done. 
 But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 
 
 A mutual faith to plight. 
 Not even to view the heavenly choir 
 
 Would be so blest a sight. 
 
 Toast to the Same. (406) 
 
 Fill me with the rosy wine. 
 Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
 Give the poet's darling flame. 
 Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
 Then thou mayest freely boast 
 Thou hast given a peerless toast 
 
 Epitaph on the Same. (40'7) 
 
 Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 
 Can turu death's dart aside? 
 
 It is not purity and worth. 
 Else Jessy had not died. 
 
 To the Same. 
 
 But rarely seen since Nature's birth. 
 
 The natives of the sky ; 
 Yet still one seraph's left on earth. 
 
 For Jessy did not die. 
 
 §nm kim 3l!rat. 
 
 Some hae meat and canna eat, 
 And some would eat that want it, 
 
 But we hae meat, and we can eat, 
 Sae let the Lord be thankit. 
 
 Oh Thou, who kindly dost provide 
 
 For every creature's want ! 
 We bless Thee, God of Nature wide. 
 
 For all thy goodness lent : 
 
 And, if it please Thee, heavenly guide. 
 
 May never worse be sent ; 
 But whether granted or denied. 
 
 Lord, bless us with content 1 Amen ! 
 
 On Thou, in whom we live and move 
 
 Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
 Thy goodness constantly we prove. 
 
 And grateful would adore. 
 And if it please thee, Pow'r above, 
 
 Still grant us, with such store. 
 The friend we trust, the fair we love, 
 
 And we desire no more. 
 
260 
 
 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 (!^|iitn|il)3. 
 
 (^n iljB UnWjJifs /atljrr. 
 
 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 fear'd no human 
 pride ; 
 The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 
 
 "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 
 side." (408) 
 
 (Dtt a iinptrk'ir fonutrij Ipirj. 
 
 As father Adam first was fool'd, 
 A case that's still too common, 
 
 Here lies a man a woman rul'd. 
 The devil rul'd the woman 
 
 (Dn K l^rirbratrJi Unling Cllirr. 
 
 Here souter Hood in death does sleep- 
 To hell, if he's gane thither. 
 
 Satan, gie him the gear to keep 
 He'U hand it weel thegither. 
 
 <^n a Slcisti 1.^nlrniir. (409) 
 
 Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes: 
 
 Oh Death, it's my opinion, 
 Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 
 
 Into thy dark dominion ! 
 
 <^n ajlri; Snljnnif. (4io) 
 
 niC JACET WEE JOHNNY. 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, oh reader, know. 
 That death has murder'd Johnny I 
 
 And here his body lies fu' low— 
 For saul he ne'er had ony. 
 
 (Dn SdIjh Bmt. 
 
 innkeeper, MAUCHLINK. 
 
 Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; 
 ^V^lat was his religion ? 
 
 Wha e'er desires to ken. 
 To some other warl' 
 Maun foUow the carl. 
 
 For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane I 
 
 Strong ale was ablution — 
 Small beer, persecution, 
 
 A dram was metnento mori; 
 But a full flowing bowl 
 AVas the joy of his soul. 
 
 And port was celestial glory. 
 
 /nr mnlipit liksn, f sij. 
 
 Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
 Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name I 
 (For none that knew him need be told) 
 A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 
 
 ^n a /rlrnll. 
 
 An honest man here lies at rest 
 As e'er God with his image blest ! 
 The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
 The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 
 
 Few hearts like his, with ^•irtue warm'd. 
 Few heads with knowledge so inform'd ; 
 If there's another world, he lives in bUss ; 
 If there is none, he made the best of this. 
 
 /nr §nm iamiltnn. 
 
 The poor man weeps — here Gavin 
 "Wliom cantmg wretches blam'd : 
 
 But with such as he, where'er he be. 
 May I be sav'd or damn'd 1 
 
 <^Jl ll'at. 
 
 Sic a reptile was AVat, 
 
 Sic a miscreant slave. 
 That the very worms damn'd him 
 
 When laid in his grave. 
 " In his flesh there's a famine," 
 
 A starv'd reptile cries ; 
 " And his heart is rank poison," 
 
 Another replies. 
 
I ; A \' \! ( ) ( ' ! < 1 ', I 1 1 ; n: 
 
ON A riCTURE. 26] 
 
 (S>n H Irlinnlmajfrr ^^ §zbnii HirffarJtsnn, 
 
 IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 
 
 Hkre lie Willie Micliie's banes, 
 Oh Satan, when ye tak hiui, 
 
 Gie him the schoolin' of j'onr weans ; 
 For clever deils he'll mak 'cm 1 
 
 (Dn Bt, III £niirl!5!i;iiik3. 
 
 Honest "Will's to Heaven j,^aue. 
 And mony shall lament him ; 
 
 His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
 In Enrfish aaue e'er keiit them. 
 
 /ur 'll'illiani ?!irnl. 
 
 Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain. 
 For few sic feasts you've gotten ; 
 
 You've got a prize o' \Villie's heart. 
 For deil a bit o't's rotten. 
 
 Stop thief! dame Nature cried to Death, 
 As Willie drew his latest breath ; 
 You have my choicest model taea 
 How shall I make a fool agaiu ? 
 
 On the Same. 
 
 Rest gently, turf, upon his breast. 
 His chicken heart's so tender ; — 
 But rear huge castles on his head. 
 His skull wUl prop them uuder. 
 
 BRliWBR, DLMFRIES, (409) 
 
 Hf.rf. Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct. 
 An I empty all his barrels ; 
 
 lie's blest — if as he brew'd he drink — 
 In upright honest morals. 
 
 (3) II ? n Ij II S n 5 Ij li ij, 
 
 WRITER, DUMFRIES. 
 
 ITf.re Hls John Bushby, honest man! 
 Cheat him, devil, if you cau. 
 
 (l>n 11)0 I'EPt'ii Jlaiigljtrr. 
 
 Mere lies a rose, a budding rose, 
 
 Blasted before its bloom; 
 Wiinse innocence did sweets disclose 
 
 Beyond that flower's perfume. 
 
 To those who for her loss are griev'd. 
 This consolation's given — 
 
 She's from a world of woe reliev'd. 
 And blooms a rose in heaven. 
 
 REPRESENTING JACOB'S DREAM. 
 
 Dear , I'll gie you some advice, 
 
 You'll tak it no uncivil : 
 You shoukhia paint at angels mair. 
 
 But try and paint the d — 1. 
 
 To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
 AVI' auld Nick there's less danger j 
 
 You'll easy draw a weel-kent face. 
 But no sae weel a stranger. 
 
r 
 
 CnrrtHfntiknre nf ^nxm. 
 

 (13 renpoiikiire of Suras- 
 
 NO. 1. 
 
 rO MR JOHN ]\[URDOCH, SCHOOL- 
 MASTER, 
 
 STAFLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
 
 Lochha, loth January, 1783. 
 Dear Sir. — .^s I have an opportunity of 
 seniliiij? you a letter without putting you to 
 tliat expense which any production of mine 
 would but ill repay, I embrace it witli plea- 
 sure, to tell you tliat I have not forirotten, 
 nor ever will forijet, tlie many obligations I 
 lie under to your kindness and friendship. 
 
 I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to 
 know what has been the result of all the 
 pains of an indnl^-eut father and a niasterly 
 teacher, and I wish I could gratify your 
 curiosity with such a recital as you would be 
 pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid 
 will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept 
 pretty clear of vicious habits, and, in this 
 respect, I hope my conduct will not disgrace 
 the education I have gotten ; but, as a mau 
 of the world, I am most miserably deficieut. 
 
 One would have thought that, bred as I liava 
 been, under a father, who has figured pretty 
 well as nn homme des affaires, I might have 
 been what the world calls a pushing, active 
 fellow ; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there 
 is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem 
 to be one sent into the world to see and ob- 
 serve ; and I very easily compound with the 
 knave who tricks me of my money, if there 
 be any thing original about him, which shows 
 nie human nature in a dilfereut light from 
 any thing I have seen before. In short, the 
 joy of my heart is to " study men, their 
 manners, and their w^ays ;" and for this dar- 
 ling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other 
 consideration. I am quite indolent about 
 those great concerns that set the bustling, 
 busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to an- 
 swer for the present hour, I am very easy 
 with regard to any thing further. Even the 
 last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the 
 wretched does nor much terrify me : I know 
 that even then, my talent for what country 
 folks call a " sensible crack," when once it is 
 sauctilied by a hoary head, would procure; me 
 
206 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BUEN3. 
 
 so much esteem, that, even then, I would 
 learn to be happy. However, I am under no 
 apprehensions about that ; for though indo- 
 lent, yet so far as an extremely delicate con- i 
 stitution permits, I am not lazy, and in many 
 things^ especially in tavern matters, I am a 
 strict economist — not, indeed, for the sake 
 of the money, but cue of the principal parts 
 in my composition is a kind of pride of sto- 
 mach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any 
 man living — above every thing, I abhor, as hell, 
 the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
 dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, 
 who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis 
 this, and this alone, that endears economy 
 to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am 
 very profuse. My favourite authors are of 
 the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, 
 particularly his " Elegies ; " Thomson ; 
 " Man of Feeling" — a book I prize next to 
 the Bible ;—" Man of the World;" Sterne, 
 especially his " Sentimental Journey ;" Mac- 
 plierson's " Ossian," &c. ; these are the glo- 
 rious models after which I endeavour to form 
 my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, 
 to suppose that the man whose mind glows 
 with sentiments lighted up at their sacred 
 flame — the man whose heart distends with 
 benevolence to all the human race — he "who 
 can soar above this little scene of things " — 
 can he descend to mind the paltry concerns 
 about which the terrrefilial race fret, and fume, 
 and vex themselves ! Oh how the glorious 
 triumph swells my heart ! I forget tliat I 
 am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
 unknown, stalking up and down fairs and 
 markets, w hen I hapiien to be in them, read- 
 ing a page or two of mankind, and "catching 
 the manners living as they rise," whilst the 
 men of business jostle me on every side, as 
 an idle incumbrance in their way. But I 
 dare say 1 have by this time tired your pa- 
 tience ; so I shall conclude with begging you 
 to give Mrs Murdoch — not my compliments, 
 for that is a mere common-place story, but 
 my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare — 
 and accept of the same for vourself, from, 
 dear Sir, yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. II. 
 
 TO 
 
 [an early love letter.] 
 
 Lochlea, 1783. 
 I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the 
 pure genuine feelings of love are as rare in 
 the world as the pure genuine principles of 
 virtue and piety. This, I hope, will account 
 for the uncommon style of all my letters to 
 
 you. By uncommon, I mean their being 
 written in such a hasty manner, wliich, 
 to tell you the truth, has made me often 
 afraid lest you should take me for some 
 zealous bigot, who conversed with his mis- 
 tress as he would converse with his minister. 
 I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, 
 except your company, there is nothing on 
 earth gives me so much pleasure as writing 
 to you, yet it never gives me those giddy 
 raptures so much talked of among lovers. I 
 have often thought that if a well-grounded 
 affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis 
 something extremely akin to it. Whenever 
 the thought of my E. warms my heart, 
 every feeling of humanity; every prin- 
 ciple of generosity, kindles in my breast. 
 It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice 
 and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. 
 I grasp every creature in the arms of uni- 
 versal benevolence, and equally participate 
 in the pleasures of the happy, and sjnupathise 
 with the miseries of the unfortunate. 1 
 assure ou, my dear, I often look up to the 
 Divine Disposer of events with an eye of 
 gratitude for the blessing which I hope he 
 intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. 
 I sincerely wish that he may bless my endea- 
 vours to make your life as comfortable and 
 happy as possible, both in sweetening the 
 rougher parts of my natural temper, and 
 bettering the unkindly circumstances of my 
 fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least 
 in my view, worthy of a man, and, I will add, 
 worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth- 
 worm may profess love to a woman's person, 
 whilst in reality his affection is centered in 
 her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go 
 a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to 
 choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we 
 may say of an old horse, one who will be a 
 good drudge, and draw kindly. I disdain 
 their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily 
 out of humour with myself, if I thought I 
 were capable of having so poor a notion of 
 the sex, which were designed to crown the 
 pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't 
 envy them their happiness who have such 
 notions. For my part, I propose quite other 
 pleasures with my dear partner. R. B. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Loclilen, 1783. 
 My Dear E. — I do not remember, in the 
 course of your acquaintance and mine, ever 
 to have heard your opinion on the ordinary 
 way of falling in love, amongst people of our 
 station in life. I do not mean the persons 
 
A lo^t: letter. 
 
 26/ 
 
 who proceed in the way of bargain, but those 
 whose atfection is really placed on the person. 
 
 Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
 very awkward lover myself, yet as I have 
 some opportunities of observing the conduct 
 of others who are much better skilled in the 
 affair of courtship than I am, I often think 
 it is owing to lucky chance, more than to 
 good management, that there are not more 
 unhappy marriages than usually are. 
 
 It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
 acquaintance of the females, and customary for 
 him to keep them company when occasion 
 serves : some one of them is more agreeable 
 to him than the rest — there is something, he 
 knows not what, pleases him, he knows not 
 how, in her company. I'his I take to be 
 what is called love with the greater part of us ; 
 and I must own, ray dear E., it is a hard 
 game such a one as you have to play when 
 you meet with such a lover. You cannot 
 refuse but he is sincere, and yet though 
 you use him ever so favourably, perhaps 
 in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
 or two, the same unaccoimtable fancy may 
 make him as distractedly fond of another, 
 whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware, 
 that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure 
 of seeing you, you may bid me take my own 
 lesson home, and tell me that the passion I 
 have professed for you is perhaps one of 
 those transient flashes I have been descri- 
 bing ; but I hope, my dear E., you will 
 do me the justice to believe me, when I 
 assure you that the love I have for you is 
 founded ou the sacred principles of virtue 
 and honour, and by consequence, so long 
 as you continue possessed of those amiable 
 fjualities which first inspired my passion 
 for you, so long must I continue to love you. 
 Believe me, n\y dear, it is love like this 
 alone which can render the marriage state 
 happy. I'cople may talk of flames and 
 raptures as long as they please — and a warm 
 fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may 
 make them feel something like what they 
 describe ; but sure_ 1 am, the nobler faculties 
 of the mind, with kindred feelings of the 
 heart, can only be the foundation of friend- 
 ship, and it has always been my opinion 
 that the married life was only friendship in 
 a more exalted degree. If you will be so 
 good as to grant my wishes, and it should 
 please Providence to spare us to the latest 
 period of life, I can look forward and see 
 that even then, though bent down with 
 wrinkled age — even then, when all other 
 worldly circumstances will be indiflVrcnt 
 to me, I will regard my E. with the tendercst 
 affection, and for this plain reason, because 
 
 24 
 
 she is still possessed of those noble qualities 
 improved to a much higher degree, which 
 first inspired my atfection for her. 
 
 Oh ! happy state, when souls each other draw. 
 When love is liberty, and nature law. 
 
 I know were I to speak in such a style to 
 many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of 
 no small share of sense, she would think 
 it ridiculous ; but the language of the heart 
 is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall 
 ever use to you. 
 
 \\'hen I look over what I have written, I 
 am sensible it is vastly different from the 
 ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make 
 no apology — I know your good nature will 
 excuse what your good sense may see 
 amiss. K. h. 
 
 TO THE SAJIE. 
 
 LocJdea, 1783. 
 
 I HAVE often thought it a peculiar un- 
 lucky circumstance in love, that though, in 
 every other situation in life, telling the 
 truth is not only the safest, but actually by 
 far the easiest way of proccedmg, a lover is 
 never under greater difficulty in acting, or 
 more puzzled for expression, than when his 
 passion is sincere, and his intentions are hon- 
 ourable. 1 do not think that it is very difficult 
 for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love 
 and fondness which are not felt, and to make 
 vows of constancy and fidelity which are 
 never intended to be performed, if he be 
 villain enough to practice such detestable 
 conduct ; but to a man whose heart glows 
 with the principles of integrity and truth, 
 and who sincerely loves a woman of atuiable 
 person, uncommon refinement of sentiment 
 and purity of manners — to such a one, in 
 such circumstances, I can assure you, my 
 dear, from my own feelings at this present 
 moment, courtship is a task indeed. There 
 is such a number of foreboding fears and 
 distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind 
 when I am in your company, or when I 
 sit down to write to you, that what to speak, 
 or what to write, I am altogether at a loss. 
 
 There is one rule which I have hitherto 
 practised, and which I shall invariably 
 keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell 
 you the plain truth. There is something 
 so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimu- 
 lation and falsehood, that I am surprised 
 they can be acted by any one, in so noble, so 
 generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, 
 my dear E., 1 shall ue\er endeavour to 
 
2G8 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 gain your favour by such detestable practices. 
 If you will be so good, and so generous, 
 as to admit me for your partner, your 
 companion, your bosom friend through life, 
 there is nothing on this side of eternity 
 shall give me greater transport ; but I shall 
 never think of purchasing your hand by 
 any arts unworthy of a man, and, I will add, 
 of a Christian, There is one thing, my dear, 
 which I earnestly request of you, and it is 
 this, that you would soon either put an end 
 to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure 
 me of my fears by a generous consent. 
 
 It would oblige me much if you would 
 scud me a line or two when convenient. 
 1 shall only add farther, that, if a behaviour 
 regulated (though perhaps but very imper- 
 fectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if 
 a heart devoted to love and esteem you, 
 and an earnest endeavour to promote your 
 happiness — if these are qualities you wish in 
 a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever 
 find them in your real frieud and sincere 
 lover, R. B. 
 
 NO. V. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 LocJdea, 1783. 
 
 I OUGHT, in good manners, to have ac- 
 knowledged the receipt of your letter before 
 this time, but my heart was so shocked with 
 the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet 
 collect my thoughs so as to wi-ite to you on the 
 subject. I will not attempt to describe what 
 I felt on receiving your letter. I read it 
 over and over, again and again, aiul though 
 it was in the politest language of refusal, 
 still it was peremptory : "you were sorry you 
 could not make me a return, but you wish 
 me" — what, without you,I never can obtain — 
 "you wish me all kind of happiness." It 
 would be weak and unmanly to say that 
 without you I never can be happy ; but sure 
 I am, that sharing life with you would have 
 given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can 
 never taste. 
 
 Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
 your superior good sense, do not so much 
 strike me : these, possibly, may be met with 
 in a few instances in others ; but that amia- 
 ble goodness, that tender feminine softness, 
 that endearing sweetness of disposition, with 
 all the charming offspring of a warm feeling 
 heart — these 1 never again expect to meet 
 wiih, in such a degree, in this world. All 
 these charming qualities, heightened by an 
 education much beyond any thing I have 
 ever met m any woman I ever dared to 
 
 approach, have made an impres.^ion on my 
 heart that I do not think the world can ever 
 efface. My imagination has fondly flattered 
 myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever 
 reached a hope, that possibly I might one 
 day call you mine. I had formed the most 
 delightful images, and my fancy fondly 
 brooded over them ; but now I am wretched 
 for the loss of what I really had no right to 
 expect. I must now think no more of you 
 as a mistress ; still I presume to ask to be 
 admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be 
 allowed to wait on you ; and as I expect to 
 remove in a few days a little further off, and 
 you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I 
 wish to see or hear from you soon : and if 
 an expression should perhaps escape me, 
 rather too warm for friendship, I hope you 
 will pardon it in, my dear Miss — (pardon me 
 the dear expression for once) * * * R. B. 
 
 NO. VI. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 
 
 WRITER, MONTROSE. (1) 
 
 Lochlea, 2\st June, 1783. 
 
 Dear Sir. — My father received your 
 favour of the 10th current, and as he has 
 been for some months very poorly in health, 
 and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in 
 almost every body's else) in a dying condi- 
 tion, he has only, with great difticulty, 
 wi-itten a few farewell lines to each of his 
 brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, 
 I now hold the pen for him to thank you for 
 your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that 
 it shall not be my fault if my father's cor- 
 respondence in the north die with him. My 
 brother writes to John Caird, and to him I 
 must refer you for the news of our family. 
 
 I shall only trouble you with a few par- 
 ticulars relative to the wretched state of this 
 country. Our markets are exceedingly high 
 — oatmeal, 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not 
 to be got even at that price.* We have indeed 
 been pretty well supplied with quantities of 
 white peas from England and elsewhere, but 
 that resource is likely to fail lis, and what 
 will become of us then, particularly the very 
 poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This 
 country, till of late, was flourishing incre- 
 dibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, 
 and carpet-weaving; and we are still car- 
 rying on a good deal in that way, but 
 much reduced from what it was. We had 
 also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now 
 entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a 
 
LETTER TO JIR. BURNKSS. 
 
 269 
 
 starving condition on account of it. Farming 
 is also at a very low ebb with ns. Our lands, 
 generally speaking, are mountainous and 
 barren ; and our landholders, full of ideas of 
 farming gathered from the English and the 
 TjOthians, and other rich soils in Scotland, 
 nuike no allowance for the odds of the quality 
 of land, and consequently stretch us much 
 beyond what in the event we will be found 
 able to pay. We are also much at a loss for 
 want of proper methods in our improvements 
 of farming. Necessity compels ns to leave 
 our old schemes, and few of us have oppor- 
 tunities of being well informed in new ones. 
 In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate 
 beginning of this American war, and its as 
 unfortunate conclusion, this country has 
 been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even 
 in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble- 
 men, and the major part of our knights and 
 squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job 
 of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which 
 no doubt you have heard of, has undone 
 numbers of them; and imitating English and 
 French, and other foreign luxuries and fop- 
 peries, has ruined as many more. There is a 
 great trade of smuggling carried on along our 
 coasts, which, however destructive to the 
 interests of the kingdom at large, certainly 
 enriches this corner of it, but too often at 
 the expense of our morals. However, it 
 enables individuals to make, at least for a 
 time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
 as is usual with her when she is uncommonly 
 lavish of her favours, is generally even with 
 them at the last : and happy were it for 
 numbers of them if she would leave them no 
 worse than when she found them. 
 
 My mother sends you a small present of a 
 cheese ; 'tis but a very little one, as our last 
 year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix 
 on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glas- 
 gow, we would send you a proper one in the 
 season. Airs. Black promises to take the 
 cheese under her care so far, and then to 
 send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 
 
 I shall conclude this long letter with assur- 
 ing you that I shall be very happy to hear 
 from you, or any of our friends in your 
 country, when opportunity serves. 
 
 Jly father sends you, probably for the last 
 time in this world, his warmest wishes for 
 your welfare and happiness; and my mother 
 and the rest of the family desire to enclose 
 their kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, 
 and the rest of your family, along with those 
 o^ dear Sir, your affectionate cousin, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- 
 TROSE. 
 
 LocMea, 17 th Fehniary, 1784. 
 
 Dear Cousin. — I would have returned 
 you my thanks for your kind favour of the 
 13th of December sooner, had it not been 
 that I waited to give you an account of that 
 melancholy event, which, for some time past, 
 we have from day to day expected. 
 
 On the 13th current 1 lost the best of 
 fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had 
 long warning of the impending stroke, still 
 the feelings of nature claim their part, and I 
 cannot recollect the tender endearments and 
 parental lessons of the best of friends and 
 ablest of instructors, without feeling what 
 perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would 
 partly condemn. 
 
 I hope my father's friends in your country 
 will not let their connexion in this place die 
 with him. For my part I shall ever with 
 pleasure, with pride, acknowledge my con- 
 nexion with those who were allied by the ties 
 of blood and friendship to a man whose 
 memory I shall ever honour and revere. 
 
 I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will 
 not neglect any opportunity of letting me 
 hear from you, which will very much oblige, 
 my dear cousin, yours sincerely, R. E. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- 
 TROSE. 
 
 Mossgicl, Aurjust, 1784. 
 We have been surprised with one of the 
 most extraordinary phenomena in the moral 
 world, which, I dare say, has happened in the 
 course of this half century. We have had a 
 party of Presbytery relief, as they call them- 
 selves, for some time in this country. A 
 pretty thriving society of them has been in 
 the burgh of Irvine for some years past, (ill 
 about two years ago a Mrs. Buchan from 
 Glasgow came among them, and began to 
 spread some fanatical notions of religion 
 among them, and, in a short time, made 
 many converts ; and among others their 
 preacher, Mr ^'\'hite, who, upon that account, 
 has been suspended and formally deposed by 
 his brethren. He continued, however, to 
 preach in private to his party, and was sup- 
 ported, both he and their spiritual mother, 
 as they affect to call old Bnchan, by the 
 contributions of the rest, several of whom 
 
270 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 were in good circumstances ; till in spring 
 last, the populace rose and mobbed Mrs. 
 Buclian, and put her out of the town ; on 
 which all her followers voluntarily quitted 
 the place likewise, and with such precipita- 
 tion, that many of them never shut their 
 doors behind them; one left a washing on the 
 green, another a cow bellowing at the crib 
 without food, or any body to mind her, and 
 after several stages, they are fixed at present 
 in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their 
 tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic 
 jargon ; among others, she pretends to give 
 them tlie Holy Ghost by breathing on them, 
 which she does with postures and practices 
 that are scandalously indecent. They have 
 likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold 
 a community of goods, and live nearly an 
 idle life, carrying on a great farce of pre- 
 tended devotion in barns and woods, where 
 they lodge and lie all together, and hold 
 likewise a community of women, as it is 
 another of their tenets that they can commit 
 no moral sin. I am personally acquainted 
 with most of them, and I can assure you the 
 above mentioned are facts. 
 
 This, my dear Sir, is one of the many 
 instances of the folly of leaving the guidance 
 of sound reasoa and common sense in mat- 
 ters of religion. 
 
 Whenever we neglect or despise these 
 sacred monitors, the whimsical notions of a 
 perturbated brain are taken for the immedi- 
 ate influences of the Deity, and the wildest 
 fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdi- 
 ties, will meet with abettors and converts. 
 Nay, I have often thought, that the more 
 out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies 
 are, if once they are sanctified under the 
 sacred name of religion, the unhappy mis- 
 taken votaries are the more firmly glued to 
 them. R. B. 
 
 rO JIR. JAMES SMITH, MAUCH- 
 
 LINE. 
 
 Mossgiel, Monday Morning, 1786. 
 My Dear Sir. — I went to Dr. Douglas 
 yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- 
 tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the 
 Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both 
 Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans 
 altogether. They assure him that to send 
 me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio, 
 will cost my master, Charles Douglas, up- 
 wards of fifty pounds, besides running the 
 risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever. 
 
 in consequence of hard travelling in tha 
 sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending 
 me with Smith ; but a vessel sails from 
 Greenock the 1st of September, right for 
 the place of my destination. The captam 
 of her is an intimate friend of ]\Ir. Gavin 
 Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart 
 could wish : with him I am destined to go. 
 Where I shall shelter I know not, but I 
 hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop 
 of blood of mine that fears them ! I know 
 their worst, and am prepared to meet it :— 
 
 I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 
 As lang's I dow. 
 
 On Thursday morning, if you can muster 
 as much self-denial as to be out of bed about 
 seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride 
 through to Cumnock. After all, Heaven 
 bless the sex I I feel there is still happiness 
 for me among them : — 
 
 Oh woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed 
 you 
 
 To temper man ! — we had been brutes with- 
 out you 1 
 
 R.B. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, EDIN- 
 BURGH. (2) 
 
 Mossgiel, February 17, 1786. 
 
 My dear Sir. — I have not time at 
 present to iqiljraid you for your silence and 
 neglect ; I shall only say I received yours 
 with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a 
 piece of rlij'ining ware for your perusal. I 
 have been very busy with the muses since I 
 saw you, and have composed, among several 
 others: — The Ordination, a poem on Mr. 
 M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock; 
 Scotch Drink, a poem; The Cotter's Saturday 
 Night ; An Address to the Devil, &c. I 
 have likewise completed my poem on the 
 Dogs, but have not shown it to the world. 
 My chief patron now is ]\Ir. Aiken in Ajt, 
 who is pleased to express great approbation 
 of my works. Be so good as send me 
 Fergusson, by Connel, and I will remit you 
 the money. I have no news to acquaint you 
 with about IMauchline; they are just going 
 on in the old way. I have some very im- 
 portant news with respect to myself, not the 
 most agreeable — news that I am sure you 
 cannot guess, but I shall give you the pnr- 
 ticulars another time. I am extremely 
 happy with Smith ; he is the only friend I 
 
LETTER TO MR. AIKEN. 
 
 271 
 
 nave now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive 
 your long neglect of me, and I beg you will 
 let me hear from you regularly by Connel. 
 If you would act your part as a friend, I am 
 sure neitlier good nor bad fortune should 
 strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got 
 your's but yesterday. I am, my dear Sir, 
 your's, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 NO. XI. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 
 
 Mossrjiel, 3rd March, 1786, 
 
 Sir. — I have done myself the pleasure of 
 complying with your request in sending you 
 my Cottager. If you have a leisiue minute, 
 I should be glad if you would copy it and 
 return me either the original or the trans- 
 cript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and 
 I have a friend who wishes to see it. 
 
 Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 
 
 E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse (3), 
 
 Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force 
 
 A hermit's fancy ; 
 \nd down the gate, in faith, they're worse. 
 
 And mair unchancy. 
 
 But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, 
 And taste sic beer as Johnnie brews. 
 Till some bit callan bring me news 
 
 That you are there ; 
 And if we dinna baud a bouze, 
 
 I'll ne'er drink mair. 
 
 It's no I like to sit and swallow, 
 Tlien like a swine to puke and wallow ; 
 But gie me just a true good fallow, 
 
 AA'i' right engine. 
 And spunkie aiice to make us mellow. 
 
 And then we'll shine. 
 
 Now, if you're ane o' warld's folk, 
 Wiia rate the wearer by the cloak. 
 And sklent on poverty their joke, 
 
 AVi' bitter sneer, 
 \Vi' you no friendship will I troke, 
 
 Nor cheap nor dear. 
 
 But if, as I'm informed weel. 
 Ye hate, as ill's the vera deil. 
 The flinty heart that catina feel. 
 
 Come, Sir, here's tae you ! 
 
 Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel. 
 
 And guid be wi' you ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAR, 
 
 NOCK. 
 
 Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786. 
 
 Dear Sir. — I am heartily sorry I had not 
 the pleasure of seeing you as you returned 
 through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, 
 I could not be in town before the evening. 
 
 I here enclose you my "Scotch Drhik," 
 
 and "may the follow" with a blessing for 
 
 your edification. I hope, some time before 
 we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of 
 seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we 
 shall have a gill between us in a mutchkin- 
 stoiip, which will be a great comfort and 
 consolation to, dear Sir, your humble servant, 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 NO. xm. 
 TO MR. AIKEN. 
 
 Mossgiel, 3rd April, 1786.. 
 
 Dear Sir. — I received your kind letter 
 with double pleasure on account of the 
 second flattering instance of Mrs. C.'s notice 
 and approbation. I assure you I 
 
 Turn out the burnt side o' my skin, 
 
 as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, 
 says, at such a patroness. Present her my 
 most grateful acknowledgements, in your 
 very best manner of telling truth. I have 
 inscribed the following stanza on the blank 
 leaf of Miss More's work : — 
 
 Thou flattering mark of friendship kind. 
 Still may thy pages call to mind 
 The dear, the beauteous donor. 
 Though sweetly female every part. 
 Yet such a head, and more the heart. 
 
 Does both the sexes honour. 
 She showed her taste refined and just 
 
 AATien she selected thee. 
 Yet deviating own I must. 
 For so approving me ; 
 
 But kind still, I mind still. 
 
 The giver in the gift — 
 
 I'll bless her, and wiss her 
 
 A friend above the Lift. 
 
 !My proposals for publishing I am just 
 going to send to press. I expect to hear 
 from you by the first opportunity. I am, 
 ever dear Sir, your's, Robert Burns. 
 
272 
 
 COERESPONDENCE OF BUIINS. 
 
 TO MR. M'WHINNIE, WRITER, AYR, 
 
 Mossgiel, \1th April, 1786. 
 
 It is injuring some hearts, those hearts 
 that elegantly bear the iinnression of the 
 good Creator, to say to thera you give them 
 the trouble of obliging a friend ; for tliis 
 reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own 
 feelings in requesting your friendly offices 
 with respect to the enclosed, because I 
 know it will gratify yours to aasist me in it 
 to the utmost of your power. 
 
 I have sent you four copies, as I have no 
 less than eight dozen, which is a great deal 
 more than I shall ever need. 
 
 Be sure to remember a poor poet militant 
 in your prayers. He looks forward with 
 fear and trembling to that, to him, important 
 moment which stamps the die with — with— 
 with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace of, my 
 dear Sir, your humble, afllicted, tormented, 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 NO. XV. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 
 
 Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. 
 
 Sir. — ^By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I 
 did not hear of your kind request for a sub- 
 scription paper till this day. I will not 
 attempt any acknowledgement for this, nor 
 the manner in which I see your name in Mr. 
 Hamilton's subscription list. Allow me 
 only to say. Sir, I feel the weight of the debt. 
 
 I have here, likewise, enclosed a small 
 piece, the very latest of my productions. (4) 
 I am a good deal pleased with some senti- 
 ments myself, as they are just the native 
 querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the 
 elegantly melting Gray says, "melancholy 
 has marked out for her own." 
 
 Our race comes on apace — that much 
 expected scene of revelry and mirth : but 
 to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting 
 with which you last flattered the expecta- 
 tion of. Sir, your indebted humble servant. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. XVI. 
 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, OP AYR. 
 
 June, 1786. 
 
 Honoured Sir. — My proposals came to 
 band last night, and, knowing that you 
 would wish to have it in your power to do 
 me a service as early as any body, I enclose 
 
 you half a sheet of them. I must consult 
 you, first opportunity, on the propriety of 
 sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a 
 copy. If he is now reconciled to my charac- 
 ter as an honest man, I would do it with all 
 my soul ; but I would not be beholden to 
 the noblest being ever God created, if he 
 imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old 
 Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate 
 that unlucky paper yesterday. Would you 
 believe it? — though I had not a hope, nor 
 even a wish, to make her mine after her con- 
 duct, yet, when he told me the names were 
 all out of the paper, my heart died within 
 me, and he cut my veins with the news. 
 Perdition seize her falshood. 
 
 R.B. 
 
 TO MR. DAVID BRICE. (5) 
 
 Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 
 
 Dear Brice. — I received your message 
 by G. Paterson, and as I am not very 
 strong at present, I just write to let you 
 know that there is such a worthless, rhyming 
 reprobate, as your humble servant, still in 
 the land of the living, though I can scarcely 
 say in the place of hope. I have no news 
 to tell you that will give me any pleasure to 
 mention, or you to hear. 
 
 Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came 
 home on Friday last. (6) You have heard 
 all the particulars of that affair, and a black 
 affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct 
 now I don't know ; one thing I do know — • 
 she has made me completely miserable. 
 Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman 
 more than I did her ; and, to confess a truth 
 between you and me, 1 do still love her to 
 distraction after all, though I won't tell her 
 so if I were to see her, which I don't want 
 to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean! 
 how happy have I been in thy arms ! It is 
 not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, 
 but for her sake I feel most severely : I 
 foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, 
 eternal ruin. 
 
 May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude 
 and perjury to me, as I from my very soul 
 forgive her ; and may his grace be with her 
 and bless her in all her future life 1 I can 
 have no nearer idea of the place of eternal 
 punishment than what I have felt in my own 
 breast on her account. I have tried often to 
 forget her; I have run into all kinds of 
 dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drink- 
 ing-matches, and other mischief, to drive her 
 out of my head, but all in vain. And now 
 
TO MR. DAVID BUICE. 
 
 273 
 
 for a grand cure : the ship is on lier way 
 home tliut is to take me out to Jamaica ; 
 and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and 
 farewell, dear ungrateful Jean, for never, 
 never will I see you more. 
 
 You will have lieard that I am going to 
 commence poet in jirint ; and to-morrow my 
 works go to the press. I expect it will be a 
 volume of about 200 pages — it is just the 
 last foolish action I intend to do ; and then 
 turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe 
 me to be, dear Jirice, your fr'end and well- 
 wisher, R. B. 
 
 NO. XVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, 
 
 OF DUNLOP. 
 
 Aijrsliire, July, 1786. 
 
 Madam. — I am truly sorry I was not at 
 home yesterday, when I was so much 
 honoured with your order for my copies, and 
 incomparably more by the handsome com- 
 pliments 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 titiilations of applause as the sons of 
 Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how 
 the heart of the poor bard dances with 
 rapture, when those whose character in life 
 gives them a right to be pohte 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 unfortu- 
 nate stories. In those boyish days I re- 
 niember, in particular, being struck with 
 that part of \A'allace'3 story where these lines 
 occur : — 
 
 Syne to the Ix-glen wood, when it was late. 
 To make a silent and a safe retreat. 
 
 I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
 my line of life allowed, and walked half-a- 
 dozen of miles to pay my respects to the 
 I^glen wood, with as much devout enthu- 
 
 siasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as 
 I explored every den and dell where I could 
 suppose my heroic countryniiiu to have 
 lotlged, 1 recollect (for even then I was a 
 rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish 
 to be able to make a song on him in some 
 measure equal to his merits. K B. 
 
 TO JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. 
 
 Mossgiel, July Qth, 1786. 
 
 With the sincerest grief I read your 
 letter. You a^e truly a son of misfortune. 
 [ shall be extremely anxious to hear from 
 you how your health goes on — if it is any 
 way re-establishing, or if Leith promises well 
 — in short, how you feel in the inner man. 
 
 I have waited on Armour since her return 
 home; not from the least; view of reconcilia- 
 tion, but merely to ask for her health, and, 
 to you I will confess it, from a foolish 
 hankering fondness, very ill placed indeed. 
 The mother forbade me the house, nor did 
 Jean show that penitence that might have 
 been expected. However, the priest, I am 
 informed, will give me a certificate as a 
 single man, if I comply with the rules of the 
 church, which, for that very reason, I intend 
 to do. 
 
 1 am going to put on sackcloth and ashes 
 this day. I am indulged so far as to appear 
 in my owji seat. Peccavi, pater; miserere 
 mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. 
 If you have any subscribers, return them by 
 Connell. The Lord stand with the riglitft 
 ous — amen, amen. R. B. 
 
 NO. XX. 
 
 TO nn. DAVID BRICE, 
 
 SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 
 
 Mossgiel, July \lth, 1786. 
 
 I HAVE been so throng printing my 
 Poems, that I could scarcely find as much 
 time as to write to you. Poor Armour is 
 come back again to ]\Iauchline, and I went 
 to call for her, and her mother forbade me 
 the house, nor did she herself express much 
 sorrow for what she has done. I have 
 already appeared publicly in church, and was 
 indulged in the liberty of standing in my 
 own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a 
 bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. 
 I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in 
 
-d 
 
 274 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS, 
 
 October. Jeaii and her friends insisted 
 much that she should stand along with me 
 in the kirk, but the minister would not allow 
 it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, 
 and 1 am blamed as the cause of it, though 
 I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very 
 mucli pleased, for all that, not to have had 
 her company. I have no news to tell you 
 that I remember. I am really happy to 
 hear of your welfare, and that you are so 
 well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you 
 before I leave the country. I shall expect 
 to hear from you soon, and am, dear Ej-ice, 
 yours, K. B. 
 
 NO. XXI. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 
 
 Old Rome Forest, July SOth, 1786. 
 
 My Dear Richmond. — My hour is now 
 come — you and I will never meet in Britain 
 more. I have orders within tliree weeks at 
 farthest, to repair aboard the Nancy, Captain 
 Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at 
 Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, 
 whom God long preserve, is a secret about 
 Mauchliiie. Would you believe it? Armour 
 has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I 
 find security for an enormous sum. This 
 they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a 
 channel they little dream of; and I am 
 wandering from one friend's house to another, 
 and, like a true son of the gospel, " have no- 
 where to lay my head." I know you will 
 pour an execration on her bead, but spare 
 the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; 
 though may all the furies that rend the 
 injured, enraged mother's bosom, await her 
 mother until her latest hour ! I write in a 
 moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable 
 situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can 
 write no more — let me hear from you by the 
 return of coach. I will write you ere I go. 
 I am, dear Sir, yours, here and hereafter, 
 R.B. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAR- 
 NOCK. 
 
 Mossgiel, Friday Morniny, [Auy. 1786.] 
 
 My Friend, my Brother — Warm 
 recollection of an absent friend presses so 
 hard upon my heart, that I send him the 
 prefixed bagatelle (The Calfj, pleased with 
 the thought that it wdl greet the man of my 
 bosom, and be a kind of distant language of 
 friendship. 
 
 You will have heard that poor \rinour 
 has repaid me double. A very line boy and 
 a girl have awakened a thought and feelings 
 that thrill, some with tender pressure, and 
 some with foreboding anguish, through my 
 soul. 
 
 The poem was nearly an extemporaneous 
 production, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, 
 tiiat I would not produce a poem on the 
 subject in a given time. 
 
 If you think it worth while, read it to 
 Charles and ^Mr W. Parker, and if they 
 choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as 
 they are men whose friendship I shall be 
 protid to claim, both in this world and that 
 which is to come. 
 
 I believe all hopes of staying at home, will 
 be abortive ; but more of this when, in the 
 latter part of next week, you shall be trou- 
 bled with a visit from, my dear Sir, your 
 most devoted, R. B. 
 
 NO. XXIII. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 
 
 Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — Your truly facetious 
 epistle of the 3rd instant gave me much 
 entertainment. I was only sorry I had not 
 the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your 
 way, but we shall bring up all our lee-way 
 on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I 
 hope to have it in my power to call on you, 
 and take a kind, very probably, a last adieu, 
 before I go to Jamaica ; and I expect orders 
 to repair to Greenock every day. I have at 
 last made my public appearance, and am 
 solemnly ioangurated into the numerous 
 class. Could I have got a carrier, you 
 should have had a score of vouchers for my 
 authorship ; but, now you have them, let 
 them speak for themselves. 
 
 Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit you. 
 And 'mang her favourites admit yo\i. 
 If e'er Detraction shore to smit you. 
 
 May nane believe him. 
 And ony deil that thinks to get you. 
 
 Good Lord, deceive him. 
 
 NO. XXIV. 
 
 TO MR BURNESS, ]\IONTROSE. 
 
 Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sfpt. '26, 1786. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — I this moment receive 
 yours — receive it with the honest hospitable 
 warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever 
 
TO MR. EGBERT AIKEN. 
 
 275 
 
 comes from you wakens always up the bet- 
 ter blood about my heart, which your kind 
 little recollections of my parental friends 
 carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that 
 man is blest ! — "I'is there, my friend, man 
 feels a consciousness of something within 
 him above the trodden clod ! The grateful 
 reverence to the hoary (earthly) author of 
 his being — the burning glow when he clasps 
 the woman of his soul to his bosom — the 
 tender yearnings of heart for the little angels 
 to whom he has given existence — these 
 nature has poured in milky streams about 
 the human heart ; and the man who never 
 rouses them to action, by the inspiring in- 
 fluences of their proper objects, loses by far 
 the most pleasurable part of his existence. 
 
 My departure is uncertain, but I do not 
 think it will be till after harvest. I will be 
 on very short allowance of time indeed, if I 
 do not comply with your friendly invitation. 
 When it will be, I don't know, but if I can 
 make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop 
 you a line some time before. My best com- 
 pliments to Mrs. B.; I should be equally 
 mortified should I drop in when she is 
 abroad ; but of that I suppose there is little 
 chance. 
 
 What I have wrote Heaven knows ; I have 
 not time to review it ; so accept of it in the 
 beaten way of friendship. Witii the ordinary 
 phrase — perhaps rather more than the 
 ordinary sincerity — I am, dear Sir, ever 
 yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. XXV. 
 
 TO MR ROBERT AIKEN. (7) 
 
 AyrsJiire, 1786. 
 Si r. — I was with Wilson my printer t'other 
 day, and settled all our bygone matters be- 
 tween ns. After I had paid him all demands, 
 I made him the offer of the second edition, 
 on the hazard of being paid out of the first 
 and readiest, which he declines. By his 
 account, the paper of 1000 copies would cost 
 about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
 about fifteen or sixteen ; he offers to agree 
 to this for the printing, if I will advance for 
 the paper, but this you know, is out of my 
 power ; so farewell hopes of a second edition 
 till I grow richer ! an epoch which I think 
 will arrive at the payment of the British 
 national debt. 
 
 ' There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
 much in being disappointed of ray second 
 edition, as not having it in my power to 
 show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantine, by 
 publishing my poem of the Brigs of Ayr. 
 
 I would detest myself as a wretch, if I 
 thought I were capable, in a ver> long life of 
 forgetting the honest, warm, and tender deli- 
 cacy with which he enters into my interests. 
 I am sometimes pleased with myself in my 
 grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the 
 whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
 gratitude is not a virtue, the consequcTice of 
 reflection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion 
 of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly 
 maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. 
 
 1 have heen feeling all the various rota- 
 tions and movements within, respecting the 
 excise. There are many things plead strongly 
 against it; the uncertainty of getting soon 
 into business ; the consequences of my fol- 
 lies, which may perhaps make it impracticible 
 for me to stay at home ; and besides, I have 
 for some time been pining under secret 
 wretchedness, from causes which you pretty 
 well know : — the pang of disappointment, the 
 sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of 
 remorse, which never fail to settle on my 
 vitals like vultures, when attention is not 
 called away by the calls of society, or the 
 vagaries of the muse. 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 thase reasons 1 have 
 only one answer — the feelings of a father. 
 This, in the present mood I am in, over- 
 balances every thing that can be laid in the 
 scale against it. 
 
 You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
 fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes 
 home to my very soul ; thougli sceptical in 
 some points of our current belief, yet I think 
 I have every evidence for the reality of a life 
 beyond the stiuted bourne of our present 
 existence : if so, then, how should 1 in the 
 presence of that tremendous Being, the Au- 
 thor of existence, how should 1 meet the 
 reproaches of those who stand to me in t!ie 
 dear relation of children, whom I deserted i:i 
 the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ' 
 Oh thou great unknown Power! — thou Al- 
 mighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
 my breast, and blessed me with immortality! 
 — I Itave frequently wandered from tliat 
 order and regularity necessary for the per- 
 fection of thy works, yet thou hast never left 
 me nor forsaken me ! 
 
 Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
 seen something of the storm of mischkf 
 thickening over my folly- devoted head. 
 Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be 
 successful in your applications for me (3), 
 perhaps it may not be in my power in that 
 way, to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 \ h;it I have written in the preceding pages 
 i> the fettled tenor of my present resolution ; 
 but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
 closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it 
 only threaten to entail further misery * * * 
 
 To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
 complaint ; as the world, in general, lias 
 been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I 
 was, for some time past, fast getting into 
 the pining, distrustful snarl of the misan- 
 thrope. 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 possess a warm heart 
 and inoffensive manners (which last, by the 
 bye, was rather more than I could well 
 boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
 ties, there was something to be done. When 
 all my school-fellows and youthful compeers 
 (those misguided few excepted, who joined, 
 to use a Gentoo phrase, the " hallachores" of 
 the human race) were striking off with eager 
 hope and earnest intent, in some one or other 
 of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
 ing idle in the market-place," or only left 
 the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
 flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 
 
 You 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. R. B. 
 
 TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 
 
 1786. 
 Madam. — ITie hurry of my preparations 
 for going abroad has hindered me from per- 
 forming my promise so soon as I intended. 
 I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., 
 ^A'hich never made their appearance, except 
 to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some 
 of them may be no great entertainment to 
 you, but of that I am far from being an ade- 
 quate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick 
 Banks (I'he Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle), 
 you will easily see the impropriety of exposing 
 much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, 
 it has some merit, both as a tolerable des- 
 cription of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a 
 July evening, and one of the finest pieces of 
 
 nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we 
 know anything of, an amiable, beautiful 
 young woman (9) ; but I have no common 
 friend to procure me that permission, with- 
 out which I would not dare to spread the 
 copy. 
 
 I am quite aware. Madam, what task the 
 world would assign me in this letter. The 
 obscure bard, when any of the great conde- 
 scend to take notice of him should heap the 
 altar with the incense of flattery. Their 
 high ancestry, their own great and god-like 
 qualities and actions, should be recounted 
 with the most exaggerated description. This, 
 Madam, is a task for which I am altogether 
 unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride 
 of heart, I know nothing of your connexions 
 in life, and have no access to where your 
 real character is to be found — the company 
 of your compeers; and more, I am afraid 
 that even the most refined adulation is by no 
 means the road to your good opinion. 
 
 One feature of your character I shall ever 
 with grateful pleasure remember — the recep- 
 tion I got when I had the honour of waiting 
 on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with 
 politeness, but I know a good deal of benevo- 
 lence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely 
 did those in exalted stations know how happy 
 they could make some classes of their 
 inferiors by condescension and affability, 
 they would never stand so high, measuring 
 out with every look the height of their ele- 
 vation, but condescend as sweetly as did 
 Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. 
 
 NO. XXVII. 
 
 In the name op the NINE. Amen. 
 
 We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant 
 from Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth 
 day of January, anno domini one thousand 
 seven hundred and fifty-nine (10), Poet 
 Laureat, and Bard-in-Chief, in and over the 
 districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, 
 and Carrick, of old extent. To our trusty and 
 well-beloved William Chalmers and John 
 M'Adam, students and practitioners in the 
 ancient and mysterious science of confound- 
 ing Wright and wrong. 
 
 Right Trusty — Be it known unto you. 
 That whereas in the course of our care and 
 watchings over the order and police of all 
 and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and 
 venders of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, 
 rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, 
 &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — We have 
 discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, 
 
TO JOHN BALLATINE, iiSQ. 
 
 277 
 
 atirt wicked song or ballad, a copy wliereof 
 We have here enclosed; Our Will therefore 
 is that ye pitch upon and appoint the most 
 execrable individual of that most execrable 
 species, known by the appellation, phrase, 
 and nickname of The Deil's Yell Nowte (11): 
 and after having caused him to kindle a fire 
 at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noon-tide of 
 tlie day, put into the said wretch's merciless 
 hands the said copy of the said nefarious 
 and wicked song, to be consumed by fire in 
 presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, 
 and terror to, all such compositions and 
 composers. And this in nowise leave ye un- 
 done, but have it executed in every point as 
 this our mandiite bears, before the twenty- 
 fourth current, when in person We hope to 
 applaud your faitlifiihiess and zeal. 
 
 Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of 
 November, anno duiuini one thousand seven 
 hundred and eighty-six. 
 
 God save the Bard I 
 
 NO. XXVIII. 
 
 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa, 
 MAUCHLINE. 
 
 Edinhar(jh, Dec. "th, 1/86. 
 
 Honoured Sir. — I have paid every at- 
 tention to your commands, but can only say, 
 what perhaps you will have heard before this 
 reach you, tliat Muirkirklands were bought 
 by a John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I 
 know not ; Mauchlauds, Haugh Miln, &c., 
 by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to 
 be for Ballochmyle Laird ; And Adam-hill 
 and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks. 
 lids is so imperfect an account, and will be 
 80 late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
 discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
 you with it ; but after all my diligence I 
 could make it no sooner nor better. 
 
 Fur my own aliairs, I am in a fair way of 
 becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis 
 or John Buuy.ui ; and you may expect hence- 
 fortli to see my birth-day inserted among the 
 wonderlul events, in the Poor Robin's and 
 Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the black 
 Monday, and the battle of Bothwell-bridge. 
 My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, 
 Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their 
 wing; and by all probability I shall soon be 
 the tenth worthy, and ttie eighth wise man 
 of the world. Through my lord's influence, 
 it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian 
 Hunt, that they universally, one and all, 
 subscribe for the second edition. My sub- 
 scription bills come out to-morrow, and you 
 
 shall have some of them next post. I have 
 met in Mr. Dalrymyle of Orangefleld, what 
 Solomon emphatically calls "a friend that 
 sticketh closer than a brother." The warmt h 
 with which he interests himself in my affairs 
 is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, 
 Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took 
 notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for 
 the poor unlucky devil of a poet. 
 
 I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and 
 Jliss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you 
 both in prose and verse. 
 
 May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap (12), 
 Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 
 
 Amen ! R E. 
 
 NO. XXIX. 
 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq.. 
 BANKER, AYR. 
 
 Edinburgh, Bee. I3th, 1786. 
 
 My Honoured Friend. — I would not 
 write you till I could have it in ray power to 
 give you some account of myself and my 
 matters, which, by the bye, is often no easy 
 task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'n- 
 uight, and have suffered ever since I came to 
 town with a miserable head-ache and stomach 
 complaint, but am now a good deal better. 
 I have found a wortliy warm friend in Mr. 
 Dalrymple of Orangefield, who introduced 
 me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth 
 and brotherly kindness to me I shall remem- 
 ber when time shall be no more. By his 
 interest it is passed in the " Caledonian 
 Hunt," and entered in their books, that they 
 are to take each a copy of the second edition, 
 for which they are to pay one guinea. I 
 have been introduced to a good many of the 
 noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patro- 
 nesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the 
 Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and 
 Lady Betty (13) — the Dean of Faculty — 
 Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm 
 friends among the literati ; Professors Stew- 
 art, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the " Man of 
 Feeling." An unknown hand left ten guineas 
 for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which 
 I got. I since have discovered my generous 
 unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., 
 brother to the Justice Clerk, — and drank a 
 glass of claret with him by invitation at his 
 own house yesternight. I am nearly agreed 
 with Creech to print my book, and I suppose 
 I will begin on Monday. I will send a 
 subscription bill or two, next post ; when 
 I intend writing to my first kind patron, 
 
C()RIU':SP()NnKXf'E OF BURNS. 
 
 Jlr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is 
 very well. 
 
 DuiiaUl Stewart, and some of my learned 
 friends, put me in the periodical paper called 
 the Lounger (14,) a copy of which I here 
 enclose you. I was. Sir, when I was first 
 honoured with your notice, too obscure; 
 now 1 tremble lest I should be ruined by 
 being dragged too suddenly into the glare 
 of polite and learned observation. 
 
 I shall certainly, ray ever-honoured patron, 
 write you an account of my every step ; and 
 belter health and more spirits may enable 
 me to make it something better than this 
 stupid matter-of-fact e))istle. I have the 
 honour to be, good Sir, your ever grateful 
 humble servant, R. B. 
 
 If any of my friends write me, my direc- 
 tion is, care of Mr Creech, bookseller, 
 
 NO. XXX. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 
 WRITER, AYR. 
 Edinhwcjh, Dec. 2~tth, 1786, 
 My Dear Friend. — I confess I have 
 sinned the sin for which there is hardly any 
 forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in 
 not writing you sooner ; but of all men 
 living, 1 had intended to have sent you an 
 entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
 stupid powers, that in nodding conceited 
 majesty preside over the dull routine of 
 business — a heavily-solemn oath this ! — 1 
 am and have been, ever since I came to 
 Edinburgh, as uutit to write a letter of 
 liumour as to write a commentary on the 
 Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was 
 banished to the Isle of Patinos by the cruel 
 and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and 
 brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, 
 and who was himself an emperor, and raised 
 the second or third persecution, I forget 
 which, against the Christians, and after 
 throwing the said Apostle John, brother to 
 the Apostle James, commonly called James 
 the Greater, to distinguish him from another 
 James, who was on some account or other 
 known by the name of James the Less — 
 after throwing him into a caldron of boiling 
 oil, from which he was miraculously pre- 
 served, he banished the poor son of Zebedee 
 to a desert island in the Archipelago, where 
 lie was gifted with the second sight, and saw 
 as many wild beasts as I have seen since I 
 came to Edinburgh; which, a — circumstance 
 not very uncomuion in story-telhng — brings 
 me back to where I set out. 
 
 To make vou some amends for what. 
 
 befo e you reach this paragraph, you wiD 
 ha\e suffered, I enclose you two poems I 
 have carded and spun since I passed Glen- 
 buck. 
 
 One blank in the Address to Edinburgh 
 
 — " Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, 
 
 daughter to Lord Jlonboddo, at whose 
 house I have had the honour to be more 
 than once There has not been anything 
 nearly like her in all the combinations of 
 beauty, grace, and goodness, the great 
 Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on 
 the first day of her existence. 
 
 Sly direction is— care of Andrew Bruce, 
 merchant. Bridge Street. R. B. 
 
 NO. XXXI. 
 
 TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE; 
 
 ENCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING 
 WITH LORD DAER. 
 
 Wednesduy Morning, 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir. — I never spent an afternoon 
 among great folks with half that pleasure, 
 as when, in company with you, I had the 
 honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, 
 honest, worthy man, the professor [Dugald 
 Stewart]. I would be delighted to see him 
 perform acts of kindness and friendship, 
 though I were not the object; he does it 
 with such a grace. I think his character, 
 divided into ten parts, stands thus — four 
 parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and 
 two parts Shakspeare's Brutus. 
 
 The foregoing verses were really ex- 
 tempore, but a little corrected since. They 
 may entertain you a little, with the help of 
 that partiality with which you are so good 
 as to favour the performances of, dear Sir, 
 your very humble servant, R. B. 
 
 NO. XXXII. 
 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa 
 
 January, 1787. 
 
 While here I sit, sad and solitary, by 
 the side of a fire in a little country inn, and 
 drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor 
 fellow of a sodger, and tells me is going to 
 Ayr. By heavens I say 1 to myself, with a 
 tide of good spirits which the magic of that 
 sound, auld toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will 
 send my last song to Mr. Ballantine. Here 
 it is — 
 
 Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bluine sae fair ; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 And I sae fu' of care !— &c. B. B. 
 
TO MRS. DUNI.UP. 
 
 2-9 
 
 NO. XXXIII. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 
 
 Edinburgh, January, 1787. 
 
 JIy Lord. — As I have but slender pre- 
 tentions to pliilnsopliy, I cannot rise to the 
 exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but 
 have all those national prejudices which, 
 1 believe, ^low peculiarly strong in the breast 
 of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anythnij^ 
 to which I am so feelingly alive as the 
 honour and welfare of my country ; and as 
 a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
 singing her sons and daughters. Fate had 
 cast my station in the veriest shades of 
 life ; hut never did a heart pant more 
 ardently than mine to be distinguished, 
 though till, very lately, I looked in vain on 
 every side for a ray of light. It is easy, 
 then, to guess how much I was gratified 
 with the countenance and approbation of 
 one of my country's most illustrious sons, 
 when Mr. ^^'auchope called on me yesterday 
 on the part of your lordship. Your mu- 
 nificence, my lord, certainly deserves my 
 very grateful acknowledgments ; but your 
 patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to 
 my feelings. I am not master enough of 
 the etiqueite of life to know, whether there 
 be not some impropriety in troubling your 
 lordship with my thanks, but ray heart 
 whispered me to do it. From the emotions 
 of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in- 
 gratitude, I hope, 1 am incapable of; and 
 mercenary ser\ility, I trust, I shall ever have 
 80 mucli honest pride as to deie:;!. R. B. 
 
 NO. XXXIV. 
 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 
 Edbibanjh, Jan. 14/A, 1737. 
 
 JIy Ho.N'ouiiiiD Friend. — It gives me a 
 secret comiort to observe in myself that I 
 am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's 
 Skate, "past redemption;" (15i for I lune 
 still this favourable symptom of grace, that 
 when my conscience, as in the case of this 
 letter, tells me 1 am leaving something 
 xuniuiie thit 1 ought to do, it teazes me 
 eternally till 1 do it. 
 
 I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect 
 to futurity. iMy generous friend, Mr. 
 Patrick Miller, has been talking with me 
 about a lease of some farm or other in an 
 estate called Ualswiuton, which he has 
 )ately bou-ht near Dumfries. Some life- 
 rented embittering recollect. oni «lii-p(r nie 
 
 that I will be happier anywhere than in ray 
 old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no 
 judge of land ; and though I dare say he 
 means to favour me, yet he may give me, in 
 his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may 
 ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I 
 return, and have promised to meet Mr. 
 Miller on his lands some time in May. 
 
 I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, 
 where the most Worsbipfid Grand Master 
 Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scot- 
 land, visited. The meeting was numerous 
 and elegant ; all the different lodges about 
 town were present, in all their pomp. The 
 Grand Master, who presided with great 
 solemnity and honour to himself as a gentle- 
 man and mason, among other general toasts, 
 gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
 Brother Burns," whi^h rang through the 
 whole assembly with multiplied honours and 
 repeated acclamations. As I had no idea 
 such a thing would happen, I was downright 
 thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, 
 made the best return in my power. Just as 
 I had finished, some of the grand officers 
 said so loud that I could hear, with a most 
 comforting accent, " \^ery well, indeed !" 
 which set me something to rights again. 
 
 I have to-day corrected my lu2iid page. 
 My best good wishes to Mr. Aikea. 
 I am ever, dear Sir, your much indebted 
 humble servant, K. B. 
 
 NO. XXXV. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP 
 Edinburgh, January \atli, 1787. 
 Madam. — Yours of the 9th current, wliicM 
 I am this moment honoured with, is a deep 
 reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I 
 will tell you the real truth, for I am miser- 
 ably awkward at a fib, I wished to have 
 written to Dr. JMoore before I wrote to you ; 
 but, though every day since I received yours 
 of December 30th, the idea, the wish to 
 write to him, has constantly pressed on my 
 thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set 
 about it. I know his fame and character, 
 and I am one of "the sons of little men." 
 To write him a mere matter-of-fact allair, 
 like a merchant's order, would be disgracing 
 the little character I have; and to write the 
 author of " The View of Society and Man- 
 ners" a letter of sentiment — I declare ever 
 artery runs cold at the thought. I shall 
 try, however, to write to him to-morrow i)r 
 next day. His kind interposition in my 
 "■ iKiii 1 hrt\e aheady experienced, as a gen- 
 
280 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 tlenian waited on me the otlier day, on the 
 part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by 
 vay of subscription for two copies of my 
 next edition. 
 
 Tiie word you object to in the mention I 
 have made of my glorious countryman and 
 your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed 
 from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as 
 an improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
 judjcment on your iindnig fault with it, and 
 applied for the opinion of some of the 
 literati here who honour me with their 
 critical strictures, and they all allow it to be 
 proper. The song you ask I cannot recol- 
 lect, and 1 have not a copy of it. I have 
 not composed any thing on the great 
 Wallace, except what you have seen in 
 print, and the enclosed, which I will print in 
 this edition. You will see 1 have mentioned 
 some others of the name. When I com- 
 posed my Vision long ago, I had attempted 
 a description of Kyle, of which the addi- 
 tional stanzas are a part as it originally 
 stood. My heart glows with a wish to be ■ 
 able to do justice to the merits of the 
 " saviour of his country," which, sooner or i 
 later, I shall at least attempt. 
 
 You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated 
 with my prosperity as a poet : alas ! Madam, 
 I know myself and the world too well. I do 
 not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I 
 am willing to believe that my abilities 
 deserve some notice ; but in a most en- 
 lightened, informed age and nation, when 
 poetry is and has been the study of men of 
 the lirst natural genius, aided with all the 
 powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
 polite company — to be ilragged forth to the 
 full glare of learned and polite observation, 
 with all my imperfections of awkward rus- 
 ticity and crude unpolished ideas in my 
 head — I assure you. Madam, I do not dis- 
 semble when I tell you I tremble for the 
 consequences. The novelty of a poet in my 
 obscure situation, without any of those 
 advantages which are reckoned necessary 
 for that character, at least at this time of 
 day, has raised a partial tide of public 
 notice whicli has borne me to a height, 
 wliere I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
 abilities are inadequate to support me ; and 
 too surely do I see that time when the same 
 tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as 
 fur below the mark of truth. I do not say 
 tliis in the ridiculous atfectation of self- 
 abasement and modesty. I have studied 
 mysilf, and know what ground 1 occupy ; 
 and however a friend or the world may differ 
 from me in that particular, I stand for my 
 own opinion, iii silent resolve, with all the 
 
 tenaciousness of propriety. I mention tins 
 to you once for all, to disburden my mind, 
 and I do not wish to hear or say more about 
 it. But, 
 
 When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes, 
 you will bear me witness, that when my 
 bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood 
 uuintoxicated. with the inebriating cup iu 
 my hand, loni in ;' forward with rueful resolve 
 to the hastening time when the blow of 
 calumny should dash it to the ground, with 
 all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 
 
 Your patronising me, and interesting 
 yourself in my fame and character as a poet, 
 I rejoice in — it exalts u.e in my own idea — 
 and whetlier you can or cannot aid me in 
 my subscription, is a trifle. Has a paltry 
 subscription-bill any charms to the heart of 
 a bard, compared with the patronage of the 
 descendant of the immprtal Wallace ? 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. XXXVI. 
 
 10 DR. MOORE. (16) 
 
 Edinhunjh, Jan. 1787. 
 
 Sir. — Mrs.Dunlop has been so kind as to 
 send me extracts of letters she has had from 
 you, where you do the rustic bard the 
 honour of noticing him and his works. 
 Those who have felt the anxieties and 
 solicitudes of authorship, can only know 
 what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such 
 a manner, by judges of the first character. 
 Your criticisms. Sir, I receive w ith reverence ; 
 only I am sorry they mostly came too late ; 
 a peccant passage or two that I would cer- 
 tainly have altered, were gone to the press. 
 
 The hope to be admired for ages, is, iu 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 understood. I am 
 very willing to admit that I have some poe- 
 tical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, 
 either moral or poetical, are intimately ac- 
 quainted with the classes of mankind among 
 whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
 seen men and manners in a different phasis 
 from w'^.at is common, which may assist 
 originality of thought. Still I know very 
 well the novelty of my character has by far 
 the greatest share in the learned and polite 
 notice I have lately had; and in a languaH:e 
 
TO JAMES DALTIYMPLE, ESQ. 
 
 281 
 
 where Pope and Churchill have raised the 
 laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the 
 tear; where Thomson and Bcattie have 
 painted the landscape, and Lyttleton anfl 
 Colhns described the heart, I am not vain 
 enough to hope for distniguished poetic 
 fame. R. B. 
 
 NO. XXXVU. 
 
 TO THE REV. G. LAWRTE, 
 
 NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 
 
 Edinburgh, Feb. 5t/i, 1787. 
 
 Reverend and Dear Sir. — When I 
 look at the date of your kind letter, my 
 heart reproaches me severely with inj::rati- 
 tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I 
 will not trouble you with any account, by 
 way of apology, of my hurried life and dis- 
 tracted attention ; do me the justice to 
 believe that my delay by no means proceeded 
 from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall 
 feel for you, the mingled sentiments for a 
 friend, and reverence for a father. 
 
 I thank you. Sir, with all my soul, for 
 your friendly hints, though I do not need them 
 so much as my friends are apt to imagine. 
 You are dazzled with newspaper accounts 
 and distant reports ; but, in reality, I have 
 no great temptation to be intoxicated with 
 tiie cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract 
 the attention of mankind a while ; to it I 
 owe my present eclat ; but I see the time 
 not far distant when the popular tide, which 
 has borne me to a height of which I am 
 perhaps unworthy, shall recede with silent 
 celerity, and leave me a barren waste of 
 sand, to descend at my leisure to my former 
 station. I do not say this in the affectation 
 of modesty; I see the consequence is un- 
 avoidable, and am prepared for it. I had 
 oeen at a good deal of pains to form a just, 
 impartial estimate of my intellectual powers 
 before I came here ; I have not added, since 
 I came to Edinburgh, any thing to the 
 account; and I trust I shall take every atom 
 of it back to my shades, the coverts of my 
 unnoticed early years. 
 
 In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, 
 I have found what I would have expected 
 in our friend, a clear head and an excellent 
 heart. 
 
 By far the most agreeable hours I spend 
 ui Edinburgh, must be placed to the account 
 of !Miss Lawrie and her piano-forte. I can- 
 not help repeating to you and Mrs. Lawrie 
 a compliment iliut Mr. .Mackenzie, the 
 
 celebrated " ^Man of Feeling," paid to Miss 
 Ijawrie, the other night, at the concert. I 
 had come in at the interlude, and sat down 
 by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not 
 very distant, and went up to pay my 
 respects to her. On my return to Mr. 
 -Mackenzie, he asked me who she was; I 
 told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend 
 friend of mine in the west country. He 
 returned, there was something very striking, 
 to his idea, in her appearance. On my 
 desiring to know what it was, he was 
 pleased to say, " She has a great deal of tlie 
 elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with 
 all the sweet simplicity of a country girl." 
 
 My couipliments to all the happy inmates 
 of St. Margaret's. I am, my dear Sir, yours 
 most gratefully, Robert Burns. 
 
 KO. XXXVIII. 
 
 TO JAMES DALRY]VIPLE, Esa. 
 orangefield. 
 
 Ediuburijli, 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir. — I suppose the devil is so 
 elated with his success with you, that he is 
 determined, by a coiqj de main, to complete 
 his purposes on you all at once, in making 
 you a poet. I broke open the letter you 
 sent me — hummed over the rhymes — and as 
 I saw they were extempore, said to myself, 
 they were very well ; but when I saw at the 
 bottom a name that I shall ever value «ith 
 grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but naething 
 spak." I was nearly as much struck as the 
 friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
 when they sat down with him seven days 
 and seven nights, and spake not a word. 
 
 I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and 
 as soon as my wonder-scared imagination 
 regained its consciousness, and resumed its 
 functions, I cast about what this mania of 
 yours might portend. jMy foreboding ideas 
 hiid the wide stretch of possibility ; and 
 several events, great in their magnitude, and 
 important in their consequences, occurred to 
 my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or 
 the crushing of the Cork rumps — a ducal 
 coronet to Lord George Gordon, and tiie 
 Protestant interest — or St. Peter's keys to 
 • « * * « 
 
 You want to know how I come on. I am 
 just in slata quo, or, not to insult a gentle- 
 man with my Latin, in " auld use and 
 wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took 
 V .: 11. , i^ 1..1,, ami luierested him- 
 
2S2 
 
 CORRESPONUHNCE OP BURNS. 
 
 self in my concerns, with a goodness like 
 that benevolent being whose ima^ce he so 
 richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the 
 immortality of the soul than any that phi- 
 losophy ever produced. A mind like his 
 can never die. Let the worshipful squire 
 H. L., or the reverend I\Iast. J. M. go into 
 their primitive nothing. At best, they are 
 but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
 thera strongly tinged with bituminous 
 particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my 
 noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of 
 magnanimity, and the generous throb of 
 benevolence, shall look on with princely eye 
 at " the war of elements, the wreck of 
 matter, and the crash of worlds." 11. B. 
 
 NO. XXXIX. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 Edinhimjli, February 15(A, 1787. 
 
 Sir. — Pardon my seeming neglect in 
 delaying so long to acknowledge the honour 
 you have done me, in your kind notice of me, 
 January 2ord, Not many months ago I 
 knew no other employment than following 
 the plough, nor could boast any thing higher 
 than a distant acquaintance with a country 
 clergyman. ]Mere greatness never em- 
 barasses me ; 1 have nothing to ask from the 
 great, and I do not fear their judgment ; 
 but genius, polished by learning, and at its 
 proper point of elevation in the eye of the 
 world, this of late I frequently meet with, 
 and tremble at its approach. I scorn the 
 affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- 
 conceit. That 1 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 coiuitry- 
 men. have borne me to a height altogether 
 untenable to my abilities. 
 
 For the honour Miss Williams has done 
 me, please, Sir, return her in my name my 
 most grateful thanks. I have more than 
 once thought of paying her in kind, but have 
 hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless des- 
 pondency. I had never before heard of 
 her; but the other day 1 got her poems, 
 which, for several reasons, some belongnig to 
 the head, and others the offspring of the 
 heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I 
 have little pretensions to critic lore; there 
 are, I think, two characteristic features in 
 her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of 
 native genius, and the querulous, sombre 
 tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." 
 
 I only know what pleases me, often with- 
 out being able to tell why. R. B. (17) 
 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa. 
 
 Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787. 
 
 My Honoured Friend. — I will soon 
 be with you now, in guid black prent — in a 
 week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, 
 against my own wish, to print subscribers' 
 names; so if any of my Ayr friends have 
 subscription bills, they must be sent into 
 Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done 
 by an eminent engraver, and if it can be 
 ready in time, I will appear in my book, 
 lookuig, like all other fools, to my title-page. 
 R. B. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR. (18.) 
 Lawn Market, Monday Morning, 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir. — In justice to Spenser, I must 
 acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in 
 the language could have been a more agree- 
 able present to me ; and in justice to you, 
 allow me to say. Sir, that I have not met 
 with a man in Edinburgh to whom I would 
 so willingly have been indebted for the gift. 
 The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, 
 and the handsome volumes of Spenser 
 for which I am so much indebted to your 
 goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion 
 to one another ; but be that as it may, my 
 gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a 
 mark of esteem as yours. 
 
 The time is approaching when I shall re- 
 turn to my shades ; and I am afraid my 
 numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so 
 tender a construction, that they will not 
 bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the 
 few that I could wish of a more robust con- 
 stitution. It is indeed very probable that 
 when 1 leave this city, we part never more 
 to meet in this sublunary sphere ; but I 
 have a strong fancy that in some future 
 eccentric planet, the comet of happier sys- 
 tems than any with which astronomy is yet 
 acquainted, you and I, among the harum- 
 scarum sons of imagination and wliim, with 
 a hearty shake of a hand, a metaphor and a 
 laugh, sliall recognise old acquaintance : 
 
 Where wit may sparkle all its rays, 
 Uncurst with caution's fears; 
 
 That pleasure, basking in the blaze. 
 Rejoice for endless years. 
 
 I have the honour to be, with the warm- 
 est sincerity, dear Sir, &c. R. B. 
 
LETTER TO 
 
 28.1 
 
 NO. XLII. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
 
 Ediubarrjh, Fahruary, 1787. 
 
 My Lord. — I wanted to purchase a pro* 
 file of your lordship, which I was told was to 
 he got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see 
 that a blundering painter has spoiled a 
 " human face divine." The enclosed stanzas 
 I intended to have written below a picture or 
 profile or your lordship, could I have been 
 so happy as to procure one with any thing 
 of a likeness. 
 
 As I will soon return to my shades, I 
 wanted to have something like a material 
 object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it 
 in my power to say to a friend, there is my 
 noble patron, my generous benefactor. Al- 
 low me, my lord, to publish these verses. I 
 conjure your lordship, by the honest throe 
 of gratitude, by the generous wish of bene- 
 volence, by all the powers and feelings which 
 compose the magnanimous mind, do not 
 deny me this petition. I owe much to your 
 lordship ; and, what has not in some other 
 instances always been the case with me, the 
 weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. 
 I trust I have a heart as independent as your 
 lordship's, than which I can say nothing 
 more : and I would not be beholden to 
 favours that would crucify my feelings 
 Your dignified character in life, and manner 
 of supporting that character, are flatterhig to 
 my pride ; and I would be jealous of the 
 purity of my grateful attachment, where 1 
 was under the patronage of one of the much- 
 favoured sons of fortune. 
 
 Almost every poet has celebrated his 
 patrons, particularly when they were names 
 dear to fame, and illustrious in their coun- 
 try : allow me, then, my lord, if you think 
 the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the 
 world how much I have the honour to be, 
 your lordship's highly indebted, and ever 
 grateful hunable servant, 11. B. 
 
 NO. XLIIl. 
 
 TO JiR. ja:\ies candlisii, 
 
 STUDENT IN PHYSIC, GLASGOW COLLEGE. 
 
 Edinburgh, March 2lst, 1787. 
 
 My Ever Dear Old AcauAiNTANCE. 
 — I was equally surprised and pleased at 
 your letter, though I dare say you will 
 think, by my delaymg so long to write to 
 you, that I am so drowned in the intoxica- 
 tion of good fortune as to be iudilTereut to 
 
 old, and once dear connexions. The truth 
 is, I was determined to write a good letter, 
 full of argument, amplification, erudition, 
 and, as Eayes says, all that. 1 thought of 
 it, and thought of it, and by my soul 1 could 
 not ; and, lest you should mistake the cause 
 of my silence, 1 just sit down to tell you so. 
 Don't give yourself credit, though, that the 
 strength of your logic scares me : the truth 
 is, 1 never mean to meet you on that ground 
 at all. You have shown me one thing wliich 
 was to be demonstrated: that strong pride 
 of reasoning, with a little affectation of sin- 
 gularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I 
 likewise, since you and 1 were first ac- 
 quainted, in the pride of despising old 
 women's stories, ventured in the " daring 
 path Spinosa trod;" but experience of the 
 weakness, not the strength of human powers, 
 made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 
 
 I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, 
 "The old man with his deeds," as when we 
 were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I 
 shall be four weeks here yet at least, and so 
 I shall expect to hear from you ; welcome 
 sense, welcome nonsense. 1 am, with the 
 warmest sincerity, yours, &c., K. B. 
 
 NO. XLIV. 
 
 TO 
 
 ON FERGUSSON S HEADSTONE, 
 
 Edinburgh, March, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — You may think, and 
 too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrate- 
 ful fellow, having received so many repeated 
 instances of kindness from you, and yet 
 never putting pen to paper to say " thank 
 you"; but if you knew what a devil of a life 
 my conscience has led me on that account, 
 your good heart would think yourself too 
 much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing 
 in the whole frame of man which seems to 
 be so unaccountable as that thing called 
 conscience. Had the troublesome, yelping 
 cur powers sufficient to prevent a mischief, 
 he might be of use; but at the beginning 
 of the business, his feeble efforts are to the 
 workings of passion as the infant frosts of 
 an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
 fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are 
 the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed 
 over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
 sequences of folly in the very vortex of our 
 horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows 
 us with the feelings of the damned. 
 
 I have enclosed you by way of expiation, 
 som-j verses and prose, that, if they merit Q 
 
29.i 
 
 COHR.E^^POKTnEVr'E OP RUTINS. 
 
 place in your truly entertaining miscellany, 
 you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
 literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. 
 
 The inscription on the stone is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 
 
 POET. 
 
 Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, ICth 
 
 October, 1774. 
 
 "Noscnlptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
 'No storied urn, nor animated bust;' 
 
 This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
 To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.' " 
 
 On the other side of the stone is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " By special grant of the managers to 
 Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this 
 burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to 
 to the memory of Robert Fergusson." 
 
 Session-Jiovse within the kirk of Canonr/ate, 
 the twenty-second day of February, one 
 thousand seven htmdrcd eighty-seven years. 
 
 Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and 
 Kirk-yard funds of Canongate. 
 
 Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
 produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
 date the 6th current, which was read and 
 appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt 
 book, and of which letter the tenor follows: — 
 
 "To the honourable bailies of Canongate, 
 Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be 
 told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, 
 the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose 
 talents for ages to come will do honour to 
 our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard 
 among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and un- 
 known. 
 
 Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
 lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to 
 shed a tear over the ' narrow house' of the 
 bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due 
 to Fcrgusson's memory — a tribute I wish to 
 have the honour of paying. 
 
 I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit 
 me to lay a simple stone over his revered 
 ashes, to remain an unalienable property to 
 his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, 
 gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic 
 subscribitur) Robert Burns." 
 
 Therefore the said managers, in considera- 
 tion of the laudable and disinterested mo- 
 tiin of Mr Burns, and the propriety of his 
 request, did, and hereby do, unanimously, 
 ^int power and liberty to the said Robert 
 
 Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of 
 the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up 
 and preserve the same to his memory in all 
 time coming. Extracted forth of the records 
 of the managers, by 
 
 William Sprott, Clerk. 
 
 NO. XLV. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 
 
 My Lord. — The honour your lordship 
 has done me, by your notice and advice lu 
 yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever grate- 
 fully remember : — 
 
 Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to 
 
 boast, 
 They best can give it who deserve it most. 
 
 Your lordship touches the darlinsr chord 
 of my heart, when you advise me to fire m_v 
 muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. 
 I wish for nothing more than to make a 
 leisurely pilgrimage through my native coun- 
 try ; to sit and muse on those once hard- 
 contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, 
 saw her bloody lion borne through broken 
 ranks to victory and fame ; and catching the 
 inspiration, to pour the deathless names in 
 song. But, my lord, in the midst of these 
 enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry 
 moral-looking pha^itora strides across my 
 imagination, and pronounces these emphatic 
 words : — 
 
 "I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, 
 I do not come to open the ill- closed wounds 
 of your follies and misfortunes, merely to 
 give you pain : I wish through these woundi 
 to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. 
 I will not mention how many of my salutary 
 advices you have despised ; I have given you 
 line upon line and precept upon precept; and 
 while I was chalking out to you the straight 
 way to wealth and character, with audacious 
 effrontery you have zigzagged across the 
 path, contemning me to my face : you knox? 
 the consequences. It is not yet three months 
 since home was so hot for you that you were 
 on the wing for the western shore of the 
 Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide 
 your misfortune. 
 
 " Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it 
 in your power to return to the situation ot 
 your forefathers, will you follow these will- 
 o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they 
 bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? 
 I grant that the utmost ground you can oc- 
 cupy is but half a step from the veriest 
 poverty ; but still it is half a step from it 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 283 
 
 If all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her 
 who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call 
 of pride prevail with you. You know how 
 you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppres- 
 sion : you know how you bear the galling 
 sneer of contumelious greatness. 1 hold you 
 out the conveniences, the comforts of life, 
 independence and character, on the one 
 hand ; I tender you servility, dependence, 
 and wTetchedness, on the other. I will not 
 insult your understanding by bidding you 
 make a choice." 
 
 This, my lord, is unanswerable. I mtist 
 return to my humble station, and woo my 
 rustic muse, in my wonted way, at the 
 plough-tad. Still, my lord, while the drops 
 of life warm my heart, gratitude to that 
 dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, 
 and gratitude to those her distinguished 
 eons who have honoured me so much with 
 their patronage and approbation, shall, while 
 stealing through my humble shades, ever 
 distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
 draw forth the swelUng tear. R. B. 
 
 NO. XLVl. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Edinhmjh, March 22)1(1, 1737. 
 
 M.\D.\M. — I read your letter with watery 
 eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had 
 .scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my 
 own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pa- 
 tronised, befriended by you. Your friendly 
 advices, I will not give them the cold name 
 of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I 
 have made some small alterations in what I 
 before had printed. I have the advice of 
 iome very judicious friend among the literati 
 here, but with them I sometimes find it 
 necessary to claim the privilege of thinking 
 for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, 
 to whom I owe more than to any man, does 
 me the honour of giving me his strictures; 
 his hints, with respect to impropriety or 
 indehcacy, I follow implicitly. 
 
 Y'ou kindly interest yourself in my future 
 views and prospects ; there I can give you 
 no light. It is all 
 
 Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 
 
 "Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 
 
 Athwart the gloom profound. 
 
 The appellation of a Scottish bard is by 
 fer ray highest pride ; to continue to deserve 
 it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish 
 ■ceues and Scottish story are the themes I 
 
 could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim 
 than to have it in my power, unplagucd with 
 the routine of business, for which. Heaven 
 knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
 pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit on 
 the fields of her battles, to wander on the 
 romantic banks of her rivers, and to muse 
 by the stately towers or venerable ruins, 
 once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 
 
 But these are all Utopian thoughts ; I 
 have dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time 
 to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged 
 mother to care for, and some other bosom 
 ties perhaps equally tender. A\'here the 
 individual only suffers by the consequences 
 of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or 
 folly, he may be excusable — nay, shining 
 abdities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
 may half sanctify a heedless character ; but 
 where God and nature have intrusted the 
 welfare of others to his care — where the 
 trust is sacred, and the ties are dear — that 
 man must be far gone in selfishness, or 
 strangely lost to reflection, whom these con- 
 nexions wdl not rouse to exertion. 
 
 I guess that I shall clear between two and 
 three hundred pounds by my authorship; 
 with that sum I intend, so far as I may be 
 said to have any intention, to return to my 
 old acquaintance, the jilough, and, if I can 
 meet with a lease by which I can live, to 
 commence farmer. I do not intend to give 
 up poetry ; being bred to labour secures me 
 independence, and the muses are my chief, 
 sometimes have been my only enjoyment. 
 If my practice second my resolution, I shall 
 have principally at heart the serious business 
 of life ; but while following my plough, or 
 building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure 
 glance to that dear, that only feature of my 
 character, which gave me the notice of my 
 country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 
 
 Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you 
 the bard, his situation, and his views, native 
 as they are in his own bosom. R. B. 
 
 NO. XLVII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Edinbaryh, April loth, 1737. 
 
 M.A.DA1M. — There is an affectation of 
 gratitude which I dislike. The periods of 
 Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide 
 a selfish heart. For my part, .Madam, I 
 trust I have too much pride for servility, 
 and too little prudence for selfishness, j 
 
28fi 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 have this moment brolcen open your letter, 
 but 
 
 Rude am I in speech. 
 And tlicrefore little can 1 grace my cause 
 In speaking for myself — 
 
 so I shall not trouble you with any fine 
 speeches and hunted figures. I shall just 
 lay Biy hand on my heart and say, I hope I 
 shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense 
 of your goodness. 
 
 I come abroad, in print, for certain on 
 Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually 
 attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you 
 that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and 
 Miss Williams's copies, through the medium 
 of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but 
 that we can settle when I have the honour 
 of waiting on you. 
 
 Dr. Smith (19) was just gone to London 
 the morning before I received your letter to 
 lum. R- B. 
 
 NO. XLVIH. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 Edinburgh, April, 23rd 1787. 
 
 f RECEIVED the books, and sent the one 
 you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill 
 skilled in beating the coverts of imagina- 
 tion for metaphors of gratitude. I thank 
 you. Sir, for the honour vou have done me, 
 and to my latest hour will warmly remember 
 it. To be highly pleased with your book is, 
 what I have in common with the world, but 
 to regard these volumes as a mark of the 
 author's friendly esteem, is a still more 
 supreme gratification. 
 
 I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten 
 days or a fortnight, and, after a few pilgrim- 
 ages over some of the classic ground of 
 Caledonia, Cowdeu Knowes, Banks of 
 Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shall return to my 
 rural shades, in all likelihood never more to 
 quit them. 1 have formed many intiraacie.T 
 and friendships here, but I am afraid they 
 are all of too tender a construction to bear 
 carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the 
 rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I 
 have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid 
 my meteor appearance will by no means 
 entitle me to a settled correspondence with 
 any of you, who are the permanent lights of 
 genius and literature. 
 
 My most respectful compliments to Miss 
 Williams. If once this tangent flight of 
 mnie were over, and 1 were returned to my 
 irouted leisurely motion in my old circle, I 
 
 may probably endeavour to return her poetic 
 compliment in kind. R. B. (20) 
 
 NO. XLIX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP 
 
 Edinburgh, April 30th, 1787. 
 
 Your criticisms, Madam, I under* 
 
 stand very well, and could have wished to 
 have pleased you better. You are right in 
 your guess that I am not very amenable to 
 counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have 
 so flattered those who possessed the adven- 
 titious qualities of wealth and power, that I 
 am determined to flatter no created being, 
 either in prose or verse. 
 
 I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, 
 critics, &c., as all these respective gentry do 
 by my hardship. 1 know what I may expect 
 from the world by and bye — illiberal abuse, 
 and perhaps contem])tuous neglect. 
 
 I am happy, Madam, that some of my owa 
 favourite pieces are distinguished by your 
 particular approbation. For my " Dream," 
 which has unfortunately incurred your loyal 
 displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to 
 have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, ia 
 its defence in person. R. 13. 
 
 TO JAMES JOHNSON, 
 
 EDITOR OF THE SCOTS MUSICAI. 
 MUSEUM. 
 
 Lawnmarkcf, Friday Noon, 
 May 3rd, 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir. — I have sent you a song never 
 before known for 'your collection ; the air by 
 M'Gibbon, but I know not the author of the 
 words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. 
 
 Farewell, my dear Sir ! I wished to have 
 seen you, but I have been dreadfully 
 throng (21), as I march to-morrow. (22) 
 Had my acquaintance with you been a little 
 older, 1 would have asked the favour of your 
 correspondence, as I have met with few 
 people whose company and conversation 
 gave me so much pleasure, because I have 
 met with few whose sentiments are so ccii- 
 genial to my own. 
 
 When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that 
 I left Edinburgh with the idea of hira hang, 
 ing somewhere about my heart. 
 
 Keep the original of this song till we mjtt 
 again, whenever that may be. R. B 
 
TO Mi;. PATISON. 
 
 287 
 
 NO. LI. 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 
 
 Lawnmarket, Ed'tnhurgh, 
 May -ird, 1787. 
 
 Rev. and much-Respected Sir. — I 
 leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
 could not go without troubhng you with 
 half a line, sincerely to thank you for the 
 kindness, patronage and friendship you 
 have shown nie. I often felt the embarrass- 
 ment of my singular situation ; drawn forth 
 from the veriest shades of life to the glare 
 of remark, and honoured by the notice of 
 those illustrious names of my country, whose 
 works, while they are applauded to the end 
 of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
 heart. However the meteor-like novelty of 
 my appearance in the world might attract 
 notice, and honour me with the acquaintance 
 of the permanent lights of genius and litera- 
 ture, those who are tridy benefactors of the 
 immortal nature of man, I knew very well 
 that my utmost merit was far unequal to the 
 task of preserving that character when once 
 the novelty was over ; I have so made up my 
 mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, 
 will not surprise me in my quarters. 
 
 I have sent you a proof impression of 
 Beugo's work (23) for me, done on Indian 
 paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with 
 what heart- warm gratitude I am, &c. 
 
 R. B. (24) 
 
 TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esa, 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Selkirk, May \Zlh, 1787. 
 
 My Honoured Friend. — The enclosed 
 I have just wrote (23), nearly extempore, in 
 a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserably 
 wet day's riding. I have been over most of 
 East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 
 Selkirk shires, and next week I begin a tour 
 through the north of England. Yesterday 
 I dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my 
 noble patron (26), Quern Deiis conseroet ! 
 I wouUl write till I would tire you as much 
 with dull jjrose, as I daresay by this time 
 you are with wretched verse; but I am 
 iaded to death ; so, with a grateful farewell, 
 I have the honour to be, good Sir, yours 
 Bincerely, R. B. 
 
 NO. LIII. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 
 
 Edinburgh, 1787. 
 
 My De.\r Friend. — If once I were 
 gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, 
 I promise myself the pleasure of that corres- 
 pondence being renewed which has been so 
 long broken. At present I have time for 
 nothing. Dissipation and business engross 
 every moment. I am engaged in assisting 
 an honest Scotch enthusiast (27), a friend of 
 mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it 
 into his head to publish a collection of all 
 our songs set to music, of which the words 
 and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you 
 will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly 
 to my taste. I have collected, begged, bor- 
 rowed, and stolen, all the songs I could 
 meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and 
 music, I beg from you immediately, to go 
 into his second number — the first is already 
 published. I shall show you the first num- 
 ber when I see you in Glasgow, which will 
 be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as 
 to send me the song in a day or two — you 
 cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. 
 
 Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, 
 St. James's Square, New Town, Edinb\irgh. 
 R. B. 
 
 2fi 
 
 TO MR. PATISON, BOOKSELLER, 
 PAISLEY. 
 
 Berrii-well, near Dunse, 
 May llth, 1787. 
 Dear Sir. — I am sorry I was out of 
 Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to 
 the classic scenes of this country, when I 
 was favoured with yours of the 11th instant, 
 enclosing an order of the Paisley Banking 
 Company on the Royal Bank, for twenty-two 
 pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in 
 full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies 
 of my book I sent you. According to your 
 motions, I see you will have left Scotland 
 before this reaches you, otherwise I would 
 send you " Holy Willie " with all my heart. 
 I was so hurried that I absolutely forgot 
 several things I ought to have minded:—- 
 among the rest, sending books to .Mr. Cowan ; 
 but any order of yours will be answered at 
 Creech's shop. You will please remember 
 that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is 
 Creech's profit ; but those wiio iiave sub- 
 scribed, though their names have beeij 
 
28S 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 nej,^Iecte(l in the printed list, wliich is very 
 incorrect, are supplied at the subscription 
 price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I 
 intend to go to London ; and I think Mrs. 
 Fame is very idle to tell so many lies on a poor 
 poet. 'When you or Mr. Cowan write for 
 copies, if you should want any, direct to Mr. 
 Kill, at Mr. Creech's shop (28j, and I write 
 to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either of 
 your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's tirst clerk, 
 and Creech himself is presently in London. 
 1 suppose I shall have the pleasure, against 
 your return to Paisley, of assuring you how 
 much I am, dear Sir, your obliged, humble 
 servant, R. B. 
 
 NO. LV. 
 
 TO MR. W. NICOL, 
 
 MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDIN- 
 BUUGH. 
 
 Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 
 
 Kind Honest-hearted Willie — I'm 
 sit ten down here, after seven and forty miles 
 ridni', e'en as forjesket and forniav/'d as a 
 forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' 
 my land-lowper-like stravaguin sin' the sor- 
 rowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted 
 wi' Auld Reekie. 
 
 My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- 
 yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland 
 and England, as teugh and birnie as a very 
 devil wi' me. It's true she's as poor's a 
 sangmaker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper- 
 taipers when she taks the gate, first like a 
 lady's gentle-woman in a minuwae, or a hen 
 on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld, poutherie 
 girran for a' that, and has a stomach like 
 VVillie Stalker's meere, that wad hae di- 
 geested tumbler-wheels — for she'll whip me 
 aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a 
 down-sittin, and ne'er fash her thumb. 
 When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her 
 crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she 
 beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour 
 the tightest. I could wager her price to a 
 tlirettie pennies, that for twa or three wooks 
 ridin' at fifty mile a-day, the deil-sticket a five 
 gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn 
 could cast saut on her tail. (29) 
 
 1 hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae 
 Diunbar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' 
 mony a guid fallow, and mony a weelfar'd 
 hizzie. I met wi' twa dink, quines in par- 
 ticular, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass 
 — baith, braw and bonnie ; the tither was a 
 clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel-far'd 
 winch, as blvthe's a lintwhite on a flowerie 
 
 thorn, and as sweet and modesfs a nevr- 
 blawn plum-rose in a hazle shaw. They 
 were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and 
 onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum 
 and rumblegumption as the half o' some 
 presbytries that you and I baith ken. They 
 play'd me sick a deil o' a shavie, that I 
 daur say, if my harigals were turn'd out, ye 
 wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the 
 mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. 
 
 I was gann to write you a lang pystle, but 
 God forgie me, I gat mysel sae iioutouri- 
 ously bitchify'd the day, after kail-time, that 
 I can hardly stoiter hot and ben. 
 
 My best respecks to the guidwife and a* 
 our common friens, especially Mr. and Mrs. 
 Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o' 
 Jock's Lodge. 
 
 I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast 
 be to the fore, and the branks bide hale, 
 Guid be wi' you, AVillie ! Amen [ R. B. 
 
 TO WILLIAM NICOL, Esq. 
 
 Auchlertyre (30j, June, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — I find myself very com- 
 fortable here, neither oppressed by ceremony, 
 nor mortified by neglect. Lady Augusta is 
 a most engaging woman, and very happy in 
 her family, which makes one's outgoings and 
 incomings very agreeable. I called at Mr. 
 Ramsay's of Auchtertyre (31), as I came up 
 the country, and am so delighted with him, 
 that I shall certainly accept of his invitatioa 
 to spend a day or two with him as I return. 
 I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 
 
 Make my kind compliments to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is 
 returned. I am ever, dear Sir, your deeply 
 indebted R. B. 
 
 TO MR. W. NICOL, 
 
 MASTEK OP THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDIN- 
 BURGH. 
 
 MaucMine, June 18, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Friend. — I am now arrived 
 safe in my native country, after a very agree- 
 able jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all 
 my friends well. I breakfasted with your 
 grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; 
 and was highly pleased both with the cordial 
 welcome he gave me, and his most excellent 
 appearance and sterling good sense. 
 
 I have been with Mr. MUier at Dalswin- 
 
TO MK. JOHX RICHilOND. 
 
 28» 
 
 ton, and am to meet him ac'ain in Au2;ust. 
 From my view of the lands, and liis reception 
 of my barJship, my hopes in that business 
 are ratlier mended; but still they are but 
 slender. 
 
 I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks:— 
 Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in partioilar, is 
 a man whom I shall ever gratefully remem- 
 ber ; and his wife — guid forgie me ! 1 had 
 almost broke the tenth commandment on 
 her account. Simplicity, elegance, good 
 sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, 
 kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
 manner and heart : in short — hut if 1 say 
 one word more about her, I shall be directly 
 in love with her. 
 
 I never, my friend, thought mankind very 
 capable of anything generous; but the state- 
 hness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and 
 the civility of my ple'..eian brethren (who 
 l)erhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I 
 returned home, have nearly put me out of 
 conceit altogether with my species. I have 
 bought a pocket IMilton, which I carry per- 
 petually about with 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. 'Tis 
 true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am 
 afraid the star ttiat hitherto has shed its 
 malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my 
 zenith, — that noxious planet, so baneful in 
 its influences to the rhyming tribe, — I much 
 dread it is not yet beneath ray horizon. 
 Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; 
 the poetic mind finds itself miserably de- 
 ranged in, and unfit for the walks of busi- 
 ness ; add to all, that thoughtless follies and 
 hair-braiiicd whims, like so many ignes faliii 
 eternally diverging from the right line of 
 sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching 
 blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor 
 heedless bard, till pop, " he falls like Lucifer, 
 never to hope again." God grant that this 
 may be an imreal picture with respect to me! 
 but should it not, I have very little depend- 
 ence on mankind. I will close my letter with 
 this tribute my heart bids me pay you — 
 the many ties of acquaintance and friendship 
 which 1 have, or think I have in life, I have 
 felt along the lines, and damn them, they are 
 almost all of them of such frail contexture, 
 that I am sure they would not stand the 
 breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune; 
 but from \ on, my ever dear Sir, I look with 
 confidence for the apostolic love that shall 
 wait on me " through good report an<l bad 
 report " — the love which Solomon emphati- 
 cally say3 '• is strong as death." My com- 
 
 pliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of 
 our common friends. 
 
 P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the 
 latter end of July. R. B. 
 
 TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. (32) 
 ST. James's souare, Edinburgh. 
 Auchtertyre, June, 1787. 
 
 I HAVE nothing, my dear Sir, to WTite to 
 you, but that 1 feel myself exceedingly com- 
 fortably situated in tliis good family — ^jnst 
 notice enough to make me easy but not to 
 embarrass me. I was storm-staid two days 
 at the foot of the Ochill Hills, with Mr. Tait 
 of Herveyston and ilr. Johnston of Alva, 
 but was so well pleased that 1 shall certainly 
 spend a day on the banks of the Devon as 1 
 return. I leave this place I suppose on 
 ^^'ednesday, and shall devote a day to Mr. 
 Ramsay, at Auchtertyre, near Stirling — a 
 man to whose worth I cannot do justice. 
 My respectful kind compliments to Mrs. 
 Cruikshank, and my dear little Jeanie, and 
 if you see Mr. ^lasterton, please remember 
 me to him. 1 am ever, my dear Sir, &c. 
 R. B. 
 
 no. liix. 
 TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 
 
 Mossgiel, July ~lh, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Richmond. — I am all im- 
 patience to hear of your fate since the old 
 confounder of right and wrong has turned 
 you out of place, by his journey t^ answer 
 his indictment at the bar of the other world. 
 He will find the practice of the court so 
 different from the practice in which he has 
 for so many years been thoroughly hack- 
 neyed, that his friends, if he had any con- 
 nections truly of that kind, which I rather 
 doubt, may well tremble for his sake. His 
 chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stocd 
 so firmly by him, to such good purpose, 
 here, like other accomplices in robbery and 
 plunder, will, now the piratical business is 
 blown, in all probability turn king's evi- 
 dences, and then the devil's bagpiper will 
 touch him off " Bundle and go." 
 
 If he has left you any legacy, I beg 
 your pardon for all this; if not, I know 
 you will swear to every word I said about 
 hira. 
 
 1 have lately been rambling over by Dum- 
 
290 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 barton and Inverary, and running a drunken 
 race on the side of Loch Lomond with a 
 wild Ilighlandman ; his horse, which had 
 never known the ornaments of iron or 
 leatlier, zigzagged across before my old 
 spavin'd hunter, whose name is Jenny 
 Getldes, and down came the Highlandman, 
 horse and all, and down came Jenny and 
 my ladyship ; so I have got such a skinful 
 of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at 
 least four weeks before I dare venture on my 
 journey to Edinburgh. 
 
 Not one new thing under the sun has 
 happened in Mauchline since you left it. I 
 hope this will find you as comfortably 
 situated as formerly, or, if Heaven pleases, 
 more so ; but, at all events, I trust you will 
 let me know, of course, how matters stand 
 with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor con- 
 solation to tell the world when matters go 
 wrong , but you know very well your con- 
 nection and mine stands on a different 
 footing. I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 
 R. B. 
 
 TO ROBERT ALVSLIE, Esa. 
 
 Mauchline, July, 1/87. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — My life, since I saw you 
 last, has been one continued hurry ; that 
 savage hospitality which knocks a man down 
 with strong liquors, is the devil. I have a 
 sore warfare in this world ; the devil, the 
 world, and the flesh, are three formidable 
 foes. TJie first I generally try to fly from ; 
 the second, alas 1 generally flies from me ; 
 but the third is my plague, worse than the 
 ten plagues of Egypt. 
 
 I have been looking over several farms in 
 this country; one in particular, in Niths- 
 dale, pleased me so well, that, if my offer to 
 the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence 
 farmer at Whitsunday. If farming do not 
 appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my 
 other shift ; but this to a friend. 
 
 I set out for Edinburgh on Monday 
 morning ; how long I stay there is uncertain, 
 but you will know so soon as I can inform 
 you myself. However I determine, poesy 
 must be laid aside for some time ; my mind 
 has been vitiated with idleness, and it will 
 take a good deal of effort to habituate it to 
 the routine of business. I am, my dear Sir, 
 yours sincerely, R. B. 
 
 TO ROBERT AINSLIE. (33) 
 
 Mauchline, July 23rcZ, 1787. 
 My Dear Ainslie. — There is one thing 
 for which I set great store by you as a friend, 
 and it is this, that I have not a friend upon 
 earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk 
 nonsense without forfeiting some degree of 
 his esteem. Now, to one like me, who 
 never cares for speaking any thing else but 
 nonsense, such a friend as you is an invalua- 
 ble treasure. I was never a rogue, but have 
 been a fool all my life ; and, in spite of all 
 my endeavours, I see now plainly that I 
 shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my 
 heart to have met with such a fellow as 
 you, who, though you are not just such a 
 hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never 
 listen so much to the temptations of the 
 devil, as to grow so very wise that you will 
 in the least disrespect an honest fellow be- 
 cause he is a fool. In short, 1 have set you 
 down as the staff of my old age, when the 
 whole list of ray friends will, after a decent 
 share of pity, have forgot me. 
 
 Though in the morn comes sturt and strife. 
 
 Yet joy may come at noon ; 
 And I hope to live a merry merry life 
 
 When a' tliir days are done. 
 
 Write me soon, were it but a few lines 
 just to tell me how that good, sagacious 
 man, your father, is — that kind dainty body 
 your mother — that strapping chicl your 
 brother Douglas — and my friend Racliel, 
 who is as far before Rachel of old, as 
 she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. LXII. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 
 
 Utirliny, Auyiist 26th, 1737. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — I intended to have 
 written you from Edinburgh, and now 
 write you from Stirling to make an excuse. 
 Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with 
 a truly original, but very worthy man, a 
 jMr. Nicol, one of the masters of the High- 
 school in Edinburgh. — I left Auld Reekie 
 yesterday morning, and have passed, besides 
 by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, 
 Falkirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This 
 morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the 
 Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
 Wallace •. and two hours ago I said a fervent 
 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 
 
 291 
 
 prayer for old Caledonia over the hole in 
 a blue whinstone, where Robert de Bruce 
 fixed his royal standard on the banks of 
 Bauiiockburn; and just now, from Stirling 
 Castle, I have seen by the settinjj sun the 
 glorious prospect of the windings of Forth 
 through the rich carse of StiHing, and 
 skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. 
 The crops are very strong, but so very late 
 that there is no harvest except a ridge or 
 two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have 
 travelled from Edinburgh. 
 
 I left Andrew Bruce (34) and family all 
 well. I will be at least three weeks in 
 making my tour, as I shall return by the 
 coast, and have many people to call for. 
 
 jMy best compliments to Charles, our dear 
 kinsman and fellow-saint ; and Messrs. W. 
 and H. Parker. I hope Hughoc (35) is 
 going on and prospering with God and Miss 
 M'Causlin. 
 
 If I could think on any thing sprightly, I 
 should let you hear every other post; but 
 a dull, matter-of-fact business like this 
 scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes the 
 better. 
 
 Among other matters-of-fact I shall add 
 this, that I am and ever shall be, my dear 
 Sir, your obliged R. B. 
 
 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Eso. 
 
 Stirlinr;, Aurjust 28th, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Here am Ion my way 
 to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, 
 fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and 
 am delighted with their appearance : richly 
 waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no 
 harve-it at all yet, except in one or two places 
 an old-wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I 
 rodi* from this town up the meandering Devon's 
 'jauks, to pay my respects to some Ayrshire 
 folks at llarvieston. After breakfast, we 
 made a party to go and see the famous 
 Caiidron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the 
 Devon, about five miles above Harvieston ; 
 and after spending one of the most pleasant 
 days I ever had in my life, I returned to 
 Stirling in the evening. They are a family. 
 Sir, though I had not had any prior tie — 
 though they had not been the brother and 
 sisters of a certain generous friend of mine — 
 1 would never forget them. I am told you 
 have not seen them these several years, so 
 you can have very little idea of what these 
 young folks are now. Your brother is as tall 
 aa you are, but slender rather than other- I 
 
 26 
 
 wise; and I have the satisfaction to inform 
 you that he is getting the better of thoso 
 consumptive symptoms whi<:h I suppose you 
 know were threatening him. His make, and 
 particularly his manner, resemble you, b>it 
 he will still have a finer face. (I put m the 
 word still, to please Mrs. Hamilton ) Good 
 sense, modesty, and at the same time a just 
 idea of that respect that man owes to man, 
 and has a right in his turn to exact, are 
 striking features in his character ; and, what 
 with me is the Alpha and Omega, he has a 
 heart that might adorn the breast of a poet ! 
 Grace has a good figure, and the look of 
 health and cheerfulness, but nothing else 
 remarkable in her person. I scarcely ever 
 saw so striking a likeness as is between her 
 and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin 
 particularly. She is reserved at first ; but 
 as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted 
 with the native frankness of her manner, and 
 the sterling sense of her observation. Of 
 Charlotte I cannot speak in common terms 
 of admiration : she is not only beautiful but 
 lovely. Her form is elegant ; her features 
 not regular, but they have the smile of 
 sweetness and the settled complacency of 
 good nature, in the highest degree ; and her 
 complexion, now that she has happily re- 
 covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss 
 Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding 
 to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. 
 Donne's mistress : — 
 
 -Her pure and eloquent blood 
 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought. 
 That one would almost say her body thought. 
 
 Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive 
 of good sense, tenderness, and a noble 
 mind. (36) 
 
 I do not give you all this accoimt, my 
 good Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to re- 
 proach you. Such relations the first peer in 
 the realm might own with pride ; then why 
 do you not keep up more correspondence 
 with these so amiable young folks ? I had 
 a thousand questions to answer about you. 
 I had to describe the little ones with the 
 minuteness of anatomy. They were highly 
 delighted when I told them that John (37) 
 was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and 
 that Willie was going on still very pretty : 
 but I have it in commission to tell her from 
 them that beauty is a poor, silly bauble 
 without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had 
 left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of 
 meeting with Mrs. Chalmers ; only L\i!y 
 Mackenzie, being rather a little alarmuu y 
 ill of a sore throat, somewhat marred our 
 enjoyment 
 
202 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 1 sl^al! not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
 My most respectful compliments to Mrs. 
 Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Ur. Macken- 
 zie. I siiall probably v\ rite him from some 
 staije or other. I am ever. Sir, yours most 
 gra^tefuUy, R. B. 
 
 NO. LXIV. 
 
 TO MR. WALKER, 
 
 OP BLAIR AT HOLE. (38) 
 
 Inverness, September 5lh, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — I have just time to 
 write the foregoing (39), and to tell you that 
 it was (at least most part of it) the effusion 
 of a half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not 
 mean it was extempore, for I have endea- 
 voured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol's 
 chat and the jogguig of the chaise would 
 allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as 
 rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
 debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe 
 to the noble family of Athole, of the first 
 kind, I shall ever proudly boast — what I owe 
 of the last, so help me God in my hour of 
 need ! 1 shall never forget. 
 
 The '* little angel-band !" I declare I 
 prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the 
 Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine 
 family-piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, 
 the truly noble duchess (40), with her smiling 
 little seraph in her lap, at the head of the 
 table — the lovely "olive plants," as the 
 Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy 
 mother — the beautiful Mrs. G — , the lovely, 
 sweit Miss C, &c., I wish I had the powers 
 of Guido to do them justice! My Lord 
 Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind in- 
 deed ; — Mr. Graham of Fintry's charms of 
 conversation — Sir W.Murray's friendship: — 
 in short, the recollection of all that polite, 
 agreeable company, raises an honest glow in 
 my bosom. K. B. 
 
 TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 Edinhuryh, 17th September, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Brother. — I arrived here 
 safe yesterday evening, after a tour of 
 twenty-two days, and travelling near 600 
 miles, windings included. My farthest 
 stretch was about ten miles beyond Inver- 
 ness. I went through the heart of the 
 Highlands by Crief, Taymouth, the famous 
 seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
 
 among cascades and Druidical circles of 
 stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of 
 Athole ; thence across Tay, and up one of 
 his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, 
 another of the Duke's seats, where I had the 
 honour of spending nearly two days with his 
 grace and family ; thence many miles 
 through a wild country among cliffs, grey 
 with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, 
 till I crossed Spey and went down the stream 
 through Strathspey, — so famous in Scottish 
 music (41), — Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
 Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
 Sir James Grant and family ; and then 
 crossed the country for Fort George, but 
 called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient 
 seat of Macbeth; there I saw the identical 
 bed in which tradition says king Duncan was 
 murdered; lastly, from Fort George to In- 
 verness. 
 
 I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
 Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to 
 Stonehive (42), where James Burness, from 
 Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent 
 two days among our relations, and found our 
 aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale 
 old women. John Caird, though born the 
 same year with our father, walks as vigorously 
 as I can ; — they have had several letters from 
 his son in New York. WilUam Brand is 
 likewise a stout old fellow ; but further 
 particulars I delay till I see you, which will 
 be in two or three weeks. The rest of my 
 stages are not worth rehearsing ; warm as I 
 was from Ossian's country, where I had seen 
 his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns 
 or fertile carses? I slept at the famous 
 Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at 
 Gordon Castle next day, with the duke, 
 duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
 my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
 Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear 
 farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 
 My duty and many compliments from the 
 north to my mother; and my brotherly 
 com))liments to the rest. I have been trying 
 for a berth for William, but am not likely to 
 be successful. Farewell. R. B. 
 
 TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. (43) 
 
 Se2}t. 26, 1787. 
 
 I SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
 songs ; I would not wait for the second 
 number; I hate delays in httle marks of 
 friendship, as I hate dissimulation in the 
 language of the heart. I am determined to 
 
TO THE REV. JOUN SKINNEK. 
 
 293 
 
 pay Charlotte a poetic coiupliment, if I 
 could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in 
 number second. (44) You will see a small 
 attempt on a shred of paper in the book ; 
 but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
 highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. 
 I intend to make it a description of some kind; 
 the whining cant of love, except in real pas- 
 sion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as 
 insufferable as the preaching cant of old 
 Father Smeaton, w liig-minister at Kilmaurs. 
 Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all 
 
 that farrago, are just a Mauchline , 
 
 a senseless rabble. 
 
 I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
 from the old venerable author of"Tulloch- 
 gorum," " John of liadenyon," &c. (45). I 
 suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is 
 by far the finest poetic compliment I ever 
 got. I will send you a copy of it. 
 
 I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, 
 to wait on Mr. Miller about liis farms. Do 
 tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may 
 give me credit for a little wisdom. "I, 
 Wisdom, dwell with Prudence." What a 
 blessed fire-side 1 How happy showld I be 
 to pass a winter evening under their vene- 
 rable roof; and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or 
 drink water-gruel with them ! With solemn, 
 lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of 
 phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for- 
 nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion 
 and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we 
 straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of 
 the poker and tongs ! 
 
 Jliss N. is very w-ell, and begs to be 
 remembered in the old way to you. I used 
 all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes 
 of the hand, and heart-melting modulation 
 of periods in my power, to urge her out to 
 Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric 
 seems quite to have lost its effect on the 
 lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day 
 — but this is a " tale of other years :" — On 
 my conscience I believe that my heart has 
 been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitri- 
 fied. I look on the sex with something like 
 the admiration with which I regard the 
 starry sky in a frosty December night. I 
 admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
 ship ; I am charmed with the wild but 
 graceful eccentricity of their motions, and — 
 wish them good night. I mean this with 
 respect to a certain passion clout j'ai eu I'/ion- 
 neur d'etre un miserable esclaoe : as for 
 friendship, you and Charlotte have given inc 
 pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the 
 world cannot give, nor take away," I hope, 
 and which will outlast the heavens and tlie 
 •iarth. K B. 
 
 NO. LXVU. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN SKIM NEK 
 
 Edinhurcjh, October 2a, 1787. 
 
 Reverend and Venerable Sir. — 
 Accept, in plain dull prose, my most 
 sincere thanks for the best poetical compli- 
 ment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as 
 a poet, you have conjured up an airy demon 
 of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities 
 in your other capacity would be ill able to 
 lay. I regret, and while I live I shall re- 
 gret, that when I was in the north, 1 had 
 not the pleasure of paying a younger 
 brother's dutiful respect to the author of the 
 best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tul- 
 lochgorum's my Delight I" The world may 
 think slightingly of the craft of song-ni.ikiiig, 
 if they please; but. as Job says, " Oh that 
 mine adversary had WTitten a book !" — let 
 them try. There is a certain something in 
 the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of 
 thought and expression, which peculiarly 
 marks them, not only from English songs, 
 but also from the modern efforts of soiig- 
 wrights, in our native manner and language. 
 The only remains of this enchantment, these 
 spells of the imagination, rest with you. 
 Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was like- 
 wise " owre cannie " — " a wild warlock " — 
 but now he sings ^inong the "sons of the 
 morning." 
 
 I have often wished, and will certainly 
 endeavour, to form a kind of common ac- 
 quaintance among all the genuine sons of 
 Caledonian song. The world, busy in low 
 prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; 
 but " reverence thyself." The world is not 
 our peers, so we challenge the jury. We 
 can lash that world, and find ourselves a 
 very great source of aiiuisement and happi- 
 ness independent of that world. 
 
 There is a work going on in Edinburgh 
 just now, which claims your best assistance. 
 An engraver in this town has set about col- 
 lecting and publishing all tlie Scotch songs, 
 with the music, that can be found. Songs, 
 in the English language, if by Scotchmen, 
 are admitted, but the music must all be 
 Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are 
 lending a hand, and the first musician in 
 town presides over that department. I liave 
 been absolutely crazed about it, collecting 
 old stanzas, and every information remaining 
 respecting their origin, authors, &c., &.C. 
 This last is but a very fragment busiunss ; 
 but at the end of his second number- -the 
 first is already published— a small account 
 will be givea of the authors, particularly U^ 
 
294 
 
 CORRESroNDEXCE OF BURNS. 
 
 preserve those of latter times. Your three 
 songs, "Tiillochijorurn,"" John of Badenyoii," 
 and " Ewie wi' tlie Crookit Horn," go in this 
 second number. I was determined, before I 
 jjot your letter, to write you, begging that 
 you would let me know where the editions 
 of these pieces may be found, as you would 
 wish them to continue in future times ; and 
 if you would be so kind to this undertaking 
 as send any songs, of your own or others, 
 that you would think proper to publish, 
 your name will be inserted among the other 
 authors — "nill ye, will ye." One half of 
 Scotland already give your songs to other 
 authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear 
 from you ; the sooner the better, as I leave 
 Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. I 
 am, with the warmest sincerity. Sir, your 
 obliged bumble servant, R. H. 
 
 NO. LXVIH. 
 
 TO JAMES HOY, Esa 
 
 GORDON CASTLE. (46) 
 
 Edinhurrjh, October ZOth, 1787. 
 
 Sin. — I will defend my conduct in giving 
 you this trouble, on the best of Christian 
 principles — " Whatsoever ye would that men 
 should do unto you, do ye even so unto 
 them." I shall certainly, among my legacies 
 leave my latest curse to that unlucky pre- 
 dicament which hurried — tore me away from 
 Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of 
 Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to Scotch mile 
 periods, and damned to seven league para- 
 graphs ; while Declension and Conjugation, 
 Gender, Number and Tense, under the 
 ragged banners of Dissonance and Disar- 
 rangement, eternally rank against him in 
 hostile array. 
 
 Allow me. Sir, to strengthen the small 
 cliiiui 1 have to your acquaintance, by the 
 following request. An engraver, James 
 Johnson, in Edinburgh, has, not from mer- 
 cenary views, but from an honest Scotch 
 enthusiasm, set about collecting all our 
 native songs, and setting them to music, 
 particularly those that have never been set 
 before. Clarke, the well-known musician, 
 presides over the musical arrangement, and 
 Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of 
 W'oodliouselee, and your liumble servant to 
 the utmost of his small power, assist in 
 toUecting the old poetry, or sometimes, for 
 a line air, make a stanza when it has no 
 words. The brats, too tedious to mention, 
 
 claim a parental pang from my hardship. 1 
 suppose it will appear in Johnson's second 
 number — the first was published before my 
 acquaintance with him. My request is — 
 " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen " is one intended 
 for this number, and I beg a copy of his 
 Grace of Gordon's words to it, which you 
 were so kind as to repeat to me. (47) You 
 may be sure we won't prefix the author's 
 name, except you like, though I look on it as 
 no small merit to this work that the names 
 of so many of the authors of our old Scotch 
 songs, names almost forgotten, will be in- 
 serted. I do not well know where to write 
 to you — I rather write at you ; but if you 
 will be so obliging, immediately on receipt of 
 this, as to write me a few lines, I shall per- 
 haps pay you in kind, though not in quality. 
 Johnson's terms are : — each number a hand- 
 some pocket volume, to consist of at least 
 a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the 
 harpsichord, &c. The price to subscribers, 
 5s. ; to non-subscribers, 63. He will have 
 three numbers, I conjecture. 
 
 My direction for two or three weeks will 
 be at Mr. William Cruikshank's, St. James' 
 Square, New Town, Edinburgh. I am. Sir, 
 yours to command, R. B. 
 
 NO. LXIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 GORDON C.\STLE. 
 
 Edinburgh, November 6th, 1787. 
 Dear Sir. — I would have wrote you 
 immediately on receipt of your kind letter 
 but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem 
 whispered to me that I ought to send you 
 something by way of return. When a poet 
 owes anything, particularly when he is in- 
 debted for good offices, the payment that, 
 usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed 
 in which he is probably conversant — is 
 rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the 
 fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his 
 most grateful tliauks ; my return I intended 
 should have been one or two poetic baga- 
 telles which the world have not seen, or, 
 perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. 
 These I shall send you before I leave Edin- 
 burgh. They may make you laugh a little, 
 which, on the whole, is no bad way of spend- 
 ing one's precious hours and still more pre- 
 cious breath ; at any rate, they will be, 
 though a small, yet a very sincere, mark of 
 my respectful esteem for a gentleman whosft 
 
TO TITE RARL OF OT.vvr.ATnN. 
 
 29« 
 
 tarther acquaintance I should look upon as a 
 fjeculiar obiijration. 
 
 The duke's soii^, independent totally of 
 his dukeship, charms me. There is I know 
 not what of wild happiness of thought and 
 expression peculiarly beautiful in the old 
 Scottish sons; style, of wliich liis Grace, old 
 venerable Skinner, the author of " Tulloch- 
 gorum," S:c., and the late Koss, at Lochlee, 
 of true Scottish poetic memory, are the 
 only modern instances that I recollect, since 
 Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor 
 Bob Fergusson, went to the world of death- 
 less existence and tridy immortal song. The 
 mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, 
 would laugh at so serious a speech about an 
 old song; but as Job says, "Oh that mine 
 adversary had written a book ! " Those who 
 think that composing a Scotch song is a 
 trifling business, let them try. 
 
 I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper 
 attention to the Christian admonition — 
 " Hide not your candle under a bushel," but 
 " I^t your light shine before men." I could 
 name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a 
 devilish deal worse employed ; nay, I ques- 
 tion if there are half a dozen better : per- 
 haps there are not half that scanty number 
 whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, 
 happy, and 1 will say, glorious gift. I 
 am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 K. B. 
 
 TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Esa., 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
 Noo. 23, 1787. 
 
 r BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make 
 any a]ipointnieut to take us to Mr. Ainslie's 
 to-n;giit. On looking over my engagements, 
 constitution, present state of my health, 
 some little vexatioiis soul concerns, &c., 1 
 find I can't sup abroad to-uiglit. I shall be 
 in to-day till one o'clock, if you have a 
 leisure hour. 
 
 Yon will think it romantic when I tell 
 you, that I tiud the idea of your friendship 
 almost necessary to my existence. You 
 assume a proper length of face in my bittiT 
 hours of bliie-devilisni, and you laugh lully 
 up to my highest wishes at my good things. 
 I don't know, uiKin the whole, if you are 
 one of the tirst fellows in God's world, but 
 you Hre so to me 1 tell you this just now, 
 in the conviction that some inequalities in 
 
 my temper and manner may perhaps some- 
 times make you suspect that I iim not 
 80 warmly as 1 ought to be your friend, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXl. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
 
 Edinhurg.'i, 1787. 
 
 My Lord. — I know your lordship will 
 disapprove of my ideas in a reijuest 1 am 
 going to make to you ; but I have weighed, 
 long and seriously weighed, my situation, 
 my ho[ies and turn of mind, and am fully 
 fixed to ray scheme, if 1 can possibly effectu- 
 ate it. I wish to get into the Excise : 1 am 
 told that your lordship's interest will easily 
 procure me the grant from the commission- 
 ers ; and your lordship's patronage and 
 gooilness, which ha\e 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 home that sheltered an aged 
 mother, two brothers, and three sisters, from 
 destruction. There, my lord, you have 
 bound me over to the liighest gratitude. 
 
 My brother's farm is but a wretched 
 lease, but I think he will probably weather 
 out the remaining seven years of it ; and 
 after the assistance which I have given, and 
 will give him, to keep the family together, I 
 think, by my guess, 1 shall have rather 
 better than two hundred pounds, and instead 
 of seeking, what is almost impossible at 
 present to find, a farm that I can certainly 
 live by, with so small a stock, 1 shall lodge 
 this sum in a banking-house, a sacred 
 deposit, excepting only the calls of un- 
 common distress or necessitous old age. 
 
 T'hese, my lord, are my views : 1 have 
 resolved from the maturcst deliberation ; 
 and now 1 am fixed, 1 shall leave no stone 
 unturned to carry my resolve into execution. 
 Your lordship's patronage is the strength of 
 my hopes ; nor have 1 yet a|)plied to any- 
 body else. Indeed, 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 solicitation, and tremble nearly as much 
 at the thought of the cold promise as the 
 cold denial ; but to your hjrdship I have 
 not only the honour, the comfort, but the 
 l)leasure of being your lordship's much 
 obliged and deeply indebted humble servant, 
 K. B. 
 
296 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 NO. LXXH. 
 
 TO CHARLES HAY, Esq, ADVOCATE, 
 (enclosing verses on the death op 
 
 LORD president.) (48) 
 
 Sir. — The enclosed poem was written in 
 consequence of yowr suggestion, last time 1 
 had the pleasure of seeuig you. It cost me 
 an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but 
 did not please me ; so it lay by, an ill-di- 
 gested effort, till the other day that I gave 
 it a critic brush. These kind of subjects 
 are much hackneyed; and, besides, tlie 
 waitings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes 
 of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out 
 of all character for snicerity. These ideas 
 damped my muse's fire ; however, I have 
 done the best I coidd, and, at all events, it 
 gives me an opportunity of declaring that I 
 have the honour to be, Sir, your obliged 
 humble servant, B. B. 
 
 NO. LXXIII. 
 
 TO MISS M N. 
 
 Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, 
 New Town, Edinhurcjh. 
 
 Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in 
 the stony altitude of perplexed study for 
 fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, 
 bending over the intended card ; my fixed 
 eye insensible to the very light of day 
 poured around ; my pendulous goose-feather, 
 loaded with ink, hanging over the future 
 letter, all for the important purpose of 
 writing a complimentary card to accompany 
 your trinket. 
 
 Compliment is such a miserable Green- 
 laud expression, lies at such chilly polar 
 distance from the torrid zone of my con- 
 stitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of 
 me, use it to any person for whom I have 
 the twentieth part of the esteem every 
 tine must have for you who knows you. 
 
 As 1 leave town in three or four days, I 
 can gi\e myself the pleasure of calling on 
 you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some 
 time about seven or after, I shall wait on 
 you for your farewell commands. 
 
 The hinge of your box I put into the hands 
 of the i)roper connoisseur. The broken glass, 
 likewise, went under review ; but deliberate 
 wisdom thought it would too much endanger 
 the whole fabric. I am, dear iMadain, with 
 all sincerity of enthusiasm, your very obedi- 
 ent servant. K. B. 
 
 NO. LXXIV. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMER3. 
 
 Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 
 
 I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly 
 welcome well-filled sheet which I owe to 
 your and Charlotte's (49j goodness— it con- 
 tains too much sense, sentiment and good- 
 spelling. It is impossible that even you 
 two, whom I declare to my God I will give 
 credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
 are capable of attaining — it is impossible you 
 can go on to correspond at that rate ; so, 
 like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
 because they have made a good speech, I 
 shall, after a few letters, hear no more of 
 you. I insist that you shall write whatever 
 comes first : what you see, what you read, 
 what you hear, what you admire, what yoii 
 dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to 
 fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at 
 full length. Now, none of your polite hints 
 about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, 
 if you have or shall have any ; though, thank 
 Heaven, I have at last two girls who can be 
 luxuriantly happy in their own minds and 
 with one another, without that commonly 
 necessary appendage to female bliss — A 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 Charlotte and you are just two favourite 
 resting-places for my soul in her wanderings 
 through the weary, thorny wilderness of this 
 world. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the 
 struggle : I glory in being a poet, and I 
 want to be thought a wise man — I would 
 fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. 
 After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. 
 " Some folk hae a haiitle o' fauts, and I'm 
 but a ne'er-do-weel." 
 
 Afternoon.— To close the melancholy re- 
 flections at the end of the last sheet, I shall 
 just add a piece of devotion, commonly 
 known in Carrick by the title of the " Wab- 
 ster's grace : " — 
 
 Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we; 
 Some say we lie, and e'eji sae do we ! 
 Guid forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! 
 Up and to your looms, lads ! K B. 
 
 NO. LXXV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 
 
 I AJI here under the care of a surgeon, 
 with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; 
 and the tints of my mind vying with the 
 livid horror preceding a midnight tliuiiiler« 
 
TO inss CHALMERS. 
 
 297 
 
 storm. A drunken coaclimat. «'as tlie cause 
 ot the first, and incomparably tlie lightest 
 evil ; misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, 
 and myself, have formed a " quadruple alli- 
 ance " to guarantee the other. I got my fall 
 on t?aturday, and am getting slowly bettri-. 
 
 J have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, 
 and am got through the five books of Closes, 
 and half way in Joshua. It is really a glo- 
 rious book. I sent for my book-binder to- 
 day, and ordered him to get me an octavo 
 Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in 
 town, and bind it with all the elegance of his 
 craft. 
 
 I would give my best song to my worst 
 enemy — I mean the merit of making it — to 
 have you and Charlotte by me. You are 
 angelic creatures, and would pour oil and 
 wine into my wounded spirit. 
 
 I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks 
 of the Devon," which present with my best 
 wishes to Charlotte. Tlie"Ochil-hills " (50) 
 you shall probably have next week for your- 
 self. None of your fine speeches ! R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 Ediuhunjh, Bee. 19/A, 1787. 
 
 I BEGIN this letter in answer to your's 
 of the 17th current, which is not yet cold 
 since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul 
 is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. 
 For the first time, yesterday I crossed the 
 room on crutches. It woulil do your heart 
 srood to see my hardship, not on my poetic, 
 nut on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best 
 log with an air ! and w'ith as much hilarity 
 in my gait and countenance, as a May frog 
 leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, 
 enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, 
 after the long-expected shower ! 
 
 I can't say 1 am altogether at my ease 
 when I see anywhere in my path that mea- 
 gre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; 
 attended, as he always is, by iron-fisted 
 oppression and leering contempt ; but 1 
 have sturdily withstood his buffettings many 
 a hard-laboured day already, and still my 
 motto is — I DARE I Jly worst enemy is 
 moi mime. I lie so miserably open to the 
 inroads and incursions of a mischievous, 
 light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under 
 the banners of imagination, whim, caprice 
 and passion ; and the heavy-armed veteran 
 rrguhns of wisdom, prudence and fore- 
 thouglit move so very, very slow, that I am 
 almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and. 
 
 iilas ! frequent defeat. There are just two 
 creatures I w.ould envy ; a horse in his w ild 
 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. R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXVI I. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Edinhuryh, Dec, 1787. 
 
 My Dear IMadam. — I just now have 
 read yours. The poetic compliments I pay 
 cannot be misunderstood. They are neither 
 of them so particular as to point you out to 
 the world at large ; and the circle of your 
 acquaintances will allow all I have said. 
 Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, 
 almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall 
 I be plain with you? I will ; so look to it. 
 Perso^l attractions, Jladam, you have much 
 above par ; nit, understanding and worth, 
 you possess in the first class. This is a 
 cursed flat way of telling you these truths, 
 but let me hear no more of your siieepisli 
 timidity. I know the world a little. I know 
 what they w ill say of my poems — by second 
 sight, 1 suppose — for I am seldom out in my 
 conjectures ; and you may believe me, my 
 dear Madam, I would not run any risk of 
 hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. 
 I wish to show the world the odds between 
 a poet's friends and those of simple prose- 
 men. More for your information, both the 
 pieces go in. One of them, " \\'hore braving 
 angry Winter's Storms," is already set — the 
 tune in Neil Gow's Lamentatton for Ahcr- 
 cairny ; the other is to be set to an old 
 Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of 
 ancient Scots music ; the name is " Ila a 
 Chaillich air mo D/ieith." My treacherous 
 memory has forgot every circumstance about 
 Las Incas ; only, I think you mentioned 
 them as being in Creech's possession. I 
 shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song 
 of " Somebody " will come too late — as I 
 shall for certain leave town in a week for 
 Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but 
 there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
 direction in town ; so any thing, wherever I 
 am, will reach me. 
 
 I saw yours to ; it is not too 
 
 severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the 
 contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of 
 being with you in the Christmas days. iMr. 
 has given k'ru the invitation, and he 
 
 is determined to accept of it. Oh seliish- 
 
29.S 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF I5UKNS. 
 
 ness ! i\e owns, in his sober moments, that 
 from his own volatility of inclination, the 
 circumstances in which he is situated, and 
 his knowledge of his father's disposition, tlie 
 whole affair is chimerical — yet he ivill gratify 
 an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel 
 fxpciisc, of perhaps ruiniu": the peace of the 
 very woman for «liom lie professes tlie 
 generous passion of love ! He is a gentle- 
 man ill his mind and manners— t«ni jjis/ 
 He is a volatile school-boy — the heir of a 
 man's fortune who well knows the value of 
 two times two ! 
 
 Perdition seize them and their fortunes, 
 before they should make the amiable, the 
 
 lovely , the derided object of their 
 
 purse-proud contcuipt I 
 
 I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 'a 
 
 recovery, because I really thought all was 
 over with her. There are days of pleasure 
 yet awaiting her : — 
 
 As I cam in by Glenap, 
 I met with an aged woman ; 
 She bade me cheer up my heart, 
 For the best o' my days was comiu.' (51) 
 
 This day will decide my affairs with Creech. 
 Things are, like myself, not what they ought 
 to be ; yet better than what they appear 
 to be. 
 
 Heaven's Sovereign saves all but himself — 
 That hideous sight — a naked human heart. 
 
 Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 
 K. B. 
 
 NO. LXXVIIl. 
 
 TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 
 
 Edinburgh, December, 1787. 
 
 Sir. — Mr Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my 
 very warm and worthy friend (52), has in- 
 formed me how much you are pleased to 
 interest yourself in my fate as a man, and 
 (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame 
 as a poet. I have. Sir, in one or two instances, 
 been patronised by those of your character 
 in life, when I was introduced to their notice 
 by * * » * * friends to them, and honoured 
 acquaintances to me ; but you are the first 
 gentleman in the country whose benevolence 
 and goodness of heart has interested him- 
 self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am 
 not master enough of the etiquette of these 
 matters to know, nor did 1 stay to inquire, 
 whttlicr formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
 disrtllnwcl, my thanking you in this manner, 
 wi 1 uiii couuuced, from the light in which 
 
 you kindly view me, that you will do i.ie 
 the justice to believe tins letter is not the 
 manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, 
 fastening on those in upper life who honour 
 him with a little notice of him and his works. 
 Indeed, the situation of poets is generally 
 such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, 
 palliate that prostitution of heart and talents 
 they have at times been guilty of. 1 do not 
 think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary 
 concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a 
 careless, indolent inattention to economy is 
 almost inseparable from it ; then there must 
 be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
 making a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
 with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
 out of the way of those windfalls of fortune 
 which frequently light on hardy impudence 
 and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to 
 imagine a more helpless state than his whose 
 poetic fancy unfits hiin for the world, and 
 whose character as a scholar gives him some 
 pretensions to the polileisse of life — yet is 
 as poor as I am. 
 
 For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
 been kinder ; learning never elevated my 
 ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have 
 an independent fortune at the plough-tail. 
 
 I was surprised to hear that any one who 
 pretended in the least to the manners of the 
 gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as 
 to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one 
 as 1 am, and so unhumanly cruel, too, as to 
 meddle with that late most unfortunate, un- 
 happy part of my story. With a tear of 
 gratitude, 1 thank you, Sir, for the warmth 
 with which you interposed in behalf of iny 
 conduct. I am, I acknovk-ledge, too frequently 
 the sport of whim, caprice and passion ; but 
 reverence to God, ami integrity to my fellow- 
 creatures, I hope 1 shall ever preserve. I 
 have no return. Sir, to make you for your 
 goodness but one — a return which, I am per. 
 suaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
 warm wishes of a grateful heart for your 
 happiness, and every one of that lovely flock 
 who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever 
 calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, 
 may friendship be by to ward the blow ! 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXIX. 
 
 MISS MARG.\RET CHALIMERS. 
 December, 1787. 
 
 I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit 
 more shall be decided about a farm in that 
 county. I am rather hopeless in it ; but as 
 
TO MISS WILLIAMS. 
 
 299 
 
 my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, 
 besides, an exceedingly prudent sober man 
 (qualities which are only a younjjer brother's 
 fortune in our family;, I am determined, if 
 my Dumfries business fail me, to remove into 
 partnership with him, and at our leisure take 
 another farm in the nei':fhbourhood. 
 
 I assure you I look for high compliments 
 from you and Charlotte on this very sa;;e 
 instance of my unfathomable, incomprehen- 
 sible wisdom. — Talking of Charlotte 1 must 
 tell her that I have, to the best of my 
 power, paid her a poetic compliment now 
 completed. The air is admirable ; true old 
 lli<;hland. It was the tune of a Gaelic 
 song wliich an Inverness lady sang me when 
 I was there ; I was so charmed with it, that 
 I begged her to write me a set of it from her 
 singing, for it had never been set before. I 
 am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next 
 number; so Charlotte and you need not 
 spend your precious time in contradicting 
 nie. I won't say the poetry is first-rate, 
 though I am convinced it is very well ; and, 
 what is not always the case with compli- 
 ments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but 
 just. R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXX. 
 
 TO MISS AVILLIAMS (53), 
 
 on reading the poem op the slave- 
 trade". 
 
 Ediiihuryh, Dec, 1787. 
 
 I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, 
 BO all I can pretend to in that intricate art is 
 merely to note, as I read along, w hat passages 
 strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, 
 and where the expression seems to be per- 
 plexed or faulty. 
 
 The poem opens finely. There are none 
 of those idle prefatory lines which one may 
 skip over before one comes to the subject. 
 Verses 9tli and 10th in particular. 
 
 Where ocean's unseen bound 
 Leaves a drear world of waters round, 
 
 are truly beautiful. The simile of the hur- 
 ricane is likewise fine ; and, indeed, beautiful 
 as the poem is, almost all the similes rise 
 decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 
 50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 
 30th, " 'Hiat foul drama deep with wrong," 
 is uohty expressive. Verse 4Gth, I am afraid, 
 is rather unworthy of the rest ; " to dare to 
 feel," is an idea that I do not altogether like. 
 Tlie contrast of valour and mercy, from the 
 t6th verse to the 50th, is admirable. 
 
 27 
 
 Either my apprehension is dull, or there 
 is something a little confused in the apos- 
 trophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 5.5th is the ante- 
 cedent to verses 57th and 58, but in verse 
 5dth the connection seems ungraminatical :— 
 
 Powers • • • 
 
 * • • • 
 
 AA'ith no gradations mark'd their flight, 
 But rose at once to glory's height. 
 
 Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. 
 Try it in prose. " Powers — their flight mar- 
 ked by no gradations, but [tha same powers] 
 risen at once to the height of glory." Like- 
 wise, verse 53rd, " For this," is evidently 
 meant to lead on the sense of the verses 
 59th, GOth, 61st and 62nd; but let us try 
 how the thread of connection runs — 
 
 For this • • • 
 
 * • • • 
 
 The deed of mercy, that embrace, 
 A distant sphere, an alien race, 
 Shall virtue's lips record, and claim 
 The fairest honours of thy name. 
 
 I beg pardon if I misapprehend the mafcr, 
 but this appears to n;e the only imp,. feet 
 passage in tlie poem. The comparison of tlie 
 sunbeam is fine. 
 
 The compliment to the Duke of Richmond 
 is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. 
 The thought. 
 
 Virtue • • • 
 
 • • • • 
 
 Sends from her unsullied source. 
 
 The gems of thought their purest force, 
 
 is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from 
 verse 81st to the 85th, that the " blest 
 decree" is like the beams of morning ushering 
 in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to 
 pass unnoticed orunapplauded. From verse 
 85th to verse 108, is an animated contrast 
 between the unfeeling selfishness of the op- 
 pressor on the one hand, and the misery of 
 the captive on the other. Verse 88th might 
 perhaps be amended thus: — "Nor ever quit 
 her narrow maze." We are said to pass a 
 bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th is 
 exquisitely beautiful : — 
 
 They, whom wasted blessings tire. 
 
 Verse 110th is, I doubt, a clashing of mcta. 
 phors; "to load a span" is, I am afraid, au 
 unw^arrantable expression. In verse 114th, 
 " Cast the universe in shade," is a fine idea. 
 From the 115th verse to tiie 14:iiid is a 
 striking description of the wrongs of the 
 poor African Ver.se 120th, "The load of 
 unremitted paiu," is a remarkable, strong 
 
300 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 expression. The address to the advocates 
 for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 
 143rd to verse 208th, is animated with the 
 true life of genius. The picture of oppres- 
 sion — 
 
 While she links her impious chain. 
 And calculates the price of pain ; 
 Weighs agony in sordid scales. 
 And marks if death or life prevails— 
 
 is nobly executed. 
 
 What a tender idea is in verse 180th! 
 Indeed, tliat whole description of home may 
 vie with Thomson's description of home, 
 somewhere in the beginning of his Autumn. 
 I do uot remember to have seen a stronger 
 expression of misery than is contained in 
 these verses : — 
 
 Condemned, severe extreme, to live 
 When all is fled that life can give. 
 
 The comparison of our distant joys to distant 
 objects is equally original and striking. 
 
 Tlie character and manners of the dealer 
 in the infernal traffic is a well done, though 
 a horrid picture. I am not sure how far 
 introducing the sailor was right ; for though 
 the sailor's common characteristic is gene- 
 rosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not 
 only an unconcerned witness, but, in some 
 degree, an efficient agent in the business. 
 Verse 224th is nervous and expressive — 
 " The heart convulsive anguish breaks." 
 The description of the captive wretch when 
 he arrives in the West Indies, is carried on 
 with equal spirit. The thought that the 
 oppressor's sorrow, on seeing the slave pine, 
 is like the butcher's regret when his destined 
 lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly 
 fine. 
 
 I am got so much into the cant of criti- 
 cism, that I begin to be afraid lest I have 
 nothing except the cant of it ; and instead 
 of elucidating my author, am only benigliting 
 myself. For this reason, I will not pretend 
 to go through the wliole poem. Some few 
 remaining beautiful lines, however, I cannot 
 pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest 
 description of selfishness I ever saw. The 
 comparison in verses 285th and 286th is 
 new and fine; and the line, "Your arms to 
 penury you lend," is excellent. 
 
 In verse 317th, "like" should certainly be 
 "as" or "so;" for instance: — 
 
 His sway the hardened bosom leads 
 
 To cruelty's remorseless deeds : 
 
 As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs 
 
 With fury on its livid wings, 
 
 Darts on the goal with rapid force, 
 
 Nor heeds that ruin marks its course. 
 
 If you insert the word "like" where I 
 have placed "as," you must alter "darts" 
 to " darting," and " heeds " to " heeding," in 
 order to make it grammar. A tempest is a 
 favourite subject with the poets, but I do 
 not r.member any thing, even in Thomson's 
 winter, superior to your verses from the 
 347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, 
 beginning with "Fancy may dress," &c., 
 and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my 
 opinion, the most beautiful passage in the 
 poem ; it would do honour to the greatest 
 names that ever graced our profession. 
 
 I will not beg your pardon. Madam, for 
 these strictures, as my conscience tells me, 
 that for once in my life I have acted up to 
 the duties of a Christian, in doing as I would 
 be done by. R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXXI. 
 
 TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 
 
 IRVINE. (54) 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. SO t/i, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — I have met with few- 
 things in life which have given me more 
 pleasure than Fortune's kindness to you 
 since those days in which we met in the vale 
 of misery; as I can honestly say, that I 
 never knew a man who more truly deserved 
 it, or to whom my heart more truly wished 
 it. I have been liiuch indebted since that 
 time to your story and sentiments for 
 steeUng my mind against evils, of wliich I 
 have had a pretty decent share. My will-o'- 
 wisp fate you know : do you recollect a 
 Sunday we spent together in Eglinton 
 woods? You told me, on my repeating 
 some verses to you, that you wondered I 
 could resist the temptation of sending verses 
 of such merit to a magazine. It was from 
 this remark I derived that idea of my own 
 pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at 
 the character of a poet. I am happy to 
 hear that you will be two or three months 
 at home. As soon as a bruised limb will 
 permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and 
 we shall meet ; " aiul faith, I hope we'll uot 
 sit dumb, nor yet cast out !" 
 
 I have much to tell you " of men, their 
 maimers, and their ways," perhaps a little of 
 the other sex. Apropos, 1 beg to be remem- 
 bered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, 
 my dear friend, but you have found sub- 
 stantial happiness. I expect to find yon 
 something of an altered, but not a different 
 man ; the wild, bold, generous young fellow 
 composed into the steady, affectionate 
 
TO CLARINDA 
 
 301 
 
 Inisband, and the fond careful parent. For 
 me, I am just ilie same will-o'-wisp being I 
 used to be. About the first and fourth 
 quarters of the moon, I generally set in for 
 the trade-wind of wisdom ; but about the 
 full and change, I am the luckless victim of 
 mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. 
 Almighty love still reigns and revels in my 
 bosom ; and I am, at this moment, ready to 
 hang myself fur a young Edinburgh widow 
 (55), who has wit and wisdom more murde- 
 rously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of 
 the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of 
 the savage African. My Highland dirk, 
 that used to hang beside my crutches, I have 
 gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, 
 the key of which I cannot command in case 
 of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess 
 of her wit by the following verses, which she 
 sent me the other day : — 
 
 Talk not of love, it gives me pain, 
 
 For love has been my foe ; 
 He bound me with an iron chain. 
 
 And plunged me deep in woe ! 
 
 But friendship's pure and lasting joys. 
 
 My heart was formed to prove- 
 There, welcome, win and wear the prize. 
 But never talk of love ! 
 
 Your friendship much can make me blest — 
 
 Oh, why that bliss destroy ? 
 ^Vhy urge the odious one request. 
 
 You know I must deny ? 
 
 My best compliments to our friend Allan. 
 Adieu ! B- B. 
 
 NO. LXXXII. 
 
 TO MR. GAVIN HAIMILTON. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir. — It is indeed with the 
 highest pleasure that I congratulate you on 
 the return of days of ease and nights of 
 pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in 
 which I saw you suffering existence when 
 last in Ayrshire. I seldom pray for any- 
 body — " I'm baith dead-sweer and wTetched 
 ill o't;" but most fervently do I beseech 
 the Power that directs the world, that you 
 may live long and be happy, but live no 
 longer than you are happy. It is needless 
 for me to advise you to have a reverend care 
 of your health. I know you will make it a 
 point never at one time to drink more than 
 a pint of wine (1 mean an English pint), and 
 that you will never be witness to more than 
 one bowl cf punch at a time, and that cold 
 
 drams you will never more taste ; and, above 
 all things, I am convinced, that after drinking 
 perhaps boiling punch you will never mount 
 your horse and gallop home in a chill late 
 hour. Above all things, as 1 understand you 
 are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges 
 of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest 
 with him that he will wrestle in prayer for 
 you, that you may see the vanity of vanities 
 in trusting to, or even practising, the casual 
 moral works of charity, humanity, generosity, 
 and forgiveness of things, which you practised 
 so flagrantly, that it was evident you de- 
 lighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps pro- 
 fanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of 
 faith without works, tl^ only author of 
 salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, 
 in my opinion, be highly becoming from you 
 at present, and in my zeal for your well- 
 being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent 
 in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of 
 sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs, 
 Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours, &c 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. LXXXIII. 
 
 TO CLARINDA. 
 
 Thursday Evening. 
 
 Mad.\m, (56) — I had set no small store 
 by my tea-drinking to-night, and have not 
 often been so disappointed. Saturday even- 
 ing I shall embrace the opportunity with 
 the greatest pleasure. I leave this town 
 this day sen'night, and, probably for a 
 couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever re- 
 gret that I so lately got an acquaintance I 
 shall ever highly esteem, and in whose 
 welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. 
 
 Our worthy common friend, in her usual 
 pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my 
 new acquanitance, and in the humour of her 
 ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose 
 you, as I think they have a good deal of 
 
 poetic merit ; and Miss tells me you are 
 
 not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, 
 you know, is the native region of poetry; 
 and I hope you will pardon my vanity in 
 sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable off- 
 hand jeu-d'esprit. I have several poetic 
 trifles, which I shall gladly leave with Miss 
 , or you, if they were worth house- 
 room ; as there are scarcely two people on 
 earth by whom it woidd mortify me r.iore to 
 be forgotten, though at the distance of nine- 
 score miles. — I am. Madam, with the highest 
 respect, your very humble servant, 
 
 R -B. 
 
302 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS, 
 
 NO. LXXXIV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. (57) 
 
 Saturday Eveninij. 
 
 I CAN say witli truth, Madam, that I 
 never met with a person in my hfe whom I 
 more anxiously wished to meet again than 
 yourself. To-night I was to ha\e had that 
 very great pleasure ; I was intoxicated with 
 the idea, but an unlucky fall from a coach 
 has so bruised one of my knees that I can't 
 stir my leg ; so if I don't see you again, I 
 shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I 
 was vexed to the soul I had not seen you 
 sooner ; I determined to cultivate your 
 friendship with the enthusiasm of religion ; 
 but thus lias Fortune ever served me. I 
 cannot bear the idea of leavhig Edinburgh 
 without seeing you. I know not how to 
 account for it — I am strangely taken with 
 some people, nor am I often mistaken. You 
 are a stranger to me; but I am an odd 
 being ; some yet unnamed feelings, things, 
 not principles, but better than whims, carry 
 me farther than boasted reason ever did a 
 philosopher. — Farewell 1 every happiness be 
 yours ! 
 
 NO. LXXXV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Friday Evening, Dec. 22iid, 1787. 
 
 I BEG your pardon, my dear "Clarinda," 
 for the fragment scrawl I sent you yester- 
 day. (58) I really do not know what I 
 wrote. A gentleman, for whose character, 
 abilities, and critical knowledge, 1 have the 
 highest veneration, called in just as I had 
 begun the second sentence, and I would not 
 make the porter wait. I read to my much 
 respected friend some of my own bagatelles, 
 and, among others, your lines, which I had 
 copied out. He began some criticisms on 
 them as on the other pieces, when I informed 
 him they were the work of a young lady in 
 this town, which, I assure you, made him 
 etare. My learned friend seriously pro- 
 tested that he did not believe any young 
 woman in Edinburgh was capable of such 
 lines : and if you know anything of Pro- 
 fessor Gregory, you will neither doubt of 
 his abilities nor hi3 sincerity. I do love you, 
 if possilile, still better for having so ftne a 
 tasie and turn for poesy. I have again gone 
 wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you 
 may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, 
 or any other tame Dutch expression you 
 
 please in its place. 1 believe there is no 
 holding converse, nor carrying on corres- 
 pondence, with an amiable woman, much 
 less a ijloriously amiable, fine woman, with- 
 out some mixture of that delicious passion, 
 whose most devoted slave I have more than 
 once had the honour of being. — But why 
 be hurt or offended on that account ? Can 
 no honest man have a prepossession for a 
 fine woman, but he must run his head 
 against an intrigue? Take a little of the 
 tender witchcraft of love, and add it to the 
 generous, the honourable sentiments of 
 manly friendship : and I know but one more 
 delightful morsel, which few, few in any 
 rank ever taste. Such a composition is like 
 adding cream to strawberries ; it not only 
 gives the fruit a more elegant richness, 
 but has a peculiar deliciousness of its 
 own. 
 
 I enclose you a few lines I composed on 
 a late melancholy occasion. I will not give 
 above five or six copies of it at all, and I 
 would be hurt if any friend should give any 
 copies without my consent. 
 
 You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the 
 idea of Arcadian names in a commerce of 
 this kind;, how much store I have set by the 
 hopes of your future friendship. I do not 
 know if you have a just idea of my charac- 
 ter, but I wish you to see me as I am. 1 
 am, as most people of my trade are, a strange 
 will-o'-wisp being ; the victim, too fre- 
 quently, of much imprudence and many 
 follies. My great constituent elements are 
 pride and passion. The first I have en- 
 deavoured to humanize into integrity and 
 honour ; the last makes me a devotee to the 
 warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love 
 religion, or friendship — either of them, or- 
 all together, as I happen to be inspired. 
 'Tis true, I never saw you but once ; but 
 how much acquaintance did I form with you 
 in that once ! Do not think I flatter you, 
 or have a design upon you, Clarinda ; I have 
 too much pride for the one, and too little 
 cold contrivance for the other ; but of all 
 God's creatures I ever could approach in the 
 beaten way of ray acqiiaintance, you struck 
 me with the deepest, the strongest, the 
 most permanent impression. I say, tiie 
 most permanent, because I know myself 
 well, and how far I can promise either in 
 my prepossessions or powers. Why are 
 you unhappy? And why are so many of 
 our fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to 
 the same species with you, blest with all 
 they can wish ? You have a hand all- 
 benevolent to give ; why are you denied 
 the pleasure? You have a heart formed — 
 
TO CLAIIINDA 
 
 303 
 
 gloriously formed — for all the most refineil 
 luxuries of love — AVhy was that heart ever 
 wTUiig ? O Clarinda ! shall we not meet 
 in a state, some yet unknown state of bcinfj, 
 where the lavish hand of plenty shall 
 minister to the liij;hest wish of benevolence; 
 and where tlie chill north-wind of prudence 
 shall never blow over the flowery fields of 
 enjoyment ? If we do not, man was made 
 in vain ! I deserved most of the unhappy 
 hours that have lingered over my head ; 
 they were the wages of my labour: hut 
 what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, 
 stole on the confidence of unmistrnsting 
 bu-i !'ite, and dashed yowr cup of hfe with 
 undeserved sorrow ? 
 
 Let me know how long your stay will be 
 out of town ; I shall coiuit the hours till 
 you inform me of your return. Cursed 
 etiquette forbids your seeing me just now ; 
 and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edin- 
 burgh adieu. Lord, why was I born to see 
 misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet 
 with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I look 
 back with tlie pang of unavailing avarice on 
 my loss in not knowing you sooner : all last 
 winter, these three months past, what luxury 
 of i[itercourse have I not lost ! Perhaps, 
 though, 'twas better for my peace. You see 
 I am either above, or incapable of, dissimu- 
 lation. I believe it is want of that particu- 
 lar genius. I despise design, because I want 
 either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. 
 I am interrupted. — Adieu! my dear Clarinda! 
 
 SVLVANOEK. 
 
 NO. LXXXVI. (59) 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 You are right, my dear Clarinda; a 
 friendly correspondence goes for nothing, 
 except one writes his or her undisguised sen- 
 timents. Yotirs please me for their intrinsic 
 merit, as well as because they are yours, 
 which, I assui'e you, is to me a high recom- 
 mendation. Your religious sentiments. 
 Madam, I revere. If you have, on some 
 suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle, 
 learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly 
 important a matter as real religion, you have, 
 my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend. 
 " I am not mad, most noble Festus !" Have 
 you ever met a perfect character ? Do we 
 not sometimes rather exchange faults than 
 get rid of them ? For instance, I am perhaps 
 tired with, and shocked at, a life too mucii 
 the prey of giddy inconsistencies and 
 
 27 
 
 thoughtless follies; by degrees I grow sober, 
 prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, 
 because the most unaffected devotion is not 
 at all inconsistent with my first character — 
 I join the world in congratulating myself on 
 the hap[)y change. But let me pry more 
 narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bot- 
 tom, any thing of a secret pride in these 
 endowments and emendations? Have I 
 nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypo- 
 critical severity, when I survey my less 
 regular neighbours ? In a word, iiave I 
 missed all those nameless and numberless 
 modifications of indistinct selfishness, which 
 are so near our own eyes that we can scarcely 
 bring them within the sphere of our vision, 
 and which the known spotless cambric of our 
 character hides from the ordinary observer ? 
 
 My definition of worth is short; truth and 
 humanity respecting our fellow-creatures ; 
 reverence and humility in the presence of 
 that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and 
 who, I have every reason to believe, will one 
 day be my Judge. The first part of my 
 definition is the creature of unbiassed in- 
 stinct ; the last is the child of after reflection. 
 Where I found these two essentials, I would 
 gently note, and slightly mention, any at- 
 tendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the conse- 
 quences, of human nature. 
 
 I can easily enter into the sublime 
 pleasures that your strong ihiagination and 
 keen sensibility must derive from religion, 
 particularly if a little in the shade of mis- 
 fortune : but I own I cannot, without a 
 marked grudge, see Heavi,n totally engross 
 so amiable, so charming, a woman as my 
 friend Clarinda; and should be very well 
 pleased at a circumstance that would put it 
 ill the power of somebody (happy somebody!) 
 to divide her attention, with all the delicacy 
 and tenderness of an earthly attachment. 
 
 You will not easily persuade me that you 
 have not a grammatical knowledge of the 
 English language. So far from being inac- 
 curate, you are eloquent beyond any woman 
 of ray acquaintance, except one, whom I wish 
 you knew. 
 
 Your last verses to me have so delighted 
 me that I have got an excellent old Scots air 
 that suits the measure, and you shall see 
 them in print in the Scots Musical Museum, 
 a work publishing by a friend of mine in tliis 
 town. I want foui stanzas ; you gave me 
 but three, and one of them alhided to an 
 expression in my former letter ; so 1 have 
 taken your first two verses, with a 
 slight alteration in the second, and have 
 added a third ; but you must help me to a 
 fourth. Here they vre : tlic latter half of 
 
3U4 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURXS. 
 
 the first stanza would have heen worthy of 
 Sappho ; I am in raptures with it. 
 
 Talk not of love, it gives me pain. 
 
 For love has been my foe ; 
 He bound me with an iron chain. 
 
 And sunk me deep in woe. 
 
 But Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
 My heart was formed to prove ; 
 
 There, welcome, win, and wear the prize. 
 But never talk of love. 
 
 Your friendship much can make me blest, 
 O why that bliss destroy ! 
 [only] 
 Why urge the odious one request, 
 [will] 
 You know I must deny. 
 
 The alteration in the second stanza is no 
 improvement, but there was a slight inaccu- 
 racy in your rhyme. The third I only offer 
 to your choice, and have left two words for 
 your determination. The air is ' The Banks 
 of Spey,' and is most beautiful. 
 
 To-morrow evening I intend taking a 
 chair, and paying a visit at Park Place to a 
 much-valued old friend. If I could be sure 
 of finding you at home (and I will send one 
 of the chairmen to call), I would spend from 
 five to six o'clock with you, as I go past. I 
 cannot do more at this time, as I have some- 
 thing on my hand that hurries me much. I 
 propose giving you the first call, my old 
 
 friend the second, and Miss as I 
 
 return home. Do not break any engage- 
 ment for me, as I will spend another evening 
 with you, at any rate, before I leave town. 
 
 Do not tell me that you are pleased when 
 your friends inform you of your faults. I am 
 ignorant what they are ; but 1 am sure they 
 must be such evanescent trifles, compared 
 with your personal and mental accomphsh- 
 ments, that I would despise the ungenerous 
 narrow soul who would notice any shadow of 
 imperfections you may seem to have, any 
 otiier way than in the most delicate, agree- 
 able raillery. Coarse minds are not aware 
 how much they injure the keenly feeling tie 
 of bosom friendship, when, iu their foolish 
 otliciousness, tliey mention what nobody 
 cares for recollecting. People of nice sensi- 
 ability and generous minds have a certain in- 
 trinsic dignity that fires at being trifled 
 with, or lowered, or even too nearly ap- 
 proached. 
 
 You need make no apology for long let- 
 ters : I am even with you. Many happy 
 new years to you, charming Clarinda ! I 
 can't dissemble, were it to shun perdition. 
 He who sees you as I have done, and does 
 
 not love you, deserves to be damn'd for his 
 stupidity ! He who loves you, and would 
 injure you, deserves to be doubly damn'd for 
 hisvilliany! Adieu. Sylvander. 
 
 P. S. What would you think of this for a 
 fourth stanza ? 
 
 Your thought, if love must harbour there, 
 
 Conceal it in that thought. 
 Nor cause me from my bosom tear 
 
 The very friend I sought. 
 
 NO. LXXXVII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Monday Evening, 11 o'clock, 
 January 2ist, 1788. 
 
 Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda ? 
 To-day I expected it; and before supper, 
 wlien a letter to me was announced, my 
 heart danced with rapture; but behold, 'twas 
 some fool who had taken it in his head to 
 turn poet, and made me an ofi'ering of the 
 first-fruits of his nonsense. "It is not 
 poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever 
 repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. 
 Elphinstone, who has given a translation of 
 Martial, a famous Latin poet ?— The poetry 
 of Elphinstone can only equal his prose 
 notes. I was sitting in the shop of a mer- 
 chant of my acquaintance, waiting some- 
 body; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and 
 asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to 
 write it on a blank leaf, which 1 did. 
 
 TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, &c. 
 O thou, whom poesy abhors ! 
 Whom prose has turned out of doors ! 
 Heard'st thou that groan? proceed no further; 
 'Twas laurel'd Martial roaring Murther. 
 
 I am determined to see you, if at all pos- 
 sible, on Saturday evening. Next week I 
 must sing — 
 
 The night is my departing night, 
 
 The morn's the day I maun awa ; 
 There's neither friend nor foe o' mine. 
 
 But wishes that I were awa ! 
 "Uliat I hae done, for lack o' wit, 
 
 I never, never, can reca' ; 
 I hope ye're a' my friends as yet. 
 
 Quid night, and joy be wi' you a'! 
 
 If I could see you sooner, I would be so 
 much the happier; but I would not purchase 
 the dearest gratification on earth, if it must 
 be at your expense in worldly censure, far 
 less inward peace ! 
 
 I shall certainly be ashamed of thus 
 
TO CLARINDA. 
 
 30.5 
 
 scrawlins: whole sheets of incoherence. The 
 only unity (a sad word with poets and critics!) 
 in my ideas is Clarinda. There my heart 
 " reikis and revels." 
 
 "What art thou, Love? whence are those 
 cliarms, 
 
 That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? 
 For thee the soldier quits his arms, 
 
 The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 
 In vain we chase thee from the field, 
 
 And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke; 
 Next tide of blood, alas! we yield ; 
 
 And all those high resolves are broke! " 
 
 I like to have quotations for every occasion. 
 They give one's ideas so pat, and save one 
 the trouble of finding expression adequate 
 to one's feelhigs. I think it is one of tlie 
 greatest pleasures, attending a poetic genius, 
 that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, 
 &c., an embodied form in verse, which to me 
 is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says 
 finely of his Muse : — 
 
 " Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
 Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st 
 me so." 
 
 My limb has been so well to-day, that I 
 have gone up and down stairs often without 
 my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once 
 again on my own legs to dinner. It is only 
 uext street — Adieu. 
 
 Sylvandeb. 
 
 NO. LXXXVIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Saturday Noon, January 2tjth, 1783. 
 
 Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, 
 like the " ten righteous persons in Sodom," 
 save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miser- 
 able months and years of life. One of these 
 hours, my dear Clarinda blessed me with 
 yesternight. 
 
 ' One well spent hour. 
 
 In such a tender circumstance for friends. 
 Is better than an age of common time ! " 
 Thomson. 
 
 My favourite feature in Milton's Satan it 
 his manly fortitude in supporting what can- 
 not be rcmedieil— in short, the wild broken 
 fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. 
 1 meant no more by saying he was a favourite 
 hero of mine. 
 
 I mentioned to you ray letter to Dr. 
 ftloore, giving an account of my life : it is 
 
 truth, every word of it ; and will give you 
 the just idea of a man whom you have hon- 
 oured with your friendship. 1 am afraid you 
 will hardly be able to make sense of so torn 
 a piece.— Your verses I shall muse on deli- 
 ciously, as I gaze on your image in my 
 mind's eye, in my heart's core ; they will be 
 in time enough for a week to come. I am 
 truly happy your head-ache is better. — O, 
 how can pain or evil be so daringly, unfeel- 
 ingly, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a 
 mind, so lovely a form ! 
 
 My little fellow is all my name-sake.^ 
 Write me soon. My every, strongest good 
 wishes attend you, Clarinda ! 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 I know not what I have written — I am 
 pestered with people around me. 
 
 NO. LXXXIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Sunday Nii/ht, January 27th, 1788. 
 
 The impertinence of fools has joined with 
 a return of an old indisposition, to make me 
 good for nothing to-day. The paper has 
 lain before me all this evening, to write to 
 my dear Clarinda, but — 
 
 " Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to 
 waves." 
 
 I cursed them in my soul ; they sacrilegi- 
 ously disturbed my meditations on her who 
 holds m^ heart. AVhat a creature is man I 
 A httle alarm last night and to-day, that I 
 am mortal, has made such a revolution on 
 my spirits ! There is no philosophy, no 
 divinity, comes half so home to the mind. 
 I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. 
 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero 
 in bedlam. 
 
 I can no more, Clarinda ; I can scarcely 
 hold up my head ; but I am happy you do 
 not know it, you would be so uneasy. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 Monday Mommy, January 28/A, 1788, 
 
 I am, my lovely friend, much better this 
 morning on the whole ; but I have a horrid 
 laiigour on my spirits. 
 
 " Sick of the world, and all its joys, 
 My soul in pining sadness mourns ; 
 
 Dark scenes of woe my mind employs. 
 The past and present in then: turns." 
 
806 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 Have you ever met with a saying of the 
 great, and likewise good Mr. Locke, author 
 of the famous Essay on the Human Under- 
 standing ? He wrote a letter to a friend, 
 directing it " not to be delivered till after 
 my decease : " it ended thus — " I know you 
 loved me when living, and will preserve my 
 memory now I am dead. All the use to be 
 made of it is, that this life affords no solid 
 satisfaction, but in the consciousness of 
 having done well, and the hopes of another 
 life. Adieu ! I leave my best wishes with 
 you. — J. Locke." 
 
 Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship 
 for life ? I think I may. Thou Almighty 
 Preserver of men 1 thy friendship, which 
 hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure 
 it, shall all the future days and nights of my 
 life, be my steady care ! The idea of my 
 Clarinda follows — 
 
 "Hide it my heart, within that close disguise. 
 Where mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies." 
 
 But I fear that inconstancy, the conse- 
 quent imperfection of human weakness. 
 Shall I meet with a friendship that defies 
 years of absence, and the chances and changes 
 of fortune ? Perhaps " such things are ;" 
 one honest man I have great hopes from that 
 way : but who, except a romance writer, 
 would think on a love that could promise 
 for life, in spite of distance, absence, chance, 
 and change ; and that, too, with slender 
 hopes of fruition ? For my own part, I can 
 say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou 
 art the man !" I dare, in cool resolve I dare, 
 declare myself that friend, and that lover. 
 If womankind is capable of such things, 
 Clarinda is. I trust that she is ; and feel I 
 shall be miserable if she be not. There is 
 not one virtue which gives worth, nor one 
 sentiment which does honour to the sex, that 
 she does not possess, superiorly to any woman 
 1 ever saw : her exalted mind, aided a little, 
 perhaps, by her situation, is, I thhik, capable 
 of that nobly-romantic love-enthusiasm. 
 
 May I see you on Wednesday evening, my 
 dear angel ? The next \^'^ednesday again 
 will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. 
 I tremble for censorious remark, for your 
 sake ; but in extraordinary cases, may not 
 »!sual and useful precaution be a little dis- 
 pensed with ? Three evenings, three swift- 
 winged evenings, with pinions of down, are 
 all the past ; 1 dare not calculate the future. 
 
 1 shall call at Miss 's to morrow evening : 
 
 twill be a farewell call. 
 
 I have written out my last sheet of paper, 
 10 I am reduced to my last half-sheet. 
 
 What 9 strange mysterious faculty is that 
 thing called imagination ! 'We have no 
 ideas almost at all of another world ; but I 
 have often amused myself with visionary 
 schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed 
 by small alterations — alterations that we 
 can fully enter into, in this present state of 
 existence. For instance, suppose you and T, 
 just as we are at present ; the same reason- 
 ing powers, sentiments, and even desires ; 
 the same fond curiosity for knowledge and 
 remarking observation in our minds ; and 
 imagine our bodies free from pain and the 
 necessary supplies for the wants of nature 
 at all times, and easily within our reach : 
 imagine further, that we were set free from 
 the laws of gravitation, which bind us to 
 this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without 
 inconvenience, through all the yet uncon- 
 jectured bounds of creation, what a life of 
 bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit 
 of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual 
 enjoyment of friendship and love ! 
 
 i see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and 
 calling me a voluptuous Mahometan ; but I 
 am certain I would be a happy creature, 
 beyond any thing we call bliss here below; 
 nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you 
 too. Don't you see us, hand in hand, or 
 rather, my arm about your lovely waist, 
 making our remarks on Sirins, the nearest 
 of the fixed stars ; or surveying a comet, 
 flaming innoxious by us, as we just now 
 would mark the passing pomp of a tra- 
 velling monarch ; or in the shady bower of 
 Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to 
 love, in mutual converse, relying honour, and 
 revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted 
 strains of poesy and harmony would be the 
 ready, spontaneous language of our souls ! 
 Devotion is the favourite employment of 
 your heart; so itis of mhie : what incentives 
 then to, and powers for, reverence, gratitude, 
 faith, and hope, in all the fervours of adora- 
 tion and praise to that Being, whose un- 
 searchable wisdom, power and goodness, so 
 pervaded, so inspired, every sense and 
 feeling ! — By this time, I dare say, you will 
 be blessing the neglect of the maid that 
 leaves me destitute of paper ! 
 
 Sylvandeb 
 
 NO. xc. (CO) 
 TO THE SAJIE. 
 
 Tuesday Night, 1788. 
 
 I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, with 
 your honest enthusiasm for religion. Those 
 
TO CLARINDA. 
 
 3J7 
 
 cf either sex, but particularly the female, 
 who are lukewarm in that most important of 
 all things, " O my soul, come not thou into 
 their secrets!" — I feel myself deeply inter- 
 ested in your good opinion, and will lay 
 before you the outhues of my belief. He 
 who is our Author and Preserver, and will 
 one day be our Judge, must be (not for his 
 sake in the way of duty, but from the native 
 impulse of our hearts,) the object of our 
 reverential awe and grateful adoration : He 
 is Almighty and all-bounteous, we are weak 
 and dependent ; hence prayer and every 
 
 other sort of devotion. " He is not willing 
 
 that any should perish, but that all should 
 come to everlasting life;" consequently, it 
 must be in every one's power to embrace liis 
 olTer of "everlasting life;" otherwise he 
 could not, in justice, condemn those who 
 did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and 
 governed by purity, truth and charity, 
 though it does not merit heaven, yet is an 
 ausolutely necessary pre-requisite, without 
 which heaven can neither be obtained nor 
 enjoyed ; and, by divine promise, such a 
 mind shall never fail of attaining "ever- 
 lasting life;" hence the impure, the deceiv- 
 ing, and the uncharitable exclude themselves 
 from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for 
 enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put 
 the immediate administration of all this, for 
 wise and good ends known to himself, into 
 the hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, 
 whose relation to him we cannot compre- 
 hend, but whose relation to us is a guide 
 and Saviour ; and who, except for our own 
 obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, 
 through various ways, and by various means, 
 to bliss at last. 
 
 These are my tenets, my lovely friend; 
 and which, I think, cannot be well disputed. 
 iiy creed is pretty nearly expressed in the 
 last clause of Jamie Dean's grace, an honest 
 weaver in Ayrshire : " Lord, grant that we 
 may lead a guid life ! for a guid life maks a 
 guid end, at least it helps weel ! " 
 
 1 am flattered by the entertainment you 
 tell me you have found in my packet. You 
 see me as I have been, you know me as I am, 
 and may guess at what I am likely to be. I 
 too may say, " Talk not of love," &c., for 
 indeed he has " plunged me deep in woe I " 
 Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased 
 unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly 
 Bays, " in the companion, the friend, and the 
 mistress." One indeed I could except — One, 
 before passion threw its mists over my 
 discernment, I knew the first of women ! 
 Her name is indelibly written in my heart's 
 core — but 1 dare not look in on it — a degree 
 
 of agony would be the consequence. Oh I 
 thou perfidous, cruel, mischief-making demon, 
 who presidest over that frantic passion — 
 thou mayest, thou dost poison my peace, 
 but thou shalt not taint my honour — I 
 would not, for a single moment, give am 
 asylum to the most distant imagination that 
 would shadow the faintest outline of a 
 selfish gratification, at the expense of her 
 whose happiness is twisted with the threads 
 
 of my existence. May she be as happy 
 
 as she deserves 1 And if my tenderest, 
 faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss, 1 
 shall, at least, have one solid mine of enjoy- 
 ment in my bosom I Don't guess at these 
 ravings ! 
 
 I watched at our front window to-day, 
 but was disappointed. It has been a day of 
 disappointments. I am just risen from a 
 two hours' bout after supper, with silly or 
 sordid souls, who could relish nothing in 
 
 common with me but the port. One 
 
 'Tis now "witching time of night;" and 
 whatever is out of joint in the foregoing 
 scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells ; 
 for I can't look over it, but will seal it up 
 directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's 
 criticisms on it. 
 
 You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda ; 
 may good angels attend and guard you 
 as constantly and faitlifuUy as my good 
 wishes do 1 
 
 " Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep. 
 Shot forth peculiar graces." 
 
 John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest 
 than I expect on ray pillow to-night 1 O for 
 a little of the cart-horse part of human 
 nature ! Good night, my dearest Clarinda ! 
 
 SVLVA.NDER. 
 
 NO. XCI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Tuesday Noon, January llth, 178S. 
 
 I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you 
 don't look to the proper story for a poet's 
 lodging— 
 
 " Where speculation's roosted near the sky." 
 
 I could almost have thrown myself over 
 for very vexation. Why did'nt you look 
 higher? It has spoiled my peace for this 
 day. To be so near my charming Clarinda ; 
 to miss her look when it was searching for • 
 me — I am sure the soul is capable of disease, 
 for mine has convulsed itself into an iutlaui- 
 raatoTV fever. 
 
31)8 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BUKNS. 
 
 "You have converted me, Clarinda. I 
 shall love that name while I live : there is 
 heavenly music in it. Booth and Amelia I 
 know well. (61) Your sentiments on that 
 subject, as they are on every sul)ject, are 
 just and noble. " To be feelingly alive to 
 kindness and to unkmdness," is a charming 
 female character. 
 
 What I said in my la<t letter, the powers 
 of fuddling sociality only know for me. By 
 yours, I understand my good star has been 
 partly in my horizon, when I got wild in my 
 reveries. Had that evil planet, which has 
 almost all my life shed its baneful rays on 
 my devoted head, been, as usxial, in my 
 zenith, I had certainly blabbed something 
 that would have pointed out to you the dear 
 object of my tenderest friendship, and, in 
 spite of me, something more. Had that 
 fatal information escaped me, and it was 
 merely cliance, or kind stars, that it did not, 
 I had been undone ! You would never have 
 written me, except perhaps once more ! O, 
 I could curse circumstances, and the coarse 
 tie of human laws, which keep fast what 
 common sense would loose, and which bars 
 that happiness itself cannot give — happiness 
 which otherwise Love and Honour would 
 warrant ! But hold— I shall make no more 
 " hair breadth 'scapes." 
 
 My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent 
 business. My likings are both strong and 
 eternal. I told you I had but one male 
 friend: I have but two female. I should 
 have a third, but she is surrounded by the 
 blandishments of flattery and courtship 
 * * * I register in my heart's core — * * * *. 
 
 Miss N can tell how divine she is. She 
 
 is worthy of a place in the same bosom with 
 my Clarinda. That is the liighest compli- 
 ment I can pay her. 
 
 Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember 
 
 Sylvandek 
 
 NO. XCII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Saturday Morning, January I9lh, 1783. 
 
 Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, 
 shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust 
 me, when I say 'tis also my favourite topic ; 
 but mine is the rehgion of the bosom. I 
 hate the very idea of a controversial divinity ; 
 as I tirmly believe that every honest upright 
 man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of 
 the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to 
 Imit, contain censure, except you want an 
 
 occasion to break with me, don't send them, 
 I have a little infirmity in my disposition, 
 that where I fondly love, or highly esteem, 
 I cannot bear reproach. 
 
 "Reverence thyself " is a sacred maxim, 
 and I wish to cherish it. I think 1 told you 
 Lord Boliiigbroke's saying to Swift : — 
 " Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faults I love 
 thee entirely; make an effort to love me 
 with all mine." A glorious sentiment, and 
 without which there can be no friendship ! 
 I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, 
 Clarinda — you merit it all ! Perhaps, too — 
 I scorn dissimulation! — I could fond^y love 
 you : judge then, what a maddening sting 
 your reproach would be. "Oil have sins 
 to Heaven, but none to you !" — With what 
 pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I 
 cannot walk to meet the fly. . I hope to be 
 able to see you on foot about the middle of 
 next week. 
 
 I am interrupted — perhaps you are not 
 sorry fur it, you will tell me— but I won't 
 anticipate blame. O, Clarinda! did you 
 know how dear to me is your look of kind- 
 uess, your smile of approbation ! you would 
 not, either iu prose or verse, risk a censo- 
 rious remark. 
 
 " Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow. 
 That tends to make one worthy man my 
 foe!" 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Edinbunjh, January 2\st, 1788. 
 
 After six weeks' confinement I am be- 
 ginning to walk across the room. They 
 have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and 
 low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or 
 think. 
 
 1 have a hundred times wished that one 
 could resign life as an officer resigns a com- 
 mission : for I would not take in any poor, 
 ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I 
 was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a 
 miserable soldier enough ; now I march to 
 the campaign, a starving cadet — a little more 
 conspicuously wretched. 
 
 I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
 want bravery for the warfare of life, 1 could 
 wish, like some other soldiers, to have as 
 much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or 
 conceal my cowardice. 
 
 As soon as I can bear the journey, which 
 
TO CLARINDA 
 
 S09 
 
 will be, I suppose, about tbe middle of i.exc 
 week, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I 
 shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-1 louse. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. XCIV 
 
 TO CLA.RINDA. 
 
 Tuesday Morning, January 20fh, 1788. 
 
 I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest Cla- 
 rindii, without sending you half a line, by 
 way of a sm-ofFering ; but. believe me, 'twas 
 the sill of Ignorance. Could you think that 
 I intended to hurt you by any thing I said 
 yesternight? Nature has been too kind to 
 you for your happiness, your delicacy, your 
 sensibility. — O why should such glorious 
 qualifications be the fruitful source of woe I 
 You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. 
 I went to bed, impressed with an idea that 
 you were unhappy: and every time I closed 
 my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such 
 scenes of romantic misery that I would 
 almost be persuaded you were not well this 
 morning. 
 
 " If I unwittingly have offeuded. 
 
 Impute it not." 
 
 "But while we live, 
 
 But one short hour, perhaps, between us two 
 Let there be peace." 
 
 If Mary is not gone by tne time this 
 reaches you, give her my best compliments. 
 She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of 
 the noblest love. 
 
 I send you a poem to read, till I call on 
 you this night, which will be about nine. I 
 wish I could procure some potent spell, some 
 fairy charm that would protect injury, or 
 restore to rest that bosom-chord, " trem- 
 blingly alice all o'er," on which hangs your 
 peace of mind. I thought, vainly, I fear, 
 thought that the devotion of love — love 
 strong as even you can feel— love guarded, 
 invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of 
 virtue, and all the pride of honour; 1 thought 
 such a love would make you happy — will I 
 be mistaken ? I can no more for hurry * 
 
 NO. xcv. 
 
 TO THE SA^IE. 
 
 Sunday Morning, February Zrd, 1788. 
 
 I HAVE just been before the throne of my 
 
 God, Clarinda ; according to my association 
 
 of ideas, my sentiments of love and friend- 
 ship, I next devote myself to you. Yesterday 
 niglit I was happy — happiness " that t!ie 
 world cannot give." — I kindle at the recol- 
 lection ; bnt it is a flame where innocence 
 looks smiling on, and honour stands by a 
 sacred guard. — Your heart, your fondest 
 wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are 
 yours to bestow : your person is unapproach- 
 able by the laws of your country ; and lie 
 loves not as I do who would make you mise- 
 rable. 
 
 You are an angel, Clarinda ; you are 
 surely no mortal that " the earth owns." — 
 To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is 
 to me far more exquisite bliss that the dear- 
 est favours that the fairest of the sex, your- 
 self excepted, can bestow. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 
 YoH are the constant companion of my 
 thoughts. How wretched is the condition 
 of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, 
 and trembling under the idea of dreaded 
 vengeance I and what a placid calm, what a 
 charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom 
 the kind feelings of friendship, and the fond 
 throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of 
 anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impa- 
 tience, the sullen frost of louring resentment, 
 or the corroding poison of withered envy ! 
 They eat up the immortal part of man ! If 
 they spent their fury only on the unfortunate 
 objects of them, it would be something in their 
 favour : but these miserable passions, like 
 traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. 
 
 Thou Almighty Author of peace, and 
 goodness, and love! do thou give me the 
 social heart that kindly tastes of every man's 
 cup ! — Is it a draught of joy ? — warm and 
 open my heart to share it with cordial, unen- 
 v^uig rejoicing ! Is it the bitter potion of 
 sorrow ? — meit my heart with sincerely sym- 
 pathetic woe I Above all, do thou give me 
 the manly mind that resolutely exemplifies, 
 in life and manners, those sentimiaits which 
 I would wish to be thought to possess! 
 The friend of my soul— there, may I never 
 deviate from the firmest fidelity and most 
 active kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object 
 of my fondest love; there may the most 
 sacred, inviolate honour, the most faithfii 
 kindling constancy, ever watch and animate 
 my every thought and imagination ! 
 
 Did you ever meet with the following 
 lines spoken of Rehgion, your darling topic? 
 
 " 'Tis tliis, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
 ing bright ! 
 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night ; 
 
310 
 
 pr>'>vrc:r>OTJ'^^-S^V OV TIURNS. 
 
 .V'heii wealth forsakes us, and « lieu Ineiids 
 
 are few, [pursue ; 
 
 When friends are faithless, or when foes 
 
 M'is this that wards the blow, or stills the 
 
 smart, 
 Disarm-' aiHirtion, or repels its dart : 
 Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, 
 Eids smiling Conscience spread her cloud- 
 less skies." 
 
 I met with these verses very early in life, 
 and was so delijrhted with them that I have 
 them by me, copied at school. 
 
 Good night and sound rest, my dearest 
 Clarinda ! Svlvander. 
 
 NO. xcvi. 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 I WAS on the way, my Love, to meet you, 
 (I never do things by halves) when I got 
 your card. M goes out of town to- 
 morrow morning to see a brother of his who 
 is newly arrived from . I am deter- 
 mined that he and I shall call on you to- 
 gether ; so, look you, lest I should never see 
 to-morrow, we will call on you to-night ! 
 
 and you may put off tea till about 
 
 seven; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, 
 ' an the beast be to the fore, an the branks 
 bide liale,'expect the humblest of your humble 
 servants, and his dearest friend. We propose 
 staying only half an hour, 'for oughiwe ken.' 
 I could suffer the lash of misery eleven 
 months in the year, were the twelfth to be 
 composed of hours like yesternight. You 
 are tiie soul of my enjoyment : all else is of 
 the stuff and stocks of stones. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 NO. XCVIl. 
 
 • TO THE SAME. 
 Thursday Morning, February 7th, 1783. 
 "Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." 
 
 I HAVE been tasking my reason, Clarinda, 
 why a woman who for native genius, poig- 
 nant wit, strength of mind, generous sin- 
 cerity of soul, and the sweetest female 
 tenderness, is without a peer, and whose 
 personal charms have few, very, very few 
 parallels among her sex ; why, or how she 
 tliould full to the blessed lot of a poor 
 harum scarum poet, whom Fortune had 
 kept for her particular use, to wreak her 
 
 temper on whenever she was in ill-humour. 
 One time I conjectured that, as Fortune is 
 the most capricious jade ever known, she 
 I may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a 
 paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil 
 out of the mire, where he had so often and 
 so conveniently ser\ed her as a stepping 
 stone, and given him the most glorious 
 boon she ever had in her gift merely 
 for the maggot's sake, to see how 
 this fool head and his fool heart will 
 bear it. At other times I was vain enough 
 to think that Nature, who has a great deal 
 to say with Fortune, had given the coquet- 
 tish goddess some such hint as, " Here is a 
 paragon of female excellence, whose equal, 
 in all my former compositions, I never was 
 lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever 
 doing so again ; you have cast her rather in 
 the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of 
 my making; among your frolics it would 
 not be amiss to attach him to this master- 
 piece of my hand, to give her that immortality 
 among mankind which no woman of any 
 age ever more deserved, and which few 
 rhymsters of tills age are better able to 
 confer." 
 
 Evening, 9 o'clock. 
 I AM here, absolutely unfit to finish my 
 letter — pretty hearty after a bowl, which has 
 been constantly plied since dinner till this 
 moment. 1 have been with Mr. Schetki, 
 the musician, and he has set it (62) finely. 
 
 1 have no distinct ideas of anything, 
 
 but that I have drunk your health twice 
 to-night, and that you are all my soul 
 holds dear, in this world. 
 
 Sylvandee. 
 
 NO. XCVIIl. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Saturday Morning, February 9th, 1788. 
 
 There is no time, my Clarinda, when 
 the conscious thrilling chords of Love and 
 Friendship give such delitfht as in the pen- 
 sive hours of what our favourite, Thomson, 
 calls "Philosophic Melancholy." The sportive 
 insects who bask in the sunshine of prospe- 
 rity ; or the worms that luxuriant crawl 
 amid their ample wealth of earth^they need 
 no Clarinda : they would despise Sylvander 
 — if they durst. The family of Misfortune, 
 a numerous group of brothers and sisters! 
 they need a resting-place to their souls ; 
 unnoticed, often condemned by tUe world ; 
 
TO CLARTNDV. 
 
 311 
 
 in some deeree, perhaps, condemned by 
 Hkemselves, they feel the full enjoyment of 
 ardent love, delicate tender endearments, 
 mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. 
 
 In tliis light I have often admired reliirion. 
 In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or 
 distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a com- 
 passionate Deity, an Ahnighty Protector, are 
 doubly dear. 
 "'Tis (his, my Friend, that streaks our 
 
 morning bright ; 
 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our 
 
 night." 
 I have been this morning taking a peep 
 through, as Young finely says, " the dark 
 postern of time long elaps'd ; " and, you 
 will easily guess, 'twas a rueful prospect. 
 What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, 
 and folly ! ]\Iy life reminded me of a 
 ruined temple ; what strength, what pro- 
 portion iu some parts ! what unsightly gaps, 
 what prostrate ruins in others ! 1 kneeled 
 down before the Father of mercies, and said, 
 " Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and 
 in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be 
 
 called thy son 1 " I rose, eased and 
 
 strengthened. I despise the superstition 
 of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a 
 man. " The future," said I to myself, " is 
 still before me ; " there let me 
 
 ' On reason build resolve. 
 
 That column of true majesty in man ! " 
 
 " I have difficulties many to encounter," 
 said I ; " but they are not absolutely in- 
 superable : and where is firmness of mind 
 slie« n but in exertion ? mere declamation is 
 bombastic rant." Besides, wherever I am, 
 or in wliatever situation I may be — 
 
 ' 'Tis nought to me: 
 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 In the void waste as iu the city full ; 
 And where He vital breathes, there must be 
 joy 1 " 
 
 Saturday Night — half-nfter Ten. 
 
 What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this 
 time yester-night ! My ever-dearest Cla- 
 rinda, you have stolen away my soul : but 
 you have refined, you have exalted it : you 
 have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and 
 a stronger relish for piety. — C'larinda, first 
 of your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch 
 on*earth to forget you ; if ever your lovely 
 image is effaced from my soul, 
 
 " May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; 
 And find no earth that's base enough to 
 bury me • " 
 
 What trifling silliness is the childish fond- 
 ness of the every-day children of the world ! 
 'tis the unmeaning toying of the yovniglinga 
 of the fields and forests : but where Senti- 
 ment and Fancy unite their sweets , where 
 Taste and Delicacy refine ; where Wit adds 
 the flavour, and Goodness gives strength 
 and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is 
 the hour of tender endearment ! — Heauty 
 and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, 
 in all the luxury of mutual love. 
 
 C'larinda, have you ever seen the picture 
 realized ? Not in all its very richest colour- 
 ing. 
 
 Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight 
 shade, was the glorious picture. 
 
 Innocence 
 
 Look'd gaily smiling on ; while rosy Pleasure 
 Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath, 
 And pour'd her cup luxuriant ; mantUng 
 
 high. 
 The sparkling heavenly vintage. Love and 
 
 Bliss! 
 
 Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of 
 Nature's making — two of Nature's noblest 
 productions I — when they drink together of 
 the same cup of Love and Bliss, attempt 
 not, ye coarser stuflTs of human nature, 
 profanely to measure enjoyment ye never 
 can know! — Good night, my dear Clarinda! 
 Sylvander. 
 
 2-^ 
 
 VO. XCIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 February, 1788. 
 
 My ever De-^rest Clarinda. — I 
 make a numerous dinner party wait me 
 while I read yours, and write this. Do not 
 require that I should cease to love you, to 
 adore you in my soul — 'tis to me impossible ; 
 — your peace and happiness are to me dearer 
 than ray soul ; name the terms on which 
 you wish to see me, to correspond with 
 me, and you have them ; I must love, 
 pine, mourn, and adore in secret — this 
 you must not deny me ; you will ever be 
 to me — 
 
 " Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
 Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my 
 heart !" 
 I have not patience to read the puritanic 
 scrawl. — Vile sophistry! — Ye heavens! thou 
 God of nature! thou Redeemer of mankind! 
 ye look down with appruviii^ eyys ou a 
 
312 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 passion inspired by the purest flame, and 
 guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour ; but 
 the half-inchsoul of auuiifeehng, cold-blooded 
 pitiful, presbyterian bigot cannot forgive any 
 thing above his dungeon bosom and foggy 
 head. 
 
 Farewell; I'll be with you to-morrow 
 evening ; and be at rest in your mind ;— I 
 will be yours in the way you think most to 
 your happiness ! I dare not proceed — I 
 iove, and will love you, and will with joyous 
 confidence approach the throne of the Al- 
 mighty Judge of men, with your dear idea, 
 and will despise the scum of sentiment, and 
 the mist of sophistry. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 short to make that lasting impression ou 
 your heart I could wish. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 NO. CI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, Feb. I2th, 1783. 
 That you have faults, my Clarinda, I 
 never doubted ; but I knew not where they 
 existed, and Saturday night made me more 
 in the dark thai ever. O Clarinda, why will 
 you wound my soul, by hinting that last 
 night must have lessened my opinion of 
 you ? True, 1 was " behind the scenes with 
 you ;" but what did I see ? A bosom glow- 
 ing with honour and benevolence : a mind 
 ennobled by genius, informed and refined by 
 education and reflection, and exalted by na- 
 tive religion, genuine as in the climes of 
 heaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious 
 meltings of friendship, love and pity. These 
 I saw. — I saw the noblest immortal soul 
 creation ever showed me. 
 
 I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your 
 letter ; and am vexed that you are complain- 
 ing. I have not caught you so far wrong as 
 in your idea, that the commerce you have 
 with one friend hurts you, if you cannot tell 
 every tittle of it to another. Why have you 
 80 injurious a suspicion of a good God, 
 Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and 
 Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of 
 Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be any 
 thing else than au object of His divine 
 approbation ? 
 
 I have mentioned, in some of my former 
 scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do allow 
 me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my 
 angel ! how soon must we part ! and when 
 can we meet again ! I looked forward on the 
 horrid interval with tearful eyes! "What 
 have 1 lost by not knowing you sooner I 1 
 fear, I foar my acquaintance with you is too 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 "I AM distressed for thee, my brother 
 Jonathan!" I have suffered, Clarinda, from 
 your letter. My soul was in arms at the 
 sad perusal; I dreaded that I had acted 
 wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend, 
 God forgive me! But, Clarinda, be com- 
 forted : let us raise the tone of our feelings 
 a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature 
 who leaves us, who spurns us without just 
 cause, though once our bosom friend — up 
 with a little honest pride— let him go! How 
 shall I comfort you, who am the cause of the 
 injury ? Can I wish that I had never seen 
 you?" that we had never met ? No! I never 
 will. But have I thrown you friendless?— 
 tliere is almost distraction in that thought. 
 
 Father of mercies! against Thee often 
 have I sinned ; through Thy grace I will en- 
 deavour to do so no more ! She who, Thou 
 knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour 
 Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, 
 and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care, 
 all her future days and nights ! Strengtlien 
 her tender noble mind, firmly to sutfer, and 
 magnanimously to bear ! Make me worthy 
 of that friendship she honours me witli. 
 ]\Iay my attachment to her be pure as devo- 
 tion, and lasting as immortal life! O 
 Almighty Goodness, hear me! Be to her at 
 all times, particularly in the hour of distress 
 or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide 
 and Guard. 
 
 " How are Thy servants blest, O Lord, 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
 Their help. Omnipotence !" 
 
 Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have 
 done you! To-night I shall be with you; 
 as indeed I shall be ill at ease till 1 see you. 
 
 SVLVANUEI;. 
 
 NO. CI I. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Two o'clock. 
 
 I JUST now received your first letter of 
 yesterday, by the careless negligence of tlie 
 penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown 
 
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 
 
 313 
 
 very serious with ns ; then seriously hear 
 me, and hear me, Heaven : — I met you, my 
 dear * * ♦ *, by far the first of woman- 
 kind, at least to me ; I esteemed, I loved 
 you at first sight, the longer 1 am acquainted 
 with you, the more innate amiableness and 
 worth I discover in you. — You have suffered 
 a loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the 
 firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship,— if 
 every endeavour to be worthy of your friend- 
 ship, — if a love, strong as tiie ties of nature, 
 and holy as the duties of religion — if all 
 these can make anything like a compensation 
 for the evil I have occasioned you, if they 
 be worth your acceptance, or can in the least 
 add to your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, 
 ye Powers above, in his hour of need, as he 
 freely gives these all to Clarinda ! 
 
 I esteem you, I love you as a friend ; I 
 admire you, I love you as a woman, beyond 
 any one in all the circle of creation ; I know 
 I shall continue to esteem you, to love you, 
 to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for 
 your sake. 
 
 Expect me at eight. — And believe me to 
 be ever, my dearest Madam, yours most 
 entirely, Sylvander. 
 
 NO. CIII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Edinhunjli, February \2th, 1783. 
 
 Some things in your late letters hurt me : 
 not that you say them, but that you mistake 
 me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has 
 not only been all my hfe my chief dependence, 
 but my dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed,' 
 been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; 
 but, alas ! I have ever been " more fool tlian 
 knave." A mathematician without religion 
 is a probable character ; an irrehgious poet 
 is a monster. K. B. 
 
 NO. CIV. 
 
 TO CLARINDA. 
 
 February lith, 1783. 
 
 When matters, my love, are desperate, 
 we must put on a desperate face : — 
 
 " On reason build resolve, 
 
 That column of true majesty in man." 
 
 Or, as the same author finely says in 
 another place — 
 
 " Let thy soul spring up, 
 
 And lay strong hold for help on him that 
 made thee." 
 
 I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be 
 discouraged at all this. Look forward ; in a 
 few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out 
 of the possibility of seeing you : till then, I 
 shall write you often, but visit you seldom. 
 Your fame, your welfare, your happine.ss, are 
 dearer to me than any gratification whatever. 
 Be comforted, my love ! the present moment 
 is the worst : the lenient hand of Time is 
 daily and hourly either lightening the burden, 
 or making us insensible to the weight. 
 
 None of these friends, I mean Mr. 
 
 and the other gentleman, can hurt your 
 worldly support, and for their friendship, in 
 a little time you will learn to be easj', and, 
 by and bye, to be happy without it. A 
 decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
 approving God, a peaceful conscience, and 
 one 'firm, trusty friend — can anybody that 
 has these be said to be unhappy ? These 
 are yours. 
 
 To-morrow evening I shall be with you 
 about eight ; probably for the last time till I 
 return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, 
 should any of these two unlucky friends 
 question you respecting me, whether I am 
 the man, I do not think they are entitled to 
 any information. As to their jealousy and 
 spying, I despise them. — Adieu, my dearest 
 Madam! Sylvander. 
 
 NO. CV. 
 
 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa 
 
 OF riNTRY. 
 
 February, 1738. 
 
 Sir. — Mlien I had the honour of being 
 introduced to you at Athole House, I did not 
 think so soon of asking a favour of you. 
 When liCar, in Shakespeare, asked old Kent 
 why he wished to be in his service, he 
 answers: — "Because you have that in your 
 face which I would fain call master." For 
 some such reason. Sir, do I now solicit your 
 patronage. You know, I dare say, of an 
 application I lately made to your Board to 
 he admitted an otticer of Excise. I have, 
 according to form, been examined by a super 
 
?14 
 
 COBRESPOXDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 visor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with 
 a request for an order for instructions. In 
 this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall 
 but too much need a patronising friend. 
 Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 
 a id attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; 
 but with any thing like business, except 
 manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 
 
 I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
 pearance on the stage of life in the character 
 of a country farmer ; but after discharging 
 some lilial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
 only fight for existence in that miserable 
 manner, which I have lived to see throw a 
 venerable parent into the jaws of a jail, — 
 whence death, the poor man's last and often 
 best friend, rescued him. 
 
 I know. Sir, that to need your goodness, 
 is to have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, 
 beg your patronage to forward me in this 
 affair, till I be appointed to a division — 
 where, by the help of rigid economy, I will 
 try to support that independence so dear to 
 my soul, but which has been too often so 
 distant from my situation. R. Ji. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. (63) 
 Edinburgh, February, \Ath, 1788. 
 
 Reverend and Deak Sir — I have 
 been a cripple now near three months, though 
 I am getting vastly better, and have been 
 very much hurried besides, or else I would 
 have wrote you sooner. I must beg your 
 pardi n for the epistle you sent me appearing 
 in the iNIagazine. I had given a copy or two 
 to some of ray intimate friends, but did not 
 know of the printing of it till the publication 
 of the IMagazine. However, as it does great 
 honour to us both, you will forgive it. 
 
 The second volume of the Songs I men- 
 tioned to you in my last is published to-d.iy. 
 I send you a copy, which I beg you will 
 accept as a mark of the veneration I have 
 long had, and shall ever have, for your cha- 
 racter, and of the claim I make to your con- 
 tinued acquaintance. Your songs appear in 
 the third volume, with your name in the 
 index ; as I assure you, Sir, I have heard 
 your " Tullochgorum," particularly among 
 our west-country folks, given to many differ- 
 ent names, and most commonly to the im- 
 mortal author of " The Minstrel," who, 
 indeed, never wrote anything superior to 
 " Gie a sang, Montgomery cried." Your 
 brother has promised me your verses to the 
 
 IMarquis of Huntly's ree>, which certainly 
 deserve a place in the collection. My kind 
 host, ilr. Cruikshank, of the high-School 
 here, and said to be one of the best Latins 
 in this age, begs me to make you his grate- 
 ful acknowledgments for the entertainment 
 he has got in a Latin publication of yours 
 that I borrowed for him from your acquaint- 
 ance and much respected friend in this place, 
 the Reverend Dr. Webster. (64) Mr. Cruik- 
 shank maintains that you write the best 
 Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh 
 to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. 
 Your song you mentioned in your last, to 
 the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and the 
 other, which you say was done by a hroiher 
 in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank 
 you for a copy of each. I am ever, reverend 
 Sir, with the most respectful esteem and 
 sincere veneration, yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. CVII. 
 
 TO RICHARD BROWN. 
 
 Edinburgh, February \Uh, 1783. 
 
 My Dear Friend — I received yours 
 with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at 
 Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if 
 possible, you will meet me on Tuesday. I 
 shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be 
 found at Davies's Black Bull inn. I am 
 hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I 
 should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot 
 possibly come, write me, if possible, to 
 Glasgow, on Monday; or direct to me at 
 Mossgiel by Mauchline ; and name a day 
 and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight 
 from this date, where I may meet you. I 
 only stay a fortnight in .Ayrshire, and return 
 to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, 
 yours, R. B. 
 
 TO MRS. ROSE, OP KILRAVOCK. 
 
 Edinburgh, February \7th, 1783. 
 
 j Madam — You are much indebted to 
 I some indispensable business I have had on 
 ray hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened 
 such a return for your obliging favour as 
 would have tired your patience. It but 
 poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I 
 am sensible of your kmdness : it may be 
 said of hearts such as yours is. and sucli, 1 
 
r 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS. 
 
 S15 
 
 hope, mine is, much more justly thau 
 Addison applies it : — 
 
 Some souls by instinct to each other turn. 
 
 There was something in my reception at 
 Kilravock so different from the cold, obse- 
 quious, dancinjr-school bow of politeness, 
 that it almost got into my head that friend- 
 ship had occupied her ground without the 
 intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish 
 I could transcribe, or rather transfuse into 
 language, the glow of my heart when I read 
 your letter. My ready fancy, with colours 
 more mellow than life itself, painted the 
 beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock ; the 
 venerable grandeur of the castle ; the spread- 
 ing woods ; the winding river, gladly leaving 
 his unsightly, heathy source, and lingering 
 with apparent delight as he passes the fairy 
 walk at the bottom of the garden ; your late 
 distressful anxieties ; your present enjoy- 
 ments , your dear little angjl, the pride of 
 your hopes ; my aged friend, venerable in 
 worth and years, whose loyalty and other 
 virtues will strongly entitle her to the 
 support of the Almighty Spirit here, and his 
 peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. 
 You cannot imagine, Madam, how much 
 such feelings delight me ; they are my 
 dearest proofs of my own immortality. 
 Should I never revisit the north, as probably 
 I never will, nor again see your hospitable 
 mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, 
 to see your little fellow's name making a 
 proper ti^ure in a newspaper paragraph, my 
 heari vi>nld bound with pleasure. 
 
 I am assisting a friend in a collection of 
 Scottish songs, set to their proper tunes ; 
 every air worth preserving is to be included ; 
 among others I have given "Morag," and 
 some few Highland airs which pleased me 
 most, a dress which will be more generally 
 known, though far, far inferior in real merit. 
 As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I 
 beg leave to present you with a copy of the 
 work, as far as it is printed ; the Man of 
 Feeling, that lirst of men, has promised to 
 transmit it by the first opportunity. 
 
 I beg to be remembered most respectfully 
 to my venerable friend, and to your little 
 Highland chieftain. When you see the 
 " two fair spirits of the hill," at Kil- 
 drummie (63), tell them that I have done 
 myself the honour of setting myself down as 
 one of their admirers for at least twenty 
 years to come, consequently they must look 
 upon rac as an acquaintance for the same 
 period; but, as the .Vpostle Paul says, "this 
 I ask of grace, not of debt." I have the 
 honour to be, JIadam, &c., R. B. 
 
 2S 
 
 TO CLARINDA. 
 
 Glasgow, Monday Evening, 9 o'clock, 
 Feb. illh, 178'S. 
 
 The attraction of love, I find, is in an in- 
 verse proportion to the attraction of the 
 Newtonian philosophy. In the system of 
 Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another 
 the stronger is the attractive force ; in my 
 system, every mile-stone that marked my 
 progress from Clarinda, awakened a keener 
 pang of attachment to her. 
 
 How do you feel, my love ? Is your heart 
 ill at ease? I fear it. — God forbid that 
 these persecutors should harass that peace 
 which is more precious to me than my own. 
 Be assured I shall ever think of you, muse 
 on you, and, in my moments of devotion, 
 pray for you. The hour that you are not in 
 all my thoughts — "be that hour darkness ! 
 let the shadows of death cover it ! let it not 
 be numbered in the hours of the day !" 
 
 — " When I forget the darling theme. 
 
 Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no 
 
 more ! 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !" 
 
 I have just met with my old friend, the 
 ship captain ; guess my pleasure ; — to meet 
 you could alone have given me more. My 
 brother William, too, tlie young saddler, has 
 come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are 
 we three spending the evening. 
 
 I arrived here too late to write by post ; 
 but I'll wrap half a dozen sheets of blank 
 paper together, and send it by the fly, under 
 the name of a parcel. You shall hear from 
 me next post town. I would write you a 
 long letter, but for the present circumstance 
 of my friend. 
 
 Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to 
 propose your health by way of grace-driak. 
 Sylvan DEB. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS. 
 
 Edinburgh, February, 1783. 
 
 To-morrow, my dear Madam, I leave 
 Edinburgh. I have altered all my plans 
 of future life. A farm that I could live 
 in, I could not find ; and, indeed, after the 
 necessary support my brother and the rest 
 of the family required, I could not venture 
 on farming in that style suitable to mj 
 
316 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 feelings. You will condemn me for tiie 
 next step I have taken. I liave entered into 
 tlie Excise. I stay in the west about three 
 weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for 
 six weeks' instructions ; afterwards, for I 
 get employ instantly, I go oii il plait a Dieu 
 — et mon Roi. I have chosen this, my dear 
 fi-iend, after mature deliberation. The cpies- 
 tion is not at what door of fortune's palace 
 shall we enter in, but what doors does she 
 open to us 2 I was not likely to get any 
 thing to do. I wanted im hilt, which is a 
 dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this 
 without any hanging on, or mortifying soli- 
 citation ; it is immediate bread, and though 
 poor in comparison of the last eighteen 
 months of my existence, 'tis luxury in com- 
 parison of all my p: eceding life : besides, the 
 commissioners are some of them my acquaint- 
 ajices, and all of them my firm friends. 
 
 E.B. 
 
 NO. CXI. 
 
 TO RICHARD BRO\\T^. 
 
 MossrjieJ, February Lith, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir — I cannot get the proper 
 direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the 
 following will do : — To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, 
 at Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benja- 
 min Henriquez, merchant. Orange Street, 
 Kingston. 1 arrived here, at my brother's, 
 only yesterday, after fighting my way 
 through Paisley and Kilmarnock against 
 those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, 
 the world, and the flesh — so terrible in the 
 fields of dissipation. I have met with few 
 incidents in my life which gave me so much 
 pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There 
 is a time of life beyond which we cannot 
 form a tie worth the name of friendship. 
 " Oh youth ! enchanting stage, profusely 
 blest." Life is a fairy scene : almost all that 
 deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure 
 is only a charming delusion ; and in comes 
 repining age, in all the gravity of hoary 
 wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the 
 bewitching phantom. When I think of life, 
 I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the 
 course of economy, for the sake of worldly 
 convenience and independence of mind ; to 
 cultivate intimacy with a few of the com- 
 panions of youth, that they may be the 
 friends of age ; ne\er to refuse my liquorish 
 humour a handful of the sweet-meats of 
 life, when they come not too dear ; and, for 
 futurity — 
 
 Tlie present moment is our aim. 
 The next we never saw ! 
 How like you ray philosophy ? Give my 
 best compliments to Mrs. B., and believe ma 
 to be, my dear Sir, yours most truly, 
 
 R. B. (66) 
 
 NO. CXIl. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS. 
 
 March, 1788. 
 
 Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, 
 myself. I have broke measures with Creech, 
 and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen 
 letter. He replied in terms oif chastisement, 
 and promised me upon his honour that I 
 should have the account on Monday; but 
 this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a 
 word from him. God have mercy on me ! 
 a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortu- 
 nate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim 
 of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagina- 
 tion, agonising sensibility, and bedlam 
 passions ! 
 
 " I wish that I were dead, but I'm no likfe 
 to die !" I had lately " a hair-breadth 'scape 
 in th' imminent deadly breach " of love too 
 Thank my stars, I got oflf heart-whole, 
 " more fleyd than hurt." — Interruption. 
 
 I have this moment got a hint ; I fear I 
 am something like — undone — but I hope for 
 the best. Come, stubborn pride and un- 
 shrinking resolution ; accompany me through 
 this, to me, miserable world ! 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. Seriously though, 
 life at this moment presents me with but a 
 melancholy path: but — my limb will soon be 
 sound, and I shall struggle on. R. B. 
 
 TO CLARINDA. 
 
 Cumnock, March 2nd, 1788. 
 
 I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous 
 Clarinda will not think my silence, for now 
 a long week (67), has been in any degree 
 owing to my forgetfulness. I have been 
 tossed about through the country ever since 
 I wrote you ; and am here, returning from 
 Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post-office of 
 
TO ROBERT ATXPLTE, ESQ. 
 
 811 
 
 the place, with just so long time as my 
 horse eats his corn, to write you. I have 
 been hurried with business and dissipation 
 almost equal to the insidious decree of the 
 Persian monarch's mandate, when he forbade 
 asking petition of God or man for forty days. 
 Had the venerable prophet been as throng 
 as I, he had not broken the decree, at least 
 not thrice a-day. 
 
 I am thinking my farming scheme will yet 
 hold. A worthy intelligent farmer, my 
 father's friend and my own, has been with 
 me on the spot : he thinks the bargain prac- 
 ticable. I am myself, on a more serious 
 review of the lands, much better pleased 
 with them. I won't mention this in writing 
 
 to any body but you and . Don't 
 
 accuse me of being fickle : I have the two 
 plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt 
 the one most likely to procure me indepen- 
 dence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. 
 I long to see you : your image is omnipre- 
 sent to me ; nay, I am convinced I would 
 soon idolatrize it most seriously ; so much 
 do absence and memory nuprove the medium 
 through which one sees the much-loved 
 object. To-night, at the sacred hour of 
 eight, I expect to meet you — at the Throne 
 of Grace. I hope, as I go home to night, to 
 find a letter from you at the post-office in 
 Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear 
 hand since I left Edinburgh — a letter indeed 
 which much affected me. Tell me, first of 
 womankind ! will my warmest attachment, 
 my sincerest friendship, my correspondence, 
 will they be any compensation for the sacri- 
 fices you make for my sake ! If they will, 
 they are yours. If 1 settle on the farm I 
 propose, I am just a day and a half's ride 
 from Edinburgh. We will meet — don't you 
 say, " perhaps too often !" 
 
 Farewell, my fair, my charming Poetess ! 
 Way all good things ever attend you ! I am 
 ever, my dearest Madam, yours, 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 NO. cxiv. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 
 
 Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. 
 
 JIy Dear Sir — Apologies for not 
 writing are frequently like apologies for not 
 singing — the apology better than the song. 
 I have fought my way severely through the 
 savage hospitality of this coiuitry, to 
 send every guest drunk to bed if they 
 con. 
 
 1 executed your commission in Glasgow 
 and I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the 
 same price and the very same kind as 
 your former parcel, fur the gentleman 
 recollected your buying there perfectly 
 well. 
 
 I should return my thanks for your 
 
 hospitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, 
 as 1 know none can do it justice) to a poor 
 wayfaring bard, who was spent and almost 
 overpowered, fighting with prosaic wicked- 
 nesses in high places ; but I am afraid lest 
 you should burn the letter whenever you 
 come" to the passage, so I pass over it in 
 silence. I am just returned from visiting 
 Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told 
 you I would take with me (68) was highly 
 pleased with the farm; and as he is, without 
 exception, the most intelligent farmer in the 
 country, he has staggered me a good deal. 
 I have the two plans of life before me ; I 
 I shall balance them to the best of my 
 judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I 
 have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on 
 him when I come to town, which shall be the 
 beginning or middle of next week : I would 
 be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather 
 worse, and 1 fear for some time will scarcely 
 stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions. 
 I only mention these ideas to you ; and, 
 indeed, except I\Ir. Ainslie, whom I intend 
 WTiting to to-morrow, I will not write at all 
 to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would 
 send my compliments to jMr. Nicol, but he 
 would be hurt if he knew I wrote to any 
 body and not to him ; so I shall only beg 
 my best, kindest, kindest compliments to 
 my worthy hostess, and the sweet little rose- 
 bud. 
 
 So soon as I am settled in the routine of 
 life, either as an Excise-officer, or as a 
 farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from 
 a regular correspondence with the only man 
 almost I ever saw who joined the most 
 attentive prudence with the warmest gene- 
 rosity. 
 
 I am much interested for that best of 
 men, Mr. Wood ; I hope he is in better 
 health and spirits than when I saw him last. 
 I am ever, my dearest friend, your obliged 
 humble servant, R. li. 
 
 NO. cxv. 
 TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Eso. 
 
 Mauchline, March Srd, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Friend — I am just returned 
 from Mr. Miller's farm. My old friend 
 
318 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 whom I took with me was highly pleased 
 with the bargain, and advised me to accept 
 of it. He is the most intelligent, sensible 
 fanner in the country, and his advice has 
 staggered me a good deal. I have the two 
 plans before me: I shall endeavour to balance 
 them to the best of my judgment, and fix 
 on the most eligible. On the whole, if I 
 find Mr. Miller in the pame favourable dis- 
 position as when I saw him last, 1 shall in 
 all probability turn farmer. 
 
 1 have been through sore tribulation, and 
 under much buifetting of the wicked one, 
 since I came to this country. Jean I fbund 
 banished, forlorn, destitute and friendless ; 
 1 have reconciled her to her fate, and I have 
 reconciled her to her mother. 
 
 I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next 
 week. My farming ideas I shall keep j)ri- 
 vate till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda 
 j'esterday, and she tells me she has got no 
 letter of mine but one. Tell her that I 
 wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmar- 
 nock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from 
 Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. In- 
 deed, she is the only person in Edinburgh I 
 have written to till this day. How are your 
 soul and body putting up ? — a Uttle like man 
 and wife, I suppose. R. B. 
 
 KO. CXVI. 
 
 TO CLARINDA. 
 
 Mossgiel, March 1th, 178S. 
 
 Clarinda, I have been so stung with 
 your reproach for unkinduess— a sin so unlike 
 me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the 
 whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and 
 ninth articles excepted — that I believe I shall 
 not rest in my grave about it, if I die before 
 I see you. You have often allowed me the 
 head to judge, and the heart to feel, the 
 influence of female excellence. Was it not 
 blasplieiny, then, against your own charms, 
 and agauist my feelings, to suppose that a 
 short fortnight could abate my passion ? 
 You, my Love, may have your cares and 
 anxieties to disturb you, but they are the 
 usual occurrences of life ; your future views 
 are fixed, and your mind in a settled routine. 
 Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, 
 make a little allowance for a man, after long 
 absence, paying a short visit to a country 
 full of friends, relations and early intimates? 
 Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what 
 thoughts, what cares, what anxious fore- 
 bodings, hopes and fears, must crowd the 
 
 breast of the man of keen sensibility, when 
 no less i3 on the tapis than his aim, his em- 
 ployment, his very existence, through future 
 life? 
 
 Now that, not my apology, but my defence, 
 is made, I feel my soul respire more easily. 
 I know you will go along with me in my 
 justification — would to Heaven you could 
 in my adoption too ! I mean an adoption 
 beneath the stars — an adoption where I 
 might revel in the immediate beams of 
 
 " Her, the bright sun of all her sex." 
 
 I would not have you, my dear Madam, 
 
 so much hurt at Miss 's coldness. 'Tis 
 
 placing yourself below her, an honour she 
 by no means deserves. We ought, when we 
 wish to be economists in happiness — we 
 ought, in the first place, to fix the standard 
 of our own character ; and when, on full ex- 
 amination, we know where we stand, and 
 how much ground we occupy, let us contend 
 for it as property : and those who seem to 
 doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us 
 either pity their prejudices, or despise their 
 judgment. I know, my dear, you will say 
 this is self conceit ; but I call it self-know- 
 ledge. The one is the overweening opinioa 
 of a fool, who fancies himself to be what 
 he wishes himself to be thought; the other 
 is the honest justice that a man of sense, 
 who has thoroughly examined the subject, 
 owes to himself. Without this standard, 
 this column in our own mind, we are per- 
 petually at the mercy of the petulance, 
 the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very 
 weakness and wickedness of our fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 I urge this, my dear, both to confirm my- 
 self in the doctrine which, I assure you, I 
 sometimes need; and because I know that 
 this causes you often much disquiet. — To 
 
 return to Miss : she is most certainly 
 
 a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very 
 few, in goodness of heart. But can she 
 boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? 
 Not even prejudice will dare to say so. 
 For penetration and discernment, Clarinda 
 
 sees far beyond her : to wit. Miss dare 
 
 make no pretence ; to Clarinda's wit, scarcely 
 any of her sex dare make pretence. Per- 
 sonal charms, it would be ridiculous to run 
 the parallel. And for conduct in life. Miss 
 
 was never called out, either much 
 
 to do or to sutfer ; Clarinda has been both ; 
 and has performed her part where Miss 
 — — would have sunk at the bare idea. 
 
 Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Ixt 
 us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbar- 
 chau — " Lord, send us a guid conceit o' 
 
TO MR. MUIR. 
 
 819 
 
 onrsel ! " Or, in the words of the anUl 
 sansr, 
 
 "Who does me disdain, I can scorn them 
 aKain, 
 And I'll never mind any such foes." 
 
 There is an error iu the commerce of in- 
 timacy with those who are perpetually taking 
 what they, in the way of exchange, have not 
 in equivalent to give us ; and, what is still 
 worse, we have no idea of the value of our 
 goods. Happy is our lot, indeed, when we 
 meet with an honest merchant, who is 
 qualified to deal with us on our own terras ; 
 but that is a rarity. With almost every 
 body we must pocket our pearls, less or 
 more, and learn, in the old Scotch phrase — 
 " To gie sic like as we get." For this rea- 
 son, one should try to erect a kind of bank 
 or store-house in one's own mind ; or as the 
 Psalmist says, " We should commune with 
 our own hearts, and be still." This is ex- 
 actly ♦ * * • » 
 [rest iva7itin(j.'] 
 
 NO. CXVII. 
 
 TO RICHARD BROWN. 
 
 MauchUne, March 1th, 1788. 
 
 I HAVE been out of the country, my dear 
 friend, and have not had an opportunity of 
 writing till now, when I am afraid you will 
 be gone out of the country too. I have 
 been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps 
 I may settle in the character of a farmer. I 
 have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and 
 have ever been so little a man of business, 
 that it will take no ordinary effort to bring 
 my mind properly into the routine; but you 
 will say a "great effort is worthy of you." 
 I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity 
 with all the stimulating comphments I can 
 think of Men of grave, geometrical minds, — 
 the sons of "which was to be demonstrated," 
 — may cry up reason as much as they please ; 
 but I have always found an honest passion, 
 or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the 
 warfare of this world. Reason almost always 
 comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor 
 devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to 
 add her reproaches to his other grievances. 
 
 I am gratified with your kind inquiries 
 after Jean; as, after all, I may say with 
 Othello— 
 
 "Excellent wretchV 
 
 Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!" 
 
 £ go for Edinburgh on Monday. 
 
 Yours. R. B. 
 
 NO. cxvm. 
 
 TO MR MUIR. 
 
 Mossgiel, March 7th, 17S8. 
 
 Dear Sir^I have particularly changed 
 my ideas, since I saw you. I took 
 old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's 
 farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I 
 have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if 
 he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, 
 the happiest of lives when a man can live by 
 it. In this case, I shall not stay in Edin- 
 burgh above a week. I set out on Monday, 
 and would have come by Kilmarnock, but 
 there are several small sums owing me for 
 my first edition about Galston and Newmills, 
 and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my 
 business and reach Glasgow by night. When 
 I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to 
 make some kind of acknowledgment for all 
 the kindness I owe your friendship. Now 
 that I hope to settle with some credit and 
 comfort at home, there was not any friend- 
 ship or friendly correspondence that promised 
 me more pleasure than yours ; I hope I will 
 not be disappointed. I trust the spring will 
 renew your shattered frame, and make your 
 friends happy. You and I have often agreed 
 that life is no great blessing on the whole. 
 The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning 
 age, is 
 
 Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
 AVas roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound. 
 
 But an honest man has nothing to fear. 
 If we lie down in the grave, the whole man 
 a piece of broken machinery, to moalder 
 with the clods of the valley, be it so ; at 
 least there is an end of pain, care, woes and 
 wants : if that part of us called mind does 
 survive the apparent destruction of the man 
 — away with old-wife prejudices and tales ! 
 Every age and every nation has had a 
 different set of stories ; and as the many 
 are always weak of consequence, they have 
 often, perhaps always, been deceived : a man 
 conscious of having acted an honest part 
 among his fellow-creatures — even granting 
 that he may have been the sport at times of 
 passions and instincts — he goes to a great 
 unknown Being, who could have no other 
 end in giving him existence but to make 
 him happy, who gave him those passions 
 and instincts, and well knows their force. 
 
 These, my worthy friend, are my iileas ; 
 and I know they are not far different from 
 yours. It becomes a man of sense to think 
 for liimself, particularly iu a case where all 
 
320 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 men are equally interested, and where, in- 
 deed, all men are equally in the dark. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful 
 meetiufijl 11. B. 
 
 NO. cxix. (69) 
 TO CLARINDA. 
 
 I OWN myself guilty, Clarinda; I should 
 have written you last week ; but when you 
 recollect, my dearest Jladani, that your's of 
 this night's post is only the third I have got 
 from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth 
 I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, 
 with a good grace, for unkindness. I have 
 always some kind of idea, not to sit down 
 to write a letter, except I have time and 
 possession of my faculties so as to do some 
 justice to my letter; which at present is 
 rarely my situation. For instance, yester- 
 day I dined at a friend's at some distance ; 
 the savage hospitality of this country spent 
 me the most part of the night over the 
 nauseous potion in the bowl: this day — 
 sick — headache — low spirited — miseiable 
 — lasting, except for a drauglit of water or 
 small beer : now eight o'clock at night — 
 only able to crawl ten minutes' walk into 
 Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasure- 
 able hope of hearing from the mistress of 
 my soul. 
 
 But, a truce to all this ! When I sit 
 down to write to you, all is harmony and 
 peace. An hundred times a-day do I 
 figure you, before your taper, your book or 
 work laid aside, as I get within the room. 
 How happy have I been ! and how little of 
 that scantling portion of time, called the 
 life of man, is sacred to happiness ! I 
 could moralize to-night like a death's 
 head : — 
 
 "O what is life, that thoughtless wish of 
 
 all! 
 A drop of honey in a draught of gall." 
 
 Nothing astonishes me more, when a little 
 sickness clogs the wheels of life, than the 
 thoughtless career we run in the hour of 
 healtli. " None saith, where is God, my 
 Maker, that giveth songs in the night ; who 
 teaciieth us more knowledge than the beasts 
 of the field, and more understanding than 
 the fowls of the air." 
 
 Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! 
 Give me to act up to the dignity of my 
 nature ! Give me to feel " another's woe ; " 
 and continue with me that dear-lov'd friend 
 that feels with mine I 
 
 The dignified and dignifying conscious, 
 ness of an honest man, and the well- 
 grounded trust in approving Heaven, are 
 two most substantial sources of happiness. 
 
 • ••»*« 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 TO MISS 
 
 My Dear Countrywoman — I am so 
 impatient to show you that I am once more 
 at peace with you, that I send you the book 
 I mentioned directly, rather than wait the 
 uncertain time of my seeing you. I am 
 afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins's Poems, 
 which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can 
 find them, I will forward them by you ; if 
 not, you must apologise for me. 
 
 I know you will laugh at it when I tell 
 you that your piano and you together have 
 played the deuce somehow about my heart. 
 My breast has been widowed these many 
 months, and I thought myself proof against 
 the fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid 
 you will " feelingly convince me what I am." 
 I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure 
 what is the matter with me. I ha\e one 
 miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, 
 or look kindly to another, it gives me a 
 draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
 wayward wish to be with you ten minutes 
 by yourself, though what I would say. 
 Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know 
 not. I have no formed design in all this, 
 but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write 
 you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You 
 may perhaps give yourself airs of distance 
 on this, and that will completely cure me ; 
 but I wish you would not — just let us meet, 
 if you please, in the old . beaten way of 
 friendship. 
 
 I will not subscribe myself your humble 
 servant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least 
 fifty miles off from the heart ; but I will 
 conclude with sincerely wishing that the 
 Great Protector of innocence may shield you 
 from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand 
 you by the covert snare of deceit. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXI. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS. 
 
 Edinburgh, March I4th, 1788. 
 
 T KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
 be pleased with the news when I tell you, * 
 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 
 
 521 
 
 • • ♦ I have at last taken a lease of a farm. 
 Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. 
 Miller of Dalswintoa for the farm of Ellis- 
 land, on the banks of the Nith, between 
 five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin 
 at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, 
 &c. ; and Heaven be my help ! for it will 
 take a strong effort to bring my mind into 
 the routine of business. I have discharged 
 all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, 
 and pleasures— a motley host ! and have 
 literally and strictly retained only the ideas 
 of a few friends which I have incorporated 
 into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's 
 observation, " Where much is attempted, 
 something is done." Firmness, both in 
 suffering and exertion, is a character I woiUd 
 wish to be thought to possess ; and have 
 always despised the whining yelp of com- 
 plaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. 
 
 Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this 
 winter, and begged me to remember her to 
 you the first time I WTote to you. Surely 
 woman, amiable woman, is often made in 
 vaiu. Too delicately formed for the rougher 
 pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the dirt 
 of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage 
 of pleasure ; formed indeed for, and highly 
 susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture ; but 
 that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the 
 mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, 
 or wickedness of an animal at all times com- 
 paratively unfeeling, and often brutal. 
 
 R. B, 
 
 of all ; but God help us, who are wits or 
 witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
 fame there, we sink unsupported ! 
 
 I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
 me of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who 
 does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
 says to Ross, the poot of his muse Scota, 
 from which, by the bye, I took the idea of 
 Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scot- 
 tish dialect, which perhaps you have never 
 seen) : — 
 
 Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
 Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
 Lang had she lien wi' betfs and flegs, 
 
 Bumbaz'd and dizzie. 
 Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 
 
 Wae's me, poor hizzie. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 NO. CXXIII. 
 
 NO. CXXII. 
 
 TO ]\ms. DUNLOP. 
 
 Mossfjiel, March I7th, 1783. 
 
 Mabam — The last paragraph in yours of 
 the 30th February affected me most, so I 
 shall begin my answer where you ended 
 your letter. That I am often a siimer, with 
 any little wit I have, I do confess : but I 
 have taxed my recollection to no purpose, 
 to find out when it was employed against 
 you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great 
 deal worse than I do the devil, at least as 
 Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
 rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it 
 myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, 
 my honoured friend, who cannot appear iu 
 any light but you are sure of being respect- 
 able — you can afford to pass by an occasion 
 to dis))lay your wit, because you may de- 
 pend for fame on your sense; or, if you 
 choose to be silent, you know you can rely 
 on^he gratitude of many, and the esteem 
 
 TO RICHARD BROWN. 
 
 Glasc/ow, March 26lh, 1788. 
 
 I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, 
 in not writing to you, and sending you the 
 Directory. I have been getting my tack 
 extended, as I have taken a farm, and I have 
 been racking shop accounts with Mr. 
 Creech ; both of which, together with watch- 
 ing, fatigue, and a load of care almost too 
 heavy for my shoulders, have in some de- 
 gree actually fevered me. 1 really forgot 
 the Directory yesterday, which vexed me; 
 but I was convulsed with rage a great part 
 of the day. 1 have to thank you for the 
 ingenious, friendly and elegant epistle from 
 your friend Mr. Crawford. I shall certainly 
 write to him, but not now. This is merely 
 a card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries- 
 shire, where many perplexing arrangements 
 await me. I am vexed about the Directory ; 
 but, my dear Sir, forgive me : these eight 
 days 1 have been positively crazed. My 
 compliments to Mrs. B. I shall write to 
 you at Grenada. I am everj m/ dearest 
 friend, youra. R. B 
 
 NO. cxxir. 
 TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN, 
 
 Mauchline, March 31st, 1738. 
 
 Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
 through a tract of melancholy, joyless muirs, 
 between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being 
 
322 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, 
 and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your 
 f.ivourite air, " Captain O'Kean," coming at 
 length into my head, I tried these words to 
 it. (70) You will see that the first part of 
 the tune must be repeated. 
 
 I am tolerably pleased with these verses, 
 but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I 
 leave it with you to try if they suit the 
 measure of the music. 
 
 I am so harassed with care and anxiety, 
 about this farming project of mine, tliat my 
 muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
 wench that ever picked cinders, or followed 
 a tinker. When I am fairly got into the 
 routine of business, I shall trouble you with 
 a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries 
 respecting farming : at present, the world 
 sets such a load on my mind that it has 
 effaced almost every trace of the poet in 
 me. 
 
 My very best compliments and good 
 wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. E. B. 
 
 NO. CXXV. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS. 
 
 MauchUne, April 1th, 1788. 
 
 I AM indebted to you and Jliss Nimrao 
 for letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange! 
 how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our 
 judgments of one another ! Even I, who 
 pique my skill in marking characters — be- 
 cause I am too proud of my character £is a 
 man to be dazzled in my judgment for 
 glaring wealth, and too proud of my situa- 
 tion as a poor man to be biassed against 
 squalid poverty — I was unacquainted with 
 Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. 
 
 I am going on a good deal progressive in 
 mon grand but, the «ober science of life. I 
 have lately made some sacrifices, for which, 
 were I viva, voce with you to paint the situa- 
 tion and recount the circumstances (71), you 
 would applaud me. R. B. 
 
 NO. cxxvi. 
 TO MR. WILLAM DUNBAR, 
 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Maucldine, April 7th, 1783. 
 
 I HAVE not delayed so long to write you, 
 my much respected friend, because I thought I 
 
 no farther of my promise. I have long since 
 given up that kind of formal correspondence, 
 where one sits down irksomely to write a 
 letter, because we think we are in duty 
 bound so to do. 
 
 I have been roving over the country, as 
 the farm I have taken is forty miles from this 
 place, hiring servants and preparing matters ; 
 but most of all, I am earnestly busy to bring 
 about a revolution in my own mind. As, 
 till within these eighteen months, I never 
 was the wealtliy master of ten guineas, my 
 knowledge of business is to learn ; add to 
 this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipa- 
 tion have enervated my mind to an alarming 
 degree. Skill in the sober science of life is 
 my most serious and hourly study. I 
 have dropped all conversation and all reading 
 (prose reading) but what tends in some way 
 or other to my serious aim. Except one 
 worthy young fellow, I have not one single 
 correspondent in Edinburgh. You have 
 indeed kindly made me an otfer of that kind. 
 The world of wits, and gens comme il faut 
 which I lately left, and with whom I never 
 again will intimately mix — from that port. 
 Sir, I expect your Gazette : what les beaux 
 esprits are saying, what tliey are doing, and 
 what they are singing. Any sober intelli- 
 gence from my sequestered walks of life; 
 any droll original ; any passing remark, 
 important forsooth, because it is mine ; any 
 little poetic effort, however embroyth ; these, 
 my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from 
 me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must 
 have it always understood, that I appeal 
 from your wit and taste to your friendship 
 and good nature. The first would be my 
 favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; 
 but the last, where I declined justice. 
 
 I have scarcely made a single distich since 
 I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots 
 air that has any facetious idea in its name, I 
 have a peculiar pleasure in following out 
 that idea for a verse or two. 
 
 I trust that this will find you in better 
 health than I did last time I called for you. 
 A few lines from you, directed to me at 
 Mauchline, were it but to let me know how 
 you are, will set my mind a srood deal at 
 peace. Now, never shun the idea of writing 
 me, because perhaps you may be out of 
 humour or spirits. I could give you a hun- 
 dred good consequences attending a dull 
 letter ; one, for example, and the remaining 
 ninety-nine some other time — it will always 
 serve to keep in countenance, my raucli re- 
 spected Sir, your obliged frieud and humble 
 servant, 
 
 R. B. 
 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH. 
 
 323 
 
 correspondence, like the opening of a twenty, 
 four gun battery ! 
 
 There is no understanding a man properly, 
 without knowing something of his |)reviou3 
 ideas — that is to say, if the man has any 
 ideas ; for I know many who, in the animal- 
 muster, pass for men, that are the scanty 
 masters of only one idea on any given sub- 
 jcct, and by far the greatest part of your 
 acquaintances and mine can barely boast of 
 ideas, 1'25 — 1"5 — V75 (or some such frac- 
 tional matter) ; so to let you a little into the 
 secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
 mast know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
 bewitching young huzzy of your acquaint- 
 ance, to whom I have lately and privately 
 given a matrimonial title to my corpus. 
 
 Bode a robe and wear it. 
 Bode a pock and bear it. 
 
 NO, CXXVII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Mauchime, April 2Sth, 1783. 
 
 Madam — Your powers of reprehension 
 must be great indeed, as I assure you they 
 made my heart ache with penitential pangs, 
 even though I was really not guilty. As I 
 commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will 
 easily guess I must be pretty busy; but that 
 is not all. As I got the offer of the Excise 
 business without solicitation, and as it costs 
 me only six months' attendance for instruc- 
 tions, to entitle me to a commission — which 
 commission lies by me, and at any future 
 period, on my simple petition, can be resumed; 
 I thought fiveand thirty pounds a-year was 
 no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if for- 
 tune in her jade tricks should kick him down 
 
 from the little eminence to which she haa | ^^yg ^^^ ^^^^^ ol^ g^ots adage ! I hate to 
 lately helped him up. ■ .... 
 
 For this reason, I am at present attending 
 these instructions, to have them completed 
 before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
 with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at 
 the Mount, and came to my brother's on 
 Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but 
 for some nights preceding I had slept in an 
 apartment, where the force of the winds and 
 rains was only mitigated by being sifted 
 through numberless apertures in the windows, 
 walls, &c. In consequence I was on Sunday, 
 Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to stir 
 out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a 
 violent cold. 
 
 You see. Madam, the truth of the French 
 maxim le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisem- 
 blabte. Your last was so full of expostula- 
 tion, and was something so like the language 
 of an offended friend, that I began to 
 tremble for a correspondence, which 1 had 
 with grateful pleasure set down as one of the 
 greatest enjoyments of my future life. 
 
 Your books have delighted me; Virgil, 
 Dryden and Tasso, were all equally strangers 
 to me; but of this more at large in my 
 next. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXVII I. 
 
 TO MR JAMES SMITU. 
 
 AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 
 
 Mauchline, April 2Sth, 1788. 
 
 Beware: of your Strasburgh, my good 
 Sir! Look on this as the opening of a 
 
 presage ill-luck; and as my girl has been 
 doubly kinder to me than even the best of 
 women usually are to their partners of our 
 sex, in similar circumstances, I reckon on 
 twelve times a brace of children against I 
 celebrate my twelfth wedding day : these 
 twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossip- 
 pings, twenty-four christenings (I mean one 
 equal to two), and I hope, by the blessing of 
 the God of my fathers, to make them twenty- 
 four dutiful children to their parents, twenty- 
 four useful members of society, and twenty- 
 four approved servants of their God ! * * » 
 
 " Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when 
 she was stealing sheep. You see what a 
 lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, 
 when you are idle enough to explore the 
 combinations and relations of my ideas. 
 'Tis now as plain as a pike-staff why a 
 twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I 
 could readily employ. 
 
 Now for business. I intend to present 
 Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article 
 of which I dare say you have variety : 'tis 
 my first present to her since I have irrevo- 
 cably called her mine, and I have a kin<l of 
 whimsical wish to get her the first .'^aid 
 present from an old and much valued frien<l 
 of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose 
 friendship I coimt myself possessed of as a 
 life-rent lease. 
 
 Look on this letter as a " beginning of 
 sorrows ;" I will write you till your eye» 
 ache reading nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. Bums ('tis only her private desig- 
 nation) begs her best compliments to yoiL 
 R. B. 
 
 29 
 
324 
 
 CORRESPONDEXCE OF BURNS. 
 
 NO. CXXIX. 
 
 TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
 Mauchline, May 3rd, 1788. 
 
 Sir — I enclose you one or two more of 
 my bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of 
 honest gratitude have any influence with 
 that great, unknown Being who frames the 
 chain of causes and events, prosperity and 
 happiness will attend your visit to the con- 
 tinent, and return you safe to your native 
 shore. 
 
 Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it 
 as my privilege to acquaint you with my 
 progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am 
 sure I could say it with truth, that, next to 
 my little fame, and the having it in my power 
 to make life more comfortable to those whom 
 nature has made dear to me, I shall ever 
 regard your countenance, your patronage, 
 your friendly good offices, as the most valued 
 consequence of my late success in life. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 MaucIiUne, May ith, 1788. 
 
 !Madam — Dryden's Virgil has delighted 
 me. I do not know whether the critics wjll 
 agree with me, but the Georgics are to me 
 by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a 
 species of writing entirely new to me, and 
 has tilled my head with a thousand fancies 
 of emulation : but, alas ! when I read the 
 Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 
 'ti.s like the idea of a Shetland pony, drawn 
 up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to 
 start for the plate. I own I am disappointed 
 in the jEneid. Faultless correctness may 
 please, and does highly please the lettered 
 critic : but to that awful character I have 
 not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
 know whether I do not hazard my preten- 
 sions to be a critic of any kind, when I say 
 that I think Virgil, in many instances, a 
 servile copier of Homer. If I had the 
 Odyssey by me, I could parallel many pas- 
 sages where Virgil has evidently copied, but 
 by no means improved. Homer. Nor can I 
 think there is anything of this owing to the 
 translators ; for, from everything I have seen 
 of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency 
 of language. Pope's master. I have not 
 perused Tasso enough to form an opinion — 
 in some future letter you shall have my ideas 
 
 of him; though I am conscious my criti- 
 cisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, 
 as there I have ever felt and lamented my 
 waut of learning most. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXXI. 
 
 TO ]\IR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 Mauchline, May 26th, 1788. 
 
 My dear Friend — I am two kind letters 
 in your debt ; but I have been from home, 
 and horridly busy, buying and preparing for 
 my farming business, over and above the 
 plague of my Excise instructions, which this 
 week will finish. 
 
 As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many 
 future years' correspondence between us, 
 'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; 
 a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have 
 the pleasure to tell you that I have been 
 extremely fortunate in all my buyings and 
 bargainings hitherto — JMrs. Burns not ex- 
 cepted; which title I now avow to the 
 world. I am truly pleased with this last 
 affair ; it has indeed added to my anxieties 
 for futurity, but it has given a stability to 
 my mind and resolutions unknown before ; 
 and the poor girl has the most sacred en- 
 thusiasm of attachment to me, and has not 
 a wish but to gratify my every idea of her 
 deportment. I am interrupted. — Farewell 1 
 my dear Sir, R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXXII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 May 27th. 1788. 
 
 ]\Iadam — I have been torturing my phi- 
 losophy to no purpose, to account for that 
 kind partiality of yours, which has followed 
 me, in my return to the shade of life, with 
 assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, 
 in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp 
 appearance, that " here I had no continuing 
 city ;" and, but for the consolation of a few 
 solid guineas, could almost lament the time 
 that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
 and splendour put me so much out of con- 
 ceit with the sworn companions of my road 
 through life — insignificance and poverty. 
 
 There are few circumstances relating to 
 the unequal distribution of the good things 
 of this life that give me more vexation (I 
 
TO ^\^RS. DUNLOP. 
 
 S25 
 
 mean in what I see around me) tlian tlie im- 
 portance the opulent bestow on their trifling 
 family affairs, compared with the very same 
 things on the contracted scale of a cottage. 
 Last afternoon I had the lionour to spend an 
 hour or two at a good woman's fire-side, 
 where the planks that composed the floor 
 were decorated with a splendid carpet, and 
 the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 
 Tis now about term-day, and there has been 
 a revolution among those creatures, who, 
 though in appearance partakers, and equally 
 noble partakers, of the same nature with 
 Madame, are from time to time — their 
 nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, 
 wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay a good 
 part of their very thoughts— sold for months 
 and years, not only to the necessities, the 
 conveniences, but the caprices, of the im- 
 portant few. We talked of the insignificant 
 creatures; nay, notwithstanding their general 
 stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
 devils the honour to commend them. But 
 light be the turf upon his breast who 
 taught, "Reverence thyself." We looked 
 down on the unpolished wretches, their im- 
 pertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
 lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
 whose puny inhabitants he cruslies in the 
 carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the 
 air in the wantonness of his pride. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 KO. CXXXIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Ellisland, June \Wi, 1783. 
 
 1 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
 I My licart, uutravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
 I Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless 
 pain, [chain. 
 
 ' And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd 
 \ Goldsmith. 
 
 ( This is the second day, my honoured 
 friend, that I have been on my farm. A 
 solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; 
 1 far from every object I love, or by wiiom I 
 ! am beloved; not any acquaintance older 
 I than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the 
 old mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares and 
 I novel plans hourly insidt my awkward igno- 
 i ranee and bashful inexperience. There is a 
 foggy atmosphere native to my soul in tlie 
 hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
 jects seem larger then the life. Extreme 
 
 sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
 gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and 
 disappointments, at that period of my exist- 
 ence when the soul is laying in her cargo 
 of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, 
 the principal cause of this unhappy frame of 
 mind. 
 
 The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? 
 Or what need he regard his shigle woes ? 
 &c. 
 
 Your surmise, Madam, is just ; I am in- 
 deed a husband. 
 « * • • • • 
 
 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 Niths- 
 dale, she is regularly and constantly ap- 
 prentice to my mother and sisters in their 
 dairy and other rural business. 
 
 The muses must not be offended when I 
 tell them, the concerns of my wife and family 
 will, in my mind, always take the pas; but I 
 assure them their ladyships will ever come 
 next in place. 
 
 You are right that a bachelor state would 
 have insured me more friends ; but, from a 
 cause you will easily guess, conscious peace 
 in the enjoyment of my own mind, and 
 unmistrusting confidence in approaching 
 my God, would seldom have been of the 
 number. 
 
 I found a once much-loved and still 
 much-loved female, literally and truly cast 
 out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but 
 I enabled her to purchase a shelter — there is 
 no sporting with a fellow-creature's happi- 
 ness or misery. 
 
 The most placid good-nature and sweet- 
 ness 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, I 
 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, 
 though she should never liave read a page 
 but the Scriptures of the Old and New 
 Testament, nor have danced in a brighter 
 assembly than a penny pay wedding. 
 
 R. B. 
 
S'jr. 
 
 CnRRESPOXDENOE OV WTRNS. 
 
 NO. CXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 Ellisland, June Uth, 1788. 
 
 This is now the thirJ day, my dearest 
 Sir, that I have sojourned in these regions ; 
 'aud during these three days you have occu- 
 pied more of my thoughts than in three 
 weeks preceding : in Ayrshire I have several 
 variations of friendship's compass, here it 
 points invariably to the pole. My farm gives 
 me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, 
 but 1 hate the language «<f complaint. Job, 
 or some one of his friends, says well — "Why 
 should a living man complain ? " 
 
 I have lately been much mortified with 
 contemplating an unlucky imperfection in 
 the very framing and construction of my 
 soul ; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of 
 her olfactory organs m hitting the scent of 
 craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do 
 not mean any comphment to my ingenuous- 
 ness, or to hint that the defect is in con- 
 sequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of 
 conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, 
 in some way or other, an imperfection in the 
 mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
 modification of dullness. In two or three 
 instances lately, I have been most shamefully 
 out. 
 
 I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare 
 of life, been bred to arms among the light- 
 horse — the piquet-guards of fancy — a knid 
 of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; 
 but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these 
 giddy battallions, who have no ideas of a 
 battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but 
 storming the town. Cost what it will, I am 
 determined to buy in among the grave 
 squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the 
 artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 
 
 \Miat books are you reading, or what is 
 the subject of your thoughts, besides the 
 great studies of your profession ? You said 
 something about religion in your last. 1 
 don't exactly remember what it was, as the 
 letter is in Ayrshire ; but I thought it not 
 only prettily said, but nobly thought. You 
 will make a noble fellow if once you were 
 married. I make no reservation of your 
 being well married : you have so much sense 
 and knowledge of human nature, that 
 though you may not reahse, perhaps, the 
 ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill 
 married. 
 
 Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish ', 
 situation respecting provision for a family of ■ 
 children, I am decidedly of opinion that the ' 
 step I have taken is vastly for my happi- ' 
 
 i.ess. (t^) As it is, I !ock to the Excise 
 scheme as a certainty of maintenance ; a 
 maintenance! — luxury to what either Mrs. 
 Burns or I were born to. Adieu I 
 
 R B. 
 
 NO. CXXXV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Mauchline, June 2Zrd, 1788. 
 
 This letter, my dear Sir, is only a busi- 
 ness scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in 
 your town, has executed a profile of Dr. 
 Blacklock for me ; do me the favour to call 
 for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which 
 put in the same size as the doctor's. The 
 account of both profiles will be fifteen 
 shillings, which I have given to James 
 Connel, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you 
 when you give him the parcel. You must 
 not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is 
 short ; when I sat to Mr. Miers, I am sure 
 he did not exceed two minutes. I propose 
 hanging Lord Glencairn, the doctor, and 
 you, in trio over my new chimney-piece that 
 is to be. Adieu. R. B. 
 
 NO. cxxxvi. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 Ellisland, June 30th, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir — I just now received your 
 brief epistle ; and, to take vengeance on 
 your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long 
 sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at 
 the top of the page, intending to scribble oil 
 to the very last corner. 
 
 I am vexed at that affair of the * * *, 
 but dare not enlarge on the subject until 
 you send me your direction, as I suppose 
 that will be altered on your late master and 
 friend's death. (73) I am concerned for the 
 old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to 
 your disadvantage in any respect — for an old 
 man's dying, except he have been a very 
 benevolent character, or in some particular 
 situation of life that the welfare of the poor 
 or the helpless depended on him, I think it 
 an event of the most trifling moment to the 
 world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent 
 animal, but he is dropped into such a needy 
 situation here in this vexatious world, and 
 has such a whore-son, hungry, growling, 
 multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, 
 passions and desires about him, ready to 
 devour him for want of other food, that in 
 
TO SIR PKTEIJ niLL. 
 
 327 
 
 fact he must lay aside his cares for oUiers 
 that he may look properly to himself. You 
 have been imposed upon in payins: Mr. 
 Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. 1 did not 
 mention it in my letter to you, nor did I 
 ever give Mr. Jliers any such order. I have 
 no objection to lose the money, but I will 
 not have any such profile in my possession. 
 
 I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I 
 mentioned only fifteen shillinf^s to him, I will 
 rather enclose you a guinca-nute. I have it 
 not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a so- 
 journer in a strange land in this place ; but 
 in a day or trto I return to Mauchliue, and 
 there I have the bank-notes through the 
 house like salt permits. 
 
 There is a great degree of folly in talking 
 unnecessarily of one's private atfairs. I have 
 just now been interrupted by one of my new 
 neighbours, who has made himself absolutely 
 contemptible in my eyes by his silly, garru- 
 lous pruriency. I know it has been a fault 
 of my own, too ; but from this moment I 
 abjure it as I woidd the service of hell ! 
 Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of 
 that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack 
 
 full in your own way. I admire the close 
 of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Ueau 
 Swift : — " Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy 
 faults I love thee entirely ; make an effort to 
 love me with all mine!" Humble servant, 
 and all that tnmipery, is now such a pros- 
 tituted business, that honest friendship, 
 in her sincere way, must have recourse 
 to her primitive, simple, farewell ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXXVII. 
 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 My Dear Hill— I shall say nothing 
 to your mad present. (74) You have so 
 long and often been of important service to 
 me, and I suppose you mean to go on con- 
 ferring obligations until I shall not be able 
 to lift up my face before you. In the mean- 
 time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, hecause it 
 happened to be a cold day in which he made 
 
 his will, ordered his servants great-coats for 
 their jokes on prudence ; but 'tis a squalid , mourning, so, because I have been this 
 vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, im- [ week plagued with an indigestion, I have 
 
 prudence respecting money matters is much 
 more pardonable than imprudence respecting 
 character. 1 have no objection to prefer 
 prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; 
 but I appeal to your observation if you have 
 not met, with the same disingenuousness, 
 the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and dis- 
 integritive depravity of principle, in the 
 hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the 
 unfeeling children of parsimony. I have 
 every possible reverence for the much-talked- 
 of world beyond the grave, and I wish that 
 which piety believes, arid virtue deserves, 
 may be all matter-of-fact. But in things 
 belonging to and terminating in this present 
 scene of existence, man has serious and 
 interesting business on hand. Whether a 
 man shall shake hands with welcome in the 
 distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink 
 from contempt in the abject corner of in- 
 significance : whether he shall wanton under 
 the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself 
 in the conif irtable latitudes of ca<y conve- 
 nience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary 
 poverty; whether he shall rise in the manly 
 consciousness of self-approving mind, or 
 sink beneath a galling load of regret and 
 remorse — these are alternatives of the last 
 moment. 
 
 You see how I preach. You used occa- 
 sionally to sermonise too ; I wish you 
 vould, in charity, favour me with a sheet 
 
 29^ 
 
 sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk 
 cheese. 
 
 Indigestion is the devil ; nay, 'tis the devil 
 and all. It besets a man in every one of 
 his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight 
 of successful knavery, and sicken to loathing 
 at the noise and nonsense of self-important 
 folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch 
 takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my 
 dinner ; the proud man's wine so offends 
 ray palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; 
 and the 'pulverised, feathered, pert coxcomb, 
 is so disgustful in my nostril, that my sto- 
 mach turns. 
 
 If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
 sensations, let me prescribe for you patience 
 and a bit of my ch ese. I know tliat you 
 are no niggard of your good things among 
 your friends, and some of them are in much 
 need of a slice. There, in my eye, is our 
 friend Smellie ; a man positively of the first 
 abilities and greatest strength of mind, as 
 well as one of the best hearts and keenest 
 wits that I ever met with ; when you see 
 him — as, alas ! he too is smarting at the 
 pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated 
 by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a 
 bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, 
 but if you add a tankard of brown stout, 
 and superadd a inagniim of right Oporto, 
 you will see his sorrows vanish like tl«> 
 morning mist before the summer sun 
 
3'2S 
 
 COKKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 Candlish, the earliest friend, except my 
 only brother, that I have on earth, and one 
 of the worthiest fellows that ever any man 
 called by the name of friend, if a luncheon 
 of my cheese would help to rid him of some 
 of his superabundant modesty, you would 
 do well to fjive it him. 
 
 David (75), with his Courant, comes, too, 
 across my recollection, and I beg you will 
 help him largely from the said ewe-milk 
 cheese, to enable him to digest those be- 
 daubing paragraphs with which he is 
 eternally larding the lean characters of cer- 
 tain great men in a certain {^reat town. I 
 grant you the periods are very well 
 turned; so, a fresh egg is a very good 
 thing, but when thrown at a man in a 
 pillory, it does not at all improve his 
 figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
 of the egg. 
 
 My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish 
 also to be a partaker ; not to digest his 
 spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest 
 hhs last night's wine at the last field-day of 
 the Crochallan corps. (76j 
 
 Among our common friends I must not 
 forget one of the dearest of them — Cun- 
 ningham. (77) The brutality, insolence 
 and selfishness of a world unworthy of 
 having such a fellow as he is in it, 1 know 
 sticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
 him to anything that will make him a 
 little easier on that score, it will be very 
 obliging. 
 
 As to honest John Somerville, he is 
 Biich a contented, happy man, that I know 
 not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, 
 he may not have got the better of a parcel 
 of modest anecdotes which a certain poet 
 gave him one night at supper, the last time 
 the said poet was in town. 
 
 Though I have mentioned so many men 
 of law, I shall have nothing to do with 
 them professionally; — the faculty are beyond 
 my prescription. As to their clients, that 
 is another thing; God knows, they have 
 much to digest ! 
 
 The clergy I pass by; their profundity 
 of erudition, and their liberality of senti- 
 ment, their total want of pride, and their 
 detestation of hypocrisy, are so prover- 
 bially notorious, as to place them far, far 
 above either my praise or censure. 
 
 I was going to mention a man of worth, 
 whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
 Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken 
 to the landlord of the King's Arms inn here, 
 to have at the next county meeting a large 
 ewe-milk cheese table, for the benefit of the 
 Dimifries-shire Whigs, to enable them to 
 
 digest the Duke of Queensberry's late politi- 
 cal conduct. 
 
 I have just this moment an opportunity 
 of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhapa 
 ! you would not digest double postage. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXXVIII. 
 
 TO ]MR. GEORGE LOCKHART. 
 
 MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 
 
 Mauchliae, July \2,th, 1788. 
 
 !My Dear Sir — I am just going for 
 Nithsdale, else I would certainly have 
 transcribed some of my rhyming things 4(br 
 you. The Miss Baillies I have seen in 
 Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy 
 works. Lord God Almighty! Who would 
 not praise thee for these thy gifts in thy 
 goodness to the sons of men ! " It needed 
 not your fine taste to admire them. I 
 declare, one day I had the honour of dining 
 at ]Mr. Baillie's, I was almost in the pre- 
 dicament of the children of Israel, when 
 they could not look on ]\Ioses' face for the 
 glory that shone in it when he descended 
 from Mount Sinai'. 
 
 I did once write a poetic address from the 
 Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when 
 I was in the Highlands. When you return 
 to Scotland, let me know, and I will send 
 such of my pieces as please myself best. 
 I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 
 
 My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am 
 in truth, but at present, in haste, yours, 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXXXIX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Mauchline, August 2nd, 1788. 
 
 Honoured Madam — Your kind letter 
 welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire. I 
 am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the 
 quantum of your luckpenny ; but, vexed and 
 hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very 
 heartily at the noble lord's apology for the 
 missed napkin. 
 
 I would write you from Nithsdale, and 
 give you my direction there, but 1 have 
 scarce an opportunity of calling at a post — 
 otfice once in a fortnight. 1 am six miles 
 from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it mysi;lf, 
 and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the 
 
TO JIRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 S29 
 
 iieighbourhood. Besides, I am now very 
 busy oil ray farm, building a dwelliiisc-hnuse ; 
 as at present I am almost an evangelical man 
 in Nithsdale, for I have scarce " where to lay 
 my liead." 
 
 There are some passages in your last that 
 brought tears in my eyes. "Tlie heart 
 knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger 
 iiitermeddleth not therewith." The repusi- 
 tory of these " sorrows of the heart " is a 
 kind of sanctum sancforum : and 'tis only a 
 chosen friend, and that, too, at particul.u, 
 sacred times, who dares enter into them : — 
 
 Heaven oft tears the bosom-chord* 
 That nature finest strung. 
 
 You will excuse this quotation for the 
 s^ke of the author. Instead of entering on 
 this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a 
 few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging 
 to a gentleman in my Nithsilale neighbour- 
 hood. They are almost the only favours the 
 muses have conferred on me in that country. 
 * « * 
 
 Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
 following were the production of yesterday, 
 as I jogged through the wild hills of New 
 Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or 
 something like them, in an epistle I am 
 going to write to the gentleman on whose 
 friendship my Excise hopes depend, Mr. 
 Graham of Fintr)-, one of the worthiest and 
 most accomplished gentlemen, not only of 
 this country, but, I will dare to say it, of 
 this age. The following are just the first 
 crude thoughts " unhousel'd, luianoiuted, 
 unanealed : " — 
 
 Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train, — 
 Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
 The world were blest, did bliss on them 
 
 depend. — 
 Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 
 
 friend ! " 
 The little fate bestows they share as soon. 
 Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 
 
 boon. 
 Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
 Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
 Who feels by reason and who gives by rule. 
 Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
 Who make poor icill do wait upon I should; 
 We own they're prudent, but who owns 
 
 they're good ? 
 
 Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye, — 
 God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
 But come • « » • • 
 
 Here the muse left me. I am astonished 
 at what you tell me of Anthony's writing 
 
 me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you 
 vex me much by telling me that he is unfor- 
 tunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days 
 from this date. I have just room for an old 
 Roman farewell R. B. 
 
 NO. CXL. 
 
 TO MR. ^VILLIAM CRUIKSHANKS. 
 
 Elllsland, August, 1783. 
 
 I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to 
 answer all the particulars of your last kind 
 letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some 
 business very soon ; and as I shall be two 
 days, or perhaps three in town, we shall 
 discuss matters viva voce. iMy knee, I 
 believe, will never be entirely well , and an 
 unlucky fall this winter has made it still 
 worse. I well remember the circumstance 
 you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion 
 of Jlr. Nicol ; but as the fi.-st gentleman 
 owes me still about fifty pounds, 1 dare not 
 meddle in the affair. 
 
 It ga\e me a very heavy heart to read 
 such accounts of the consequence of your 
 quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, 
 
 hell-commissioned scoundrel. A . If, 
 
 notwithstanding your luiprccedented in- 
 dustry in public, and your irreproachable 
 conduct in private life, he still has you so 
 much in his power, what ruin may he not 
 bring on some others I could name? 
 
 Many and happy returns of season to 
 you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, 
 and the lovely little pledge of your happy 
 union. May the great Author of life, and 
 of every enjoyment that can render life 
 delightful, make her that comfortable 
 blessing to you both, which you so ardently 
 wish for, and which, allow me to say, you 
 so well deserve ! Glance over the foregomg 
 verses, and let me have your blots. Adif ;\. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXl. 
 
 TO MrS DUNLOP. 
 
 Muuchline, August \Oth, 1783. 
 
 My jiuch Honoured Fkie.xd — Yours 
 of the 24th June is before me. 1 found it, 
 as well as another valued friend — my wife — 
 waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met 
 both with the sincercst [ilcasure. 
 
 When I write you. Madam, I do not sit 
 
330 
 
 COREESPONDENCE OF UuRNS. 
 
 down to answer every paragraph of yours, by 
 echoing every sentiment, like the faithful 
 Commons of Great Britain in Parliament 
 asseinljlfil, answering a speech from the best 
 of kings ! I express myself in the fulness 
 of my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of 
 neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but 
 not from your very odd reason, that I do not 
 read your letters. All your epistles for sev- 
 eral months have cost me nothing, except a 
 swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt 
 sentiment of veneration. 
 
 When Mrs. Burns, JMadam, first found 
 herself "as women wish to be who love their 
 lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, 
 we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
 parents got the hint ; and not only forbade 
 me her company and their house, but, on my 
 rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant 
 to put me in jail, till I should find security 
 in my about-to-be paternal relation. You 
 know my lu»ky reverse of fortune. On my 
 eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made 
 very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
 consequences began to betray her ; and as I 
 was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- 
 burgh, she was turned, literally turned, out 
 of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter 
 her tdl my return, when our marriage was 
 declared. Her happiness or misery were in 
 my hands, and who could trifle with such a 
 deposit ? 
 
 I can easily fancy a more agreeable com- 
 panion for my journey of life ; but, upon my 
 honour, I have never seen the individual 
 instance. 
 
 Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
 got a female partner for life, who could have 
 entered into my favourite studies, relished 
 my favourite authors, &c., without probably 
 entailing on me, at the same time, expensive 
 living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish aflec- 
 tation, with all the other blessed boarding- 
 school acquirements, which (pardoiines rnoi, 
 Madame) are sometimes to be found among 
 females of the upper ranks, but almost uni- 
 versally pervade the misses of the would-be 
 gentry. 
 
 I like your way in your churchyard lucu- 
 brations. Thoughts that are the sponta- 
 neous result of accidental situations, either 
 respecting health, place or company, have 
 often a strength, and always an originality, 
 that would in vain be looked for in fancied 
 circumstances and studied paragraphs. For 
 me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, 
 in progression by me, to send you when tl>e 
 sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 
 I must tell yvju, my reason for writing to you 
 on paper of this kind is my pruriency of wri- 
 
 ting to you at large. A page of post is on 
 such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that 
 that 1 cannot abide it ; and double letters, 
 at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, 
 are a monstrous tax in a close correspond- 
 ence. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXLIl. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Ellisland, Amjust IQth, 1783. 
 
 I AM iu a tine disposition, my honoured 
 friend, to send you an elegiac epistle, and 
 want only geniri to make it quite Shensto- 
 nian : — 
 
 Why droops my heart with fancied woes 
 
 forlorn ? 
 Why sinks my sold beneath each wintry sky ? 
 
 My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange 
 country — gloomy conjectures in the dark 
 vista of futurity — consciousness of my own 
 inability for the struggle of the world — my 
 broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and 
 children ; — I could indulge these reflections, 
 till my humour should ferment into the most 
 acid chagrin, that would corrode the \er'; 
 thread of life. 
 
 To counterwork these baneful feelings, I 
 have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
 upon my soul I always find that the most 
 sovereign Ijalm for my wounded spirit. 
 
 I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to diimer, 
 for the first time. My reception was quite 
 to my mind : from the lady of the house 
 quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a 
 couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated 
 one or two to the admiration of all present. 
 My suff'rage as a professional man was ex- 
 pected : it for once went agonising over the 
 belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my 
 adored household sods, independence of spi- 
 rit, and integrity of soul ! In the course of con- 
 versation " Johnson's Musical Museum," a 
 collection of Scottish songs with the music, 
 was talked of. We got a song on the harp- 
 sichord, beginning. 
 
 Raving winds around her blowang. 
 
 The air was much admired : the lady of the 
 house asked me whose were the words. 
 " Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very 
 best verses : " she took not the smallest 
 notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb 
 says well, "King's caff is better than ither 
 folks' corn." I was going to make a New 
 
TO IIR. BEUGO. 
 
 S31 
 
 Testament quotation about "casting pearls," 
 but tliat would be too virulent, for the lady 
 is actually a woman of sense and taste. 
 
 After all that has been said on the other 
 side of the question, man is by no means a 
 happy creature. I do not speak of the 
 selected few, favoured by partial heaven, 
 
 I whose souls are tuned to jjladness amid 
 
 riches, and honours, and prudence and wis- 
 
 I dom. I speak of the neglected many, whose 
 
 uerv es, whose sinews, whose days, are sold 
 to the minions of fortune. 
 
 If I thought you had never seen it, I 
 would transcribe for you a stanza of an old 
 Scottish ballad, called " The Life and Age of 
 Man ;" beginning thus : — 
 
 'Twas in the sixteenth hundredth year 
 
 Of God and tifty-three 
 Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear. 
 
 As writings testifie. 
 
 I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
 mother lived a while in her girlish years ; 
 the good old man, for such he was, was long 
 blind ere he died, during which time his 
 highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
 while my mother would sing the simple old 
 song of "The Life and Age of Alan." 
 
 It is this way of thinking ; it is these 
 melancholy truths, that make religion so 
 precious to the poor, miserable children of 
 men. If it is a mere phantom, existing only 
 in the heated imagination of enthusiasm. 
 
 What truth on earth so precious as the lie ? 
 
 My idle reasonings sometimes makes me a 
 little sceptical, but the necessities of my 
 heart always give the cold philosophisings 
 the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned 
 from earth ; the soul attianced to her God ; 
 the correspondence fixed with heaven ; the 
 pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, 
 constant as the vicissitudes of even and 
 morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the 
 court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? 
 No: to find them in their precious im- 
 portance and divine efficacy, we must search 
 among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
 ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 
 
 I am sure, dear Madam, you are now 
 more than pleased with the length of my 
 letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of 
 next week : and it quickens my pace to 
 think that there will be a letter from you 
 waiting me there. I must be here again 
 very soon for my harvest. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXLIII. 
 
 TO MR. BEUGO, 
 
 ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. 
 
 EllUland, Sept. 9th, 17S3. 
 My Dear Sir — There is not in Edin- 
 burgh above the number of the graces whose 
 letters would have given me so much 
 pleasure as yours of the 3rd instant, which 
 only reached me yesternight. 
 
 1 am here on my farm, busy with my 
 harvest ; but for all that most pleasurable 
 part of life called social com.munication, 
 I am here at the very elbow 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, prayers, &c., and the value 
 of these they estimate, as they do their 
 plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the 
 muses, they have as much an idea of a 
 rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old capri- 
 cious but good-natured hussy of a muse : — 
 By banks of Nith I sat and wept 
 
 When Coila I thought on, 
 In midst thereof I hung my harp 
 The willow trees upon. 
 I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
 with my "darling Jean;" and then I, at 
 lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across 
 my be-cobwebbed lyre, much in the same 
 manner as an old wife throws her hand 
 across the spokes of her spinning-wheel. 
 
 I will send you the "Fortunate Shep- 
 herdess " as soon as I return to Ayrsliire, 
 for there I keep it with other precious 
 treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, 
 as I would not for any thing it should be 
 mi.slaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you 
 from any benevolence, or other grave Clu-is- 
 tian virtue ; 'tis purely a sellish gratitication 
 of my own feelings whenever I think of you. 
 If your better functions would give you 
 leisure to write me, I should be extremely 
 happy ; that is to say, if you neither keep 
 nor look for a regular correspondence. I 
 hate the idea of being obliged to write a 
 letter. I sometimes write a friend twice 
 a-week, at other times once a-quartcr. 
 
 I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy 
 hi making the author you mention place a 
 map ol Iceland instead of his portrait before 
 his works : 'twas a glorious idea. 
 
 Could you conveniently do me one thing? 
 — whenever you finish any head, I should 
 like to have a proof copy of it. I migiit tell 
 you a long story about your fine genius ; 
 but, as what every body knows cannot liave 
 escaped you, I shall not say one syllable 
 about it. R. B. 
 
332 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 NO. CXLIV. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS, EDINBURGH. 
 Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. \Glh, 1788. 
 
 Where are you? and liow are you? and 
 is Lady IMackenzie recovering her health? 
 for I have had but one sohtary letter from 
 you, I will not think you have forgot me. 
 Madam ; and, for my part — 
 
 AVhen tliee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
 Skill part from my right hand I 
 
 " My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
 careless as that sea." I do not make my 
 progress among mankind as a bowl does 
 among its fellows — rolling through the 
 crowd without bearing away any mark or 
 impression, except where they hit in hostile 
 collision. 
 
 I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks 
 by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
 once did me the honour of interesting your- 
 selves much a Verjard de moi, I sit down to 
 beg the continuation of your goodness. I 
 can truly say that, all the exterior of life 
 apart, I never saw two whose esteem flattered 
 the noble feelings of my soul — I will not 
 say more, but so much, as Lady Mackenzie 
 and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you 
 — hearts the best, minds the noblest of 
 human kind — unfortunate even in the 
 shades of life — when I think I have met 
 wiih you, and have lived more of real life 
 with you in eight days than I can do with 
 almost any body I meet with in eight years 
 — when I think on the improbability of 
 meeting you in this world again — I could 
 sit down and cry like a child ! If ever you 
 honoured me with a place in your esteem, I 
 trii^t I can now plead more desert. I am 
 secure against that crushing grip of iron 
 poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal 
 to the native worth and purity of, I fear, 
 the nol)lest souls ; and a late important step 
 m my life has kindly taken me out of the 
 way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, 
 however overlooked in fashionable licence, 
 or varnished in fashionable phrase, are 
 indeed bwt lighter and deeper shades of 
 
 VILLANY. 
 
 Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, 
 I married " ray Jean." This was not in 
 consequence of the attachment of romance, 
 perhaps ; but I had a long and much loved 
 fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my 
 determination, and I durst not trifle with so 
 important a deposit. Nor have I any 
 cause to repent it. If I have not got polite 
 tattle, modish manners, and fashionable 
 
 dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with 
 the multiform curse of boarding-schnol 
 affectation . and I have got the handsomest 
 figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest 
 constitution, and the kindest heart, in the 
 county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as 
 her creed, that I am le plus bel espirit, el 
 le plus honiiite liomme in the universe ; 
 although she scarcely ever in her life, except 
 the Scriptures of the Old and New Testa- 
 ment, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
 spent five minutes together on either prose 
 or verse. I must except also from this last 
 a certain late publication of Scots poems, 
 which she has perused very devoutly ; and 
 all the ballads in tlie country, as she has 
 (oh, the partial lover ! you wi'l cry) the 
 finest " wood note wild " I ever heard. I 
 am the more particular in this lady's 
 character, as I know she will henceforth 
 have the honour of a share in your best 
 wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am 
 building my house ; for this hovel that I 
 shelter in, while occasionally here, is per- 
 vious to every biust that blows, and every 
 shower that falls ; and I am only preserved 
 from being chilled to death by being 
 suffocated with smuke. I do not find my 
 farm that pennyworth I was taught to ex- 
 pect, but I believe, in time, it may be a 
 saving bargain. You will be pleased to 
 hear that 1 have laid aside idle eclat, and 
 bind every day after my reapers. 
 
 To save me from that horrid situation 
 of at any time going down, in a losing 
 bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken 
 my Excise instructions, and have my com- 
 mission in my pocket for any emergency of 
 fortune. If I could set all before my view, 
 whatever disrespect you, in common with 
 the world, have for this business, 1 know 
 you would approve of my idea. 
 
 I will make no apology, dear Madam, 
 for this egotistic detail ; 1 know you and 
 your sister will be interested in every cir- 
 cumstance of it. What signify the silly, 
 idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trum- 
 pery of greatness! When fellow-partakers 
 of the same nature fear the same God, have 
 the same benevolence of heart, the same 
 nobleness of soul, the same detestation at 
 every thing dishonest, and the same scorn 
 at every thing unworthy — if they are not 
 in the dependence of absolute beggary, in 
 the name of cunimon sense, they are not 
 EQUALS ? And if the bias, the instinctive 
 bias of their souls run the same way, why 
 may they not be frie.nds ? 
 
 When I have an opportunity of sending 
 you this, Heaven only knows. Shenstoue 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 333 
 
 says, "When one is confined idle witliiu 
 doors by bad weather, the best antidote 
 against en/mi is to read tlie letters of, or to 
 write to, one's friends ; " in that ease then, 
 if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl 
 you half a quire. 
 
 1 very lately — to wit, since harvest bejan 
 — wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the 
 manner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only 
 a short essay, just to try the strength of my 
 Muse's pinion in that way. I will send you 
 a copy of it, when once I have heard from 
 you. I have likewise been laying the 
 foundation of some pretty large poetic 
 works : how the superstructure will come 
 on, I leave to that great maker and marrer 
 of projects — time. Johnson's collection of 
 Scots songs is going on in the third volume; 
 and, of consequence, finds me a consumption 
 for a great deal of idle metre. One of the 
 most tolerable things I have done in that 
 way, is two stanzas I made to an air a 
 musical gentleman of ray acquaintance com- 
 posed for the aniversary of his wedding-day, 
 which happens on the 7th of November. 
 Take it as follows : — 
 
 " The day returns — my bosom burns — 
 The blissful day we twa did meet," &c. 
 
 I shall give over this letter for shame. If 
 I should be seized with a scribbling fit, before 
 this goes away, I shall make it another 
 letter ; and then you may allow your 
 patience a week's respite between the two. 
 I have not room for more than the old, kind, 
 hearty farewell ! 
 
 To make some amends, mes chores Mes- 
 daines, for dragging you on to this second 
 sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresome- 
 ness of my unstudied and uncorrectible 
 prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late 
 poetic bagatelles ; though I have, these 
 eight or ten months, done very little that 
 way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks 
 of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my 
 neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a 
 key at pleasure, I wrote as follows, suppos- 
 ing myself the sequestered, venerable in- 
 habitant of the lonely mansion. 
 
 UNES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HER- 
 MITAGE. 
 
 * Thou whom chance va^y hither lead," &c. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXLV. 
 
 TO MR. MORRISON, MAUCHLINE. (78) 
 
 Ellisland, September 22nd, 1783. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Necessity obliges me to 
 go into my new house even before it be 
 plastered. I will inhabit the one end until 
 the other is finished. About three weeks 
 more, I think, will at farthest be my time, 
 beyond which I cannot stay in this present 
 house. If ever you wish to deserve the 
 blessing of him that was ready to perish ; 
 if ever you were in a situation that a little 
 kindness would have rescued you from 
 many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest in 
 future states of untried being — get these 
 matters of mine ready. My servant will be 
 out in the beginning of next week for the 
 clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morrison. 
 I am, after all my tribulation, dear Sir, 
 yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXVI. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 
 
 Maucldine, Sept. 21th, 1783. 
 
 I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more 
 than once ; but scarcely ever with more plea- 
 sure than when I received yours of the 12th 
 instant. To make myself understood; Iliad 
 wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem 
 addressed to him, aud the same post which 
 favoured me with yours brought me an an- 
 swer from him. It was dated the very day 
 he had received mine ; and I am quite at a 
 loss to say whether it was most polite or 
 khid. 
 
 Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
 are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
 the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
 caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
 ment of cold impartiality, balancing with 
 unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an 
 author's merits ; they are the judicious ob- 
 servations of animated friendship, selecting 
 the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived 
 from Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. 
 I was on horseback this morning by thicc 
 o'clock ; for between my wife and my farm 
 is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in 
 the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit as 
 follows : 
 
 " Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch's lamen- 
 tation for the death of her son — an uncom- 
 monly promising youth of eighteen or nine- 
 teen years of age. 
 
 Fate gave the word — the arrow sped. 
 
 And pierced my darling's heart," &p. 
 
334 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 You will uot send me your poetic rambles, 
 but, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I 
 am sure your impromptus give me double 
 pleasure ; what falls from your pen can 
 neither be uiientertaiuing in itself, nor in- 
 different to me. 
 
 The one fault you found is just, but I 
 cannot please myself in an emendation. 
 
 What a life of solicitude is the life of a 
 parent ! You interested me much in your 
 young couple. 
 
 I would not take my folio paper for this 
 epistle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded 
 with my dirty long journey that I was 
 afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness 
 with any thing larger than a quarto, and so 
 I must leave out another rhyme of tills morn- 
 ing's manufacture. 
 
 I will pay the sapientipotent George most 
 cheerfully to hear from you ere I leave 
 Ayrshire B- B. 
 
 NO. CLXVII. 
 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 Mauchline, October \st, 1733. 
 
 I HAVE been here in this country about 
 three days, and all that time my chief read- 
 ing has been the " Address to Lochlomond " 
 you were so obliging as to send to me. 
 Were I impaniielled one of the author's 
 jury, to determine his criminality respecting 
 the sin of poesy, ray verdict should be 
 "Guilty! A poet of nature's making !" It is 
 an excellent method for improvement, and 
 what I believe every poet does, to place some 
 favourite classic author in his own walks of 
 study and composition, before him as a 
 model. Though your author had not men- 
 tioned the name, I could have, at half a 
 glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. 
 Will my brother-poet forgive me, If I ven- 
 ture to hint that his imitation of that im- 
 mortal bard is in two or three places rather 
 more servile thau such a genius as his 
 required : — e. g. 
 
 To soothe the maddening passions all to 
 
 peace. Address. 
 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 I think the " Address " is in simplicity, 
 hwmony, and elegance of versification, fully 
 er(ual to the "Seasons." Like Thomson, too, 
 he has looked into nature for himself: you 
 meet with no copied description. One par- 
 ticular criticism I made at first reading ; iu 
 
 no one instance has he said too much. He 
 never flags in his progress, but, like a true 
 poet of Nature's making, kindles in his 
 course. His beginning is simple and modest, 
 as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion; 
 only I do uot altogether like — 
 
 Truth, 
 
 The soul of every song that's nobly great. 
 
 Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
 nobly great. Perhaps 1 am wrong : this 
 may be but a prose criticism. Is not the 
 phrase in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too 
 much vulgarised by every-day language for 
 so sublime a poem ? 
 
 Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song, 
 
 is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
 of a comparison with other lakes is at once 
 harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
 must sweep the 
 
 Winding margin of an hundred miles. 
 
 The perspective that follows mountains 
 blue — the imprisoned billows beating in vain 
 — the wooded isles — the digression on the 
 yew-tree — " Benlomond's lofty, cloud-enve- 
 lop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thunder- 
 storm is a subject which has often been tried, 
 yet our poet in his grand picture has inter- 
 jected a circumstance, so far as I know, 
 entirely original : — 
 
 The gloom 
 
 Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 
 fire. 
 
 In his preface to the storm, " the glens 
 how dark between," is noble highland land- 
 scape ! The "rain ploughing the red mould," 
 too, is beautifully fancied. " Benlomond's 
 lofty, pathless, top," is a good expression ; 
 and the surrounding view from it is truly 
 great : the 
 
 silver mist. 
 
 Beneath the beaming sun, 
 
 is well described ; and here he has contrived 
 to enliven his poem with a little of that 
 passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the 
 modern muses altogether. I know not how 
 far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, 
 but the swain's wish to carry " some faint 
 idea of the vision bright," to entertain her 
 " partial listening ear," is a pretty thought, 
 But, in my opinion,, the most beautiful pas- 
 sages in the whole poem are the fowls 
 crowding, in wintry frosts, to Lochlomond's 
 "hospitable flood;" their wheeling round, 
 their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. : and the 
 
TO THE EDITOR OF THE "COURANT." 
 
 jjlorious description of the sportsman. This 
 last is equal to any thing in the " Seasons." 
 The idea of "the floating tribes distant seen, 
 far glistening to the moon," provoking his 
 eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble 
 ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," 
 the " hideous roar" of " the white cascades," 
 are all in the same style. 
 
 I forget that while I am thus holding forth 
 with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, 
 I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I 
 must, however, mention that the last verse 
 of the sixteenth page is one of the most 
 elegant compliments I have ever seen, I 
 must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph 
 beginning " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare 
 not go into the particular beauties of the last 
 two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, 
 and truly Ossianic. 
 
 I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
 scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began : — 
 I should like to know who the author is ; but, 
 whoever he be, please present him with my 
 grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
 affordtd me. 
 
 A friend of mine desired me to commission 
 for him two books, "Letters on the Religion 
 essential to Man," a book you sent me before; 
 and " The World Unmasked, or the Philoso- 
 pher the greatest Cheat." Send me them 
 by the first opportunity. The bible you sent 
 me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had been 
 it two volume? K. B. 
 
 NO. CXLVIII. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF "EDINBURGH 
 EVENING COURANT" 
 
 November 8th, 1 783. 
 
 Sir — Notwithstanding the opprobrious 
 epithets with which some of our philosophers 
 and gloomy sectarians have branded our 
 nature — the principle of universal selfishness, 
 the proneness to all evil, they have given us 
 — still, the detestation in which inhumanity 
 to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, 
 are held by all mankind, shows that they are 
 not natives of the human heart. Even the 
 unhappy partner of our kind who is undone | 
 
 acknowledgment to the Author of all Good, 
 for the consequent blessings of the glorious 
 Revolution. To that auspicious event we 
 owe no less than our liberties, civd and reli- 
 gious ; to it we are likewise indebted for the 
 present royal family, the ruling features of 
 whose admuiistration have ever been tnild- 
 ness to the subject, and tenderness of his 
 rights. 
 
 Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
 the principles of reason and common sense, 
 it could not be any silly political prejudice 
 which made my heart revolt at the harsh, 
 abusive manner in which the reverend gen- 
 tleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and 
 which, I am afraid, was too much the lan- 
 guage of the day. ^Ve may rejoice sufticiently 
 in our deliverance from past evils, without 
 cruelly rakuig up the ashes of those whose 
 misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their 
 crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and 
 we may bless God for all his goodness to us 
 as a nation, without at the same time cursing 
 a few mined, powerless exiles, who only 
 harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
 most of us would have done, had we been in 
 their situation. 
 
 " The bloody and tyrannical House of 
 Stuart" may be said with propriety and 
 justice, when compared with the present 
 royal family, and the sentiments of our days; 
 but is there no allowance to be made for the 
 manners of the times ? Were the royal 
 contemporaries of the Stuarts mote attentive 
 to their subjects' rights? Might not the 
 epithets of " bloody and tyrannical " be, 
 with' at least equal justice, applied to the 
 House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
 their predecessors ? 
 
 The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to 
 be this : — At that period, the science of 
 government, the knowledge of the true re- 
 lation between king and subject, was, like 
 other sciences and other knowledge, just iu 
 its infancy, emerging from dark ages of igno 
 ranee and barbarity. 
 
 The Stuarts only contended forprerogatives 
 which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
 and which they saw their contemporaries 
 enjoying ; but these prerogatives were ini- 
 mical to the happiness of a nation and the 
 rights of subjects. 
 
 In this contest between prince and peo- 
 
 • — the bitter consequence of his follies or his I pie, the consequence of that light of science 
 
 crimes — who but sympathises with the 
 miseries of this ruined profligate brother? 
 We forget the injuries, and feel for the 
 man. 
 
 I went, last Wednesday, to my parish 
 church, most cordially to join in grateful 
 
 30 
 
 which had lately dawned over Europe, the 
 monarch of France, for example, was victo- 
 rious over the struggling liberties of Ins 
 people : with us, luckily, the monarch failed, 
 and his unwarrantable pretensions fell a 
 sacrifice to our rights and happiness. 
 
33G 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 Whether it was owing to the wisdom of 
 leachiig individuals, or to the jostling of par- 
 ties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but, 
 like« ise, happily for us, the kingly power was 
 shifted into another branch of the familj", 
 who, as they owed the throne solely to the 
 call of a free people, could claim nothing 
 inconsistent with the covenanted terms 
 which placed them there. 
 
 'i'he Stuarts have been condemned and 
 laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
 of their attempts iu 1715 and 1745. _ That 
 they failed, I bless God, but cannot join in 
 the ridicule against them. Who does not 
 iaiow that the abilities or defects of leaders 
 and commanders are often hidden until put 
 to the touchstone of exigency ; and that 
 there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence 
 in particular accidents and conjunctures of 
 circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or 
 brand us as madmen, just as they are for or 
 against us ? 
 
 Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, 
 inconsistent being : who would believe, Sir, 
 than ill this our Augustan age of liberality 
 and retiuement, while we seem so justly sen- 
 sible and jealous of our rights aud liberties, 
 and animated with such indignation against 
 the very memory of those who would have 
 subverted them — that a certain people under 
 our national protection should complain, not 
 against our monarch and a few favourite 
 advisers, but against our whole legislative 
 body, for similar oppression, and almost in 
 the very same terms, as our forefathers did 
 of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I can- 
 not, enter into the merits of the case, but I 
 dare say the American Congress, in 1776, 
 will be allowed to be as able and as enlight- 
 ened as the English Convention was in 
 1668 ; and that their posterity will celebrate 
 the centenary of their deliverance from us, 
 as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the 
 op|iressive measures of the wrong-headed 
 House of Stuart. 
 
 Tu conclude, Sir ; let every man who has 
 a tear for the many miseries incident to 
 humanity, feel for a family illustrious as any 
 in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic 
 precedent ; and let every Briton (aud par 
 ticularly every Scotsman), who ever looked 
 wi'h reverential pity on the dotage of a 
 parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of 
 the kings of his forefathers. 
 
 Bi. B. 
 
 NO. CXLIX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, 
 
 AT MOREHAM MAINS. 
 
 Mauchline, November \Zth, 1783. 
 
 Madam — I had the very great pleasure 
 of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are 
 said to flatter women because they are weak : 
 — if it be so, poets must be weaker still ; 
 for Misses 11. and K., and Miss G. M'K., 
 with their flattering attentions and artful 
 compliments, absolutely turned ray head. I 
 own they did not lard me over as many a 
 poet does his patron, but they so intoxicated 
 me with their s1y insinuations and delicate 
 inuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
 been for a lucky recollection how much 
 additional weight and lustre your good opi- 
 nion and friendship must give me iu that 
 circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as 
 a person of no small consequence. I dare 
 not say one word how much I was charmed 
 with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
 manner, and acute remark, lest I should be 
 thought to balance my orientalisms of ap- 
 plause over-against the finest quey (79) in 
 Ayrshire which he made me a present of to 
 help and adorn my farm-stock. As it waa 
 on hallow-day, I am determined annually 
 as that day returns, to decorate her horns 
 with an ode of gratitude to the family 
 of Dunlop. 
 
 So soon as I know of your arrival at 
 Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency to 
 dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and 
 friendship, under the guarantee of the major's 
 hospitality. There will soon be threescore 
 and ten miles of permanent distance between 
 us ; and now that your friendship and 
 friendly correspondence are entwisted with 
 the heart-strings of my tnjiyment of life, I 
 must indulge myself in a happy day of " The 
 feast of reason and the flow of soul." 
 
 R. B, 
 
 NO. CL. 
 
 TO MR,. JAMES JOHNSON, 
 
 ENGRAVER. 
 
 Mauchline, November I5th, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir— I have sent you two 
 more songs. If you have got any tunes, or 
 any thing to correct, please send them by 
 return of the carrier. 
 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 
 
 I can easily see, my dear friend, that you 
 will probably have four volumes. Perhaps 
 you may not find your account lucratively 
 in this business ? but you are a patriot for 
 tiie music of your country, and I am certain 
 posterity will look on themselves as highly 
 indebted to your public spirit. Be not 
 in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your 
 name shall be immortal. 
 
 1 am preparing a flamiug preface for your 
 third volume. I see every day new musical 
 publications advertised ; but what are they ? 
 Gaudy, painted butterflies of a day, and then 
 vanish lor ever : but your work will outlive 
 the momentary ne^^lccts of idle fashion, and 
 defy the teeth of time. 
 
 Have you never a fair goddess that leads 
 you a \^ ildgoose chase of amorous devotion ? 
 Let me know a few of her qualities, such as 
 whether she be rather black or fair, plump 
 or thin, ^hurt or tall, &c. ; and choose your 
 air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate 
 her. R. B. 
 
 TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 Mauchline, November I5th, 1788. 
 
 Reverend and Dear Sir — As I hear 
 nothing of your motions, but that you are, 
 nr were, out of town, I do not know where 
 this may find you, or whether it will find 
 you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
 from the land of matrimony, in June; but 
 either it haa not found you, or, what I dread 
 more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too 
 precarious a state of health and spirits to 
 lake notice of an idle packet. 
 
 I have done many little things for John- 
 son, since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; 
 and T have finished one piece in the way 
 of Pope's " !Moral Epistles;" but, from 
 your silence, I have everything to fear, 
 so I have only sent you two melancholy 
 "ihings, which I tremble lest they should 
 too well suit the tone of your present 
 feelings. 
 
 In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, 
 to Nith^dale; till then, my direction is at 
 this place ; after that period, it will be at 
 Kllislanil, near Dumfries. It wo\ild ex- 
 tremely oblige me were it but a half a line, 
 to let me know how you are. Can I be 
 in litferent to the fate of a man to whom I 
 owe so much — a man whom I not only 
 eateem, but venerate ? 
 
 ^My warmest good wishes and most 
 respectful compliments to Mrs. Blackloci, 
 and Miss Johnston, if she is with you. 
 
 I cannot conclude without telling you that 
 I am more and more pleased with the step I 
 took respecting "my Jean." Two things, from 
 my liappy experience, I set down as apo- 
 phthegms in life. A wife's head is immaterial, 
 compared with her heart ; and — " Vn-tue's 
 (for wisdom what poet pretends to it ?) 
 ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
 her paths are peace." Adieu I 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellisland, December 11 th, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Honoured Friend — Yours, 
 dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, 
 makes me very unhappy. " Almost blind 
 and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of 
 a much-loved and honoured friend; they 
 carry misery in the sound. Goodness on 
 your part, and gratitude on mine, began a 
 tie which has gradually entwisted itself 
 among the dearest chords of my bosom, and 
 ( I tremble at the omens of yoiir late and 
 present ailing habit and shattered health. 
 You miscalculate matters widely, when you 
 forbid my waiting on you, lest it should 
 hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale 
 of farming is exceedingly more simple and 
 easy t'lan what you have lately seen at 
 Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, 
 the heart of the man and the fancy of the 
 poet are the two grand considerations for 
 which I live : if miry ridges and dirty dung- 
 hills are to engross the best part of the 
 functions of my soul immortal, I had better 
 been a rook or a magpie at once, and then 
 I should not have been plagued with any 
 ideas superior to breaking of cloils and 
 picking up grubs ; not to mention barn- 
 door cocks or mallards, creatures with 
 which 1 could alino<r exchange lives at any 
 time. If you contiu le so deaf, I am afraid 
 a visit will be no gicat pleasure to eithvr of 
 us ; but if I hear you are got so well again 
 as to be able to relish conversation, look 
 you to it, iladam, for I will make my thrcat- 
 enings good. I am to be at the New-year- 
 day fair of Ayr : and, by all that is 
 sacred in the world, friend, I will come and 
 see you. 
 
 Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
 with your own schoolfellow and friend, was 
 truly interesting. Out upon the ways of 
 
338 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 the world ! They spoil these " social off- 
 springs of the heart." Two veterans of the 
 '• men of the world " would have met 
 with little more heart-workings than two 
 old hacks worn out on the road. Apro- 
 pos, is not the Scotch phrase, " auld lang 
 syne," exceedingly expressive? There is an 
 old song and tune which has often thrilled 
 through my soul. You know I am an 
 enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall 
 give you the verses on the other sheet, 
 as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the 
 postage. 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? &c. 
 
 Light be the turf on the breast of the 
 Heaven-inspired poet who composed this 
 glorious fragment ! There is more of the 
 fire of native genius in it than in half a 
 dozen of modern English Bacchanalians ! 
 Now I am on my hjbby-horse, I cannot 
 help inserting two other old stanzas, which 
 please me mightily : 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, &c. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLIII. 
 
 TO MISS DAVIES. 
 
 December, 1788. 
 
 Madam — ^I understand my very worthy 
 neighbour, Mr. Riddel, haa informed you 
 that I have made you the subject of some 
 verses. There is something so provoking in 
 the idea of being the burden of a ballad, that 
 I do not think Job or Moses, though such 
 patterns of patience and meekness, could 
 have resisted the curiosity to know what that 
 ballad was ; so my wortliy friend has done 
 me a mischief, which I dare say he never 
 intended, and reduced me to the unfortunate 
 alternative of leaving your curiosity ungra- 
 tified, or else disgusting you with foolish 
 verses, the unfinished production of a ran- 
 dom moment, and never meant to have met 
 your ear. I have heard or read somewhere 
 of a gentleman who had some genius, much 
 eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity 
 with his pencil. In the accidental group of 
 life into which one is thrown, wherever this 
 gentleman met with a character in a more 
 than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, 
 he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, 
 he said, as a iiota bene, to point out the 
 agreeable recollection to his memory. What 
 this gentleman's pencil was to him, my muse 
 it to me : and the verses 1 do myself the 
 
 honour to send you are a memento exact'>^ of 
 the same kind that he indulged in. 
 
 It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
 of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste, 
 but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt, 
 with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
 mankind, that when I meet with a person 
 "after my own heart," I positively feel what 
 an orthodox Protestant would call a species 
 of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like in- 
 spiration ; and I can no more desist rhyming 
 on the impulse, than an jEolian harp can 
 refuse its tones to the streaming air. A 
 distich or two would be the consequence, 
 though the object which hit my fancy were 
 grey-bearded age; but where my theme is 
 youth and beauty, a young lady whose per- 
 sonal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally 
 striking and unaffected — by Heavens! though 
 I had lived threescore years a married man, 
 and tlireescore years before I was a married 
 man, my imagination would hallow the very 
 idea : and I am truly sorry that the enclosed 
 stanzas have done such poor justice to such 
 a subject. R. B.' 
 
 NO. CLIV. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. 
 
 December 22nd, 1788. 
 
 I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky 
 for the first time, and I assure you it does 
 you great credit. It will bear five waters, 
 strong, or six, ordinary toddy. The whisky 
 of tliis country is a most rascally liquor; 
 and, by consequence, only drunk by the 
 most rascally part of the inhabitants. I am 
 persuaded, if you once get a footing here, 
 you might do a great deal nf business, in the 
 way of consumpt ; and should you commence 
 distiller again, this is the native barley 
 country. I am ignorant if, in your present 
 way of dealing, you would thuik it worth 
 your while to extend your busniess so far 
 as this country side. I write you this on 
 the account of an accident, which I must 
 take the merit of havhig par.ly designed to. 
 A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller 
 in Carse-mill — a man who is, in a word, a 
 "very" good man, even for a £500 bargain 
 — he and his wife were in my house the 
 time I broke open the cask. They keep a 
 country public-house iiud sell a great deal ol 
 foreign spirits, but all along thought that 
 whisky would have degraded this liouse. 
 They were perfectly astonished at my whisk/, 
 both for its taste &id strength; and, by 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 839 
 
 their desire, I write you to know if you could 
 supply them with liquor of an equal quality, 
 and what price. Please write me by first 
 post, and direct to me at EUislaiid, near 
 Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt this 
 way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife and 
 fork, very much at your service. My com- 
 pliments to Jlrs. Tennant, and all the good 
 folks in Glenconner and Barquharrie. 
 
 K B. 
 
 TO THE REV. P. CARFRAj;. 
 
 1789. 
 
 Rev. Sir — I do not recollect that I have 
 ever felt a severer pang of shame, than on 
 looking at the date of your obliging letter 
 which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poem. 
 
 I am much to blame: the honour Mr. 
 Mylne has done me, greatly enhanced in its 
 value by the endearing, though melancholy 
 circumstance of its being the last production 
 of his muse, deserved a better return. 
 
 I have, as you hint, tliought of sending a 
 copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
 tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
 that, in the present case, it would be an 
 improper step. My success, perhaps as 
 much accidental as merited, has brought an 
 inundation of nonsense under the name of 
 Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scot- 
 tish poems have so dunned, and daily do 
 dun the public, that the very name is in 
 danger of contempt. For these reasons, if 
 publishing any of Mr. Jlylne's poems in a 
 Magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my 
 opinion, it certainly should not be a Scottish 
 poem. The profits of the labours of a man 
 of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any 
 profits whatever ; and Mr. IMylne's relations 
 are most justly entitled to that honest 
 harvest which fate has denied himself to 
 reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's 
 fame (among whom I crave the honour of 
 ranking myself) always keep in eye his 
 respectability as a man and as a poet, and 
 take no measure that, before the world 
 knows anything about him, would risk his 
 name and character being classed with the 
 fools of the times. 
 
 I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; 
 and the way in which I would proceed with 
 Mr. Mylne's poems, is this: — I will publish, 
 in two or three English and Scottish public 
 papers, any one of his English poems which 
 should, by private jiulges, be thought the 
 most excellent, and mention it, at the same 
 
 time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
 farmer of respectable character, lately de- 
 ceased, whose poems his friends had it in 
 idea to publish soon by subscription, for the 
 sake of his numerous family ; not in pity to 
 that family, but in justice to what his friends 
 think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and 
 to secure, in the most effectual manner, to 
 those tender connexions, whose right it is, 
 the pecuniary reward of those merits. 
 
 R. B. (80) 
 
 NO. CLVI. 
 
 30* 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. 
 
 Tins, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
 and would to God that I came under the 
 apostle James's description ! — the prayer of 
 a righteous man availeth much. In that case, 
 Madam, you should welcome in a year fidl of 
 blessings : every thing that obstructs or 
 disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, 
 should be removed, and every pleasure that 
 frail humanity can taste, should be yours. 
 I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I 
 approve of set times and seasons of more 
 than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
 in on that habituated routine of life and 
 thought, which is so apt to reduce our 
 existence to a kind of instinct, or even some- 
 times, and with some minds, to a state very 
 little superior to mere machinery. 
 
 This day; the first Sunday of May; a 
 breezy, blue-skied noon some time about the 
 beginning, and a hoary morning and calm 
 sunny day about the end, of autumn ; these, 
 time out of mind, have been with me a kind 
 of holiday. 
 
 I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
 in the Spectator, "The "Vision of Mirza," a 
 piece that struck my young fancy before I 
 was capable of fixing an idea to a word of 
 three syllables; — "On the 5th day of the 
 moon, which, according to the custom of my 
 forefathers, I always keep holy, after ha\ing 
 washed myself and offered up my morning 
 devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, 
 in order to pass the rest of the day in medi- 
 tation and prayer." 
 
 We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
 the substance or structure of our souls, so 
 cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
 them, that one should be particularly 
 pleased with this thing, or struck with tluit, 
 which, on minds of a different cast, makc-s 
 no extraordinary impression. I have some 
 
'6M 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 favourite flowers in spring, amoug whicli are 
 the mountain-daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, 
 the wild-briar rose, the budding birch, and 
 the hoary hawthorn, that I view and liang 
 over with particular delight. I never heard 
 the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
 summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of 
 a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal 
 morning, without feeling an elevation of 
 soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or 
 poetry. Tell lue, my dear friend, to what 
 can this be owing ? Are we a piece of 
 machinery, which, like the ^olian harp, 
 passive, takes the impression of the passing 
 accident ? Or do these workings argue 
 something above us above the trodden clod? 
 I own myself partial to such proofs of those 
 awful and important realities — a God that 
 made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
 mortal nature — and a world of weal or woe 
 beyond death and the grave. 
 
 R. B. (81). 
 
 NO. CLVII. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 
 ElUsland, Jan. Ath, 1789. 
 
 Sir — As often as I think of writing to 
 you, which has been three or four times 
 every week these six months, it gives me 
 something so like the idea of an ordinary- 
 sized statue offering at a conversation with 
 the Rhodian colossus, that my mind mis- 
 gives me, and the affair always miscarries 
 somewhere between purpose and resolve. I 
 have at last got some business with you, 
 and business letters are written by the 
 style-book. I say my business is with you. 
 Sir, for you never hai any with me, except 
 the business that benevolence has in the 
 mansion of poverty. 
 
 The character and employment of a poet 
 were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
 pride. I know that a very great deal of my 
 late eclat was owing to the singularity of 
 my situation, and the honest prejudice of 
 Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface 
 to my tirst edition, I do look upon myself 
 as having some pretensions from nature to 
 the pot'.ic character. I have not a doubt 
 but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the 
 muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him 
 " who forms the secret bias of the soul ; " — 
 but I as firmly believe, that excellence in the 
 profession is the fruit of industry, labour, 
 attention, and pains. At least I am re- 
 solved to try my doctrhie by the test of eK- 
 perieiioe. Another appearance from the 
 
 press I put off 1 o a very listant day, a day 
 that may never arrive — but poesy I am de- 
 termined to prosecute with all my vigour. 
 Nature has given very few, if any, of the 
 professions, the talents of shining iu everj 
 species of composition. I shall try (for 
 until trial it is impossible to know) whether 
 she has qualified me to shine in any one. 
 The worst of it is, by the time one has 
 finished a piece, it has been so often viewed 
 and reviewed before the mental eye, that 
 one loses in a good measure the powers of 
 critical discrimination. Here the best 
 criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
 abilities to judge, but with good-nature 
 enough, like a prudent teacher with a young 
 learner, to praise perhaps a little more than 
 is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal 
 fall into that most deplorable of all poetic 
 diseases — heart-breaking despondency of 
 himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely 
 indebted to your goodness, ask the ad- 
 ditional obligation of your being that friend 
 to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, in 
 a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 
 the epistle addressed to R. G., Esq., or 
 Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq., a gentle- 
 man of uncommoif worth, to whom I lie 
 under very great obligations. The story of 
 the poem, like most of my poems, is con- 
 nected with my own story, and to give you 
 the one, I must give you something of the 
 other. I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's 
 ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept me 
 hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th 
 August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1783, 
 before he would condescend to give me a 
 statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even 
 then, but for an augry letter I wrote him, 
 which irritated his pride. " I could " not a 
 "tale," but a detail," unfold;" but, what am 
 I, that should speak against the Lord's 
 anointed Baillie of Edinburgh ? 
 
 I believe, I shall, in whole, £100 copy- 
 right included, clear about £400 some little 
 odds ; and even part of this depends upon 
 what the gentleman has yet to settle with 
 me. I give you this information, because 
 you did me the honour to interest yourself 
 much in my welfare. I give you this in- 
 formation, but I give it to yourself only, for 
 I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. 
 Perhaps I injure the man iu the idea I am 
 sometimes tempted to have of him — God 
 forbid 1 should ! A little time will try, for 
 in a month I shall go to town to wind up 
 the business if possible. 
 
 To give the rest of my story in brief, I 
 have married " my Jean," and taken a farm: 
 with the first step 1 have every day more 
 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
 
 341 
 
 find more reason to be satisfied; with the 
 last, it is rather the reverse. I have a 
 younger brother, who supports mj' aged 
 mother ; another still younger brother, and 
 three sisters, in a farm. On my last return 
 from Edinburgh, it cost me about £180 to 
 save them from ruin. Not that I have lost 
 80 much — I only interposed between my 
 brother and his impending fate by the loan 
 of so much. I give myself no airs on this, 
 for it was mere selfishness on my part : I 
 was ftouscious that the wrong scale of the 
 balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
 tiirught that throwing a little tilial piety 
 and fraternal affection into the scale in my 
 favour, miulit help to smooth matters at the 
 grand reck-uiiiiig. There is still one thing 
 would make my circumstances quite easy : 
 I have an Excise ofticer's commission, and I 
 live in the midst of a country division. My 
 request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the 
 Commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, 
 to procure me that division. If I were very 
 sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
 great patrons might procure me a treasury 
 warrant for supervisor, surveyor- general, &c. 
 Thus, secure of a livelihood, "to thee, 
 sweet poetry, delightfid maid," I would con- 
 secrate my future days. R. B. 
 
 I grant you enter the lists of life to strug- 
 gle for bread, business, notice and distinction, 
 in common with hundreds, But who are 
 they ? Men like yourself, and of that ag 
 gregate body your compeers, seven-tenths of 
 them come short of your advantages, natural 
 and accidental ; while two of those that re- 
 main, either neglect their parts, as flowers 
 blooming in a desert, or mis-spend their 
 strength like a bull goring a bramble bu.sh. 
 R. B. 
 
 KO. CLVIII. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 ElUslaud, January 6th, 1789. 
 
 Many happy returns of the season to 
 you, my dear Sir ! May you be com- 
 paratively happy up to your comparative 
 worth among the sons of men ; which wish 
 would, I am sure, make you one of the most 
 blest of the human race. 
 
 I do not know if passing a "writer to the 
 signet " be a trial of scientific merit, or a 
 mere business of friends and interest. 
 However it be, let me quote you my two 
 favourite passages, which, though I have re- 
 peated them ten thousand times, still they 
 rouse my manhood and steal my resolutions 
 like inspiration. 
 
 On Reason budd receive. 
 
 That column of true majesty in man. 
 
 Young. 
 Hear, Alfred, hero of the state 
 Thy genius heaven's high will declare; 
 Tne fiumph of the truly great. 
 Is never, ne%er to despair ! 
 Is never to despair. — Masque of Alfred. 
 
 NO. CLIX. 
 
 TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
 EUisland, Jan. 20th, 1789. 
 
 Sir — Tlie enclosed sealed packet I sent to 
 Edinburgh, a few days after 1 had the happi- 
 ness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you 
 were gone for the continent. I have now 
 added a few more of my productions, those 
 for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale 
 JMuses. The piece inscribed to R. G. I'^sq., 
 is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham of 
 Fintry, accompanying a request for his as- 
 sistance in a matter to me of very great 
 moment. To that gentleman 1 am already 
 doubly indebted ; for deeds of kindness of 
 serious import to my dearest interests, done 
 in a manner grateful to the delicate feelings 
 of seasibFlity. This ^oem is a species of 
 composition new to me, but I do not inteml 
 it shall be my last essay of the kind, as you 
 will see by the " Poet's Progress." These 
 fragments, if my design succeed, are but a 
 small part cf the intended whole. I propose 
 it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, 
 ripened by years ; of course I do not wish it 
 much known. The fragment beginning "A 
 little upright, pert, tart," &c., I have not 
 shown to man living, till I now send it you. 
 It forms the postulata, the axioms, the defi- 
 nition of a character, which, if it appear at 
 all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. 
 This particular part 1 send you merely as a 
 sample of my hand at portrait-skelchnig ; 
 but, lest idle conjecture should pn-tend to 
 point out the original, please to let it be for 
 your single, sole inspection. 
 
 NcL'd I make any apology for this trouble, 
 to a gentleman who has treated life with such 
 marked benevolence and peculiar kindness ; 
 who has entered into my interests with so 
 much zeal, and on whose critical ilccisions 1 
 can so fully depend ? A poet as 1 am by 
 trade, these decisions are to me of the last 
 consequence. My late transient acquaint- 
 ance among some of the mere rank and tUe 
 
34j 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 of greatness, I regin;n with ease ; but to the 
 distinguished champions of genius and learn- 
 ing, I shall ever be ambitious of being known. 
 The native genius and accurate discernment 
 in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ; the 
 justice (iron justice, for he has no bowels of 
 compassion for a poor poetic sijiner) of Dr. 
 Oregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Pro- 
 fessor Dalzel's taste, 1 shall ever revere. 
 
 1 shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
 month. I have the honour to be, Sir, your 
 highly obliged, and very humble servant, 
 R. B. 
 
 TO BISHOP GEDDES. (82) 
 
 Ellisland, Feb. Srd, 1789. 
 
 Venerable Father — As I am con- 
 scious that, wherever I am, you do me the 
 honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it 
 gives me pleasure to inform you, that I am 
 here at last, stationary in the serious business 
 of life, and have now not only the retired 
 leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend 
 to those great and important questions — 
 what I am; where I am; and for what I am 
 destined. 
 
 In that first concern, the conduct of the 
 man, there was ever but one side on which I 
 was habitually blanieable, and there I have 
 secured myself in the way pointed out by 
 nature and nature's God. I was sensible 
 that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, 
 a wife and family were incumbrances, which 
 a species of prudence would bid hira shun ; 
 but when the alternative was, being at ete.'- 
 nal warfare with myself, on account of 
 habitual follies, to give them no worse name, 
 which no general example, no licentious wit, 
 no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever 
 justify, I must have been a fool to have 
 hesitated, and a madman to have made 
 another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" 
 a long and much-loved fellow-creature's hap- 
 jijiness or misery among my hands, and who 
 could trifle with such a deposit ? 
 
 In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
 tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
 farm ; but shoiild they fail, I have an Excise 
 commission, which, on my simple petition, 
 will at any time procure me bread. There is 
 a certain stigma affixed to the character of an 
 E.\(■l^e officer, but I do not pretend to borrow 
 honour from my profession ; and though the 
 salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to 
 any thing that the first tweuty-five years of 
 iny life taught me to expect. 
 
 Thus, with a rational aim and method in 
 life, you may eaily guess, my reverend and 
 much honoured friend, that my characteris- 
 tic trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, 
 more than ever an enthusiast to the muses. 
 I am determined to study man and nature, 
 and in that view incessantly ; and to try if 
 the ripening and corrections of years can 
 enable me to produce something worth pre- 
 serving. 
 
 You will see in your book, which I beg 
 your pardon for detaining so long (83), that 
 I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of 
 Nith. Some large poetic plans that are 
 floating in my imagination, or partly put in 
 execution, I shall impart to you when I have 
 the pleasure of meeting with you, which, if 
 you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have 
 about the beginning of March. 
 
 That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
 you were pleased to honour me, you must 
 still allow me to challenge ; for with what- 
 ever unconcern I give up my transient con- 
 nection with the merely great, 1 cannot lose 
 the patronising notice of the learned and 
 good without the bitterest regret. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXI. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 
 
 Ellisland, Feb. 9t/i, 1789. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Why I did not write to 
 you long ago is what, even on the rack, I 
 could not answer. If you can in your mind 
 form an idea of indolence, dissipation, hurry, 
 caies, change of coimtry, entering on untried 
 scenes of life, all combined, you will save me 
 the trouble of a blushing apology. It could 
 not be want of regard for a man for whom 
 I had a high esteem before I knew him — 
 an esteem which has much increased since 
 I did know him ; and this caveat entered, I 
 shall plead guilty to any other indictment 
 with which you shall please to charge me. 
 
 After I parted from you, for many months 
 my life was one continued scene of dissipa- 
 tion. Here, at last, I am become stationary, 
 and have taken a farm and— a wife. 
 
 The farm is beautifully situated on the 
 Nith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, 
 and falls into the Sohvay Frith. I have 
 gotten a lease of my farm as long as I 
 pleased ; but how it may turn out is just a 
 guess, and it is yet to improve and enclose, 
 &c. : however, I have good hopes of u;y 
 bargain on the whole. 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 343 
 
 My wife is my Jean, with whose story you 
 lire partly acfiuaintcd. I found I had a 
 mucli-lovod felUiwcreature's liapiiiness or 
 misery among my hands, and I durst not 
 trille with so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I 
 have not any reason to repent the step I 
 have taken, as I liave attached myself to a 
 very pood wife, and have shaken myself 
 loose of every had failing. 
 
 I have found ray book a very profitable 
 business, and with the profits of it I have 
 bi'gun life pretty decently. Should fortune 
 not favour me in farming, as I have no great 
 faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided 
 myself iu another resource, which, however 
 some folks may affect to despise it, is still a 
 comfortable shift iu the day of misfortune. 
 In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, 
 whose name, at least, I dare say you know, 
 as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, 
 Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the Commis- 
 sioners of Excise offered me the commission, 
 of an Excise officer. I thought it prudent to 
 accept the offer ; and, accordingly, 1 took my 
 instructions, and have my commission by me. 
 AVhether I may ever do duty, or be a penny 
 tlie better for it, is what I do not know ; 
 but I have the comfortable assurance, that, 
 come wliatever ill fate will, I can, on my 
 simple petition to the Excise-board, get into 
 employ. 
 
 W'e have lost poor uncle Robert this 
 winter, lie has long been very weak, and 
 with very little alteration on him : he expired 
 3rd January. 
 
 His son William has been with me this 
 winter, and goes in May to be an apprentice 
 to a ma.sou. His otlicr son, the eldest, John, 
 conies to me, I expect, in summer. They 
 are both remarkably stout young fellows, 
 and promise to do well. His only daughter, 
 Fanny, has been with me ever since her 
 father's dcalli. and I purpose keeping her in 
 my family till she be ipute woman grown, 
 and fit for better service. She is one of the 
 cleverest gnls, and has one of the most 
 amiable dispositions, I have ever seen. (84) 
 
 All friends in this county and Ayrshire 
 are well. Eemenibcr me to all friends ni 
 the north. My wife joins me in com)ibments 
 to Mrs. B. and famdy. 1 am ever, my dear 
 cousni, yours sinceicly, K. B. 
 
 NO. cr,xii. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 EU island, March 4t?t, 1789. 
 Herk am I, my honoured friend, returned 
 »»fe from the capital. To a man who has a 
 
 home, however humble or remote — if that 
 home is like mine, the scene of domestic 
 comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon 
 be a business of sickening disgust. 
 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate 
 you 1 
 
 When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
 rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
 should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
 to exclaim, "What merits has he had, or 
 what demerit have I had, iu some state of 
 pre-existence, that he is ushered into this 
 state of being with the sceptre of rule, and 
 the key of riches iu his puny fist, and 1 ara 
 kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or 
 the victim of pride?" I have read some- 
 where of a monarch (in Spain I think it was) 
 who was so out of humour with the Ptole- 
 mean system of astronomy, that he said, had 
 he been of the Creator's council, he coul i 
 have saved him a great deal of labour and 
 absurdity. I will not defend this blasphe- 
 mous speech ; but often, as I have glided 
 with humble stealth through the pomp of 
 Princes' Street, it has suggested itself to me, 
 as an improvement on the present human 
 figure, that a man, in proportion to his own 
 conceit of his consequence in the world, 
 could have pushed out the longitude of his 
 common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, 
 or as we draw out a perspective. This 
 trifling alteration, not to mention the pro- 
 digious saving it would be in the tear and 
 wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many 
 of his Majesty's liege-subjects, in the way of 
 tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would 
 evidently turn out a vast advantage, in 
 enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials 
 in making a bow, or making way to a great 
 man, and that, too, within a second of the 
 precise spherical angle of reverence, or an 
 inch of the particular point of respectful 
 distance, which the important creature itself 
 requires ; as a measuring-glance at its 
 towering altitude wonld determine the affair 
 like instinct. 
 
 You are right, Madam, in your idea of 
 poor Mylne's poem, which he has addressed 
 to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, 
 but it has one great fault — it is by far too 
 long. Resides, my success has encouraged 
 such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl 
 into public notice, under the title of Scottish 
 poets, ihat the very term Scottish poetry 
 borilers on the bijrlesque. AN'hon I write to 
 Mr. Carfrae, 1 shall advise him rather to try 
 one of h.s deceased friend's Engli>li pieces. 
 1 am p.rodigiously hurried with my owu 
 mailers, else 1 would ba\e rmuested « 
 
341 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 pe'usal of all Mylne's poetic performances, 
 and would have offered his friends my 
 assistance, in either selecting or correcting 
 what would be proper for the press. Mliat 
 it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps 
 a little oppresses my present spirits, shall 
 fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In 
 tlie meantime, allow me to close this epistle 
 with a few hues done by a friend of mine. 
 *****! give you them, that, as 
 you have seen the original, you may guess 
 whether one or two alterations I have ven- 
 tured to make in them be any real improve- 
 ment : — 
 
 Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
 draws, 
 Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
 Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
 And all you are, my charming * * * * serm. 
 Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells dis- 
 close. 
 Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
 Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
 Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
 Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
 That all shall long to know the worth they 
 guess ; [love, 
 
 Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred 
 Aud even sick'ning Envy must approve. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXIII. 
 
 TO MR. 
 
 -(85) 
 March, 1789. 
 
 My Dear Sir — The hurry of a farmer 
 in this particular season, and the indolence of 
 a poet at all times and seasons, wdl, I hope, 
 plead my excuse for neglecting so long to 
 answer your obliging letter of the 5th of 
 August. 
 
 That you have done well in quitting your 
 laborious concern ia • * *, I do not 
 doubt; the weighty reasons you mention, 
 were, I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, 
 weighty ones, aud your health is a matter of 
 the last nnportance; but whether the re- 
 maining proprietors of the paper have also 
 done well, is what I much doubt. The 
 • * * *, so far as I was a reader, exhi- 
 bited such a brilliancy of point, such an 
 ele^'ance of paragraph, and such a variety of 
 intelliirence, that 1 can hardly conceive it 
 possible to continue a daily paper in the same 
 degree of excellence : but if there was a man, 
 who had abilities equal to the task, that 
 mail's assistance the proprietors have lost. 
 
 When I received your letter I was transr. 
 cribing for * * * * my letter to tht 
 magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, 
 begging their permission to place a tomb- 
 stone over poor Fergusson,and their edict in 
 consequence of my petition, but now I shall 
 
 send them to . Poor Fergusson ! If 
 
 there be a life beyond the grave, which I 
 trust there is ; and if there be a good God 
 presiding over all nature, wliich I am sure 
 there is^thou art now enjoying existence in 
 a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
 alone is distinction in the man; where riches, 
 deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing 
 powers, return to their native sordid matter; 
 where titles and honours are the disregarded 
 reveries of an idle dieain : and where that 
 heavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
 quence of steady dulness, aud those thought- 
 less, though often destructive follies, which 
 are the unavoidable aberrations of frail 
 human nature, will be thrown into equal 
 oblinon as if they had never been ! 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir I So soon as your 
 present views and schemes are concentered 
 in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; 
 as your welfare and happiness are by no means 
 indiffereut to, yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXIII. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 Ellislaiid. Mtrch 2Srd, 1789 
 Sir — The gentleman who will deliver this 
 is a Mr. Neilson, a worthy clergyman in ray 
 neighbourhood (86), aud a very particular 
 acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled 
 him vrith this packet, I must turn him over 
 to your goodness, to recompense him for it 
 in a way in which he much needs your assist- 
 ance, and where you can effectually serve 
 him. Mr. Neilson is on his way for France, 
 to wait on his Grace of Q,ueensbury, on some 
 little business of a good deal of importance 
 to him, and he wishes for jour instructions 
 respectnig the most eligible mode of travel- 
 ling, &c. for him, when he iias crossed the 
 Channel. I should not have dared to take 
 this liberty with you, but tluit I am told, by 
 those who" have the honour of your personal 
 acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
 Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to 
 you, and that to have it in your power to 
 serve such a character, gives you niuc.li 
 pleasure. 
 
TO MR. HILL. 
 
 345 
 
 The enclosed Ode is a compliment to the 
 memory of the late IMrs. Oswald of Au- 
 chencruive. You probably knew her per- 
 sonally, an lionour of wiiich I cannot 
 boast; but I spent my early yea s in her 
 neighbourhood, and among lier servants and 
 tenants. I know that she was detested with 
 the most heartfelt cordiality. However, 
 in the particular part of her conduct which 
 roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
 blameable. In January last, on my road to 
 Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie \Vhig;liani's, 
 in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the 
 place. The frost was keen, and the grim 
 evening- and howhng wind were ushering in 
 a night of snow and drift. My horse and I 
 were both much fatigued with the labours 
 of the day, and just as my friend the Bailie 
 and I were bidding defiance to the storm, 
 over a smoking bo«l, in wheels the funeral 
 pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, 
 and poor I am forced to brave all the hor- 
 rors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
 horse, my young favourite horse, whom I 
 had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles 
 farther on, through the wildest moors and 
 hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the 
 next inn. The powers of poesy and prose 
 sink under me, when I would describe what 
 I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good 
 fire at New Cumnock had so far recovered 
 my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the 
 enclosed Ode. 
 
 I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
 finally with iMr. Creech ; and I must own, 
 that at last he has been amicable and fair 
 with me. 
 
 R B. (87) 
 
 TO MR. HILL. 
 
 EUkland, April 2nd, 1789. 
 
 I WILL make no excuse, my dear Biblio- 
 polus, (God forgive me for murdering lan- 
 g:uage!) that I have sat down to write you 
 on this vile paper. 
 
 It is economy. Sir; it is that cardinal 
 virtue, prudence ; so I beg you wdl sit down, 
 and either compose or borrow a panegyric. 
 If you are going to borrow, apply to * * 
 • * to compose, or rather to compound, 
 something very clever on my remarkable 
 frugality ; that I write to one of my most 
 esteemed friends on this wretched paper, 
 which was originally intended for the 
 veuttl fist of some drunken exciseman, to 
 
 take dirty notes m a miserable vatdt of an 
 ale-cellar. 
 
 Oh Frugality ! thou mother of ten thoti- 
 saud blessings — thou cook of fat beef and 
 dainty greens ! — thou manufiicturer of warm 
 Shetland hose and comfortable surtouts! — 
 thou old housewife, darning thy decayed 
 stockings with tliy ancient spectacles on thy 
 aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy 
 clutching palsied fist, up those heiglits, and 
 through those thickets, iutherto inaccessible 
 and impervious to my anxious, weary feet — 
 not those Parnassian crjigs, bleak and 
 barren, where the hungry worshippers of 
 fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging 
 between heaven and hell, but those glittering 
 cliffs of Potosi, where the all-surtlcient, all- 
 powerful deity, wealth, holds his immediate 
 court of joys and pleasures : where the 
 sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls 
 of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of 
 luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of 
 paradise 1 Thou withered sibyl, my sage 
 conductress, usher me into thy refidgent, 
 adored presence I The poet, splendid and 
 potent as he now is, was once the puling 
 nursling of thy faithful care and teiuler 
 arras ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy, 
 kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god 
 by the scenes of his infant years, no longer 
 to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but 
 to favour me with his peculiar countenance 
 and protection ! He daily bestows his 
 greatest kuidness on the undeserving and 
 the worthless — assure him that I bring 
 ample documents of meritorious demerits ! 
 Pledge yourself for me, that for the glori- 
 ous cause of lucre, I will do anything, be 
 anything, but the horse-leach of pri- 
 vate oppression, or the vulture of public 
 robbery I 
 
 But to descend from heroics. 
 
 I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
 Enghsh dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
 best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
 the cheapest is always the best for me. 
 There is a small debt of honour that I owe 
 Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, 
 my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. 
 Please give him, and urge him to take it, the 
 first time you see him, ten shillings' worth of 
 any thing you have to sell, and place it to 
 my accotmt. 
 
 The library scheme that I mentioned to 
 you is already begun, under the direction of 
 Captain Riddel. There is another in enui- 
 lation of it going on at Closeburn, under the 
 auspices of Mr. Monteafh of Closeburn, 
 which will be on a greater scale than ours. 
 Captain Riddel gave his infant society a great 
 
346 
 
 CORllESPOXDENt'E OF BURXS. 
 
 many of his old books, else I liad written you 
 on that subject ; but, one of these days, I 
 shall trouble you with a commission for 
 "The Monkland Friendly Society." A 
 copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Louns^er, 
 Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Guthrie's 
 Geographical Grammar, witli some religious 
 pieces, will likely be our first order. 
 
 Whet: I grow richer, I will write to you 
 on gilt-post, to make amends for this sheet. 
 At present every guinea has a five guinea 
 errand with, my dear Sir, your faithful, poor, 
 but honest friend, E. Ji. 
 
 NO. CLXVI. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 ElUsland, April Atli, 1789. 
 
 I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or 
 fancy, but I wish to send it to you ; and if 
 knowing and reading these give half the 
 pleasure to you, that communicating them 
 to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 
 
 I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
 at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
 Right. Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how 
 long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A 
 few of the first lines I have just rough 
 sketched as follows : — 
 
 "SKETCH. 
 
 How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
 How virtue and vice blend their black and 
 
 their white ; 
 How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
 Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
 diction — [bustle, 
 I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
 I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 
 
 But now for a patron, whose name and 
 whose glory. 
 At once may illustrate and honour my story. 
 
 Thou first of our orators, first of our wits. 
 Yet whose parts and acquirements seem 
 
 mere lucky hits ; [so strong. 
 
 With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 
 
 wrong ; [bright 
 
 With passions so potent, and fancies s6 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 
 
 right ; 
 A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. 
 For using thy name offers fifty excuses." 
 
 On the 20th current I hope to have the 
 honour of assuring you in person, how sin- 
 cerely I am, yours, &c. R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXVIl. 
 
 TO MRS. M'.MURDO, 
 
 DRUMLA.NU1G. (S8j 
 
 ElUsland, May 2nd, 1789. 
 
 Madam — I have finished the piece which 
 had the happy fortune to be honoured with 
 your approbation ; and never did little Miss 
 with more sparkling pleasure show her ap- 
 plauded sampler to partial Mamma, than I 
 now send my poem to you and Mr. M'Murdo, 
 if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot 
 easily imagine what tiiin-skinned animals, 
 what sensitive plants, poor poets are. How 
 do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
 self-abasement, whenneglected or condemned 
 by those to whom we look up ! and how do 
 we, in erect importance, add another cubit to 
 our stature, on being noticed and applauded 
 by those whom we honour and respect ! My 
 late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, 
 Madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnas- 
 sus, where on my fancied elevation I regard 
 my poetic self with no small degree of com- 
 placency. Surely, with all their sins, the 
 rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures. 
 I recollect your goodness to your humble 
 guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the 
 politeness of the gentleman the kindness of 
 a friend, and my heart swells as it would 
 burst, with warm emotions and ardent 
 wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude — it 
 may be a mixed sensation. 'I'liat strange, 
 shifting, doubling animal, man, is so gene- 
 rally, at best, but a negative, often a worth- 
 less creature, that we cannot see real goodness 
 and native worth, without feeling the bosom 
 glow with sympathetic approbation. With 
 every sentiment of grateful respect, I have 
 the honour to be. Madam, your obliged and 
 grateful humble servant, R. B 
 
 NO. CLXVIl!. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 ElUsland, May Ath, 1789. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Your duty-free favour ot 
 the 26th April I received two days aico; I 
 
TO EICHARD BROWN. 
 
 347 
 
 will not say I perused it with pleasure — 
 that IS tlie cold comphment of ceremony — I 
 perused it. Sir, with delicious satisfaction ; 
 in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor 
 your friend, but the lejcislature, by express 
 proviso iu their postage laws, should frank. 
 A letter informed with the soul of friendship 
 is such an honour to human nature, tliat 
 they should order it free ingress and egress 
 to and from their bags and mails, as an en- 
 couragement and mark of distinction to 
 superemineut virtue. 
 
 I have just put the last hand to a little 
 poem, which I think will be something to 
 your taste. One morning lately, as I was 
 out pretty early iu the fields, sowing some 
 grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from 
 a neighbotinng plantation, and presently a 
 poor little wounded hare came crippling by 
 me. You will guess my indignation at the 
 inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at 
 this season, when all of them have young 
 ones. Indeed, there is something in that 
 business, of destroying for our sport indi- 
 viduals in the aniuial creation that do not 
 injure us materially, which I could never 
 reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 
 
 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 ; 
 No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
 plains. 
 
 To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 
 
 Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form; 
 Tliat wonted form, alas I thy dying bed, 
 Tlie sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
 head, [warm. 
 
 The cold earth with thy blood stain'd bosom 
 
 Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 
 
 The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 
 
 Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now pro- 
 That life a mother only can bestow ? [vide 
 
 Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
 The sober eve, or had the cheerful dawn, 
 I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 
 
 And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn 
 thy hapless fate. 
 
 Let me know how you like my poem. I 
 un doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
 provement to keep out the last stanza but 
 one altogether. 
 
 Cruikshank is a glorious production of the 
 author of man. You, he, and the noble 
 
 Colonel of the Crochallan Fenciblcs are to 
 me — 
 
 Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
 heart. 
 
 I have got a good mind to make verses on 
 you all, to the tune of " Three guid Fellows 
 ayout the Glen." K. li. (69) 
 
 NO. CLXIX. 
 
 TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 
 
 Mossgiel, May itit, 1789. 
 
 Dear Uncle — This, I hope, will find 
 you and your conjugal yoke-fellow in your 
 good old way ; 1 am impatient to kujw if 
 the Ailsa fowling be commenced for this 
 season yet, as I want three or four stones of 
 feathers, and I hope you will bespeak them 
 for me. It would be a vain attempt for me 
 to enumerate the various transactions I have 
 been engaged in since I saw you last, but 
 this know, I am engaged in a siituij(/liH(f 
 trade, and God knows if ever any poor man 
 experienced better returns, two for one; 
 but as freight and delivery have turned out 
 so dear, I am thinking of taking out a 
 licence and beginning in fair trade. I have 
 taken a farm on the borders of the Nith, 
 and, in imitation of the old patriarchs, get 
 men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks 
 and herds, and beget sons aud daughters 
 Your obedient nephew, U. B. 
 
 31 
 
 TO RICHARD BROAAT^. 
 
 Mauchline, May 1st, 1789. 
 
 My De.\k Friend — I was in the country 
 by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival, 
 I could not resist the temptation of wishing 
 you joy on your return — wishing you would 
 write to me before you sail again— wishing 
 you would always set me down as your 
 bosom friend — wishing you long life and 
 prosperity, and that every good thing may 
 attend you — wishing jNIrs. Brown and your 
 little ones as free of the evils of this 
 worlil as is consistent with humanity — 
 wishing you and she were to make two at 
 the ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs. B. 
 threatens very soon to favour nie — wishing 
 I had longer time to write to you at 
 
iHb 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 f resL'nt ; and, finally, wishing that, if there 
 is to be another state of existence, Mr. B., 
 !Mrs. B., our little ones, and both families, 
 and j'ou and I, in snug retreat, may make a 
 jovial party to all eternity I 
 
 My direction is at EUisland, near Dum- 
 fries. Yours, H. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXI. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. 
 
 EUidnnd, May 26th, 1789. 
 
 Dear Sir — I send you by .John Glover, 
 carrier, the above account for Mr. TurubuU, 
 as I suppose you know his address. 
 
 I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
 sympathy w ith your misfortunes : but it is 
 a tender string, and I know not how to 
 touch it. It is easy to flourish a set of 
 high-flown sentiments on the subjects that 
 would give great satisfaction to — a breast 
 quite at ease; but as one observes who 
 was very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
 life, " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, 
 and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
 with." 
 
 Among some distressful emergencies tliat 
 I have experienced in life, I ever laid this 
 down as my foundation of comfort — 'r/iat he 
 who has lired the life of an honest man, has 
 hy no ineans liced in vain ! 
 
 V^'ith every wish for your welfare and 
 future success, I am, my dear Sir, sincerely 
 yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXII. 
 
 TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esa 
 
 KllisUind, May 30th, 1789. 
 
 Stu — I had nitcnded to have troubled 
 you wiih a long letter; but at pr«sent the 
 delightful sensation of an omnipotent tooth- 
 ache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put 
 it nut of my power even to write nonsense. 
 However, as in duty bound, I approach 
 my bookseller with an offering in my hand 
 — a few poetic clinches, and a song : — to 
 expect any other kind of otfering from the 
 rhyming tribe would be to know them much 
 less than you do. I do not pretend that 
 ihere is much merit in these morceaux, but 
 1 have two reasons for sending them ; primo, 
 they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison 
 with my present feelings, while fifty troops 
 
 of infernal spirits are driving post from -"t 
 to ear along my jaw-honts ; and, secif 
 they are so short, that you cannot lea\< i 
 in the middle, and so hurt my pride in i • 
 idea that you found any work of mine i. ) 
 heavy to get through. 
 
 I have a request to beg of you, and I not 
 only beg of you, but conjure you, by all 
 your wishes and by all your hopes, that the 
 muse will spare the satiric wink in the 
 moment of your foibles ; that she will 
 warble the song of rapture round your 
 hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed on 
 your turf the honest tear of elegiac grati- 
 tude ! Grant my request as speedily as 
 possible — send me by the very first fly or 
 coach from this place, three copies of the 
 la-t edition of my poems, which place to my 
 account. 
 
 Now may the good things of prose, and 
 the good things of verse, come among thy 
 hands, until they be filled with the good 
 things of this life, prayeth R. B, 
 
 NO. CLXXIIl. 
 
 TO MR. M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON, 
 
 EUisland, June 4th, 1789. 
 
 Dear Sir — Though I am not without 
 my fears respecting my fate, at that grand, 
 universal inquest of right and wTong, com- 
 monly called The Last Day, yet 1 trust 
 there is one sin, which that arch-vagabond, 
 Satan, who I understand is to be king's evi- 
 dence, cannot throw in my teeth, — 1 mean 
 ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large 
 quantum of kindness for which I remain, and 
 from inability, I fear must still remain, your 
 debtor; but though unable to repay the 
 debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly 
 remember the obligation. It gives me the 
 sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaint- 
 ance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are. in immor- 
 tal Allan's language, " Hale, and weel, and 
 living ; " and that your charming family are 
 well, and promising to be an amiable and 
 respectable addition to the company of per- 
 formers, whom the Great Manager of the 
 Drama of Man is bringing into action for 
 the succeeding age. 
 
 AVith respect to my welfare, a subject in 
 which you once warmly and effectively in- 
 terested yourself, I am here in my old way, 
 holding my plough, marking the growth of 
 my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at 
 times sauntering by the delightful windings 
 
TO MR. M'5[UUD0. 
 
 349 
 
 of the Nith, on the marprin of which I have 
 built my humble domicile, praying for sea- 
 sonable weather, or holdinir an intrigue with 
 the 'Muses, the only gipsies with whom I 
 have now any intercourse. A3 I am entered 
 into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my 
 face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and 
 as it is a rule with all honest fellows to 
 repeat no grievances, I hope that the little 
 poetic licences of former days will, of course, 
 fall under the oblivious influence of some 
 good natured statute of celestial prescription. 
 In my family devotion, which, like a good 
 Presbyterian, I occasionally give to my 
 householil folks, I am extremely fond of the 
 psalm, " I.et not the errors of my youth," 
 &c., and that other, "I.o! children are God's 
 heritage," &c., in which last Mrs. Burns, 
 who, by the bye, has a glorious " wood-note 
 wild " at either old song or psalmody, joins 
 me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 ElMand, June %th, 1789. 
 
 My de.\r Friend — I am perfectly 
 Bshamed of myself when I look at the date 
 of your last. It is not that I forget the 
 friend of my heart and the companion of my 
 peregrinations ; but I have been condemned 
 to drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, 
 thank God, heyond redemption. I have had 
 a collection of poems by a lady put into my 
 hands to prepare them for the press ; which 
 horrid task, with sowing corn with my own 
 hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plasterers, 
 &c., to attend to, roaming on business 
 through Ayrshire — all this was against me, 
 and the very first dreadful article was of 
 itself too much for me. 
 
 13th. — I have not had a moment to spare 
 from incessant toil since the Sth. Life, my 
 dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know, 
 by experience, that a man's individual self is 
 a good deal, but believe me, a wife and 
 a family of children, whenever you have the 
 honour to be a husband and a father, will 
 show you that your present and most 
 anxious hours of solitude are spent on 
 trifles. The welfare of those who are very 
 I dear to us, whose only support )io|ie and 
 stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is 
 another sort of more important object of 
 care than any concerns whatever which 
 centre merely in the individual. Oa the 
 
 other hand, let no young, unmarried, j akc- 
 belly dog among you, make a song of bis 
 pretended liberty and freedom from care 
 If the relations we stand in to king, country, 
 kindred, and friends, be any thing but the 
 visionary fancies of dreaming metai)hy- 
 sicians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, 
 generosity, humanity, and justice, be ought 
 but empty sounds ; then the man who may 
 be said to live only for others, for the 
 beloved, honourable female, whose tender 
 faithful embraces endears life, and for the 
 helpless little innocents who are to be the 
 men and women, the worshippers of his God, 
 the subjects of his king, and the support, nay 
 the very vital existence, of his country, in 
 the ensuing age — compare such a man with 
 any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle 
 and push in business among labourers, 
 clerks, statesmen ; or whether he roar and 
 rant, and drink and sing in taverns — a 
 fellow over whose grave no one will breathe 
 a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie 
 of what is called good fellowship — who has 
 no view nor aim but what terminates in 
 himself — if there be any grovelling earth- 
 born wretch of our species, a renegade to 
 common sense, who would fain believe that 
 the noble creature man is no better than a 
 sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, 
 nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in 
 nothing nobody knows where; such a stupid 
 beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance 
 the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but 
 no one else would have the patience. 
 
 Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long 
 silence. To make you amends, I shall send 
 you soon, and more encouraging still, 
 without any postage, one or two rhymes of 
 my later manufacture. II. B 
 
 NO. CLXXV. 
 
 TO MR. M'lMURDO. 
 
 Ellkland, June Wth, 1789. 
 
 Sir — A poet and a beggar are, in so many 
 points of view, alike, that one might take 
 tliem for the same individual character under 
 different designations ; were it not that 
 though, with a trifling poetic licence, most 
 poets may be styled beggars, yet the con- 
 verse of tlie proposition docs not hold, that 
 every beggar is a poet. In one particular, 
 however, they remarkably agree ; if you help 
 either the one or the other to » mug of ale, 
 or the picking of a bone, they will very wil- 
 lingly repay you with a song. This occur* 
 
550 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 tit no at present, as I have just disjiatched a 
 wdl-lined rib of John Kirkpa trick's High- 
 lander — a bargain for which I am indebted 
 to you, in the style of our ballad printers, 
 "Five excellent new songs." The enclosed 
 is nearly my newest song, and one that has 
 cost me some pains, though that is but an 
 equivocal mark of its excellence. Two or 
 three others, which I have by me, shall do 
 themselves the honour to wait on your after 
 leisure: petitioners for admittance into favour, 
 must not harass the condescension of their 
 benefactor. 
 
 You see, Sir, what it is to patronise a poet. 
 *Tis like being a magistrate in a petty 
 b trough ; you do them the favour to preside 
 i II their council for one year, and your name 
 bears the prefatory stigma of bailie for life. 
 
 With, not the compliments, but the best 
 wishes, the sincerest prayers of the season 
 for you, that you may see many and happy 
 years with Mrs. JI'Murdo, and your family ; 
 wo blessings, by the bye, to which your 
 iitiiK aoes not, by any means, entitle you — 
 a loving wife and fine family being almost 
 the only good things of this life to which 
 the farm-house and cottage have an exclu- 
 sive right. I have the honour to be, Sir, 
 yniii much indebted and very humble ser- 
 Ttnt, R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXVI. 
 
 TO ]\IRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellisland, Jane 2\st, 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam — Will you take the effu- 
 sions, the miserable effusions of low spirits, 
 just as they flow from their bitter spring ? 
 I know not of any particular cause for this 
 worst of all my foes besettnig me ; but for 
 some time my soul has been beclouded with 
 a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations 
 and gloomy presages. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 
 I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach 
 a sermon. He is a man famous for his 
 benevolence, and I revere him ; but, from 
 such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, deliver 
 me ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
 a simple business, as it equally concerns the 
 Ignorant aud the learned, the poor and the 
 rich. That there is an incomprehensible 
 Ccreat Being, to whom I owe my existence, 
 and that he must be intimately acquainted 
 with the operations and progress of the in- 
 ternal machinery, and consequent outward 
 
 deportment of this creature which he has 
 made — these are, [ think, self-evident propo- 
 sitions. That there is a real and eternal 
 distinction between virtue and vice, and con- 
 sequently, that I am an accountable creature ; 
 that from the seeming nature of the humaa 
 mind, as well as from the evident imperfec- 
 tion, nay, positive injustice, in the adminis- 
 tration of affairs, both in the natural and 
 moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
 scene of existence beyond the grave— must, 
 I think, be allowed by every one who will 
 give himself a moment's reflection. I will 
 go farther, and affirm, that from the sub- 
 limity, excellence, and purity of his doctrine 
 and precepts, unparalleled by all the aggre- 
 gated wisdom and learning of many preceding 
 ages, though, to appearance, he himself was 
 the obscurest and most illiterate of our 
 species — therefore Jesus Christ was from 
 God. 
 
 Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
 the happiness of others, this is ray criterion 
 of goodness ; and whatever injures society 
 at large, or any individual in it, this is my 
 measure of iniquity. 
 
 What think you. Madam, of my creed? 
 1 trust tliat I have said nothing that will 
 lessen me in the eye of one whose good 
 opinion I value almost next to the approba- 
 tion of my own mind. R. B. 
 
 NO. CLX.S.VU. 
 
 TO MISS WILLIAMS. (90) 
 
 Ellisland, 'in^. 
 
 Madam — Of the many problems in the 
 nature of that wonderful creature, man, this 
 is one of the most extraordinary : — that he 
 shall go on from day to day, from week to 
 week, from month to month, or perhaps 
 from year to year, suffering a hundred times 
 more in an hour from the impotent consci- 
 ousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
 than the very doing of it would cost him. I 
 am deeply indebted to you, first, for a most 
 elegant poetic compliment ; then, for a polite, 
 obliging letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent 
 poem on the slave-trade ; and yet, wretch 
 that I am ! though tlie debts were debts of 
 honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put 
 off and put off even the very acknowledg- 
 ment of the obligation, until you must indeed 
 be the very angel I take you for, if you caa 
 forgive me. 
 
 Your poem I have read with the highe.s<i 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 351 
 
 ■ '-^iirc [ lia\e a way whenever I read a 
 K ' mean a book in our own trade, 
 1.1111, a poetic one — and wlien it is my 
 • 11 [jroperty, that I take a pencd and mark 
 ' ' lie ends of verses, or note on margins and 
 • • 1.1 paper, httle criticisms of approbation or 
 disapprobation as I peruse along. I will 
 make no apolojry for presenting you with a 
 few unconnected thoughts that occurred to 
 me in my repeated perusals of your poem. 
 I want to siiow you that I have honesty 
 enough to tell you what 1 take to be truths, 
 even when they are not quite on the side of 
 approbation ; and I do it in the firm faith 
 that you have equal greatness of mind to 
 hear tiiem with pleasure. 
 
 I had lately the honour of a letter from 
 Dr. Moore, where he tells me that he has 
 sent me some books ; they are not yet come 
 to hand, but I hear they are on the way. 
 
 AVishing you all success in your progress 
 in the path of fame, and tliat you may 
 equally escape the danger of stumbling 
 through incautious speed, or losing ground 
 through loitering neglect. R. B. (91) 
 
 NO. CLXXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. (92) 
 EUisland, near Dumfries, Aug. Tth, 1789. 
 
 Dear Sir — I intended to have written 
 you long ere now, and, as I told you, 1 had 
 gotten three stanzas and a half on my way 
 in a poetic epistle to you ; but that old 
 enemy of all (jood works, the devil, threw me 
 into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I 
 cannot get out of it. I dare not write you 
 a long letter, as I am going to intrude on 
 your time with a long ballad. I have, as you 
 will shortly see, finished "The Kirk's Alarm;" 
 but now that it is done, and I have laughed 
 once or twice at the conceits in some of tJie 
 stanzas, I am determined not to let it get 
 into the public ; so I send you this copy, 
 the first I have sent to Ayrshire, except some 
 few of the stanzas, which I wrote otf iu 
 embryo, for Gavin Hamilton, under the 
 express provision and request that you will 
 only read it to a few of us, and do not oii 
 any account give, or permit to be taken, any 
 copy of the ballad. If I could be of any 
 service to Ur. M'Gill, I would do it, though 
 it should be at a much greater expense than 
 irritating a few bigoted priests; but I am 
 afraid servnig him in his present embarras is 
 a task too hard for me. 1 have enemies 
 enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly i 
 
 31 
 
 add to the number. Still, as I think there ia 
 some merit in two or three of the thoughts, 
 I send it to you as a small, but sincere 
 testimony how much, and with what respect- 
 ful esteem, I am, dear Sir, your obliged 
 humble servant, K.. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXIX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 EUisland, Sept. 6t/i, 1789. 
 
 De.\r Madam — I have mentioned in my 
 last, my appointment to the E.vcise, and the 
 birth of little Frank ; who, by the bye, I 
 trust will be no discredit to the honourable 
 name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly 
 countenance, and a figure that might do 
 credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
 and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
 when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
 quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
 namesake blew, as a signal to take out the 
 pin of Stirling bridge. 
 
 1 had some time ago an epistle, part 
 poetic and part prosaic, from your poetess, 
 Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious, but modest 
 composition. I should have written her as 
 she requested, but for the hurry of this new 
 business. 1 have heard of her and her com- 
 positions in this country ; and, I am happy 
 to add, always to the honour of her cli;iracter. 
 The fact is, I know not well how to write to 
 her ; I should sit down to a sheet of paper 
 that I knew not how to stain. 1 am no dab 
 at fine-drawn letter-writing ; apd, except 
 when prompted by friendship or gratitude, 
 or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired 
 by the muse (I know not her name) that 
 presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, 
 when necessitated to write, as I would sit 
 down to beat hemp. 
 
 Some parts of your letter of the 20th 
 August, struck me with the most melan- 
 choly concern for the state of your mind at 
 present. 
 
 Would I could write you a letter of com- 
 fort, I would sit down to it with as niiich 
 pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of 
 my own composition, that should equal the 
 Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
 comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future 
 state of existence ; a proposition so obviously 
 probable, that, setting revelation aside, eiery 
 nation and people, so far as investigation li.is 
 reached, for at least near four tlionsaml 
 years, have, in some mode or other, firmly 
 believed it. In vahi would we reason lu-il 
 * 
 
352 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to 
 a very daring pitch ; but when I reflected 
 that 1 was opposing the most ardent wishes, 
 and the most darhng hopes of good men, 
 and flying in the face of all human belie'f, in 
 all ages, 1 was shocked at my own conduct. 
 
 1 know not whether I have ever sent you 
 the following lines, or if you have ever seen 
 them ; but it is one of my favourite quota- 
 tions, which I keep constantly by me in my 
 progress through life, in the language of the 
 b.juk of Job: — 
 
 Against the day of battle and of war — 
 
 spoken of religion : — 
 
 "'Tis this.my friend, that streaks our morning 
 
 bright, 
 Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 
 When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 
 
 are few ; 
 When friends are faithless, or when foes 
 
 pursue : 
 Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 
 
 smart. 
 Disarms artliction, or repels his dart ; 
 Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
 Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 
 
 skies " 
 
 I have been busy with Zeluco. The 
 doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
 of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
 Borne kin I of criticisms on novel-writing, but 
 it is a depth beyond ray research. I shall, 
 however, digest my thoughts on the subject 
 as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling 
 performance. 
 
 Farewell 1 A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous 
 eommvndel 
 
 NO. CLXXX. 
 
 TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CAESE. 
 Ellisland, Oct. IGth, 1789. 
 
 Sir— Big with the idea of this important 
 day at Friars Carse, I have watched the 
 elements and skies in the tull persuasion 
 that they would armounce it to the astonished 
 world by some phenomena of terrific portent. 
 Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait 
 With anxious horror for the appearance of some 
 comet tiring half the sky; or aerial armies of 
 sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart 
 the startled heavens, rapid as the ragged 
 lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of 
 uature that bury nations. 
 
 The elements, however, seem to take the 
 
 matter very quietly; they did not even usher 
 in this morning with triple suns and a 
 shower of blood, symbolical of the three 
 potent heroes, and the mighty claret-shed of 
 the day. For me, as Thomson in his 
 ^Vinter says of the storm — I shall " Hear 
 astonished, and astonished sing " 
 
 The whistle and the man ; I sing 
 The man that won the whistle, &c. 
 
 Here are we met, three merry boys. 
 Three merry boys, 1 trow, are we ; 
 
 And mony a night we've merry been. 
 And mony mae we hope to be. 
 
 Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
 
 A cuckold coward loiin is he : 
 Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 
 
 He is the king amang us three. 
 
 To leave the heights of Parnassus, and 
 come to the humble vale of prose. I have 
 some misgivings that I take too much upon 
 me, when I request you to get your guest. 
 Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank the two enclosed 
 covers for me, the one of them to Sir 
 William Cunningham, of Robertland, Bar*' 
 at Kilmarnock — the other, to Mr. Allan 
 Masterton, Writing-AIaster, Edhiburgh. The 
 first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as 
 being a brother baronet, and likewise a keen 
 Foxite : the other is one of the worthiest 
 men in the world, and a man of real genius ! 
 so, allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim 
 on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, 
 as I cannot get them to the post to-night. 
 I shall send a servant again for them in the 
 evening. Wishing that your head may be 
 crowned with laurels to-night, and free from 
 aches to-morrow, I have the honour to be, 
 Sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, 
 E. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXXI. 
 
 TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 
 
 Ellisland, 1789. 
 
 Sir — I wish from my inmost soul it were 
 in my power to give you a more substantial 
 gratification and return for all the goodness 
 to the poet, than transcribing a few of his 
 idle rhymes. However, " an old song," 
 though to a proverb an instance of insignifi- 
 cance, is generally the only coin a poet has 
 to pay with. 
 
 If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
 mean still to transcribe, into your book, were 
 equal to the grateful respect and high esteem 
 
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 
 
 353 
 
 1 bear for the gentleman to whom I prest nt 
 them, they would be the finest poems in the 
 language. As they are, they will at least 
 be a testimony with what sincerity I have 
 the honour to be, Sir, your devoted humble 
 servant, R. B 
 
 NO. CLXXXH. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLTE. 
 
 Ellialand, Nov. \st, 1789. 
 
 My Dear Friend — I had written you 
 long ere now, could I have guessed where to 
 find you, for I am sure you have more good 
 sense than to waste the precious days of 
 vacation time in the dirt of business and 
 Edinburgh. "Wherever you are, God bless 
 you, and lead you not into temptation, but 
 deliver you from evil ! 
 
 I do not know if I have informed you that 
 I am now appointed to an Excise division, 
 in the middle of which my house and farm 
 lie. In this I was extremely lucky. "Without 
 ever having been an expectant, as they call 
 their jounieyinen excisemen, I was directly 
 planted down to all intents and purposes an 
 officer of Excise, there to flourish and bring 
 forth fruits — worthy of repentance. 
 
 I know not how the word exciseman, i>r 
 still more opprobrious, ganger, will sound in 
 your ears. 1, too, have seen the day when 
 my auditory nerves would have felt very 
 delicately on this subject ; but a wife and 
 children are things which have a wonderful 
 power in blunting these kind of sensations. 
 Fifty pounds a-year for life, and a provision 
 for willows and orphans, you will allow is no 
 bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy 
 of the profession, I have the encouragement 
 which I once heard a recruiting sergeant 
 give to a numerous, if not a respectable 
 audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock : — 
 "Gentlemen, for your further and better 
 encouragement, I can assure you that our 
 regiment is the most blackguard corps under 
 the crown, and consequently with us an 
 honest fellow has the surest chance of pre- 
 ferment." 
 
 You need not doubt that I find several 
 very uniileasant and disagreeable circum- 
 stances in my business ; but I am tired with 
 and disgusted at the language of complaint 
 against the evils of life. Human existence, 
 in the most favourable situations, does not 
 abound with pleasures, and has its incon- 
 reniences and ills ; capricious foolish man 
 mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if 
 ▲ A 
 
 they were the peculiar property of his parti- 
 cular situation ; and hence that eternal 
 fickleness, that love of change, which has 
 ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine 
 fellow, as well as many a blockhead, and is 
 almost without exception a constant source 
 of disappointment and misery. 
 
 I long to hear from you how you go on — 
 not so much in business as in life. Are you 
 pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, 
 and tolerably at ease in your internal re- 
 flections? 'Tis much to be a great character 
 as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to 
 be a great character as a man. That you 
 may be both the one and the other is the 
 earnest wish, and that you will be both ia 
 the firm persuasion of, my dear Sir, &c. 
 
 R. D. 
 
 NO. CLXXXIIl. 
 
 TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 
 
 Ellisland, Novemler -ith, 1789. 
 
 I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear 
 friend, that though I got both your letters, 
 I have not been able to command an 
 hour to answer them as I wished ; and even 
 now, you are to look on this as merely con- 
 fessing debt, and craving days. Few things 
 could have given me so much pleas\ire as 
 the news that you were once more safe and 
 sound on terra firma, and happy in that place 
 where happiness is alone to be foimd — in the 
 fireside circle. ]\Iay the benevolent Director 
 of all things peculiarly bless you in all those 
 endearing connections consequent on the 
 tender and venerable names of husband and 
 father I I have indeed been extremely 
 lucky in getting an additional income of 
 £50 a-year, while at the same time, the 
 appointment will not cost me above £10 or 
 £12 per annum of expenses more than I 
 must have inevitably incurred. The worst 
 circumstance is, that the Excise division 
 which I have got is so extensive, no less 
 than ten parishes to ride over ; and it 
 abounds besides with so much business, that 
 I can scarcely steal a spare moment. How- 
 ever, labour endears rest, and both together 
 are absolutely necessary for the proper en- 
 joyment of human existence. I cannot 
 meet you anywhere. No less than an 
 order from the board of Excise, at Edin- 
 burgh, is necessary before I can have so 
 much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. 
 But do you come, and see me. We must 
 have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it 
 
354 
 
 CORRESP0NDE>fCE OF BURNS. 
 
 out with half the night, before you go again 
 to sea. You are the earliest friend I now 
 have on earth, my brothers excepted ; and 
 is not that an endearing circumstance ? 
 Wlien you and I first met, we were at the 
 green period of human life. The twig 
 would easily take a bent, but would as 
 easily return to its former state. You and 
 I not only took a mutual bent, but, by the 
 melancholy, though strong influence of 
 being both of the family of the unfortunate, 
 we were entwined with one another in our 
 growth towards advanced age : and blasted 
 be the sacrilegious hand that should at- 
 tempt to undo the union ! You and I must 
 have one bumper to our favourite toast, 
 " May the companions of our youth be the 
 friends of our old age 1 " Come and see me 
 one year ; I shall see you at Port-Glasgoiv 
 the next ; and if we can contrive to have a 
 gossiping between our two bed-fellows, it 
 will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. 
 Burns joins rae in kind compUments to you 
 and Mrs. Brown. Adieu ! 1 am ever, my 
 dear Sir, yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXXIV. 
 
 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 
 
 OF FINTRY. 
 
 December 9th, 17S9. 
 
 Sir — I have a good while had a wish to 
 trouble you with a letter, and had certainly 
 done it long ere now — but for a humiliating 
 something that throws cold water on the 
 resolution, as if one should say, " You have 
 found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind 
 friend indeed, and that interest he is so 
 kindly taking in your concerns you ought, 
 by every thing in your power, to keep alive 
 and cherish." Now, though since God has 
 thought proper to make one powerful and 
 another powerless, the connection of 
 obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though 
 my being under your patronage is higlily 
 honourable, yet. Sir, allow me to flatter my- 
 self, that, as a poet and an honest man, 
 you first interested yourself in my welfare, 
 and principally as such, still you permit me 
 to approach you. 
 
 I have found the Excise business go on a 
 great deal smoother with me than ] ex- 
 pected, owing a good deal to the generous 
 friendship of Mr. Mitchel, my collector, and 
 the kind assistance of Jlr. Findlater, my 
 supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear 
 
 no labour. Nor do I find my hurried lifb 
 greatly inimical to my correspondence with . 
 the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and 
 I believe to most of their acquaintance, like 
 the visits of good angels, are short and far 
 between ; but I meet them now and then as 
 I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as 
 I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take 
 the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, 
 all of them the productions of my leisure 
 thoughts in my Excise rides. 
 I If you know or have ever seen Captain 
 I Grose, the antiquary, you will enter into 
 ' any humour that is in the verses on him. 
 ' Perhaps you have seen them before, as I 
 . sent them to a London newspaper. Though 
 I I dare say you have none cf the soleran- 
 i league-and-covenant fire, which shone so 
 I conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and 
 the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
 must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the 
 clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. 
 God help him, poor man ! Though he is 
 one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
 ablest, of the whole priesthood of the Kirk 
 of Scotland, in every sense of that ambigu- 
 ous term, yet the poor Doctor and his 
 numerous family are in iminent danger of 
 being thrown out to the mercy of the 
 winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on that 
 business is, I confess, too local, but 1 h\nghed 
 myself at some conceits in it, thougli I am 
 convinced in my conscience that there are a 
 good many heavy stanzas in it too. 
 
 The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
 to the present canvass in our string of 
 boroughs. I do not believe there will be 
 such a hard run match in the whole general 
 election. 
 
 « « • * 
 
 I am too little a man to have any political 
 attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and 
 have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
 of both parties : but a man who has it in 
 his power to be the father of a country, and 
 who * * * * *^ (93) is a character that one 
 cinnot speak of with patience. 
 
 Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but 
 yet I doubt his fate. R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXXV. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellisland, December 13/ A, 1789. 
 
 Many thanks, my dear Madam, for your 
 sheetful of rhymes. Though at present I 
 
TO LADY CONSTABLE. 
 
 3-5.5 
 
 am below the veriest prose, yet from you 
 ^every thing pleases. I am groaning under 
 the miseries of a diseased nervous system — 
 a system, the state of which is most con- 
 ducive to our happiness, or the most pro- 
 ductive of our misery. For now near three 
 weeks I have been so ill with a nervous 
 headache, that I have been obliged for a 
 time to give up my Excise-books, being 
 scarce able to lift my head, much less to 
 ride once a-week over ten muir parishes. 
 What is man ? To day, iu the luxuriance 
 of health, exulting in the enjoyment of 
 existence ; in a fesv days, perhaps in a few 
 hours, loaded with conscious painful being, 
 counting the tardy pace of the lingering i 
 moments by the repercussions of anguish, 
 and refusing or denying a comforter. Day 
 follows night, and night comes after day, 
 only to curse him with life which gives him 
 no pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark ter- 
 mination of that life is something at which 
 he recoils. 
 
 Tell us, j'e dead ; will none of you in pity 
 
 Disclose the secret 
 
 fVliat 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 
 
 'tis no matter : 
 
 A little time will make us learn'd as you are. 
 
 Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
 frail, feverish being, I shall still fiud myself 
 in conscious existence ? When the last 
 gasp of agony has announced that I am no 
 more to those that knew me, and the few 
 who loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, 
 unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into 
 the earth, to be the prey of unsightly rep- 
 tiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, 
 shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, 
 enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, 
 and holy flamens, is there probability in 
 your conjectures, truth in your stories, of 
 another world beyond death ; or are they all 
 alike baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 
 If there is another life, it must be only for 
 the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and 
 the humane ; what a flattering idea then is 
 a world to come ! Would to God I as 
 firmly believed it as I ardently wish it ! 
 There, I should meet an aged parent, now at 
 rest from the many buffetings of an evil 
 world, against which he so long and so 
 bravely struggled. There should 1 meet the 
 friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
 life ; -the man who rejoiced to see me, 
 because he loved me and could serve me. 
 Muir, thy weakness were the aberrations of 
 human nature, but thy heart glowed with 
 every thing generous, manly, and noble ; 
 »nd if emanation from the All-good Beiug 
 
 animated a human frame, it was thine! 
 There should I, with speechless agony of 
 rapture, again recognize my lost, my ever 
 dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with 
 truth, honour, constancy, and love. 
 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ? 
 
 Where is thy place of heavenly rest? 
 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
 breast ? 
 
 Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters! 
 I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy 
 revelation of blissful scenes of existence 
 beyond death and the grave, is not one of 
 the many impositions which time after time 
 have been palmed on credulous mankind. 
 I trust that in thee " shall all the families of 
 the earth be blessed," by being yet con- 
 nected together in a better world, where 
 every tie that bound heart to heart, in this 
 state of existence, shall be, far beyond our 
 present conceptions, more endearing. 
 
 I am a good deal inclined to think with 
 those who maintain, that what are called 
 nervous affections are in fact diseases of the 
 mind. I cannot reason, I camiot think; 
 and but to you I would not venture to 
 write any thing above an order to a cobbler. 
 You have felt too much of the ills of life not 
 to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who 
 has impaired more than half of any faculties 
 he possessed. Your goodness will excuse 
 this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare 
 scarcely read, and which he would throw 
 into the fire, were he able to write any 
 thing better, or indeed any thing at all. 
 
 Rumour told me something of a sou of 
 yours, who was returned from the East or 
 West Indies. If you have gotten news 
 from James or Anthony, it was cruel in you 
 not to let me know ; as I promised you, on 
 the sincerity of a man, who is weary of one 
 world, and anxious about anotlier, that 
 scarce any thing could give me so much 
 pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
 falling my honoured friend. 
 
 If you have a minute's leisure, take up 
 your pen in pity to le pauvre miserable, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXXVI. 
 
 TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL 
 CONSTABLE. (94) 
 
 Ellisland, December 16th. 178a 
 
 My IiA.DY — In vain I liave,from day to day, 
 expected to hear from Mrs. Y'ouiig, as she 
 
?.r)6 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 l)romisecl me at Dalswinton that slie would 
 do me the honour to introduce me at 
 Timvald ; and it was impossible, not from 
 your ladyship's accessibility, but from my 
 own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately, 
 indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, in his 
 usual goodness, offered to accompany me, 
 when an unlucky indisposition on my part 
 hindered my embracing the opportunity. 
 To court the notice or the tables of the 
 great, except where I sometimes have had 
 a little matter to ask of them, or, more often, 
 the pleasanter task of witnessing my grati- 
 tude to tlv.^m, is what I never have done, 
 lud I trust never shall do. But with your 
 Udyship I have the honour to be connected 
 l.y one of the strongest and most endearing 
 I .'3 in tlie whole moral world. Common suf- 
 (rrers, in a cause where even to be unfortu- 
 nate is glorious, the cause of heroic loyalty ! 
 I hough my fathers had not illustrious 
 tiijiiours and vast properties to hazard in the 
 dintest, though they left their humble 
 c ittages only to add so many units more to 
 I he uni oted crowd that followed their 
 li-aders, yet what they could they did, and 
 w liat they had they lost : with unshaken 
 tir'nness, and unconcealed political attach- 
 ments, they shook hands with ruin for what 
 iliey esteemed the cause of their king and 
 ilieir country. This language and the en- 
 closed verses (95) are for your ladyship's 
 eve alone. Poets are not very famous for 
 tlieir prudence ; but as I can do nothmg for 
 a cause which is now nearly no more, I do 
 not wish to hurt myself. I have the honour 
 to be, my lady, your ladyship's obliged and 
 obedient humble servant, £.. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXXVIl. 
 
 TO PROVOST MAXWEUU 
 
 OF LOCHMABEN. 
 
 Ellisland, December 2Qth, 1789. 
 
 Dear Provost — As my friend, Mr. 
 Graham, goes for your good town to- morrow, 
 I cannot resist the temptation to send you 
 a few lines, and, as I have nothing to say, I 
 have cliosen this sheet of foolscap, and 
 begun, as you see, at the top of the first 
 page, because I have ever observed, that 
 when once people have fairly set out, they 
 know not where to stop. Now that ray first 
 sentence is concluded, I have nothing to do 
 but to pray Heaven to help me on to 
 another. Shall I write you on politics or 
 religion, two master subjects for your sayera 
 
 of nothing ? Of the first, I dare say by this 
 time you are nearly surfeited (96) ; and for 
 the last, whatever they may talk of it, who ' 
 make it a kind of company concern, I never 
 could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might 
 write you on farming, on building, on mar- 
 keting; but my poor distracted mind is so 
 torn, so jaded, so racked and bedeviled with 
 the task of the superlatively damned to 
 make one guinea do the business of three, 
 that I detest, abhor, and swoon, at the very 
 word business, though no less than four 
 letters of my very short surname are in it. 
 
 W^ell, to make the matter short, I shall 
 betake myself to a subject ever fruitful of 
 themes — a subject the turtle feast of the 
 sons of Satan, and the delicious secret sugar 
 plum of the babes of grace — a subject 
 sparkling with all the jewels that wit can 
 find in the mines of genius, and pregnant 
 wjth all the stores of learning from Moses 
 and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley — 
 in short, may it please your lordship, I 
 intend to write • ♦ * 
 
 [TZere the poet inserted a song.'] 
 
 If at any time you expect a field-day in 
 your town, a day when dukes, earls, and 
 knights, pay their court to weavers, tailors, 
 ami cobblers, I should like to know of it two 
 or three days before-hand. It is not that I 
 care three skips of a cur dog for the politics, 
 but I should like to see such an exhibition 
 of human nature. If you meet with that 
 worthy old veteran in religion and good 
 fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any of his amiable 
 family (97), I beg you will give them my 
 best compliments. R. B. 
 
 NO. CLXXXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. SUTHERLAND, PLAYER^ 
 
 ENCLOSING A PfeOLOGUE. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 I WAS much disappointed, my dear Sin 
 in wanting your most agreeable company 
 yesterday. However, I heartily pray for 
 good weather next Sunday ; and whatever 
 aerial Being has the guidance of the ele- 
 ments, may take any other half dozen o/ i 
 Sundays he pleases, and clothe them ^iih 
 Vapours, and clouds, and storms. 
 Until he terrify himself 
 At combustion of his own raising. 
 I shall see you on Wednesday forenooa 
 In the greatest hurry, R. B. 
 
n 
 
 TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 357 
 
 NO. CLXXXIX. 
 
 TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 
 
 1790. 
 
 Sir — The followin.^ circumstance lias, I 
 believe, been omitted in the statistical ac- 
 count, transmitted to you, of the parish of 
 Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send 
 it to you, because it is new, and may be 
 useful. How far it is deserving of a place 
 in your patriotic publication, you are the 
 best judge. 
 
 To store the minds of the lower classes 
 with useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
 great importance, both to them as indi- 
 viduals, and to society at large. Giving 
 them a turn for reading and reflection, is 
 giving them a source of innocent and lau- 
 dable amusement, and, besides, raises them 
 to a more dignified degree in the scale of 
 rationality. Impressed with this idea, a 
 gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., 
 of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circu- 
 lating library, on a plan so simple, as to be 
 practicable in any corner of the country ; 
 and so useful, as to deserve the notice of 
 every country gentleman, who thinks the 
 improvement of that part of his own species, 
 whom chance has thrown into the humble 
 walks of the peasant and the artizan, a 
 matter worthy of his attention. 
 
 Mr. Riddel got a number of his own 
 tenants, and farming neighbours, to form 
 themselves into a society for the purpose of 
 having a library among themselves. They 
 entered into a legal engagement to abide by 
 it for three years ; with a saving clause or 
 two, in case of removal to a distance, or of 
 death. Each member, at his entry, paid five 
 shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
 which were held every fourth Saturday, six- 
 pence more. With their entry-money, and 
 the credit which they took on the faith of 
 their future funds, they laid m a tolerable 
 stock of books at the commencement. What 
 authors they were to purchase, was always 
 decided by the majority. At every meeting, 
 all the books, under certain fines and for- 
 feitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
 duced ; and the members had their choice of 
 the volumes in rotation, lie whose name 
 stood for that night first on the list, had his 
 choice of what volume he pleased in the 
 whole collection ; the second had his choice 
 after the first ; the third after the second ; 
 and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
 who had been first on the list at the pre- 
 ceding meeting, was last at this; he who 
 had been second was first ; and so on 
 through the whole three years. At the ex- 
 
 piration of the engagement, the books were 
 sold by auction, but only among the mem- 
 bers themselves; and each man had his 
 share of the common stock, in money or in 
 books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 
 
 At the breaking up of this little society, 
 which was formed under Mr. Riddel's 
 patronage, what with benefactions of books 
 from him, and what with their own pur- 
 chases, they had collected together upwards 
 of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will 
 easily be guessed that a good deal of trash 
 would be bouicht. Among the books, how- 
 ever, of this little library, were — Blair's Ser- 
 mons, Robertson's History of Scotland, 
 Hume's History of the Stuarts, The Spec- 
 tator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, 
 Observer, Man of Feeling, Jlan of the 
 World, Chrysal, Don Q.uixote, Joseph 
 Andrews, &c. A peasant who can read, 
 and enjoy such books, is certainly a much 
 superior being to his neighbour who, perhaps, 
 stalks beside his team, very little removed, 
 except in shape, from the brutes he drives. 
 
 Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
 much merited success, I am. Sir, your hum- 
 ble servant, A Peasant (98J. 
 
 >o. cxc. 
 TO MR. GiJbtiERT BURNS. 
 Ellisland, January Wtk, 1790. 
 
 Dear Brother — I mean to take advan- 
 tage of the frank, though I have not in my 
 present frame of mind much appetite for 
 exertion in \vriting. My nerves are in a 
 state. I feel that horrid hypo- 
 chondria pervading every atom of both body 
 and soul. This farm has undone my enjoy- 
 ment of myself. It is a ruinous alfair on all 
 
 hands. But let it go to ! I'll fight 
 
 it out, and be off with it. 
 
 We have gotten a set of very decent 
 players here just now. I have seen tliem 
 an evening or two. David Campbell, in 
 Ayr, wTote to me by the manager of the 
 company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man 
 of apparent worth. On New-yearday even- 
 ing I gave him the following prologue, which 
 he spouted to his audience with applause : — 
 " No song nor dance I bring from yon great 
 
 city," &c. 
 
 I can no more. K once I was clear of 
 this damned farm, I should respire more at 
 ease. 
 
359 
 
 CORRESPONDEXCE OF BURNS. 
 
 TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 
 
 Ellisland, January \Uh, 1790. 
 
 Since we are here creatures of a day, 
 since "a few summer days, and a few winter 
 nia;hts, and the life of man is at an end," 
 wliy, my dear much-esteemed Sir, should 
 you and I let neglijfent indolence — for I 
 know it is nothin<j worse — step in between 
 us, anil bar the enjoyment of a mutual cor- 
 respondence? We are not shapen out of 
 the common, heavy, methodical clod, the 
 elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, 
 the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our 
 feelings and hearts are not benumbed and 
 poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, 
 wliich, whatever blessing they may be in 
 other respects, are no friends to the nobler 
 qualities of the heart : in the name of 
 random sensibility, then, let never the moon 
 change on our silence any more. I have 
 had a tract of bad health most part of this 
 winter, else you had heard from me long 
 ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so 
 much better as to be able to partake a little 
 iu tlie enjoyments of life. 
 
 Our friend, Cunningham, will perhaps 
 nave told you of my going into the Excise. 
 The truth is, I found it a very convenient 
 b-usiness to have £50 per annum, nor have I 
 yet felt any of these mortifying circum- 
 stances in it that 1 was led to fear. 
 
 Feb. 2nd. — I have not, for sheer hurry of 
 business, been able to spare five minutes to 
 finish my letter. Besides my farm business, 
 1 ride on my E.tcise matters at least 200 
 miles every week. 1 have not by any means 
 given up the Muses. You will see in the 
 3rd vol. of Johnson's Scots songs that I 
 have contributed ray mite there. 
 
 But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up 
 to you for paternal protection are an im- 
 portant charge. I have already two fine 
 liealthy stout little fellows, and I wish to 
 throw some light upon them. I have a 
 thousand reveries and schemes about them, 
 and their future destiny. Not that I am a 
 Utopian projector in these things. I am 
 resolved never to breed up a son of mine to 
 any of the learned professions. I know the 
 value of independence , and since I cannot 
 give my sons an independent fortune, I shall 
 give them an independent line of life. What 
 a cliaos of hurry, chance, and changes is this 
 \7or!il, when one sits soberly down to reflect 
 on it ! To a father, who himself knows the 
 world, the thought that he shall have sons 
 to usher mto it must fill him with dread; 
 
 Ij ic if ha have daughters, the prospect in a 
 thoughtful moment i? apt to shock him. 
 
 I hope Jlrs. Fordyce and the two young 
 ladies are well. Do let rae forget that they 
 are nieces of yours, and let me say that I 
 never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair 
 of sisters in my life. I am the fool of my 
 feelings and attachments. I often take up a 
 volume of my Spenser to realise you to my 
 imagination (99), and think over the social 
 scenes we have had together. God grant 
 that there may be another world more con- 
 genial to honest fellows beyond, this. A 
 world where these rubs and plagues of 
 absence, distance, misfortunes, ill-health, 
 &c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide 
 friendship. This I know is your throng 
 season, but half a page will much oblige, 
 my dear Sir, yours sincerely, K^ B. 
 
 NO. CXCII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Ellisland, January 25th, 1790. 
 
 It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
 business that I have not written to you. 
 Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly 
 better, and I now begin once more to share 
 in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest 
 of my fellow-creatures. 
 
 Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, 
 for your kind letters; but why will you make 
 me run the risk of being contemptible and 
 mercenary in my own eyes? When I pique 
 myself on my independent spirit, I hope it 
 is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant : 
 and I am so flattered with the honour you 
 have done me, in making rae your compeer 
 in friendship and friendly correspondence, 
 that I cannot, without pain, and a degree of 
 mortilication, be reminded of the real ine- 
 quality between our situations. 
 
 Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
 Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
 only your anxiety about his fate, but my 
 own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, 
 m:inly young fellow, in the little I had of hia 
 acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
 fortunes. 
 
 Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
 " Shipwreck," which you so much admire, is 
 no more. After witnessing the dreadful 
 catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his 
 poem, and after weathering many hard gales 
 of fortune, he went to the bottom with thti 
 Aurora frigate ! 
 
TO MR. PETl^R HILL. 
 
 859 
 
 I forget what part of Scotland had the 
 honour of giving hiin birth, but he was the 
 »on of obscurity and misfortune. He was 
 one of those daring adventurous spirits, 
 which Scotland, beyond any other country, 
 is remarkable for producing. Little does 
 the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted 
 over the sweet little leech at her bosom, 
 where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, 
 and what may be his fate. I remember a 
 stanza in an old Scottish ballad (lOOj, which, 
 notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks 
 feelingly to the heart : — 
 
 "Little did my mother think. 
 That day she cradled me. 
 What land I was to travel in, 
 Or what death I should die ! " 
 
 Old Scottish songs are, you know, a fa- 
 vourite study and pursuit of mine; and now 
 I am on that subject, allow me to give you 
 two stanzas of another old simple ballad, 
 which I am sure will please you. The catas- 
 trophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, 
 lamenting her fate. She concludes with this 
 pathetic wish : — 
 " Oh that ray father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 
 
 Oh that my mother had ne'er to me sung ; 
 Oh that my cradle had not e'er been rock'd ; 
 
 But that I had died when I was young ! 
 
 Oh that the turf-clad grave it were my bed ; 
 
 My blankets were ray winding-sheet; 
 The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 
 
 And oh sae soundly sweet aa I should 
 sleep ' " 
 
 I do not remember in all my reading to have 
 met with anything more truly the language 
 of misery, tiian the exclamation in the last 
 hue. Misery is like love ; to speak its 
 language truly, the author must have felt it. 
 
 I am every day expecting the doctor to 
 give your little godson (101) the small-pox. 
 It is rife in the country, and I tremble 
 for his fiite. By the way, I cannot iielp 
 congratulating you on his looks and spirit. 
 Every person wlin sees him acknowledges 
 hira to be the finest, handsomest child he 
 has ever seen. I am myself delighted with 
 the manly swell of his little chest, and a cer- 
 tain miniature dignity m the carriage of his 
 head, and llie glance of his tine black eye, 
 which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
 independent mind. 
 
 I thought to have sent you some rhymes, 
 but time forbids. I promise you poetry 
 until you are tired of it, next time I have 
 the honour of assuring you how truly I am, 
 &C. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXCIII. 
 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 
 
 ElMand, Feb. 2nd, 1790. 
 
 No ! I will not say one word about 
 apologies or excuses for not writing ; — 1 am a 
 poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop 
 at least 200 miles every week to inspect 
 dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where 
 can I find time to write to, or importance to 
 interest any body ? The upbraidings of my 
 conscience, nay the upbraidings of my wife, 
 have persecuted me on your account these 
 two or three months past. I wish to God I 
 was a great man, that my correspondence 
 might throw light upon you, to let the world 
 see what you really are : and then I would 
 make your fortune, without putting my 
 hand in my pocket for you, which, like all 
 other great men, I suppose I would avoid as 
 much as possible. What are you doing, and 
 how are you doing ? Have you lately seen 
 any of my few friends ? What has become 
 of the BOROUGH REFORM, or how is the 
 fate of my poor namesake, Mademoiselle 
 Burns, decided ? Oh man ! but for thee and 
 thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, 
 that beauteous form, and that once innocent 
 and still ingenuous mind, might have shone 
 conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, 
 and the affectionate mother ; and shall the 
 unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
 no claim on thy humanity ! (102) 
 
 I saw lately in a review some extracts 
 from a new poem, called the " Village 
 Curate ; " send it me. I want likewise a 
 cheap copy of "The World." Mr. Arm- 
 strong, the young poet, who does me the 
 honour to mention me so kindly in his 
 works, please give hira my best tlianks for 
 the copy of his book. I shall write hiin, my 
 first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, 
 but I thmk his style in prose quite aston- 
 ishing. 
 
 Your book came safe, and I am going to 
 trouble you with further commissions. I 
 call it troubling you — because I want only, 
 BOOKS ; the cheapest way, the best ; so you 
 may have to hunt for them in the evening 
 auctions. I want Smollett's Works, for the 
 sake of his incomparable humour. 1 have 
 already Roderick Random, and Humphrey 
 Clinker. Perigrine Pickle, lianncelot Greaves, 
 ami Ferdinand Count Fathom, I still want ; 
 but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies 
 will serve me. I am nice only in the ap- 
 pearance of my poets. 1 forget the price of 
 Cowper'g Poems, but I believe J must have 
 
 32 
 
360 
 
 COURESVoNOENnE O^ nrRX"? 
 
 tliein. I saw, the other day, proposals for a 
 publication, entitled, " Bank's new and com- 
 plete Christian's Family Bible," printed for 
 C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He 
 promises, at least, to give in the work, I think 
 it is three hundred and odd engravings, to 
 which he has put the names of the first 
 artists in London. (103) You will know the 
 character of the performance, as some num- 
 bers of it are published : and if it is really 
 what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
 subscriber, and send me the published 
 numbers. 
 
 Let me hear from you, your first leisure 
 minute, and trust me, you shall in future 
 have '10 reason to complain of my silence. 
 Tiie dazzling perple.\ity of novelty will dis- 
 sipate, and leave me to pursue my course in 
 the quiet path of methodical routine. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXCIT. 
 
 TO MR. W. NICOL. 
 
 ElMand, Feb. 9th, 1790. 
 
 My dear Sik — That mar" of yours 
 
 is dead. I would freely have given her price 
 to have saved her ; she has vexed me beyond 
 description. Indebted, as I was, to your 
 goodness beyond what 1 can ever repay, I 
 eagerly grasped at your offer to have tlie 
 mare with me. That I might at least show 
 my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
 took every care of her ni my power. She 
 was never crossed for riding above half a 
 score of times by me, or in ray keeping. I 
 drew her in the plough, one of three, for one 
 poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for 
 her, which was the highest bode I could 
 squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her 
 in fine order for Dumfries fair; when four 
 or five days before the fair, she was seized 
 with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, 
 or somewhere in the bones of the neck; 
 with a weakness or total want of power in 
 her fillets, and, in short, the whole vertebra; 
 of her spine seemed to be diseased and 
 unhinged, and in eight and forty hours, in 
 spite of the two best farriers in the country, 
 
 "he dieil, and be to her ! The farriers 
 
 bi^id that she had been quite strained in the 
 fillets beyond cure before you had bought 
 her; and that the poor devil, though she 
 might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and 
 quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. 
 V\ bile she was with me, she was under my 
 
 own eye, and, 1 assure you, my much-valued 
 friend, everything was done for ber that 
 could be done ; and the accident has vexed 
 me to the heart. In fact I could not pluck 
 up spirits to write to you, on account of the 
 unfortunate business. 
 
 There is little new in this country. Our 
 theatrical company, of which you must have 
 heard, leave tis this week. Their merit and 
 character are, indeed, very great, both on the 
 stage and in private life ; not a worthless 
 creature among them ; and their encourage- 
 ment has been accordmgly. Their usual run 
 is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds »- 
 night ; seldom less than the one, and tbe 
 house will hold no more than the other. 
 There have been repeated instances of send- 
 ing away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
 anight for want of room. A new theatre is 
 to be built by subscription ; the first stone 
 is to be laid on Friday first to come. Three 
 hundred guineas have been raised by thirty 
 subscribers, and thirty more might have been 
 got if wanted. The manager, Mr Suther- 
 land, was introduced to me by a friend from 
 Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I 
 have rarely met with. Some of our clergy 
 have slipt in by stealth now and then ; but 
 they have got up a farce of their own. Yon 
 must have heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson 
 of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. 
 Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest of 
 that faction, have accused, in formal process, 
 the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron, of 
 Kirkgunzeon, that, in ordaining Mr. Nielson 
 to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, the 
 said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 
 bound the said Nielson to the confession of 
 faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and 
 the word of God ! 
 
 Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most 
 gratefully to you. Little Bobby and Frank 
 are charmingly well and healthy. I am 
 jaded to death with fatigue. For these two 
 or three months, on an average, I have not 
 ridden less than 200 miles per week. I have 
 done little in the poetic way. I have given 
 JMr. Sutherland two Prologues ; one of 
 which was delivered last week. I have like- 
 wise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to 
 the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy 
 on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning 
 (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) 
 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
 
 As ever trode on aim ; 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 
 And past the mouth o' Cairn. 
 
 My best compliments to xMrs. Nicol, and 
 little Neddy, and all the family; I hope Ned 
 
I 
 
 TO SlJl. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 361 
 
 It a good scholar, and will come out to 
 gather nuts and apples with me next harvest. 
 R. B. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. (104) 
 
 Ellisland, February VSth, 1790. 
 
 T BEG j'our pardon, my dear and much- 
 valued friend, for writing- to you on this 
 very unfashionable, unsightly sheet. 
 
 My poverty, but not my will, consents. 
 
 But to make amends, since of modish post 
 I have none, except one poor widowed half- 
 sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer, among 
 my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow 
 of a man of fashion, whom that impolite 
 scoundrel. Necessity, has driven from Bur- 
 gundy and Pineapple, to a dish of Bohea 
 with the scandal-bearing help-mate of a 
 village-priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy, 
 with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot- 
 padding exciseman — I make a vow to enclose 
 this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in that 
 my only scrap of gilt-paper. 
 
 I am, indeed, your worthy debtor for three 
 friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
 you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
 scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I 
 will not WTite to you : Miss Burnet is not 
 more dear to her guardian angel, nor his 
 grace the Duke of Queensberry to the 
 powers of darkness, than my friend Cun- 
 ningham to me. It is not that I cannot 
 write to you ; should you doubt it, take the 
 following fragment, which was intended for 
 you some time ago, and be convinced that I 
 can authesize sentiment, and circumvolule 
 periods, as well as any coiner of plirase in 
 the regions of philology. 
 
 December, 1789 
 My Dear Cunningh,\m — Where are 
 you ? And what are you doing? Can you 
 be that son of levity, who takes up a frieud- 
 sliip as he takes up a fashion ; or, are you, 
 like some other of the worthiest fellows in 
 the world, the victim of indolence, laden 
 with fetters of ever-increasing weight? 
 
 What strange beings we are ! Since we 
 have a portion of conscious existence, 
 efpially capable of enjoying pleasure, hap- 
 piness, and rapture, or of suffering pain, 
 wretchedness, and misery ; it is surely 
 worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not 
 inch a thing as a science of life; whether 
 
 method, economy, and fertility of expedi- 
 ents, be not applicable to enjoyment ; and 
 whether there be not a want of dexterity 
 in pleasure, which renders our little scantling 
 of happiness still less; and a profuscness 
 and intoxication in bliss, which leads tc 
 satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. Thert 
 is not a doubt but that health, talents, 
 character, decent competency, respectable 
 friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
 yet, do we not daily see those who enjoy 
 many or all of the.se good things, contrive 
 notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others 
 to whose lot few of them have fallen ? 1 
 believe one great source of this mistake oi 
 misconduct is owing to a certain stminlus. 
 with us called ambition, which goads us up 
 the hill of life ; not as we ascend other 
 eminences, for the laudable curiosity ol 
 viewing an extended landscape, but, rather. 
 for the dishonest pride of looking down 
 on others of our fellow-creatures, seem 
 ingly diminutive in humbler stations, &c 
 &c. 
 
 Sunday, February lith, 1790. 
 God help me! I am now obliged to join 
 Night to day, and Sunday to the week. 
 
 If there be any truth in the orthodox faith 
 
 of these churches, I am past re 
 
 demption, and, what is worse, to 
 
 all eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's 
 Four-fold State, jMarshall on Sanctification. 
 Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, &c. ; 
 but, " there is no balm in Gilead, there is no 
 physician there," for me ; so I shall e'en 
 turn Arminian, and trust to "Sincere thougli 
 imperfect obedience." 
 
 Tuesday, 16/ A. 
 
 Luckily for me, I was prevented frora 
 the discussion of the knotty point at which 
 I had just made a full stop. All my fears 
 and cares are of tins world : if there i? 
 another, an honest man has nothing to fear 
 from it. I hate a man that wishes to be t 
 deist ; but I fear, every fair, nnprejudicec' 
 inquirer must, in some degree, be a sceptic 
 It is not that there are any very staggering 
 arguments against the immortality of man ; 
 but, like electricity, phlogiston, &e., the 
 subject is so involved in darkness, that we 
 want data to go upon. One thing frightens 
 me much : that we are to li^e for ever, 
 seems too good news to be true. That we 
 are to enter into a new scene of existence, 
 where, exempt from want and pain, we shall 
 enjoy ourselves and our friends without 
 satiety or separation ; — how much should 
 
362 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 I be indebted to any one who could fully 
 assure me that this was certain! 
 
 My time is once more expired. I will 
 write to j\lr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him 
 and all his concerns ! And may all the 
 powers that preside over conviviality and 
 friendship be present with all their kindest 
 influence, when the bearer of this, Mr. 
 Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could also 
 make one. 
 
 Finally, brethren, farewell ! Wiatsoever 
 thin^cs are lovely, whatsoever things are 
 gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, 
 whatsoever things are kind, think on these 
 things, and think on. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CXCVl. 
 
 TO MR. HILL. 
 
 Ellisland, March 2nd, 1790. 
 
 At a late meeting of the Monkland 
 Friendly Society, it was resolved to aiigment 
 their library by the following books, which 
 you are to send us as soon as possible : — 
 The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, 
 Man of the World (these, for my own sake, 
 I wish to have by the first carrier), Knox's 
 History of the Reformation ; Rae's History 
 of the Rebellion in 1715; any good History 
 of the Rebellion in 1745; A Display of 
 the Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. 
 Gib; Hervey's Meditations; Beveridge's 
 Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson's 
 Body of Divinity. 
 
 I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or 
 four months ago, to pay some money he 
 owed me into your hands, and lately, I 
 wrote to you to the same purpose ; but 1 
 have heard from neither one nor other of 
 you. 
 
 In addition to the books I commissioned 
 in my last, I want very much Au Index to 
 the Excise Laws, or an Abridgement of all 
 the Statutes now in force relative to tlie 
 Excise, by Jellinger Symons ; I want three 
 copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, 
 cheap or dear, get it for nie. An honest 
 country neighbour of mine wants, too, a 
 Family Bible, the larger the better, but 
 second-handed, for he does not choose to 
 give above ten shillings for the book. I 
 want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
 them up, second-handed, or cheap, copies of 
 Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, 
 Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Van- 
 bnrgh's. Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works 
 of the more modern JIacklin, Garrick, 
 Poote, Colman, or Sheridan. \ trond ropy 
 
 too, of Moliere, in French, I much want. 
 Any other good dramatic authors in that 
 language I want also; but comic authors 
 chiefly, though I should wish to have 
 Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in 
 no hurry for all, or any of these, but if you 
 accidently meet with them very cheap, get 
 them for me. (105) 
 
 And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
 how do you do, my dear friend ?— and how 
 is Blrs. Hill ? I trust, if now and then not 
 so elepantly handsome, at least as amiable, 
 and sings as divinely as ever. My good 
 wife, too, has a charming "wood-note wild;" 
 now could we four . 
 
 I am out of all patience with this vile 
 world, for one thing. Mankind are by 
 nature benevolent creatures, except in a few 
 scoundrelly instances. I do not think that 
 avarice of the good things we chance to 
 have is born with us : but, we are placed 
 here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, 
 and poverty, and want, that we are under a 
 cursed necessity of studying sellishness, in 
 order that we may exi.st! Still there are, 
 in every age, a few soids, that all the wants 
 and woes of life cannot debase to selfish- 
 ness, or even to the necessary alloy of 
 caution and prudence. If ever 1 am in 
 danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate 
 myself on this side of my disposition and 
 character. God knows, I am no saint; I 
 liave a whole host of follies and sins to 
 answer for; but if I could, and I believe I 
 do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all 
 tears from all eyes. Adieu ! R. B. 
 
 NO. CXCVII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellisland, April 10th, 1790. 
 I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured 
 friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in read- 
 ing a paper of the Loimger. You know my 
 national prejudices. I iiad often read and 
 admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, 
 and World ; but still, with a certain regret 
 that they were so thoroughly and entirely 
 English. Alas ! have I often said t^ myself, 
 what are all the boasted advantages which 
 my country reaps from the union, that can 
 counterbalance the annihilation of her inde- 
 pendence, and even her \ ery name ! I often 
 repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
 Goldsmith — 
 
 States, of native liberty posscst, 
 
 Tlinii"-h very poor, mav vet he verv blest. 
 
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 
 
 363 
 
 Nothing cat\ reconcile me to the common 
 terms, Enjchsh ambassador, English court, 
 &c. And I am out of all patience to see 
 that equivocal character, Hastinj^s, im- 
 peached by "the Commons of England." 
 Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice ? 
 1 believe, on my conscience, such ideas as — 
 "my country, her independence, her hon- 
 our, the illustrious names that mark the 
 history of my native lanrl," &c. — I believe 
 these, among your men of the world, — men 
 who, in fact, guide for the most part and 
 govern our world, — are looked on as so many 
 modifications of wrong-headedness. They 
 know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
 rouse or lead the rabble; but for their 
 own private use, with almost all the able 
 statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, 
 when tlicy talk of right and wrong, they 
 only mean proper and improper ; and their 
 measure of conduct is not what they ought, 
 but what they DAtiE. For the truth of 
 this, 1 shall not ransack the history of 
 nations, but appeal to one of the ablest 
 judges of men that ever lived — the cele- 
 brated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man 
 who could thoroughly control his vices 
 whenever they interfered with his interests, 
 and who could completely put on the ap- 
 pearance of every virtue as often as it 
 suited his purposes, is, on the Stauhopian 
 plan, the perfect man; a man to lead 
 nations. But' are great abilities, complete 
 without a flaw, and polished without a 
 blemish, the standard of human excellence ? 
 This is certainly the staunch opinion of men 
 of the ivorld; but I call on honour, virtue, 
 and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
 loud negative ! However, this must be 
 allowed, that, if you abstract from man the 
 idea of an existence beyond the grave, then 
 the true measure of human conduct is, 
 proper and improper; virtue and vice, as 
 dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, 
 of scarcely the same import and value to the 
 world at large, as harmony and discord in 
 the modifications of sound; and a delicate 
 sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, 
 though it may sometimes give tiie possessor 
 an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs 
 of the herd, yet, considering the harsh 
 gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill- 
 tuned state of being, it is odds but the 
 individual would be as happy, and certainly 
 would be as much respected, by the true 
 judges of sfjciety as it would then stand, 
 witliDUt either a good ear or a good heart. 
 
 You must know, I have just met with the 
 Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I 
 am quite in raptures with them ; I should 
 
 be glad to have your opinton of some of the 
 papers. The one I have just read, Lounger, 
 No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than 
 any thing I have read of a long time. (lOG) 
 Jlackenzie has been called the Addison of 
 the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison 
 would not be hurt at the comparison. If he 
 has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as 
 certainly outdoes him in the tender and the 
 pathetic. His Man of Feeling (but I am 
 not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism) 
 I estimate as the first performance in its 
 kind I ever saw. From what book, moral 
 or even pious, will the susceptible young 
 mind receive impressions more congenial to 
 humanity and kindness, generosity and be- 
 nevolence — in short, more of all that enno- 
 bles the soul to herself, or endears her to 
 others — than from the simple affecting tale 
 of poor Harley ? 
 
 Still, with allmy admiration of Mackenzie's 
 writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
 reailing for a young man who is about to set 
 out, as the phrase is, to make his way into 
 life. Do not you think, Madam, that among 
 the few favoured of Heaven in the structure 
 of their minds (for such there certainly are), 
 there may be a purity, a tenderness, a 
 dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no 
 use, nay, in some degree, absolutely dis- 
 qualifying, for the truly important business 
 of making a man's way into life ! If I am 
 not much mistaken, my gallant young friend 
 A******, is very much under these disquali- 
 fications ; and, for the young females of o 
 family I could mention, well may they excite 
 parental solicitude, for I, a common ac- 
 quaintance, or as my vanity will have it, a 
 humble friend, have often trembled for a 
 turn of mind which may render them emi- 
 nently happy, or peculiarly miseraljle ! 
 
 I have been manufacturing some verses 
 lately ; but as I have got the most hurried 
 season of Excise business over, I hope to 
 have more leisure to transcribe any thing 
 that may show how nuicli I have the honour 
 to be. Madam, yours. &c. R. B. 
 
 NO. CXCVIII. 
 
 TO COLLECTOR iMITCHELL 
 
 Ellklnnd, 1790. 
 
 Sir — I shall not fail to wait on Captain 
 Riddel to-night— I wish and pray that the 
 goddess of justice herself would appear to- 
 morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely 
 to give them a word in their car that mercy 
 
 ^V 
 
364 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 to the thief is injustice to the honest man. 
 For my part, I have galloped over my ten 
 parishes these four days, until this moment 
 that I am just alighted, or rather, that my 
 poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me 
 down ; for the miserable devil has been on 
 his knees half a score of times within the 
 hist twenty miles, telling me, in his own 
 way, " Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of 
 a horse, on which thou hast ridden these 
 many years !" 
 
 In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's 
 wind, and almost broke my own neck, 
 besides some injuries in a part that shall be 
 nameless, owing to a hard-hearted stone of 
 a saddle. I find that every offender has so 
 many great men to espouse his cause, that I 
 shall not be surprised if I am committed to 
 the strong-hold of the law to-morrow for 
 insolence to the dear friends of the gentle- 
 men of the country. I have the honour to 
 be. Sir, your obliged and obedient hiunble 
 E. B. 
 
 NO. CXCIX. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 Dumfries, Excise-Office, July Uth, 1790. 
 
 Sir — Coming into town this morning to 
 attend my duty iu this office, it being col- 
 lection-day, I met with a gentleman who 
 tells me he is on his way to London ; so I 
 take the opportunity of writing to you, as 
 franking is at present under a temporary 
 death. I shall have some snatches of leisure 
 through the day, amid our horrid business 
 and bustle, and I shall improve them as well 
 as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
 * * * *, as miscellaneous as a newspaper, 
 as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or 
 as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause ; 
 as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, 
 or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
 Mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 
 circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it 
 will put you to no expeuse of postage, I 
 shall have the less reflection about it. 
 
 I am sadly ungrateful in not returning 
 you my thanks for your most valuable pre- 
 sent, Zeluco. In fact, you are in some 
 degree blaraeable for my neglect. You were 
 pleased to express a wish for my opinion of 
 the work, which so flattered me, that nothing 
 less would serve my overweening fancy, than 
 a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I 
 have gravely planned a comparative view of 
 you. Fielding, Richardson aud Smollett, in 
 
 your different qualities and merits as novel 
 writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous 
 vanity, and I may probably never bring the 
 business to bear; but I am fond of the 
 spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
 Job — "And I said, I will also declare my . 
 opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy 
 of the book with my annotations. I never 
 take it up without at the same time taking 
 my pencil, aud marking with asterisks, 
 parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an 
 original thought, a nervous remark on life 
 and manners, a remarkable, well-turned 
 period, or a character sketched with un- 
 common precision. 
 
 Though I should hardly think of fairly 
 writing out my " Comparative View," I 
 shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, 
 such as they are. 
 
 I have just received from my gentleman 
 that horrid summons in the book of Reve- 
 lation — "That time shall be no more !" 
 
 The little collection of sonnets have some 
 charming poetry in them. If, indeed, I am 
 indebted to the fair author for the book (107), 
 and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated 
 author of the other sex, I should certainly 
 have written to the lady, with my grateful 
 acknowledgments, and my own ideas of the 
 comparative excellence of her pieces. I 
 would do this last, not from any vanity of 
 thinking that my remarks could be of much 
 consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from 
 my own feelings as an author, doing as 1 
 would be done by. R. B. 
 
 NO. cc. 
 TO MR. MURDOCH, 
 
 TEACHER OP FRENCH, LONDON. 
 
 Ellidand, July \Qtli, 1790. 
 
 My dear Sir — I received a letter from 
 you a long time ago, but, unfortunately, as it 
 was in the time of my peregrinations and 
 journeyings through Scotland, I mislaid or 
 lost it, and, by consequence, your direction 
 along with it. Luckily, my good star 
 brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
 who, I understand is an acquaintance of 
 yours : and by his means and mediation, I 
 hope to replace that link which my un- 
 fortunate negligence had so unluckily broke 
 in the chain of our correspondence. I was 
 the more vexed at the vile accident, as my 
 brother William, a journeyman saddler, has 
 been for some time in London, aud wished 
 
TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 S65 
 
 above all things for your direction, that he 
 miglit have paid his respects to his father's 
 friend. 
 
 His last address he sent to me was," Wm. 
 Burns, at Mr. Barber's, saddler. No. 181, 
 Strand." I writ him by IMr. Kennedy, but 
 neglected to ask him for your address ; so, 
 if you find a spare half minute, please let 
 my brother know by a card where and when 
 he will find you, and the poor fellow will 
 Joyfully wait on you, as one of the few 
 surviving friends of the man whose name, 
 and Christian name too, he has the honour 
 to bear. 
 
 The next letter I write you shall be a long 
 one. I have much to tell you of " hair- 
 breath 'scapes in th' iramuient deadly 
 breach," with all the eventful history of a 
 life, the early years of which owed so much 
 to your kind tutorage ; but this at an hour 
 of leisure. My kindest compliments to Mrs. 
 Murdoch, and family. I am ever, my dear 
 Sir, your obliged friend, R. B. (108) 
 
 its truth — a quality rather rare in compli- 
 ments of these grinning, bowing, scraping 
 times. 
 
 A\'ell, I hope writing to you will ease a 
 little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been 
 bruised to-day ! A ci-deoant friend of mine, 
 and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has 
 given my feelings a wound that I perceive 
 will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He 
 has wounded my pride. B. B. 
 
 TO MR. M'MURDO. 
 
 Ellisland, August 2nd, 1790. 
 
 Sir — Now, that you are over with the 
 sirens of Flattery, the harpies of Corruption, 
 and the furies of Ambition — these infernal 
 deities, that on all sides, and in all parties, 
 preside over the villainous business of poli- 
 tics — permit a rustic muse of your acquain- 
 tance to do her best to soothe you with a 
 song. 
 
 You knew Henderson — I have not flat- 
 tered his memory. I have the honour to 
 be. Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 
 E. B 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 August 8th, 1790. 
 
 Dear Madam — After a long day's toil, 
 plague and care, I sit down to write to you. 
 Ask me not why I have delayed it so long ? 
 It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty 
 Other things; in short, to anything but 
 forgetfulness of la plus aimahle de sou sexe. 
 By the bye, you are indebted your best 
 courtesy to me for this last comphment, as 
 I pay it from my sincere conviction of 
 
 NO. CCIII. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Ellisland, August 8th, 1790. 
 
 Forgive me, my once dear, and ever 
 dear friend, my seeming negligence. You 
 cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I 
 lead. 
 
 I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
 brains for an apt simile, and had some 
 thoughts of a country grannum at a family 
 christening — a bride on the market-day 
 before her marriage, or a tavern-keeper at 
 an election dinner ; but the resemblance 
 that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard 
 miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a 
 roaring hon, seeking, searching whom he 
 may devour. However, tossed about as I 
 am, if I choose (and who would not choose?) 
 to bind down with the crampets of atten- 
 tion the brazen foundation of integrity, I 
 may rear up the superstructure of inde- 
 pendence, and from its daring turrets bid 
 defiance to the storms of fate. And is 
 not this a " consummation devoutly to be 
 wished ? " 
 Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 
 
 Lord of the hon-heart, and eagle-eye! 
 Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare. 
 
 Nor heed the storm that howls along the 
 sky ! 
 
 Are not these noble verses? They are 
 the introduction of Smollett's Ode to In- 
 dependence : if you have not seen the poem, 
 I will send it to you. How wretched is the 
 man that hangs on by the favours of tlie 
 great! To shrink from every dignity of 
 man, at the approach of a lordly piece of 
 self-cousequeuce, who, amid all his tinsel 
 glitter and stately hauteur, is but a creature 
 formed as thou art — and perhaps not 
 so well formed as thou art — came into the 
 world a puling infant as though didst, and 
 must go out of it, as all men must, a naked 
 cx)rsa R.B.(109) 
 
366 
 
 COREESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 NO. CCIV. 
 
 I'D DR. ANDERSON. 
 
 Sir — I am much indebted to my worthy 
 friend, Dr. Blacklock, for introducing me to 
 a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; 
 but when you do me the honour to ask my 
 assistance in your proposed publication, 
 alas, Sir ! you might as well think to cheapen 
 a little honesty at the sign of an advocate's 
 wig, or humility under the Geneva band. 
 I am a miserable hurried devil, worn to the 
 marrow in the friction of holding the noses 
 of the poor publicans to the grindstone of 
 the Excise ! and, like Milton's Satan, for 
 private reasons, am forced 
 To do what yet though dainn'd I would abhor. 
 
 — and, except a couplet or two of honest 
 execration • » * » 
 
 R. B. (110) 
 
 NO. CCV. 
 
 TO CRAUPORD TAIT, Esq., 
 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Ellisland, October 15</i, 1790. 
 
 Dear Sir — Allow me to introduce to 
 your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. Wm. Dun- 
 can, a friend of mine, whom I have long 
 known and long loved. Ilis father, whose 
 only son he is, has a decent little property 
 in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to 
 the law, in which department he comes up 
 an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
 give you my friend's character in two words: 
 as to his head, he has talents enough, and 
 more than enough, for common life ; as to 
 his heart, when nature had fashioned the 
 kindly clay that composes it, she said, " I 
 can no more." 
 
 You, ray good Sir, were born under kinder 
 stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well 
 know, can enter into the feelings of the 
 young man who goes into life with the lau- 
 dable ambition to do something, and to be 
 something, among his fellow-creatures, but 
 whom the consciousness of friendless obscu- 
 rity presses to the earth, and wounds to the 
 soul. 
 
 Even the fairest of his virtues are against 
 him. That independent spirit, and that 
 ingenuous modesty, qualities inseparable from 
 a noble mind, are, with the million, circum- 
 stances not a little disqualifying. What 
 pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and 
 the happy, by their notice and patronage. 
 
 to brighten the countenance and glad the 
 heart of such depressed youth! I am not 
 BO angry with mankind for their deaf eco- 
 nomy of the purse : the goods of this world 
 cannot be divided without being lessened — 
 but why be a niggard of that which bestows 
 bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothin!» 
 from our own means of enjoyment? We 
 wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our owa 
 better fortune, and turn away our eyes, 
 lest the wants and woes of our brother 
 mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of 
 our souls ! 
 
 I am the worst hand in the world at ask- 
 ing a favour. That indirect address, that 
 insinuating impHcation, which, without any 
 positive request, plainly expresses your wish, 
 is a talent not to be acquired at a plough- 
 tail. Tell me then, for you can, in what 
 periphrasis of language, in what circumvo- 
 lution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not 
 conceal, this plain story — " My dear Mr. 
 Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have 
 the pleasure of introducing to you, is a 
 young lad of your own profession, and a 
 gentleman of much modesty and great 
 worth. Perhaps, it may be in your power 
 to assist him in the, to him, important con- 
 sideration of getting a place, but, at all 
 events, your notice and acquaintance will be 
 a very great acquisition to him ; and I dare 
 pledge myself, that he will never disgrace 
 your favour." 
 
 You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at 
 such a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the 
 usual way of calculating these matters, more 
 than our acquaintance entitles me to ; but 
 my answer is short : — of all the men at your 
 time of life, whom I knew in Edinburgh, 
 you are the most accessible on the side on 
 which I have assailed you. You are very 
 much altered, indeed, from what you were 
 when I knew you, if generosity point the 
 path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
 you in vain. 
 
 As to myself, a being to whose interest 
 I believe you are still a well-wisher, I am 
 here, breathing at all times, thinking some- 
 times, and rhyming now and then. Every 
 situation has its share of the cares and 
 pains of life, and my situation, I am per- 
 suaded, has a full ordinary allowance of its 
 pleasures and enjoyments. 
 
 JMy best compliments to your father and 
 Miss Tait. If you have an opportunity, 
 please remember me in the solemn-league- 
 aud-covenant of friendship to Mrs. Lewis 
 Hay. I am a wretch for not writing her ; 
 but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation 
 in that way, that my conscience lies in my 
 
I 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 367 
 
 bosom with scarce the sensibility of an ] 
 oyster ia its shell. Where is Lady M'Ken- 
 zie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I 
 likewise beg leave to trouble you with 
 compliraents to Mr. Wra. Hamilton, Mrs. 
 Hamilton, and family, and Mrs. Chalmers, 
 when you are in that country. Should 
 you meet with Jliss Nimmo, please re- 
 member me kindly to her. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCVL 
 
 TO DR. BLA.CKLOCK. 
 
 EUisland, 1790. 
 
 Dear Sir — ^WTiether in the way of my 
 trade, I can be of any service to the Rev. 
 Doctor, is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax's 
 shield consisted, I think, of seven bull hides, 
 and a plate of brass, which, altogether, set 
 Hector's utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I 
 am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's 
 foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
 Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, 
 malevolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly 
 bound in a massy frame of brazen impu- 
 dence. Good God, Sir ! to such a shield, 
 humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire 
 the pop-gun of a school-boy. Creation-dis- 
 gracing scelerats such as they, God only 
 can mend, and the devil only can punish. In 
 the comprehensive way of Caligula, I wish 
 they all had but one neck. I feel impotent 
 as a child to the ardour of ray wishes ! Oh, 
 for a withering curse to blast the germens of 
 their wicked machinations. Oh, for a poison- 
 ous tornado, winged from the torrid zone of 
 Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop of 
 their viilanous contrivances to the lowest 
 helL B. B. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. (Ill) 
 
 EUisland, November, 1790. 
 
 " As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is 
 good news from a far country." 
 
 Fate has long owed me a letter of good 
 news from you, in return for the many 
 tidings of sorrow which I have received. In 
 this instance, I most cordially obey the apos- 
 tle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice." — 
 For me to ainj fur joy, ia no new thuig ; but 
 
 to preach for joy, as I have done in the com- 
 mencement of this epistle, is a pitch of ex- 
 travagant rapture to which I never rose 
 before. 
 
 I read your letter— I literally jumped for 
 joy. How could such a mercurial creature 
 as a poet lumpishly keep his seat, on the 
 receipt of the best news from his best friend. 
 I seized my gilt-headed "Wangee rod, an in- 
 strument indispensably necessary, in my 
 left hand, in the moment of inspirntion and 
 rapture ; and stride, stride — quick and 
 quicker— out skipt I among the broomy 
 banks of Nith to muse over my joy by 
 retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
 was impossible. INIrs. Little's is a more ele- 
 gant, but not a more sincere compliment to 
 the sweet little fellow, than I, extempore 
 almost, poured out to him in the following 
 verses : — 
 
 Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 
 
 And ward o' mony a prayer. 
 What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
 
 Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 
 November hirples o'er the lea 
 
 Chill on thy lovely form ; 
 And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree 
 
 Should shield thee frae the storiQ. 
 May He, who gives the rain to pour. 
 
 And wings the blast to blaw. 
 Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 
 
 The bitter frost and snaw ! 
 Alay He, the friend of woe and want, 
 
 AVho heals life's various stounds, 
 Protect and guard tlie mother-plant. 
 
 And heal her cruel wounds ! 
 But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 
 
 Fair on the summer morn ; 
 Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 
 
 Unshelter'd and forlorn. 
 Best be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
 
 Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
 And from thee many a parent stem 
 
 Arise to deck our land ! 
 
 I am much flattered by your approbation 
 of my " Tam o' Shanter," which you express 
 in your former letter ; though, by the bye, 
 you load me in that said letter with accusa- 
 tions heavy and many, to all which I pleail 
 7iot guilty! Your book is, I hear, on the 
 road to reach me. As to printing of poetry, 
 when you prepare it for the press, you have 
 only to spell it right, and place the capital 
 letters properly — as to the punctuation, the 
 printers do that themselves. 
 
 I have a copy of " Tam o' Shanter" ready 
 to send you by the first oppoitunity — it is 
 too heavy to send by post. 
 
368 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 I heard of Mr. Corbet (112) lately. He, 
 in consequence of your recommendation, is 
 most zealous to serve me. Please favour me 
 soon with an account of your good folks ; if 
 Mrs. H. is recovering, and the young gentle- 
 man doing well. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCVIll. 
 
 1"0 CHARLES SHARPE, Esq., 
 
 OF nODDAM, UNDER A FICTITIOUS 
 SIGNATURE, ENCLOSING A BALLAD. 
 
 1791. 
 
 It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
 and fortune, and I am a poor devil — you are 
 a feather in the cap of Society, and I am a 
 very hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the 
 honour to belong to the same family with 
 you, and on that score I now address you. 
 You will, perhaps, suspect that I am going to 
 claim attinity with the ancient and honour- 
 able house of Kirkpatrick. No, no. Sir; I 
 cainiot indeed be properly said to belong to 
 any house, or even any province or kingdom ; 
 as my mother, who for many years was 
 spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into 
 this bad world, aboard the packet-boat, 
 somewhere between Uonaghadee and Port- 
 patritk. By our common family, I mean. 
 Sir, the family of the muses. I am a fiddler 
 and a poet ; and you, T am told, play an ex- 
 quisite violin, and have a standard taste in 
 the belles lettres. The other day, a brother 
 catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your 
 composition. If I was pleased with the 
 tune, I was in raptures with the title you 
 have given it; and, taking up the idea, I 
 have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
 Will you allow me, Sir, to present you them, 
 as the dearest offering that a misbegotten 
 son of poverty and rhyme has to give ! I 
 have a longnig to take you by the hand and 
 unburden my heart by saying, — " Sir, I 
 honour you as a man who supports the dig- 
 nity of human nature, amid an age when 
 frivolity and avarice have, between them, de- 
 oased us below the brutes that perish ! " 
 But alas. Sir! to me you are unapproach- 
 able. It is true, the muses baptised me in 
 ■Jastalian streams ; but the thoughtless 
 gipsies forgot to give me a name. As the 
 sex have served many a good fellow, the 
 N'ine have given me a great deal of pleasure ; 
 but, bewitching jades 1 they have beggared 
 me. Would they but spare me a little of 
 their cast-linen! were it only to put it in 
 
 my power to say that I have a shirt on my 
 back ! But the idle wenches, like Solomon's 
 lilies, " they tod not, neither do they spin ;'* 
 so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of 
 a cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my 
 naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to 
 keep together their many-coloured fragments. 
 As to the affair of shoes, I have given that 
 up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, 
 from town to town, and on your stony- 
 hearted turnpikes too, are what not even the 
 hide of Job's behemoth could bear. The 
 coat on my back is no more; I shall not 
 speak evil cf the dead. It would be equally 
 unhandsome and ungrateful to find faidt with 
 my old surtout, which so kindly supplies 
 and conceals the want of that coat. My hat, 
 indeed, is a great favourite; and though I 
 got it literally for an old song, I would not 
 exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I 
 was, during several years, a kind of factotum 
 servant to a country clergyman, where I 
 picked up a good many scraps of learning, 
 particularly in some branches of the mathe- 
 matics. AVhenever I feel inclined to rest 
 myself on my way, I take my seat under a 
 hedge, laying my poetic wallet on tlid one 
 side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and, 
 placing my hat between my legs, J can by 
 means of its brim, or rather brims, go 
 through the whole doctrine of the couin 
 sections. 
 
 However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as 
 if I would interest your pity. Fortune has 
 so much forsaken me, that she has taught me 
 to live without her; and, amid all my rags 
 and poverty, I am as independent, and much 
 more happy, than a monarch of the world. 
 According to the hackneyed metaphor, I 
 value the several actors in the great drama 
 of life, simply as they act their parts. I can 
 look on a worthless fellow of a duke with 
 unqualified contempt, and can regard au 
 honest scavenger with sincere respect. Aa 
 you, Sir, go through your role with such dis- 
 tinguished merit, permit ine to make one in 
 the chorus of universal applause, and assure 
 you, that, with the highest respect, I have 
 the honour to be, &c. (113) — • — » 
 
 TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 
 
 Ellidand, llth January, 1791. 
 
 My Lady — Nothing less than the un- 
 lucky accident of having lately broken my 
 right arm, could have prevented nie, the 
 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 3<» 
 
 moment I received your ladyship's elegant 
 present (114) by Mrs. Miller, from returning 
 you my warmest and most grateful acknow- 
 ledgments. I assure your ladyship, I sliall 
 set it apart — the symbols of religion shall 
 only be more sacred. In the moment of 
 poetic composition, the box shall be my in- 
 spiring genius. When I would breathe the 
 comprehensive wish of benevolence for the 
 happiness of others, I shall recollect your 
 ladyship ; when I would interest my fancy 
 in the distresses incident to humanity, I 
 shall remember the unfortunate Marv 
 
 R. B. 
 
 TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 
 Ellialand January ITth, 1791. 
 
 I AM not going to Elysium, most noble 
 colonel (115), but am still here in this 
 sublunary world, serving my God by propa- 
 gating his image, and honouring my king 
 by begetting him loyal subjects. 
 
 Many happy returns of the season await 
 my friend. May the thorns of care never 
 beset his path ! May peace be an muiate 
 of his bosom, and rapture a frequent 
 visitor of his soul ! May the blood-hounds 
 of misfortune never track his steps, nor the 
 screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelhng ! 
 Jlay enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure 
 number thy days, thou friend of the bard ! 
 " Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and 
 cursed be he that curseth thee ! " 
 
 As a further proof that I am still in the 
 land of existence, I send you a poem, the 
 latest I have composed. I have a particular 
 reason for wishing you only to show it to 
 select friends, should you think it worthy a 
 friend's perusal ; but if, at your first leisure 
 hour, you will favour me with your opinion 
 of, and strictures on the performance, it 
 will be an additional obligation on, dear 
 Sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, 
 E. B. 
 
 NO. CCXl. 
 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 EUisland, Jnmtury 17th, 1791. 
 
 T,\KR these two guineas, and place them 
 over against that damned account of yours, 
 which has gagged my mouth these five or 
 
 B B 
 
 sis months ! I can as little write good 
 things as apologies to a man I owe money 
 to. Oh the supreme curse of making three 
 guineas do the business of five ! Not all the 
 labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' 
 three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were 
 such an insuperable business, such an 
 infernal task ! I Poverty, thou half-sister of 
 deatli, tliou cousin-german of hell!--where 
 shall I find force of execration equal to the 
 amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by 
 thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
 the practice of every virtue, laden with years 
 and wretchedness, implores a little, little 
 aid to support his existence, from a stony- 
 hearted son ol Mammon, whose sun of 
 prosperity neve knew a cloud, and is by 
 him denied and insuUH. Oppressed by thee, 
 the man of sentiment, whose heart glows 
 with independence, and melts with sensi- 
 bility, inwardly pines under the neglect, or 
 writhes, in bitterness of soul, Uuder the 
 contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
 Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, 
 whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the 
 tables of the fashionable and polite, must 
 see, in sutfering silence, his remark neg- 
 lected, and his person despised, while 
 shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at 
 wit, shall meet with countenance and ap- 
 plause. 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. Owing to thee, the man of 
 unfortunate disposition and neglected educa- 
 tion, is condemned as a fool for his dis- 
 sipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
 wretch, when his follies as usual bring hira 
 to want ; and when his unprincipled neces- 
 sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is 
 abliorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the 
 justice of his country. But, far otherwise is 
 the lot of the man of family and fortune. — 
 His early follies and extravagance are 
 spirit and fire ; — his consequent wants arc 
 the embarrasments of an honest fellow; 
 and when, to remedy the matter, he has 
 gained a legal commission to plunder distant 
 provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he 
 returns, perhaps, laden with the spoil of 
 rapine and murder; lives wicked and res- 
 pected, and dies a scoundrel 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 neglected 
 anil insulted, ridden down by the chariot 
 wheels of the coroncted uip, hurrying on to 
 the guilty assiguatiou— she who, without 
 
370 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 the same necessities to plead, riots nightly 
 in the same guilty trade. 
 
 Well ! divines may say of it what they 
 please ; hut execration is to the mind what 
 phlebotomy is to the body — the vital sluices 
 of both are wonderfully reUeved by their 
 respective evacuations. R. B, 
 
 NO. CCXII. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 
 
 EUisland Jan. 2Zd, 1791. 
 
 Many happy returns of the season to 
 you, my dear friend ! As many of the good 
 things of this life, as is consistent with the 
 usual mixture of good and evil in the cup of 
 being ! 
 
 I have just finished a poem ("Tam o' Shan- 
 ter"), which you will receive enclosed. It is 
 my first essay in the way of tales. 
 
 1 have these several months been hammer- 
 ing at an elegy on the amiable and accom- 
 plished Miss Burnet. I liave got, and can 
 get, no farther than the following fragment, 
 on which please give me your strictures. In 
 all kinds of poetic composition, I set great 
 store by your opinion ; but in sentimental 
 verses, in the poetry of tlie heart, no Roman 
 Catholic ever set more value on the infallibi- 
 lity of the Holy Father, tlian I do on yours. 
 
 I mean the introductory couplets as text 
 verses. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET 
 OF MONBODDO. 
 
 Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
 As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 
 Nor envious death so triumph'din a blow, 
 As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet 
 low. — &c. 
 
 Let me hear from you soon. 
 
 Adieu! 
 E. B. 
 
 NO. CCXIII. 
 
 TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. (116) 
 EUisland, February 1791. 
 Sir — Nothing less than the unfortunate 
 accident I have met with could have pre- 
 vented my grateful acknowledgments for 
 your letter. His own favourite poem, and 
 that an essay in the walk of the muses en- 
 tirely new to him, where consequently his 
 hopes and fears were on the most anxious 
 alarm for his success in the attempt — to 
 have that poem so much applauded by one 
 
 of the first judges, was the most delicious 
 vibration that ever thrilled along the heart- 
 strings of a poor poet However, Provi- 
 dence, to keep up the proper proportion of 
 evil with the good, which it seems is neces- 
 sary in this sublunary state, thought proper 
 to check my exultation by a very serious 
 misfortune. A day or two after I received 
 your letter, my horse came down with me 
 and broke ray right arm. As this is the 
 first service my arm has done me since its 
 disaster, I find myself unable to do more 
 than just, in general terms, thank you for 
 this additional instance of your patronage 
 and friendship. As to the faults you de- 
 tected in tlie piece, they are truly there ; one 
 of thein, the hit at the lawyer and priest. I 
 shall cut out ; as to the falling off in the 
 catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, 
 it cannot easily be remedied. Your appro- 
 bation. Sir, has given me such additional 
 spirits to persevere in this species of poetic 
 composition, that I am already revolving two 
 or three stories in my fancy. If I can bring 
 these floating ideas to bear any kind of em- 
 bodied form, it will give me an additional 
 opportunity of assuring you how much I 
 have the honour to be, &c. R. B. 
 
 NO. ccxiv. 
 TO 
 
 EUisland, 1791. 
 
 Dear Sir — I am exceedingly to blame 
 in not writing you long ago ; but the 
 truth is, that I am the most indolent of all 
 human beings, and when I matriculate in 
 the Herald's Office, I intend that my sup- 
 porters shall be two sloths, my crest a slow- 
 worm, and the motto, " Deil take the for- 
 most." So much by way of apology for 
 not thanking you sooner for your kind ex- 
 ecution of my commission. 
 
 I would have sent you the poem; but 
 somehow or other it found its way into the 
 public papers, where you must have seen 
 it. I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
 R. B. 
 
 MO. CCXV. 
 
 TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. (117) 
 
 EUisland, 1791. 
 
 Reverend Sir — Why did you, my deal 
 Sir, write to me in such a hesitating stylft 
 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 
 
 371 
 
 on the business of poor Bruce ? Don't I 
 know, and have I not felt, tlie many ills, the 
 peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to ? 
 You shall have your choice of all the un- 
 published poems I have; and had your 
 letter had my direction so as to have reached 
 me sooner (it only came to my hand this 
 moment), I should have directly put you 
 out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, 
 that some prefatory advertisement in the 
 book, as well as the subscription bills, may 
 bear, that the publication is solely for the 
 benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put 
 it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or 
 malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share 
 in the work from mercenary motives. Nor 
 need you give me credit for any remarkable 
 generosity in my part of the business. I 
 have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, 
 follies, and backslidings (any body but my- 
 self might perhaps give some of them a 
 worse appellation), that by way of some 
 balance, however trifling, in the account, 
 I am fain to do any good that occurs in my 
 very limited power to a fellow creature, just 
 for the selfish purpose of clearing a little 
 the vista of retrospection. R. B 
 
 NO. ccxvi. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Elllsland, Feb. 1th, 1701. 
 
 When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, 
 not from my horse, but with my horse, I 
 have been a cripple some time, and that this 
 is the first day my arm and hand have been 
 able to serve me in writing, you will allow 
 that it is too good an apology for my seem- 
 ingly ungrateful silence. I am now getting 
 better, and am able to rhyme a little, which 
 implies some tolerable ease, as I cannot think 
 that the most poetic genius is able to com- 
 pose on the rack. 
 
 I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
 you my having an idea of composing an 
 elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. 
 I had the honour of being pretty well ac- 
 quainted with her, and have seldom felt so 
 much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 
 I heard that so amiable and accomplished a 
 piece of God's work was no more. I have, 
 as yet, gone no farther than the following 
 fragment, of which please let me have your 
 opinion. You know that elegy is a subject 
 80 much exhausted, that any new idea on 
 the business is not to be expected : 'tis well 
 
 if we can place an old idea in a new light. 
 How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 
 will judge from what follows : — * • 
 
 I have proceeded no farther. 
 
 Your kind letter, with your kind remein. 
 hrance of your godson, came safe. 'J'his last, 
 ]\Iadam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
 As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
 the finest boy I have for a long time seen. 
 He is now seventeen months old, has the 
 small-pox and measles over, has cut several 
 teeth, and never had a grain of doctors' 
 drugs in his bowels. 
 
 1 am truly happy to hear that the "little 
 flow'ret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
 that the "mother plant" is rather recovering 
 her drooping head. Soon and well may her 
 " cruel wounds" be healed ! I have written 
 thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
 When I get a little abler, you shall hear 
 farther firom. Madam, yours, R.. B. 
 
 NO. CCXVII. 
 
 TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 
 
 Ellisland, near Dumfries, 
 Feb.Uth, 1791. 
 
 Sir — You must, by this time, have set 
 me down as one of the most ungrateful of 
 men. You did me the honour to present 
 me with a book, which does honour to 
 science and the intellectual powers of man, 
 and I have not even so much as acknow- 
 ledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you 
 yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I 
 was by your telling me that you wished to 
 have my opinion of the work, the old 
 spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
 well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
 easily beset me, put it into my head to 
 ponder over the performance with the look- 
 out of a critic, and to draw up, forsoutli, a 
 deep learned digest of strictures on a com- 
 position, of which, in fact, until I read die 
 book, I did not even know the first iinu- 
 ciples. I own. Sir, that at first ghince 
 several of your propositions startled me as 
 paradoxical. That the martial clangor of a 
 trumpet had something in it vastly more 
 grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twingle 
 twangle of a Jew's harp : that the delicate 
 flexure of a rose-twig, when the hali-blnwu 
 flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
 was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
 than the upright stub of a burdock ; and 
 that from sometliiug innate and independent 
 
 33 
 
372 
 
 COERESPONDENCE OF BUENS. 
 
 of afl associations of ideas — these I had set 
 down as irrefragable, ortliodox truths, until 
 perusing your book shook my faith. In 
 short. Sir, except Euclid's Elements of 
 Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel 
 by my father's fireside, in the winter even- 
 ings of the first season I held the plough, I 
 never read a book which gave me such a 
 quantum of information, and added so much 
 to my stock of ideas, as your " Essays on 
 the Principles of Taste." One thing. Sir, 
 you must forgive my mentioning as an 
 uncommon merit in the work — I mean the 
 language. To clothe abstract philosophy in 
 elegance of style sounds something like a 
 contradiction in terms ; but you have con- 
 vinced me that they are quite compatible. 
 
 I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of 
 my late composition. The one in print is 
 my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 
 I am, Sir, &c R. B. (118) 
 
 NO. CCXVIII. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 
 Ellisland, Feb. 28th, 1791. 
 
 I DO not know. Sir, whether you are a 
 subscriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
 land. If you are, the enclosed poem will 
 not be altogether new to you. Captain 
 Grose did me the favour to send me a 
 dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which 
 this is one. Should you have read the piece 
 before, still this will answer the principal 
 end I have in view — it will give me another 
 opportunity of thanking you for all your 
 goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of 
 showing you, that the abilities you have 
 been pleased to commend and patronise are 
 still employed in the way you wish. 
 
 The Eleyy on Captain Henderson is a 
 tribute to the memory of a man I loved 
 much. Poets have in this the same advan- 
 tage as Roman Catholics ; they can be of 
 service to their friends after they have 
 passed that bourne where all other kindness 
 ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, 
 either the one or the other be of any real 
 service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- 
 matical, but I am sure they are highly 
 gratifying to the living : and as a very 
 orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture, 
 says, " whatsoever is not of faith is sin ;" 
 so say T, whatsoever is not detrimental to 
 society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of 
 
 God, the giver of all good things, and ought 
 to be received and enjoyed by his creatures 
 with thankful delight. As almost all my 
 religious tenets originate from my heart, I 
 am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I 
 can still keep up a tender intercourse with 
 the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly 
 beloved mistress, who is gone to the world 
 of spirits. 
 
 The ballad on Gueen Mary was begun 
 while I was busy with Percy's Reliqucs of 
 English Poetry. By the way, how much is 
 every honest heart, which has a tincture of 
 Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
 glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! 
 'Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal 
 gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory 
 I should have been mortified to the ground 
 if you had not. 
 
 I have just read over once more of many 
 times, your Zeiuco. I marked with my 
 pencil, as I went along, every passage that 
 pleased me particularly above the rest ; and 
 one or two, which, with humble deference, I 
 am disposed to think unequal to the merits 
 of the book. I have sometimes thought to 
 transcribe these marked passages, or at least 
 so much of them as to point where they are, 
 and send them to you. Original strokes 
 that strongly depict the human heart, is 
 your and Fielding's province, beyond any 
 other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
 son indeed might, perhaps, be excepted ; but 
 unhappily, his dramatis persona are beings 
 of another world ; and however they may 
 captivate the inexperienced, romantic fancy 
 of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in propor- 
 tion as we have made human nature our 
 study, dissatisfy our riper years. 
 
 As to my private concerns, I am going on, 
 a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
 have lately had the interest to get myself 
 ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. 
 I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
 years I shall fall into the file of supervisor- 
 ship by seniority. I have had an immense 
 loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, 
 the patron from whom all my fame and 
 fortune took its rise. Independent of my 
 grateful attachment to him, which was 
 indeed so strong that it pervaded my very 
 soul, and was entwined with the thread of 
 my existence : so soon as the prince's friends 
 had got in (and every dog you know has his 
 day), my getting forward in the Excise would 
 have been an easier business than otherwise 
 it will be. Though this was a consumma- 
 tion devoutly to be wished, yet, thank 
 Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and 
 as to my boys, poor little fellows! if J 
 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 57:< 
 
 cannot place them on as high an elevation in 
 life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
 80 much by the Disposer of events as to see 
 that period, fix them on as broad and inde- 
 pendent a basis as possible. Among the 
 many wise adages which have been treasured 
 up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of 
 the best — Better he the head o' the com- 
 monalty, than the tail o' the gentry. 
 
 But I am got on a subject which, however 
 interesting to me, is of no manner of con- 
 sequence to you ; so I shall give you a short 
 poem on the other page, and close this with 
 assuring you how sincerely I have the honour 
 to be, yours, &c. B. B. 
 
 NO. ccxix. 
 TO MRS. GRAHAM, 
 
 OF FINTRY. 
 
 Ellislaml, 1791. 
 
 Madam — ^\Mxether it is that the story of 
 our Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar 
 effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I 
 have in the enclosed ballad succeeded beyond 
 ray usual poetic success, I know not ; but it 
 has pleased me beyond any effort of my 
 muse for a good while pa^t ; on that account, 
 I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, 
 the purity of my motives may be suspected. 
 I am already deeply indebted to Mr. Graham's 
 goodness; and what, in the usual ways of 
 men, is of infinitely greater importance, 
 Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost 
 importance in time to come. I was born a 
 poor dog ; and, however I may occasionally 
 pick a better bone than I used to do, I know 
 I must hve and die poor : but I will indulge 
 the flattering faith that my poetry will con- 
 siderably outlive my poverty ; and without 
 auy fustian affectation of spirit, I can pro- 
 mise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary 
 craving of the latter shall ever make me do 
 any tiling injurious to the honest fame of 
 the former. Whatever may be my failings — 
 for failings are a part of human nature — may 
 they ever be those of a generous heart and 
 an independent mind I It is no fault of 
 mine that I was born to dependence, nor is 
 it .Mr. Graham's chiefcst praise that he can 
 command influence: but it is his merit to 
 bestow, not only with the kindness of a 
 brother, but with the politeness of a gentle- 
 man ; and I trust it shall be mine to receive 
 with thankfulness, and remember A'ith un- 
 diminished {gratitude. R. B. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Ellisland, March I2th. 1791. 
 
 Ip the foregoing piece be worth your 
 strictures, let me have them. For my own 
 part, a thing that I have just composed 
 always appears through a double portion of 
 that partial medium in which an author will 
 ever view his own works. I believe, in 
 general, novelty has something in it that 
 inebriates the fancj', and not unfreqnently 
 dissipates and fumes away like other intoxi- 
 cation, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, 
 with an aching heart. A striking instaiic3 
 of this might be adduced, in the revolution 
 of many a hymeneal honey-moon. But lest 
 I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
 intrude on the office of my parish priest, I 
 shall fill up the page in my own way, and 
 give you another song of my late composition, 
 which will appear perhaps in Johnson's 
 work, as well as the former. 
 
 You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
 "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
 hame." When political combustion ceases 
 to be the object of princes and patriots, it 
 then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of 
 historians and poets. 
 
 " By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
 I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was 
 
 grey ; 
 And as he was singing, the tears fast down 
 
 came — 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
 
 hame," &c. 
 
 If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit 
 your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear 
 friend, how much you would oblige me, if, 
 by the charms of your delightful voice, you 
 would give my honest effusion to " the 
 memory of joys that are past," to the few 
 friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. 
 But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock 
 has intimated the near approach of 
 
 " That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 
 stane." 
 
 So, good night to you I Sound be your 
 sleep, and delectable your dreams! A-propos, 
 how do you like this thought in a ballad I 
 have just now on the tapis ? 
 
 I look to the west when I gae to rest. 
 That happy my dreams and my sliimbcrsi 
 may be ; 
 Far, far m the west is he I loe best. 
 
374 
 
 CORRESPONDRXrK OF BTTTtV<3. 
 
 'Die lad that is dear to my babie and 
 me! 
 Good night once more, and God bless 
 you ! R- B. 
 
 NO. ccxxi. 
 TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL (119), 
 
 FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 
 
 EUisland, March IQlh, 1791. 
 
 My Dear Sir — I have taken the liberty 
 to frank this letter to you, as it encloses an 
 idle poem ot mine, whicli I send you; and, 
 God knows, you may perhaps pay dear 
 enong-h for it, if you read it through. Not 
 that this is my own opinion : but the 
 author, by the time he has composed and 
 corrected his work, has quite pored away 
 all his powers of critical discrimination. 
 
 1 can easily guess, from my own heart, 
 what you have felt on a late most melan- 
 choly event. God knows what I have 
 suffered at the loss of my best friend, luy 
 first and dearest patron and benefactor ; the 
 man to whom 1 owe all that I am and have ! 
 1 am gone into mourning for him, and with 
 more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, 
 who, by nature's ties, ought to feel on the 
 occasion. 
 
 I will be exceedingly obliged to you, 
 indeed, to let me know the news of the 
 noble family, how the poor mother and the 
 two sisters support their loss. I had a 
 packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to 
 Lady Betty, when I saw the fatal tiduigs 
 in the newspaper. 1 see, by the same 
 channel, that the honoured remains of my 
 noble patron are designed to be brought 
 to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble 
 you to let me know privately before the day 
 of interment, that I may cross the country, 
 and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear 
 to the last sight of my ever revered bene- 
 factor ! It will oblige me beyond expres- 
 •ioii. K B. 
 
 NO. ccxxii. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 EUisland, April Wth, 1791. 
 1 AM once more able, my honoured 
 friend, to return you with my own hand, 
 thanks for the many instances of your 
 
 friendship, and particularly for your kind 
 anxiety in this last disaster that my evil 
 genius had in store for me. However, life 
 is chequered — joy and sorrow — for ou 
 Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made 
 me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, 
 but not so handsome as your godson was 
 at this time of life. Indeed, I look on your 
 little namesake to be my chef d'ceuvre in 
 tiiat species of manufacture, as I look on 
 "Tam o' Shanter "to be my standard per- 
 formance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, 
 both the one and the other discover a spice 
 of roguish waggery, that might perhaps be 
 as well spared ; but then they also show, in 
 my opinion, a force of genius, and a finish- 
 ing polish, that I despair of ever excelling. 
 Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid 
 as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as 
 a reaper from the corn-ridge. That is the 
 peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, 
 sprightly damsels, that are bred among the 
 hay and heather. (120) We cannot hope 
 for that highly polished mind, that charming 
 delicacy of soul, which is found among the 
 female world in the more elevated stations 
 of life, and which is certainly by far the 
 most bewitching charm in the famous cestus 
 of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable 
 treasure, that where it can be had in its 
 native heavenly purity, unstained by some 
 one or other of the many shades of affect- 
 tion, and unalloyed by some one or other of 
 the many species of caprice, I declare to 
 Heaven I should think it cheaply purchased 
 at the expense of every other earthly good ! 
 But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
 extremely rare in any station and rank of 
 life, and totally denied to such an humble 
 one as mine, we meaner mortals must put 
 up with the next rank of female excellence ; 
 as fine a figure and face we can produce as 
 any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native 
 grace ; imalTected modesty and unsullied 
 purity ; nature's mother-wit, and the rudi- 
 ments of taste; a simplicity of soul, unsus- 
 picious of, because unacquainted with, the 
 crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disin- 
 genuous world ; and the dearest charm of all 
 the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, 
 and a generous warmth of heart, grateful 
 for love on our part, and ardently glowing 
 with a more than equal return ; these, with 
 a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constitu- 
 tion, which your higlier ranks can scarcely 
 ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely 
 woman in my humble walk of life. 
 
 This is the greatest effort my broken arm 
 has yet made. Do let me hear, by first post, 
 how dipr n»'it T\tn>i.<tieiir Cl'?ll ct>ip< on 
 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 
 
 375 
 
 with his small-pox. Jlay Almighty j^oodness 
 preserve and restore him ! R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXIIl. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 June nth, 1791. 
 
 Let me interest you, my dear Cunning- 
 ham, in belialf of the gentleman who waits 
 on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of 
 Muffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is 
 nt present suffering severely under the perse- 
 cution of one or two powerful individuals of 
 his employers. He is accused of harshness 
 to hoys that were placed under his care. 
 God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility 
 and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, 
 when a booby father presents him with his 
 booby son, and insists on lighting up the 
 rays of science in a fellow's head whose 
 skull is impervious and inaccessible by any 
 other way than a positive fracture with a 
 cudgel — a fellow, whom, in fact, it savours of 
 impiety to attempt making a schol.ir of, as 
 he has been marked a blockhead in the book 
 of fate, at the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 
 
 Tiie patrons of Moffat-school are the 
 ministers, magistrates, and town-council of 
 Edinburgh, and as the business comes now 
 before them, let me beg my dearest friend to 
 do everything in his power to serve the in- 
 terests of a man of genius and worth, and a 
 man whom I particularly respect and esteem. 
 You know some good fellows among the ma- 
 gistracy and council, but particularly you 
 have much to say with a rev&rend gentle- 
 man, to wlnm you have the honour of being 
 very nearly related, and whom this country 
 and age have had the honour to produce. I 
 need not name the historian of Charles V. 
 (122) I tell liim, through the medium of his 
 nephew's luHueuce, that Air. Clarke is a 
 gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
 patronage. I know the merits of the cause 
 thoroughly, and say it, that ray friend is 
 falling a sacriHce to prejudiced ignorance. 
 
 God help the children of dependence ! 
 Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and 
 too ofceu, alas ! almost unexceptionably, re- 
 ceived by their friends with disrespect and 
 reproach, uiKier the thiu disguise of cold 
 civility and humiliating advice. Oh I to be 
 a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his 
 independence, amid the solitary wilds of his 
 deserts, rather than in civilized life helplessly 
 to tremble for a subsistence, precarious aa 
 tiie caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
 man ha-s his virtues, and no man is without 
 
 his failings ; and curse on that privileged 
 plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the 
 hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the 
 helping hand, without, at the same time, 
 pointing out those failings, and apportioning 
 them their share in procuring my present 
 distress. My friends, for such the world 
 calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, 
 pass by my virtues if you ])lease, but do, 
 also, spare my follies — the first will witness 
 in my breast for themselves, and the last 
 will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind 
 without you. And since deviating more or 
 less from the paths of propriety and recti- 
 tude must be incident to human nature, do 
 thou. Fortune, put it in my power, always 
 from myself, and of myself, to bear the con- 
 sequence of those errors ! I do not want to 
 be independent that I may sin, but I want to 
 be independent in ray sinning. 
 
 To return in this rambling letter to the 
 subject I set out with, let me recommend ray 
 friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
 good offices ; his worth entitles him to the 
 one, and his gratitud" will merit the other. 
 I long much to hear from you. Adieu. 
 
 NO. ccxxiv. 
 
 TO THE E.VRL OF BUCHAN. 
 
 Ellislaud, 1791. 
 
 My Lord — Language sinks under the 
 ardour of my feelings, when I wou'd thank 
 your lordship for the honour you have done 
 me in inviting me to make one at the coro- 
 nation of the bust of 'I'liomson. In my first 
 enthusiasm in reading the card you did me 
 the honour to write me, I overlooked every 
 obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear it 
 will not be in my power. A week or two's 
 absence in the very middle of ray harvest, is 
 what I much doubt 1 d.ire not venture on. 
 I once already made a pilgrimage up the 
 whole course of the Tiveed, and fondly 
 would I take the same delightful journey 
 down the windings of that delightful stream. 
 
 Your lordship hints at an ode for the 
 occasion ; but who would write after Collins? 
 I read over his verses to the memory of 
 Thomson, and despaired. I got indeed to the 
 length of three or four stanzas, in the way 
 of adilress to the shade of the bard, ou 
 crowning his bust. I shall trouble your 
 lordship with the subjoined copy of them, 
 which, 1 am afraid, will be but too con- 
 vincing a proof how unequal 1 am to the 
 task. However.it alTords me an opportuiiify 
 
376 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 of approaching vour lordship, and declaring 
 how sincerely and gratefully I have the 
 honour to be, &c. B. B. 
 
 KO. ccxxv. 
 
 TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. (123) 
 
 My Lady — I would, as usual, have 
 availed myself of the privilege your goodness 
 has allowed me, of sending you anything I 
 compose in my poetical way ; but, as I have 
 resolved, so soon as the shock of my irre- 
 parable loss would allow me, to pay a 
 tribute to my late benefactor, I determined 
 to make that the tirst piece I should do 
 myself the honour of sending you. Had 
 the wing of my fancy been equal to the 
 ardour of my heart, the enclosed had been 
 much more worthy your perusal : as it is, 
 I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship's 
 feet. (124) As all the world knows my 
 obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn ; I 
 would wish to show, as openly, that my heart 
 glows, and shall ever glow, with the most 
 grateful sense and remembrance of his lord- 
 ship's goodness. The sables I did myself 
 the honour to wear to his lordship's 
 memory, were not the " mockery of woe." 
 Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! If, 
 among my children, I shall have a son that 
 has a heart, he shall hand it down to his 
 child as a family honour, and a family debt, 
 that my dearest existence I owe to the 
 noble house of Glencairn ! 
 
 I was about to say, my lady, that if you 
 think the poem may venture to see the 
 light, I would, iu some way or other, give it 
 to the world. R. B. 
 
 KO. ccxxvi. 
 
 TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 
 
 EUisIand, Sept. 1st, 1791. 
 
 My Dear Sloan — Suspense is worse 
 than disappointment; for that reason, I 
 hurry to tell you that I just now learn that 
 Mr. Ballantnie does not chose to interfere 
 more in the business. 1 am truly sorry for 
 it, but cannot help it. 
 
 You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
 but you will please to recollect that you 
 omitted one little necessary piece of infor- 
 mation — your address. 
 
 However, you know equally well my hur- 
 lied life, indoleut temper, and strength of 
 
 attachment. It must be a longer period 
 than the longest life " in the world's bald 
 and undegenerate days," that will make me 
 forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am 
 prodigal enough at times, but I will not part 
 with such a treasure as that. 
 
 I can easily enter into the embarras ol 
 your present situation. You know ray 
 favourite quotation from I'^oung : — 
 
 " On reason build Resolve ! 
 
 That column of true majesty in man." 
 And that other favourite one from Thom- 
 son's Alfred : — 
 
 " What proves the hero truly great. 
 Is, ne\'er, never to despair." 
 Or, shall I quote you an author of your 
 acquaintance ? 
 
 " Whether doing, suffering, or 
 
 forbearing. 
 You may do miracles — by persevering." 
 
 I have nothing new to tell you. The few 
 friends we have are going on in the old way. 
 I sold my crop on this day se'nnight, and 
 sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on an 
 average, above value. But such a scene of 
 drunkenness was hardly ever seen iu this 
 country. After the roup was over, about 
 thirty peopl^ engaged in a battle, every man 
 for ins own hand, and fought it out for 
 three hours. Nor was the scene much better 
 in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks 
 lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, 
 until both my dogs got so drunk by attend- 
 ing them, that they could not stand. You 
 will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as 
 I was no farther off than you used to see 
 me. 
 
 j\Irs. B. and fiimily have been in Ayrshire 
 these many weeks. 
 
 Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear 
 friend 1 E. B 
 
 NO. CCXVU. 
 
 TO COLONEL FULLARTON, 
 
 OF FULLARTON. (125) 
 
 Ellislund, Oct. 3rd, 1791. 
 
 Sir — I have just this minute got the 
 frank, and next minute must send it to post, 
 else I purposed to have sent you two or 
 three other bagatelles that might have amused 
 a vacant hour, about as well as " Six excel- 
 lent new Songs," or the "Aberdeen prognos- 
 tications for the year to come." (126j 1 shall 
 probably trouble you soon with anr:biei 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 377 
 
 packet, about the gloomy month of Novem- 
 per, when the people of England hang and 
 drown themselves — anything, generally, is 
 better than one's own thoughts. 
 
 Fond as I may be of my own productions, 
 it is not for their sake that I am so anxious to 
 scu.l you them. I am ambitious, covetously 
 anliitious, of being known to a gentleman 
 whom I ara proud to call my countryman 
 (1 .'/); a gentleman, who was a foreign ambas- 
 sid jr as soon as he was a man ; and a 
 ieaiier of armies as soon as he was a soldier ; 
 and that with an eclat unknown to the usual 
 minions of a court — men who, with all the 
 adventitious advantages of princely connec- 
 tions, and princely fortunes, must yet, like 
 the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime before 
 they reach the wished-for height, there to 
 roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the 
 remaining glimmering existence of old age. 
 
 If the gentleman that accompanied you 
 when you did me the honour of calling on 
 me, is with you, I beg to be respectfully 
 remembered to him. I have the honour to 
 be, your highly obliged and most devoted 
 humble servant, II. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXVIll. 
 
 TO MISS DAVIES. (128) 
 
 It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
 warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
 mind can have any idea of that moral disease 
 under which I unhappily must rank as the 
 chief of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the 
 moral powers, that may be called a lethargy 
 of con.science. In vain. Remorse rears her 
 horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes : 
 beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand 
 of Indolence, their wildest ire is charmed 
 into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out 
 the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined 
 wall. Nothing les«. Madam, could have 
 made me so long neglect your obliging com- 
 mands. Indeed, I had one apology — the 
 bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 
 80 strongly am I interested iu Miss Davies's 
 fate and welfare in the serious business of 
 life, amid its chances and changes, that to 
 make her the subject of a silly ballad is 
 downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 
 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 
 
 Grai-ious llcaven ! why this disparity 
 between our wishes and our powers ? Why 
 is the most generous wish to make others 
 blest, impotent and ineffectual, as the idle 
 breese that crosses the pathless desert ? lu 
 
 my walks of life I have met with a few peo. 
 pie to whom how gladly would I have said, 
 " Go ! be happy ! I know that your hearts 
 have been wounded by the scorn of the 
 proud, whom accident has placed above you 
 — or, worse still, in whose hands are perhaps 
 placed many of the comforts of your life. 
 But there ! asceiul that rock, Iiule|)endi'nce, 
 and look justly <lo«n on their littleness of 
 soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
 your indignation, and the foolish sink before 
 your contempt; and largely impart that 
 happiness to others, which, I am certani, 
 will give yourselves so much pleasure to 
 bestow." 
 
 Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
 delightful reverie, and find it all a dream? 
 Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must 
 1 find myself poor and powerless, incapable 
 of wiping one tear from the eye of Pity, or 
 of adding one comfort to the friend 1 love ! 
 Oat upon the world ! say I, that its affairs 
 are administered so ill! They talk of 
 reform; good Heaven! what a reform would 
 I make among the sons, and even the daugh- 
 ters of men ! Down, immediately should 
 go fools from the high places where mis- 
 begotten chance has perked them up, and 
 through life should they skulk, ever haunted 
 by their native insignificance, as the body 
 marches accompanied by its shadow. As 
 for a much more formidable class, the 
 knaves, I am at a loss what to do with 
 them : had I a world, there should not be a 
 knave in it. 
 
 But the hand that could give, I would 
 liberally fill : and I would pour delight ou 
 the heai t that could kindly forgive, and gene- 
 rously love. 
 
 Still, the inequalities of life are, among 
 men, comparatively tolerable ; but there is 
 a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying 
 every view in which we can place lovely 
 woman, that are grated and shocked at the 
 rude, capricious distinctions of Fortune. 
 Woman is the blood-royal of life : let there 
 be slight degrees of precedency among thei? 
 — but let them be all sacred. Whetiier 
 this last sentiment be right or wrong, I ain 
 not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
 nent feature of my mind. R. B. 
 
 NO. ccxxix. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Ellhland, December nth, 1791 
 ^Iany thanks to yon. Madam, for your 
 good news respecting the bttle floweret aw} 
 
378 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 tlie mother plant. 1 hope ray poetic prayers 
 liave been heard, and will be answered up to 
 the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent; 
 and then Mrs. Henri will find her little 
 darliuij the representative of his late parent, 
 in every thing but his abriJ,i;ed existence. 
 
 I have just finished the following song, 
 which, to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, 
 and many heroes of his truly illustrious 
 line — and herself the mother of several 
 soldiers— needs neither preface nor apo- 
 logy. 
 
 [Here follows the " Song of Death."'] 
 
 The circum-tance that gave rise to the 
 foregoing verses, was — looking over with a 
 musical fiieud, JI'Donald's collection of 
 Highland airs, I was struck with one, an 
 Isle of Skye tune, entitled " (Jran an Aoig," 
 or the " Song of Death," to the measure of 
 which I have adapted my stanzas. I have, 
 of late, composed two or three other little 
 pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, 
 whose broad impudent face now stares at 
 old mother earth all night, shall have 
 shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping 
 forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to 
 transcribe to you. A Dieu je vous corn- 
 mende. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXX. 
 
 TO MR. AINSLIE. 
 
 Ellidand, 1791. 
 
 My dear Ainslie — Can you minister 
 to a mind diseased ? — can you, amid the 
 horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head- 
 ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d 
 
 hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch who 
 has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — 
 can you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 
 
 Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried 
 every thing that used to amuse me, but in 
 vain : here must I sit, a monument of the 
 vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, 
 slowly counting every tick of the clock, as it 
 slowly, slowly, numbers over these lazy 
 scoundrels of hours, who, » » * *_ are 
 ranked up before me, every one following 
 his neighbour, and every one with a burden 
 of anguish on his back, to pour on iny 
 devoted head — and there is none to pity 
 me. My wife scolds me, my business tor- 
 ments me, and my sins come staring me in 
 the face, every one telling a more bitter 
 tale than his fellow. When I tell you even 
 • • * has lost its power to please, you 
 
 will guess something of my hell within and 
 all around me. I began Elibanks and 
 Elihraes, but the stanzas fell unen- 
 joyed and unfinished from my listless 
 tongue : at last I luckily thought of reading 
 over an old letter of yours, that lay by me, 
 in my book-case, and 1 felt something, for 
 for the first time since I opened my eyes, ot 
 
 pleasurable existence. Well — I begin to 
 
 breathe a little since I began to write to 
 you ? How are you, and what are you 
 doing. How goes law? A-propos, for 
 cinnexion's sake, do not address to me 
 supervisor, for that is an honour I cannot 
 pretend to ; I am on the list, as we call it, 
 for a supervisor, and will be called out, by 
 and bye, to act as one; but at, present, I am 
 a simple guager, tho' t'other day I got an 
 ap|)ointment to an Excise division of £25 per 
 annum better thin the rest. My present 
 income, down money, is £70 per annum. 
 
 I have one or two good fellows here, 
 whom you would be glad to know. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXI. 
 
 TO 
 
 Ellisland, 1791. 
 
 Tnou eunuch of language; thou English- 
 man, who never was south the 'i'weed ; thou 
 servile echo of fashionable barbarisms ; thou 
 quack, vending the nostrums of empirie.d 
 elocution ; thou marriage-iuiiker between 
 vowels and consonants, on the Gretna (ireen 
 of caprice; thou cobbler, botching the flimsy 
 socks of bombast oratory ; thou blacksmith, 
 hammering the rivets of absurdity ; thou 
 butcher, enibruing thy hands in the bowels 
 of orthography ; thou arch-heritic in pro- 
 nunciation ; thou pitch pipe of affected 
 emphasis; thou carpenter, mortising the 
 awkward joints of jarring sentences ; thou 
 squeaking dissonance of cadence; thou pimp 
 of gender; thou Lion Herald to silly ety- 
 mology ; thou antipode of grammar ; thou 
 executioner of construction; thou brood of 
 the speech-distracting builders of the Tower 
 of Babel ; thou lingual confusion worse con- 
 founded ; thou scape-gallows from the land 
 of syntax ; thou scavenger of mood and 
 tense ; thou murderous accoucheur of infant 
 learning; thou ii/nis fatuns, misleading the 
 steps of benighted ignorance ; thou pickle- 
 herring in the pujipet-show of nonsense ; 
 thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom ; 
 thou persecutor of syllabication ; tliou baleful 
 
TO ME. "WM. NICOL. 
 
 379 
 
 meteor, foretelling and facilitating the rapid 
 approach of Nox and Erebus. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXH. 
 
 TO FRANCIS GROSE. Esq. F.S.A. (129) 
 
 Dumfries, 1792. 
 
 Sir — I believe among all our Scots literati 
 you have not met with Professor Dugald 
 Stewart, who fills the moral philosophy chair 
 in the University of Edinburgh. To say 
 that he is a man of the first parts, and, wliat 
 is more, a man of the first worth, to a gen- 
 tleman of your general acquaintance, and 
 who so much enjoys the luxury of unencum- 
 bered freedom and undisturbed privacy, is 
 uot, perhaps, recommendation enough ; but 
 when I inform you that Mr. Stewart's prin- 
 cipal characteristic is your favourite feature 
 • — tliut sterling independence of mind, which, 
 though every man's right, so few men have 
 the courage to claim, and fewer still the 
 magudniniity to support: when I tell you, 
 that unseduced by splendour, and undis- 
 gusted by wretcliedness, he appreciates the 
 merits of the various actors in the great 
 drama of life, merely as they perform their 
 parts — in short, he is a man after your own 
 heart, and I comply with his earnest request 
 in letting you know that he wishes above all 
 things to meet with you. His house, Catrine, 
 is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, 
 which you proposed visiting; or if you could 
 transmit him the enclosed, he would, with 
 the greatest pleasure, meet you any where 
 iu the neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire 
 to inform Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted 
 myself of my promise. Should your time 
 and spirits permit your meeting with Mr. 
 Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will 
 forgive this liberty, and 1 have, at least, an 
 opportunity of assuring you with what truth 
 and respect I am. Sir, your great admirer, 
 and very humble servant, R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXIII. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM SMELI.IE, 
 
 Dumfries, January 22nd, 1792. 
 
 I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a 
 young lady to you, and a lady in the first 
 ranks of fashion, too. What a task ! to 
 you — who care no more for the herd of 
 animals called yomig ladies, than you do for 
 
 the herd of animals called young gentlemeu. 
 To you — who despise and detest the group- 
 ings and combinations of fashion, as an idiot 
 painter that seems industrious to jilace 
 staring fools and miprincipled knaves in the 
 foreground of his picture, while men of 
 sense and honesty are too often thrown in 
 the dimmest sluules. Mrs. Riddel (1.30), 
 who will take this letter to town with her, 
 and send it to you, is a character that, even 
 in your own way, as a naturalist and a phi- 
 losopher, would be an acquisition to your 
 acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary of 
 the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat 
 of a judge in my own trade, I assure you 
 that her verses, always correct, and often 
 elegant, are much beyond tlie common run 
 of the ladij-poetesses of the day. She is a 
 great admirer of your book (131) ; and 
 hearing me say that I was acquainted with 
 you, she begged to be known to you, as she 
 is just going to pay her first visit to our 
 Caledonian capital. I told her that her best 
 way was, to desire her near relation, and 
 your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have 
 you at liis house while she was there ; and 
 lest you might think of a lively West Indian 
 girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often 
 deserve to be thought of, I should take care 
 to remove that prejudice. To be impartial, 
 however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
 she has one unlucky failing— a failing which 
 you will e.isily discover, as she seems rather 
 pleased with indulging in it — and a failing 
 that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin 
 which very much besets yourself — where she 
 dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no 
 more a secret of it than where she esteems 
 and respects. 
 
 I will not present you with the unmeaning 
 compliments of the season, but I will send 
 you my wannest wishes and most ardent 
 prayers, that Fortune may never throw 
 your SUBSISTENCE to the mercy of a 
 KNAVE, or set your character on the 
 judgment of a fool ; but that, upright and 
 erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
 where men of letters shall say, " Here lies a 
 man vi'ho did honour to science," and men of 
 worth shall say, " Here lies a man who did 
 honour to human nature." R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. WM. NICOK 
 
 February 20th, 1792. 
 Oil, thou wisest among the wise, meridia;< 
 blaze of prudence, fuP moon o' discreMon, 
 
380 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 
 
 ami chief of many counsellors ! (132) lluw 
 infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, 
 wrong-headed, roiuid-headed slave indelited 
 to thy super-eminent goodness, that, from 
 the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
 rectitude, thou lookest henigidy down on an 
 erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wander- 
 ings defy all the powers of calcuhition, from 
 the simple copulation of units, up to the 
 liidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one 
 feehle 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 father of proverbs, and master 
 of maxims, that antipode of folly, and mag- 
 net among the sages, the wise and witty 
 Willie Nicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be it! 
 
 For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
 nothing ! From the cave of ray ignorance, 
 amid the fogs of my duhiess, and pestilen- 
 tial fumes of my political heresies, I look up 
 to thee, as doth a toad through the iron- 
 barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to 
 the cloudless glory of a summer sun ! 
 Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, 
 when shall my name be the quotation of the 
 wise, and my countenance be the delight of 
 the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's 
 many hills? (133) As for him, his works 
 are perfect — never did the pen of calumny 
 blur the fair page of his reputation, nor the 
 bolt of liatred fly at his dwelling. 
 
 'Ihou nnrror of purity, when shall the 
 elrtne lamp of my glimmerous understanding, 
 purged from sensual appetites and gross 
 desires, shine like the constellation of thy 
 intellectual powers ! As for thee, thy 
 thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. 
 Never did tlie vinhallowed breath of the 
 powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
 darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy 
 sky-desceiided and heaven-bound desires ; 
 never did tlie vapours of impurity stain the 
 unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. 
 Oh, ttiat like thine were the tenor of my life, 
 like thine the tenor of my conversation ! — 
 then should no friend fear for my strength, 
 no enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then, 
 should I lie down and rise up, and none to 
 make me afraid. iNlay thy pity and thy 
 prayer be exercised for, oh thou lamp of 
 wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted 
 slave, £. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXV. 
 
 TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esa., F.SA. 
 Dumfries, 1792. 
 
 Among the many witch stories I have 
 heard, relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly 
 remeinher only two or three. 
 
 L'pon a stormy night, amid whistling 
 squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail — 
 in short, on such a night as the devil would 
 choose to take the cir in — a fanner, or 
 farmer's servant, was plo;ldiiig and plashing 
 homeward with his plough-irons on hia 
 shoulder, having been getting some repairs 
 on thein at a neighbouring smithy. His 
 way lay by the kirk of Alloway ; and being 
 rather on the anxious look-out in approach- 
 ing a place so well known to be a favourite 
 haunt of the devil, and the devil's friends 
 and emissaries, he had been struck aghast, 
 by discovering through the horrors of the 
 storm and stormy night, a light, which on 
 his nearer approach plainly showed itself to 
 proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether 
 he had been fortified from above, on his 
 devout supplication, as is customary with 
 people when they suspect the immediate 
 presence of Satan, or whether, according to 
 another custom, he had got courageously 
 drunk at the smithy, I wdl not pretend to 
 determine ; but, so it was, that he ventured 
 to go up to, nay, into the very kirk. As 
 luck would have it, his temerity came off 
 unpunished. 
 
 The members of the infernal junto were 
 all out on some midnight business or other, 
 and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or 
 caldron, depending from the roof, over the 
 fire, simmering some heads of unchristened 
 children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c., 
 for the business of the night. It was, m 
 for a penny, in for a pound, with the honest 
 ploughman : so without ceremony he un- 
 hooked the caldron from off the fire, anil, 
 pouring out the damnable ingredients, 
 inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
 home, where it remained long in the faiuily, 
 a living evidence of the trnth of the story. 
 
 Another story, which I can prove to be 
 equally aulhentic, was as follows : — 
 
 On a market day in the town of Ayr, a 
 farmer from Carrick, and consequently 
 whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway 
 kirk-yard, in order to cross the river Dooii 
 at the old bridge, which is about two or 
 three hundred yards further on than the said 
 gate, had been detained by his business, tiU 
 by tlie time he reached Ailoway it was tho 
 wizard hour, between night and moruiuf'. 
 
TO MR. J. CLARKE. 
 
 381 
 
 Though he \va3 terrified with a blaze 
 streaming from the kirk, yet, as it is a well- 
 kiiowii fact, that to turn back on tliese 
 occasions is running by far the greatest risk 
 of mischief, he prudently advanced on his 
 road. A\'hen he had reached the gate of 
 the kirk-yard, he was surprised and eiiter- 
 taiued. through the ribs and arches of an 
 old Gothic window, which stiU faces the 
 liighway, to see a dance of witches merrily 
 footing it round their old sooty blackguard 
 master, who was keeping them all alive with 
 the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, 
 stopping his horse to observe them a little, 
 could plainly descry the faces of many old 
 women of his acquaintance and neighbour- 
 hood. How the gentleman was dressed, 
 tradition does not say, but that the ladies 
 were all in their smocks : and one, of them 
 happening unluckily to have a smock which 
 was considerably too short to answer all the 
 purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer 
 was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst 
 out, with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, 
 Maggy wi' the short sark!" and recollecting, 
 himself, instantly spurred his horse to the 
 lop of his speed. I need not mention the 
 universally known fact, that no diabolical 
 power can pursue you beyond the middle of 
 a running stream. Lucky it was for the 
 poor fanner that the ri\er Doon was so 
 near, for, notwithstand ng the speed of his 
 horse, which was a good one, against he 
 reached the middle of the arch of the 
 bridge, and, consequently, the middle of the 
 stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, were 
 so close at his heels, that one of thera 
 actually sprang to seize him : but it was too 
 late ; nothing was on her side of the stream 
 but the liorse's tail, which immediately gave 
 way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a 
 stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was 
 beyond her reach. However, the unsightly, 
 tail-less condition of the vigorous steed, 
 was, to the last hour of the noble creature's 
 hfe, an awful warning to the Carrick farmers 
 not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 
 
 The last relation I shall give, though 
 equally true, is not so well identified as the 
 two former, with regard to the scene ; but 
 as the best authorities give it for Alloway, 
 I shall relate it. 
 
 On a summer's evening, about the time 
 nature puts on her sables to mourn the 
 ex))iry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, 
 belonging to a farmer in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of Alloway kirk, had just 
 folded his charge, and was returning home. 
 As he jiassed the kirk, in the adjoining 
 fields he fell in with a crew of men and 
 
 women, who were busy pulling stems of the 
 
 plant Ragwort. He observed that as eaeii 
 
 ^ person pulled a Ragwort, he or she got 
 
 I astride of it, and called out, " Up horsie I " 
 
 I on which the Ragwort Hew oflT, like Pegasus, 
 
 ! through the air with its lider. The foolish 
 
 ■ boy likewise pulled his Ragwort, and cried 
 
 I with the rest, " Up horsie ! " and, strange 
 
 to tell, away he flew with the company. 
 
 The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt, 
 
 was a merchant's wine cellar, in Bourdeaiix, 
 
 where, without saying, by your leave, they 
 
 quaffed away at the best the cellar could 
 
 atford, until the morning, foe to the imps 
 
 and works of darkness, threatened to throw 
 
 light on the matter, and frightened them 
 
 from their carousals. 
 
 The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
 stranger to the scene and the liquor, heed- 
 lessly got himself drunk ; and when the 
 rest took liorse, he fell asleep, and was 
 found so next day by some of the peojile 
 belonging to the merchant. Somebody that 
 understood Scotch, asked him what he was, 
 he said, such-a-one's herd in Alloway, and, 
 by some means or other, getting home 
 again, he lived long to tell the world the 
 wondrous tale. R. B. (134) 
 
 NO. CCXXXVl. 
 
 TO MR. J. CLARKE, 
 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 July -[Gth, 1792. 
 
 Mr. Burns begs leave to present his 
 most respectful compliments to .Mr. Clarke. 
 i\Ir. B. some time ago did himself the 
 honour of writing Mr. C. respecting coming 
 out to the country, to give a little musical 
 instruction in a highly respectable family, 
 where Mr. C. may have his own terms, and 
 may be as happy as indolence, the devil, and 
 the gout, will permit him. Mr. B. knows 
 well how Mr. C. is engaged with another 
 family ; but, cannot Mr. C. find two or three 
 weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B. h 
 deeply impressed with, and awfully con- 
 scious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'s 
 time; whether in the winged moments of 
 symphonious exhibition, at the keys ot 
 harmony, while listening seraphs cease their 
 own less delightful strains ; or, in the 
 drowsy arms of slumb'rons repose, in tlie 
 arms of his dearly beloved elbow chair, 
 where the frowsy, but potent power of 
 
382 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 indolence, circumfiises her vapours round, 
 and sheds her dews on the head of her 
 darlini,' son. But half a line, conveying half 
 a meaiunj from Mr. C, would make Mr. 
 B. the happiest of mortals. K. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXVII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, 
 
 Annan Waler-foot, August 22nd, 1792. 
 
 Do not blame me for it, Sladam — my 
 own conscience, hackneyed and weather- 
 beaten as it is, in watching and reproving 
 my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c., has cou- 
 tiiuied to punish me sufficiently. 
 
 Do you think it possible, my dear and 
 honoured friend, that I could be so lost to 
 gratit\ule for many favours, to esteem for 
 much worth, and to the honest, kind, 
 pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, — 
 and I hope, and am sure, of progressive, 
 increasing friendship — as for a single day, 
 not to think of you — to ask the Fates 
 what they are doing, and about to do, with 
 my much-loved friend and her wide scattered 
 connexion, and to beg of them to be as 
 kind to you and yours as they possibly 
 can ? 
 
 A-propos! (though how it is a-propos, I 
 have not leisure to explain), do you know 
 that 1 am almost in love with an acquaint- 
 ance of yours ? Almost 1 said I — I am in 
 love, souce, over head and ears, deep as the 
 most unfathomable abyss of the boundless 
 ocean ! — but the word love, owing to the 
 iutermim/ledoms of the good and the bad, the 
 pure and the impure, in this world, being 
 rather an equivocal term for expressing one's 
 sentiments and sensations, I must do justice 
 to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
 Know, tlien, that the heart-struck awe ; the 
 distant humble approach ; the delight we 
 should have in gazing upon and listening to 
 a messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
 unspotted purity of his celestial home, 
 among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons 
 of men, to deliver to them tidings that make 
 their hearts swim in joy, and their imagina- 
 tions soar in transport — such, so delighting 
 and so pure, were the emotions of my soul, 
 on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley 
 
 Baillie, your neighbour, at M 's. Mr. B., 
 
 with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. 
 II. of G., passing through Dumfries a few 
 days ago, on their way to England, did me 
 the honour of calling ou me; on which I 
 
 took my horse (though, God knows, I could 
 ill spare the time), and accompanied them 
 fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
 spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, 
 I think, when I left them, and, riding home, 
 I composed the following ballad, of which 
 you will probably think you have a dear 
 bargain, as it will cost you another groat of 
 postage. You must know that there is au " 
 old ballad beginning with : — 
 
 My bonnie Lizzie Baillie, 
 
 I'll rowe thee in my plaidie, &c. 
 
 So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
 the first copy, "unanointed, unannealed," 
 as Hamlet says : — 
 
 Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, &c. 
 
 So much for ballads. I regret that you 
 are gone to the east country, as I am to be 
 in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This 
 world of ours, notwithstanding it has many 
 good things in it, yet it has ever had this 
 curse, that two or three people, who would 
 be the happier the oftener they met together, 
 are, almost without exception, always so 
 placed as never to meet but once or twice 
 a-year, which, considering the few years of a 
 man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
 sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon 
 has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries 
 of man. I hope, and believe, that there is a 
 state of existence beyond the grave, where 
 the worthy of this life will renew their 
 former intimacies, with this endearing 
 addition, that "we meet to part no more !" 
 
 Tell us, ye dead. 
 Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
 What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 
 
 A thousand times have I made this apos- 
 trophe to the departed sons of men, but not 
 one of them has ever thought fit to answer 
 the question. " Oh that some courteous 
 ghost would blab it out!" But it cannot 
 be; you and I, my friend, must make the 
 experiment by ourselves, and for ourselves. 
 However, I am so convinced that an un- 
 shaken faith in the doctrines of religion is 
 not only necessary, by making us better 
 men, but also by making us happier men, 
 that I should take every care that your little 
 godson, and every little creature that shall 
 call me father, shall be taught them. 
 
 So ends this heterogeneous letter, written 
 at this wild place of the world, in the 
 intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel 
 of rum from Antigua. R. B. 
 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 883 
 
 NO. CCXXXVIH. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Dumfries, Sept. Wth, 1792. 
 
 No I I will not attempt an apology. 
 Amid all my hurry of business, grinding 
 the faces of the publican and the sinner on 
 the merciless wheels of the Excise ; making 
 ballads, and then drinking, and singing 
 them ; and, over and above all, the cor- 
 recting the press-work of two different pub- 
 lications ; still, stdl I might have stolen five 
 minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
 friends and fellow-creatures. I might have 
 done, as I do at present, snatched an hour 
 near "witching time of night," and scrawled 
 a page or two. I might have congratulated 
 my friend on his marriage ; or I might have 
 thanked the Caledonian archers for the 
 honour they have done me (though, to do 
 myself justice, I intended to have done both 
 in rhyme, else I had done both long ere 
 now.) Well, then, here is to your good 
 health ! — for you must know, I have set a 
 nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of 
 spell, to keep away the meikle horned deil, 
 or any of his subaltern imps, who may be 
 on their nightly rounds. 
 
 But what shall I write to you? "The 
 voice said, Cry," and I said, "What shall I 
 cry?" Oh, thou spirit! whatever thou art, 
 or wherever thou makest thyself visible ! 
 Be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld 
 thorn, in the dreary glen through which the 
 herd-callan maun bicker in his gloamin route 
 frae tiie fauld ! Be thou a brownie, set, at 
 dead of night, to thy task by the blazing 
 ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the 
 repercussions of thy iron flail half affright 
 thyself, as thou performest the work of 
 twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock- 
 crowing summon thee to thy ample cog of 
 substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunt- 
 ing the ford or ferry, in the starless night, 
 mixing thy laughing yell with the howling 
 of the storm and the roaring of the flood, as 
 tnou viewest the perils and miseries of man 
 on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling 
 boat ! Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying 
 thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of 
 decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic 
 rites in tlie shadow of the time-worn church, 
 while the moon looks, without a cloud, on 
 the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead 
 around thee , or, taking thy stand by the 
 bedside of the villain, or the murderer, por- 
 traying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, 
 dreadful as the horrors of unveiled hell, and 
 terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity ! 
 
 Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid 
 forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy 
 inspirations, which thou breathest round the 
 wig of a prating advocate, or the tcte of a 
 tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run 
 at the light-horse gallop of clishmaclaver for 
 ever and ever — come, and assist a poor devd 
 who is quite jaded in the attempt to share 
 half an idea among half a hundred words ; 
 to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not 
 got one single sentence of recollection, in- 
 formation, or remark, worth putting pen to 
 paper for. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 A-propos, how do you like — I mean really 
 like — the married life ? Ah, my friend ! 
 matrimony is quite a different thing from 
 what your love-sick youths and sighing girls 
 take it to be ! But marriage, we are told, is 
 appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel 
 with any of his institutions. I am a husband 
 of older standing than you, and shall give 
 you Jiiy ideas of the conjugal state (en 
 passant ; you know I am no Latinist, is not 
 conjufjal derived from juyiim , a yoke !) Well, 
 then, the scale of good wifeship I divide into 
 ten parts. Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, 
 two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a 
 sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful 
 carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but 
 that is soon spoilt you know), all these, one ; 
 as for the other qualities belonging to, or 
 attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, Con- 
 nections, Education (I mean education ex- 
 traordinary). Family blood, &c., diviile the 
 two remaining degrees among them as you 
 please ; only, remember, that all these minor 
 properties must be expressed by fractions, 
 for there is not any one of them, in the 
 aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of an 
 inteyer. 
 
 As for the rest of my fancies and reveries 
 — how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillie, 
 the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 
 world — how I accompanied her and her 
 father's family fifteen miles on their journey, 
 out of pure devotion, to admire the loveli- 
 ness of the works of God, in such an 
 imequalled display of them — how, in gallop- 
 ing home at night, I made a ballad on her, o( 
 which these two stanzas make a part — 
 
 Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen. 
 
 Thy subjects we before thee ; 
 Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine. 
 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 The very deil he could na scathe 
 
 Whatever wad belang thee ' 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face 
 
 And say, ' I canna wrang thee' — 
 
 34 
 
384 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 Behold all these thinsjs are written in the 
 chronicles of my imagination, and shall he 
 read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy 
 beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a 
 more convenient season. 
 
 Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
 Jo.soiH-companion, be given the precious 
 things brought forth by the sun, and the 
 precious things brought forth by the moon, 
 and the benignest influences of the stars, 
 and the living streams which flow from the 
 fountains of life, and by the tree of life, for 
 ever and ever ! Amen ! R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXXXIX- 
 
 MR. THOMSON (135) TO BURNS. 
 Edinliuryh, Septemher 1792. 
 
 Sir — For some years past I have, with a 
 friend or two, employed many leisure hours 
 in selecting and collating the most favourite 
 of our national melodies for publication. 
 We have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable 
 composer living, to put accompaniments to 
 these, and also to compose an instrumental 
 prelude and conclusion to each air, the 
 better to fit them for concerts, both public 
 and private. To render this work perfect, 
 we are desirous to have the poetry improved, 
 wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
 and that it is so in many instances, is 
 allowed by every one conversant with our 
 musical collections. The editors of these 
 seem, in general, to have depended on the 
 music proving an excuse for the verses ; and 
 hence, some charming melodies are united to 
 mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are 
 accommodated with rhymes so loose and 
 indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent 
 company. To remove this reproach would 
 be an easy task to the author of the 
 "Cotter's Saturday Night;" and, for the 
 honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope he 
 may be induced to take up the pen. If so, 
 we shall be enabled to present the public 
 with a collection, infinitely more interesting 
 than any that has yet appeared, and accept- 
 able to all persons of taste, whether they 
 wish for correct melodies, delicate accom- 
 paniments, or characteristic verses. We will 
 esteem your poetical assistance a particular 
 favour, besides, paying any reasonable price 
 you shall please to demand for it. Profit is 
 quite a secondary consideration with us, and 
 we are resolved to spare neither pains nor 
 expense on the publication. Tell me, frankly. 
 
 then, whether you will devote your leisure to 
 writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited 
 to the particular melodies which I am pre- 
 pared to send you. A few songs, exception- 
 able only in some of their verses, 1 will like- 
 wise submit to your consideration ; leaving 
 it to you, either to mend these, or make new 
 songs in their stead. It is superfluous to 
 assure you that I have no intention to dis- 
 place any of the sterling old songs ; those 
 only will be removed which appear quite 
 silly or absolutely indecent. Even these 
 shall be all examined by Mr. Burns, and if 
 he is of opinion that any of them are 
 deserving of the music, in such cases no 
 divorce shall take place. G. Thomson. 
 
 NO. CCXL. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 
 
 Dumfries, Sept. I6th, 1792. 
 
 Sir — I have just this moment got your 
 letter. As the request you make to me will 
 positively add to my enjoyments in comply- 
 ing with it, I shall enter into your under- 
 taking with all the small portion of altilities 
 I have, strained to their utmost exertion by 
 the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don't 
 hurry me: — "Deil tak the hindmost" is by 
 no means the cri de guerre of my muse. 
 Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in 
 enthusiastic attaehment to the poetry and 
 music of old Caledonia, and, since you 
 request it, have cheerfully promised my mite 
 of assistance — will you let me have a list of 
 your airs with the first line of the printed 
 verses you intend for them, that 1 may have 
 an opportunity of suggesting any alteration 
 that may occur to me? You know 'tis in 
 the way of my trade ; still leaving you, 
 gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers 
 to approve or reject, at your pleasure, for 
 your own publication. A-propos, if you are 
 for English verses, there is, on my part, an 
 end of the matter. Whether in the sim- 
 plicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the 
 song, I can only hope to please myself in 
 being allowed at least a sprinkling of our 
 native tongue. English verses, particularly 
 the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are 
 certainly very eligible. "Tweedside!" "Ah! 
 the poor shepherd's mournful fate !" "Ah ! 
 Chloris, could I now but sit," &c., you can- 
 not mend ; but such insipid stuff as " To 
 Fanny fair could I impart," &c., usually set 
 to " the Mill, Mill, O ! " is a disgrace to the 
 collections in which it has already appeared, 
 
ME. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 3S5 
 
 and would doubly disgrace a collection that 
 will have the very superior merit of yours. 
 But more of this in the further prosecution 
 of the business, if I am called on for my 
 strictures and amendments — I say amend- 
 ments, for I will not alter except where I 
 myself, at least, think that I amend. 
 
 As to any remuneration, you may think 
 my songs either above or below price ; for 
 they shall absolutely be the one or the other. 
 In "the honest enthusiasm with which I 
 embark in your undertaking', to talk of 
 money, wages, fee, hire, &c., would be down- 
 right prostitution (136) of soul ! A proof of 
 each of the songs that I compose or amend, 
 I shall receive as a fixvour. In the rustic 
 phrase of the season, " Gude speed the 
 wark ! " I am. Sir, your very humble 
 servant, , R. BuiiNS. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Dumfries, Sept. 2-ith, 1792. 
 
 I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, 
 yours of the 23rd. All your other kind 
 reproaches, your news, &c., are out of my 
 head, when I read and think on Mrs. Henri's 
 situation. Good God ! a heart-wounded 
 helpless young woman — in a strange, foreign 
 land, and that land convulsed with every 
 horror that can harrow the human feelings 
 — sick — looking, longing for a comforter, 
 but finding none — a mother's feelings, too — 
 but it is too much : he who wounded (he 
 only can) may He heal ! 
 
 I wish the farmer great joy of his new 
 acquisition to his family. ****** I can- 
 not say that I give him joy of his life as a 
 farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer, paying a dear, 
 unconscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a 
 laird farming his own property ; sowing his 
 own corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite 
 of brittle weather, in gladness; knowing 
 that none can say unto him, " What dost 
 thou?" — fattening his herds; shearing his 
 flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and beget- 
 ting sons and daughters, until he be the 
 venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe 
 — 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the life 
 of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 
 
 Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, 
 u to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire 
 ■tisit. I cannot leave Mrs. B. until her nine 
 months' race is run, which may, perhaps, be 
 in three or four weeks. She, too, seems 
 determined to make we the patriarchal 
 
 leader of a band. However, if Heaven will 
 be so obhgiiig as to let me have them in the 
 proportion of three boys to one girl I shall 
 be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I 
 am spared with them, to show a set of boys 
 that will do honour to my cares and name ; 
 but I am not equal to the task of rearing 
 girls. Besides, I am too poor — a girl should 
 always have a fortune. A-propos, your little 
 godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
 devil. lie, though two years younger, baa 
 completely mastered his brother. Robert is 
 indeed the mildest, gentlest, creature I eve» 
 saw. He has a most surprising memory, 
 and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 
 
 Yon know how readily we get into prattle 
 upon a subject dear to our heart — you can 
 excuse it. God bless you and yours ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXLII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 I HAD been from home, and did not 
 receive your letter until my return the other 
 day. What shall I say to comfort you, my 
 much-valued, much-afflicted friend ! I can 
 but grieve with you ; consolation I have 
 none to offer, except that which religion 
 holds out to the children of affliction— 
 {children of affliction! — how just the ex- 
 pression !) — and like every other family, 
 they have matters among them which they 
 hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important 
 manner, of which the world has not, nor 
 cares to have, any idea. The world looks 
 indifferently on, makes the passing remark, 
 and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 
 
 Alas, INIadam ! who would wish for many 
 years ? What is it but to drag existence 
 until our joys gradually expire, and leave us 
 in a night of misery — like the gloom which 
 blots out the stars, one by one, from the face 
 of night, and leaves us, without a ray of 
 comfort, in the howling waste ! 
 
 I am interrupted, and must leave off. 
 You shall aoou hear from me again. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCXLII I. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, Oct. I3th, 1792. 
 
 Dear Sir — I received with much satis- 
 faction your pleasant and obhging letter an(^ 
 
886 
 
 CORRESPONDEJICE OF BURNS. 
 
 I return my warmest acknowledgments for 
 the enthusiasm with which you have entered 
 into our undertaking. We have now no 
 doubt of being able to produce a collection 
 highly deserving of public attention in all 
 respects. 
 
 I agree with you in thinking English 
 verses, that have merit, very eligible, wliere- 
 ever new verses are necessary, because the 
 English becomes every year, more and more, 
 the language of Scotland ; but, if you mean 
 that no English verses, except those by 
 Scottish authors, ought to be admitted, I am 
 half inclined to differ from you. I should 
 consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one 
 good song in the Scottish dialect, to make 
 room for English verses ; but if we can 
 select a few excellent ones suited to the un- 
 provided or ill-provided airs, would it not be 
 the very bigotry of literary patriotism to 
 reject stich, merely because the autliors 
 were born south of the Tweed ? Our sweet 
 air, " My Nannie, O ! " which in the collec- 
 tions is joined to the poorest st\iff that 
 Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning — 
 " While some for pleasure pawn their health," 
 answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful 
 song, "Oh Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" 
 that one would think he wrote it on purpose 
 for the air. However, it is not at all our 
 wish to confine you to English verses ; you 
 shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of your 
 native tongue, as you elegantly express it ; 
 and, moreover, we will patiently wait your 
 own time. One thing only I beg, which is, 
 that however gay and sportive the muse may 
 be, she may always be decent. Let her not 
 write what beauty would blush to speak, nor 
 wound that charming delicacy which forms 
 the most precious dowry of our daughters. 
 I do not conceive the song to be the most 
 proper vehicle for witty and brilliant con- 
 ceits ; simplicity, I believe, should be its 
 prominent feature : but, in some of our 
 songs, the writers have confounded simplicity 
 with coarseness and vulgarity ; although, 
 between the one and the other, as Dr. Beattie 
 well observes, there is as great a difference 
 .as between a plain suit of clothes and a 
 bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or 
 pathetic complaint, is best suited to our art- 
 less melodies ; and more interesting, indeed, 
 in all songs, than the most pointed wit, 
 ■dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies. 
 
 ^Vith these trite observations, I send you 
 eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish 
 to substitute others of your writing. I shall 
 soon transmit the rest, and, at the same 
 tmie, a prospectus of the whole collection ; 
 aud, you may believe, we will receive any 
 
 hints that you are so kind as to give for im- 
 proving the work, with the greatest pleasure 
 and thankfulness. I remain, dear Sir, && 
 
 NO. CCXLIV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 
 
 My Dear Sir — Let rae tell you, that 
 you are too fastidious in your ideas of 
 songs and ballads, I own that your criti- 
 cisms are just ; the songs you specify in 
 your list have, all but one, the faults you 
 remark in them ; but who shall mend the 
 matter? AVho shall rise up and say, "Go 
 to ! I will make a better ? " For instance, 
 on reading over "The Lea-rig," I imme- 
 diately set about trying my hand on it, and, 
 after all, I could make nothing more of it 
 than the following, which Heaven knows, is 
 poor enough. 
 
 [^Here follow the two first stanzas of "My 
 ain kind dearie ! "] 
 
 Your observation as to the aptitude of 
 Dr. Percy's ballad to the air, " Nannie, O 1 " 
 is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most 
 beautiful ballad in the English language. 
 But let me remark to you, that in the senti- 
 ment and style of our Scottish airs, there is 
 a pastoral simplicity, a something that one 
 may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal 
 music, to which a dash of our native tongue 
 and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly 
 apposite. For this reason, and, upon my 
 honour, for this reason alone, 1 am of 
 opinion (but, as I told you before, my 
 opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or 
 reject, as you please) that my Isallad of 
 " Nannie, O ! " might perhaps do fur one set 
 of verses to the tune. Now don't let it 
 enter into your head, that you are under any 
 necessity of taking my verses. 1 have long 
 ago made up my mind as to my own repu- 
 tation in the business of authorship, and 
 have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in 
 your adoption or rejection of my verses. 
 Though you should reject one half of what 
 I give you, I shall be pleased with your 
 adopting the other half, and shall continue 
 to serve you with the same assiduity. 
 
 In the printed copy of my " Nannie, O ! " 
 the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I 
 will alter it : 
 
 " Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 
 
 Girvan is the name of the river that suits 
 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 887 
 
 the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is 
 the most agreeable modulation of syllables. 
 
 I will soon give you a great many more 
 remarks on this business ; but I have just 
 now an opportunity of conveying you this 
 acrawl, free of postage, au expense that it is 
 ill able to pay ; so, with my best complimeuts 
 to honest Allan, Gude be wi' ye, &c. 
 Friday Night, 
 
 Saturday Morning. 
 
 As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
 morning before my conveyance goes away, I 
 will give you " Nannie, O ! " at length. 
 
 Your remarks on " Ewe-bughts, Marion," 
 are just ; still it has obtained a place among 
 our more classical Scottish songs ; and what 
 with many beauties in its composition, and 
 more prejudices in its favour, you will not 
 find it easy to supplant it. 
 
 In my very early years, when I was think- 
 ing of going to the West Indies, I took the 
 following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite 
 trifling, and has nothing of the merits of 
 " Ewe-bughts ; " but it will fill up this page. 
 You must know that all my earlier love- 
 songs were the breathings of ardent passion, 
 and though it might have been easy in after- 
 times to have given them a polish, yet that 
 polish, to me, whose they were, and who 
 perhaps alone cared for them, would have 
 defaced the legend of my heart, which was 
 so faithfully inscribed on them. Their un- 
 couth simplicity was, as they say of ^anes, 
 their race. 
 
 [//ere follows the song " Will ye go to the 
 Indies, mij Mary ? " Mr. Thomson did not 
 adopt the song in his collection^ 
 
 " Gala Water," and " Auld Rob Morris," 
 I think, will most probably be the next 
 subject of my musings. However, even on 
 my verses, speak out your criticisms with 
 equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand 
 aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opiuidtretc, 
 but cordially to join issue with you in the 
 fuithcrauce of the work. 
 
 NO. CCXLV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Novemler 8th, 1792. 
 
 If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the 
 BODgs in your collection shall be poetry of 
 the first merit, I am afraid you will find 
 more difficulty in the tmdertaking than you 
 are aware of There is a peculiar rhythmus 
 
 in many of our airs, and a necessity of 
 adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what 
 1 would call the feature-notes of the tune, 
 that cramp the poet, and lay him under 
 almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, 
 in the air, " My wife's a wanton wee thing," 
 if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
 adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The 
 following were made extempore to it ; and 
 though, on further study, I might give you 
 something more profound, yet it might not 
 suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well 
 as tliis random chnk : — 
 
 [Here follows "My Wife's a winsome wee 
 
 thing."] 
 
 I have just been looking over the "Collier's 
 bonnie dochter ;" and if the following rhap- 
 sody, which I composed the other day, on a 
 charming Ayrshire girl. Miss Lesley Baillie, 
 as she passed through this place to England, 
 will suit your taste better than the " Collier 
 Lassie," fall on and welcome : — 
 
 \Here follows "Bonnie Lesley."] 
 
 I have hitherto deferred the sublimer* 
 more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they 
 will take, and deserve, a greater effort. How- 
 ever, they are all put into your hands, as 
 clay into the hands of the potter, to make 
 one vessel to honour, and another to dis- 
 honour. Farewell, &c. 
 
 NO. CCXLVI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 November Uth, 1792. 
 
 My Dear Sir — I agree with you that 
 the song, "Katharine Ogie," is very poor 
 stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of 
 so beautiful an air. I tned to mend it; but 
 the awkward sound, Ogie, recurring so often 
 in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at intro- 
 ducing sentiment into the piece. The fore- 
 going song pleases myself; I think it is in 
 my happiest manner : you will see at first 
 glance that it suits the air. The subject of 
 the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
 sages of my youthful days, and I own that 
 I should be much flattered to see the verses 
 set to au air which would ensure celebrity. 
 Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing pre- 
 judice of my heart that throws a borrowed 
 lustre over the merits of the composition. 
 
 I have partly taken your idea of "Auld 
 Rob Morris." I have adopted the two first 
 
 34* 
 
388 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 verses, and am going on with the song on a 
 new plan, which promises pretty well. I 
 take tjp one or another, just as the bee of 
 the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug ; and 
 do you, sans ceremonie, make what use you 
 choose of the productions. Adieu, &c. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 [//«re follows a copy of the " Highland 
 Mary."'\ 
 
 NO. CCXLVII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinhurijh, Nov. 1792. 
 
 Dear Sir — I was just going to write to 
 you, that on meeting with your Nannie, I 
 had fallen violently in love with her. I thank 
 you, therefore, for sending the charming 
 rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to 
 appear before the public. She does you 
 great credit, and will soon be admitted into 
 the best company. 
 
 I regret that your song for the " Lea-rig " 
 is so short ; the air is easj'^, soon sung, and 
 very pleasing : so that, if the singer stops at 
 the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost 
 ere it is well possessed. 
 
 Although a dash of our native tongue and 
 manners is, doubtless, peculiarly congenial 
 and appropriate to our melodies, yet 1 shall 
 be able to present a considerable number of 
 the very Flowers of English song, well 
 adapted to those melodies, which, in England, 
 at least, will be the means of recommending 
 them to still greater attention than they 
 have procured there. But, you will observe, 
 my plan is, that every air shall, in the first 
 place, have verses wholly by Scottish poets ; 
 and that those of English writers shall follow 
 as additional songs for the choice of the 
 singer. 
 
 What you say of the "Ewe-bughts" ia 
 just ; I admire it, and never meant to sup- 
 plant it. All I requested was, that you 
 would try your hand on some of the inferior 
 stanzas, which are apparently no part of the 
 original song; but this I do not urge, because 
 the song is of sufficient length, though those 
 inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be 
 by the singer of taste. You must not think 
 1 expect all the songs to be of superlative 
 merit ; that were an unreasonable expecta- 
 tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit 
 down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed 
 well at all times. 
 
 I am highly pleased with your humorous 
 and amorous rhapsody on "Bonnie Lesley :" 
 it is a thousand times better than the 
 " Collier's Lassie." " The Deil he cou'd na 
 scaith thee," &c., is an eccentric and happy 
 thought. Do you not think, however, that 
 the names of such old heroes as Alexander 
 sound rather queer, unless in pompous or 
 mere burlesque verse? Instead of the line, 
 "And never made anither," I would humbly 
 suggest, "And ne'er made sic anither;" and 
 I would fain have you substitute some other 
 line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
 verse, because I think this alteration of the 
 orthography, and of the sound of Caledonia, 
 disfigures the word, and renders it Hudi- 
 brastic. 
 
 Of the other song, " My wife's a winsome 
 wee thing," I think the first eight lines very 
 good ; but I do not admire the other eight, 
 because four of them are a bare repetition of 
 the first verses. I have been trying to spin 
 a stanza, but could make nothing better than 
 the following: do you mend it, or, as Yorick 
 did with the love letter, whip it up in your 
 own way : — 
 
 Oh leeze me on my wee thing. 
 My bonnie blythesome, wee thing; 
 Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
 I'll think my lot divine. 
 
 Tho' warld's care we share o't. 
 And may see meikle mair o't, 
 Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
 And ne'er a word repine. 
 
 You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself 
 of the liberty, which you condescend to allow 
 me, by speaking freely what I think. Be 
 assured, it is not my disposition to pick out 
 the faults of any poem or picture I see : my 
 first and chief object is to discover and be 
 delighted with the beauties of the piece. If 
 I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, 
 what, perhaps, you have written in haste, I 
 may happen to observe careless lines, the 
 reperusal of which might lead you to improve 
 them. The wren will often see what has 
 been overlooked by the eagle. I remain 
 yours faithfully, &c. 
 
 P. S. Your verses upon " Highland Mary" 
 are just come to hand : they breathe the 
 genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, 
 will last for ever. Such verses, united to 
 such an air, with the delicate harmony of 
 rieyel superadded, might form a treat worthy 
 of being presented to Apollo himself. I have 
 heard the sad story of your Mary; you 
 always seem inspired when you write of 
 her. 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 88H 
 
 NO. CCXLVIIl 
 
 BURNS TO JIR. THOilSON. 
 
 Dumfnes, Dec. \st, 1792. 
 
 Your alterations of my " Nannie, O !" 
 are perfectly right. So are those of " My 
 Wife's .1 winsome wee thing." Your alter- 
 ation of the second stanza is a positive 
 impro\ement. Now, my dear Sir, with the 
 freedom which characterises our correspond- 
 ence, I must not, cannot alter " Bonnie 
 Lesley." You are right ; the word " Alex- 
 ander" makes the line a little uncouth, but I 
 think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, 
 beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in 
 the sublime language of Scripture, that " he 
 went forth conquering and to conquer." 
 For nat\ire made her what she is. 
 And never made aiiither. ^Such a person as 
 she is ) 
 
 This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
 "Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
 immaterial : make it either way. "Caledonie," 
 I agree with you, is not so good a word as 
 could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
 three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; 
 but I cannot help it. In short, that species 
 of stanza is the most difficult that 1 have 
 ever tried. 
 
 The " Lea-rig" is as follows : — • 
 
 [Here the poet repeats the first two stanzas, 
 adding a third.] 
 
 I am interrupted. Yours, &C. 
 
 NO. CCXLIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 December ilh, 1792. 
 
 The fore;;oing ["Auld Rob Morris "and 
 ** Duncan Gray,"] I submit, my dear Sir, to 
 your better judgment. Acquit them, or con- 
 demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
 " Duncan Gray " is that kind of ligl>t-horse 
 gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. 
 The ludicrous is its ruling feature. 
 
 NO. ecu 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Dumfries, Dec. Qth, 1792. 
 I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, nexc 
 week ; and, if at all possible, I sliall certainly. 
 
 my much-esteemed friend, have the pleasurt 
 of visiting at Dunlop-house. 
 
 Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
 this world, that we have reason to congratu- 
 late ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I 
 have not passed half the ordinary term of 
 an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look 
 over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do 
 not see some names that I have known, and 
 which I, and other acquaintances, little 
 thought to meet with there so soon. Every 
 other instance of the mortality of our kind, 
 makes us cast an anxious look into the 
 dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder 
 with apprehension for ovir own fate. But of 
 how different an importance are the lives of 
 different individuals ! Nay, of what im- 
 portance is one period of the same life more 
 than another? A few years ago I could 
 have lain down in the dust, "careless of the 
 voice of the morning ; " and now not a few, 
 and these most helpless individuals, would, 
 on losing me and my exertions, lose both 
 their " staff and shield." By the way, these 
 helpless ones liave lately got an addition; 
 Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl since I 
 wrote you. There is a charming passage in 
 Thomson's " Edward and Eleanora : " — 
 "The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
 Or what need he regard iiis siiujle woes ? " &c. 
 
 As I am got in the way of quotations, I 
 shall give you another from the same piece, 
 peculiarly — alas! too peculiarly — apposite, 
 my dear ]\Iadam, to your present frame of 
 mind : — 
 
 " Who so unworthy but may proudly deck 
 
 him 
 With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
 Glad o'er the summer main ? The tempest 
 
 comes, [the helm 
 
 The rough winds rage aloud; when from 
 This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
 Lamenting. Heavens! if privileged from 
 
 trial. 
 How cheap a thing were virtue ! " 
 
 I do not remember to have heard you 
 mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up 
 favourite quotations, and store them in my 
 mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, 
 amid the struggle of this turbulent exist- 
 ence. Of these is one, a very favourite oae, 
 from his " Alfred :"^ 
 
 " .\ttach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
 
 And offices of life ; to life itself. 
 
 With all its vain and transient joys, sit louse 
 
 Probably I have quoted some of these to 
 you formerly, as indeed, when I write from 
 
280 
 
 CORKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 ihe heart, I am apt to be guilty of such re- 
 petitions. The compass of the heart, in the 
 musical style of expression, is much more 
 bounded than that of the imagination, so 
 the notes of the former are extremely apt 
 to run into one another ; but in return for 
 the paucity of its compass, its few notes are 
 much more sweet. I must still give you 
 another quotation, which I am almost sure 
 I have given you before, but I cannot resist 
 the temptation. The subject is religion — 
 speaking of its importance to mankind, the 
 author says : — 
 
 *Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
 bright. 
 
 I see you are in for double postage, so I 
 shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in 
 this country here, have many alarms of the 
 reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of 
 your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are a 
 good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
 I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble 
 one, indeed. Heaven knows, but still so 
 much as to gag me. AVhat my private sen- 
 timents are, you will find out without an 
 interpreter. 
 
 I have taken up the subject, and the other 
 day, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I 
 wrote an address, which I will give on tlie 
 other page, called " The Rights of Woman." 
 
 I shall have the honour of receiving your 
 criticisms in person at Dunlop. R. B. 
 
 TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ.. FINTRY. 
 
 December, 1792. 
 
 Sir — I have been surprised, confounded, 
 and distracted, by Mr. Mitchell, the col- 
 lector, telling me that he has received an 
 order from your Board (137) to inquire into 
 my political conduct, and blaming me as a 
 person disaffected to government. 
 
 Sir, yen are a husband, and a father. You 
 kmw what you would feel, to see the much- 
 loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
 prattling little ones, turned adrift into the 
 world, degraded and disgraced from a situa- 
 tion in which they had been respectable and 
 respected, and left almost without the neces- 
 sary support of a miserable existence. Alas, 
 Sir ! must I think that such soon will be my 
 
 lot ! and from the d , dark insinuations 
 
 of hellish groundless envy too ! I believe. 
 Sir, 1 may aver it, and in the sight of Omni- 
 science, that I would not tell a deliberate 
 
 falsehood, no, not though even worse hor 
 rors, if worse can be, than those I have 
 mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, 
 that the allegation, whatever villain has 
 made it, is a lie 1 To the British Constitu- 
 tion, on revolution principles, next after my 
 God, I am most devoutly attached. You, 
 Sir, have been much and generously my 
 friend ; Heaven knows how warmly I have 
 felt the obligation, and how gratefully I 
 have thanked you. Fortune, Sir, has made 
 you powerful, and me impotent — has given 
 you patronage, and me dependence. I would 
 not, for my single self, call on your hu- 
 manity ; were such my insular, unconnected 
 situation, I would despise the tear that now 
 swells in ray eye — I could brave misfortune, 
 I could face ruin, for, at the worst, " Death's 
 thousand doors stand open ; " but, good 
 God ! the tender concerns that I have men- 
 tioned, the claims and ties that I see at this 
 moment, and feel around me, how they un- 
 nerve courage and wither resolution ! To 
 your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
 you have allowed me a claim; and your 
 esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. 
 To these. Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these 
 may I adjure you to save me from that 
 misery which threatens to overwhelm me, 
 and which, with my latest breath I will say 
 it, I have not deserved. R. B. 
 
 NO. ccm. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Dumfries, December 3lst, 1792. 
 
 Dear Mad.\m — A hurry of business, 
 thrown in heaps by my absence, has until 
 now, prevented my returning my grateful 
 acknowledgments to the good family of 
 Dunlop, and you, in particular, for that hos- 
 pitable kindness which rendered the four 
 days I spent under that genial roof, four of 
 the pleasantest I ever enjoyed. Alas, my 
 dearest friend ! how few and fleeting are 
 those things we call pleasures ! — on my road 
 to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a friend 
 wliom I much valued, a man whose days 
 promised to be many ; and on Saturday last 
 we laid him in the dust I 
 
 January 2nd, 1792. 
 
 I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, 
 and feel much for your situation. However, 
 1 heartily rejoice in your prospect of reco- 
 very from that vile jaundice. As to myself, 
 I am better, though not quite free of my 
 
TO MTl. TnO'\rSON. 
 
 n9i 
 
 coraplatnt. You must not think, as you 
 seem to insinuate, that in ray way of life I 
 want exercise. Of that I have enoutfh ; but 
 occasional hard drinking is the devil to rae. 
 Against this I have again and a^ain bent ray 
 resolution, and have greatly succeeded. 
 Taverns I have totally abandoned : it is the 
 private parties, in the family way, among the 
 hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, 
 that do me the mischief — but even this, I 
 have more than half given over. (138) 
 
 JNIr. Corbet can be of little service to me 
 at present ; at least I should be shy of ap- 
 plying. I cannot possibly be settled as a 
 supervisor for several years. I must wait 
 the rotation of the list, and there are twenty 
 names before mine. I might, indeed, get a 
 job of officiating, where a settled superv isor 
 was ill, or aged; but that hauls me from my 
 family, as I could not remove them on sucli 
 an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, ma- 
 licious devil, has raised a little demur on my 
 political principles, and I wish to let that 
 matter settle before I otfer myself too much 
 in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, 
 henceforth, a seal on ray lips, as to these 
 unlucky politics; but to you, I must breathe 
 my sentiments. In this, as in everything 
 else, I shall show the undisguised emotions 
 of ray soul. War I deprecate : misery and 
 ruin to thousands are in the blast that 
 announces the destructive demon. * * 
 K. B. 
 
 NO. CCLHI. 
 
 TO THE SAME (139) 
 
 January 5th, 1793. 
 
 Yov see my hurried life. Madam; I can 
 only conmiand starts of time : however, I 
 aui glad of one thing ; since I finished the 
 other sheet, the political blast that threat- 
 ened my welfare is overblown. I have cor- 
 responded with Commissioner Graham, for 
 the board had made me the subject of their 
 animadversions ; and now I have the plea- 
 sure of informing you, that all is set to 
 rights in that (|narter. Now, as to these 
 
 informers, may the devil be let loose to 
 
 But, hold ! 1 was praying most fervently in 
 my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall 
 a-swearing in this. 
 
 Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly 
 officious think what mischief they do by 
 their malicious insinuations, indirect imper- 
 tinence, or thoughtless blabbin^s. What a 
 
 diit'erence there is in intrinsic worth, can- 
 dour, benevolence, generosity, kindness — in 
 all the charities and all the virtues — between 
 one class of himian beings and another. For 
 instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed 
 with in the hospitable hall of Dunlop, their 
 generous hearts, their uncontaminated dig- 
 nified rainds, their informed and polished 
 understandings — what a contrast, when 
 compared — if such comparing were not 
 downright sacrilege — with the soul of the 
 miscreant who can deliberately jtlot the 
 destruction of an honest man that never 
 ofi'ended him, and with a grin of satisfaction 
 see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, 
 and prattling innocents, turned over to 
 beggary and ruin ! 
 
 Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 
 I had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
 other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
 duced my whigmaleerie cup, and told them 
 that it had been a family-piece among the 
 descendants of William Wallace. This 
 roused such an enthusiasm, that they in- 
 sisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; 
 and by and bye, never did your great 
 ancestor lay a suthron more completely to 
 rest, than for a time did your cup my two 
 friends. A-propos, this is the season of 
 wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
 friend, and bless rae, the humblest and 
 sincerest of your friends, by granting you 
 yet many returns of the season ! May all 
 good things attend you and yours, wherever 
 they are scattered over the earth ! K. B. 
 
 NO. CCLIV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (140) 
 January, 1793. 
 
 M.\NY returns of the season to you, my 
 dear Sir. How comes on your publication? 
 — will these two foregoing be of any service 
 to you ? I should like to know what songs 
 you print to each tune. besi<le3 the verses to 
 which it is set. In short, I would wish to 
 give you my opinion on all the poetry you 
 publish. You know it is my trade, and a 
 man in the way of his trade may suggest 
 useful hints that escape men of much supe- 
 rior parts and endowments in other things. 
 
 If you meet with my dear and much- 
 valued Cuiiniughara, greet him, in my name, 
 with the corapluuents of the season. Yours, 
 &c. 
 
392 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BUR:SS. 
 
 NO. CCLV. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 Edinlmrrjh, January 20th, 1793. 
 
 You make me happy, my dear Sir, and 
 thousands will be happy, to see the charming 
 songs you have sent me. Many merry 
 returns of the season to you, and may you 
 long continue among the sons and daughters 
 of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour 
 yourself. 
 
 The four last songs with which you 
 favoured me, "Auld Rob Morris," "Dun- 
 can Gray," "Gala Water," and "Cauld 
 Kail," are admirable. Duncan is indeed a 
 lad of grace, and his humour will endear 
 him to every body. 
 
 The distracted lover in "Auld Rob," and 
 the happy shepherdess in " Gala Water," 
 exhibit an excellent contrast : they speak 
 from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch 
 the Weart. 
 
 The number of songs which I had origi- 
 nally in view was limited, but I now resohe 
 to include every Scotch air and song worth 
 singiug ; leaving none behind but mere 
 gleanings, to which the publishers of omnium- 
 gatherum are welcome. I would rather be 
 the editor of a collection from which nothing 
 could be taken away, than of one to which 
 nothing could be added. We intend pre- 
 senting the subscribers with two beautiful 
 stroke engravings, the one characteristic of 
 the plaintive, and the other of the lively 
 songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of 
 an essay upon the subject of our national 
 music, if his health will permit him to write 
 it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
 less been called forth by particular events, 
 or by the charms of peerless damsels, there 
 must be many curious anecdotes relating to 
 them. 
 
 The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I 
 believe, knew more of this than any body; 
 for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary 
 a taste for poetry, besides being a man of 
 the world, and possessing an entlinsiasm for 
 music beyond most of his contemporaries. 
 He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, 
 for I may say it has been solely managed by 
 me, and we had several long conversations 
 about it when it was in embryo. If I could 
 simply mention the name of the heroine of 
 each song, and the incident which occasioned 
 the verses, it would be gratifying. Pray, 
 will you send me any information of this 
 sort, as well with regard to your own songs 
 as the old ones ? 
 
 To all the favourite songs of the plaintive 
 
 or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate 
 accompaniments, &c., of Pleyel. To those 
 of the comic and humorous class, I think 
 accompaniments scarcely necessary ; they 
 are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the 
 festive board, and a tuneful voice, with a 
 proper delivery of the words, renders them 
 perfect. Nevertheless, to these 1 propose 
 adding bass accompaniments, because then 
 they are fitted either for singing, or for 
 instrumental performance, when there hap- 
 pens to be no singer. I mean to employ 
 our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke, to set the 
 bass to these, which he assures me he will 
 do con amove, and with much greater atten- 
 tion than he ever bestowed on any thing of 
 the kind. But for this last class of airs I 
 will not attempt to find more than one set 
 of verses. 
 
 That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has 
 started I know not how many ditficulties 
 about writing for the airs I sent to him, 
 because of the peculiarity of their measure, 
 and the trammels they oppose ou his flying 
 Pegasus. I subjoin, for your perusal, the 
 only one I have yet got from him, being for 
 the fine air, "Lord Gregory." The Scots 
 verses printed with that air are taken from 
 the middle of an old ballad, called "Tiie 
 Lass of Lochroyan," which I do not admire. 
 I have set down the air, therefore, as a 
 creditor of yours. Mauy of the Jacobite 
 songs are replete with wit and humour — 
 might not the best of these be included in 
 our volume of comic songs ? 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 FROM THE HON. ANDREW ERSKINE. (141) 
 
 Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to 
 give me a perusal of your songs. " High- 
 land Mary" is most enchantingly pathetic, 
 and " Duncan Gray" possesses native genuine 
 humour — " Spak o' lowpin' o'er a linn," is a 
 line of itself that should make you immortal. 
 I sometimes hear of you from our mutual 
 friend Cunningham, who is a most excellent 
 fellow, and possesses, above all men I know, 
 the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
 You kindly promised me, abou*. a year ago, 
 a collection of your unpublished productions, 
 religious and amorous. I know, from expe- 
 rience, how irksome it is to copy. If you 
 will get any trusty person in Dumfries to 
 write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill 
 whatever money he asks for his trouble, and 
 I certainly shall not betray your confidence. 
 I am your hearty admirer, 
 
 Andrew Ekskinb. 
 
TO CLARINCA. 
 
 393 
 
 NO. eCLVI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOxAISON. 
 
 January 26t!t, 1793. 
 
 I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your 
 plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will, of itself, be 
 a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up 
 ail appendix to the Doctor's essay, cou- 
 taiuiiisj my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our 
 Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's 
 anecdotes 1 have by me, taken down in the 
 course of my acquaintance with hira, from 
 his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, 
 tliat in the course of my several peregrina- 
 tions through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage 
 to the individual spot from which every soiv 
 took its rise, "Lochaber," and the "Braes o'f 
 Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, 
 either from the title of ihe air, or the tenor 
 of the song, could Ll- ascertained, I have 
 paid my devotions at the particular shrine 
 of every Scots muse. 
 
 I do not doubt but you might make a 
 very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; 
 but would it give no offence ? In the mean- 
 time, do not you think that some of tliera, 
 •jarticularly "The sow's tail to Geordie," as 
 an air, with other words, might be well worth 
 a place in your collection of lively songs ? 
 
 If it were possible to procure songs of 
 merit, it would be proper to have one set of 
 Scots words to every air, and that the set of 
 words to which the notes ought to be set. 
 There is a ndwele, a pastoral simplicity, in a 
 slight iutermi.vLture of Scots words and 
 phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
 least to my taste, and, I will add, to every 
 genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple 
 pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native 
 music, than any English verses whatever. 
 
 The very name of Peter Pindar is an 
 acquisition to your work. (142) His " Gre- 
 gory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you 
 a set of stanzas in Scotch, on the same 
 subject, which are at your service. Not 
 that I intend to enter the lists with Peter- 
 that would be presumption indeed. Jly 
 song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
 has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity 
 m it. (143) 
 
 [//ere follows "Lord Gregory."} 
 
 NO. CCLVII. 
 
 TO CLARINDA. (144) 
 
 1703 
 Before you ask me whv I have not 
 written you, first let me be inforwed of you 
 
 how I shall write you? "In friendship," 
 you say ; and I have many a time taken up 
 my pen to try an epistle of friendship to 
 you ; but it will not do : ' tis like Jove 
 grasping a pop-gun, after having wielded 
 his thunder. When I take up the pen, 
 recollection ruins me. Ah ! my ever 
 dearest Clarinda! Clarinda !— what a host 
 of memory's tenderest offspring, crowd on 
 my fancy at that sound ! But I must not 
 indulge that subject— you have forbid it. 
 
 I am extremely happy to learn that your 
 precious health is re-established, and that 
 you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfac- 
 tion in existence, wliich health alone can 
 give us. My old friend has indeed been 
 kind to you. Tell hira, that I envy him the 
 power of serving you. I had a letter from 
 him a while ago, but it was so dry, so 
 distant, so like a card to one of his clients, 
 that I could scarcely bear to read it, and 
 have not yet answered it. He is a good 
 honest fellow; and can write a friendly 
 letter, which would do equal honour to his 
 head, and his heart ; as a whole sheaf of 
 his letters I have by me will witness : and 
 though Fame docs not blow her trumpet at 
 my approach now, as she did then, when ha 
 first honoured me with his frieudsliip, yet I 
 am as proud as ever ; and when I am' laid 
 in my grave, 1 wish to be stretched at my 
 full length, that I may occupy every inch of 
 ground which I have a right to. 
 
 You would laugh were you to see me 
 where I am just now !— would to heaven 
 youwtr; here to laugh with me! though 
 I am afraid that crying would be our first 
 employment. Here am I set, a solitary 
 hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary 
 inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me— 
 as grave and as stupid as an owl, but, like 
 that owl, still faithful to my old song. In 
 confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. Mack, 
 here is your good health ! may the hand- 
 waled benisoiiB o' Heaven bless your bonnie 
 face ; and tho wretch wha skcllies at your 
 welfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him to 
 clout his rotten heart ! Amen. 
 
 You must know, my dearest JIadara, that 
 these now many years, wherever I am, in 
 whatever company, when a married lady is 
 called on as a toast. I constantly give you ; 
 but as your name has never passed my'lips, 
 even to my most intimate friend, I give you 
 by the name of Mrs. Mack. This is so well 
 known among my acquaintances, that when 
 my married lady is called for, the toast- 
 master will say— "O, we need not ask him 
 who it is— here's Mrs. .Mack ! " I have 
 also, among uiy couvivial frieuds. srt on 
 
394 
 
 COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 foot a round of toasts, which I call a 
 round of Arcadian Shepherdesses ; that is, 
 a round of favourite ladies, under female 
 names celebrated ni ancient songs ; and 
 then, you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely 
 Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a 
 most ardent wish for your happiness ! 
 
 In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer. 
 Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear; 
 Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
 I know its worst, and can that worst despise, 
 "Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd, iinpitied, un- 
 
 redrest. 
 The tnock'd quotation of the scorner's jest," 
 Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
 Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays themall!(145) 
 
 I have been rhyming a little of late, but 
 I do Milt know if they are worth postage. — 
 Tell me. » » * » 
 
 * • ♦ Sylvan DER. 
 
 NO. CCLVm. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 March 3rd, 1793. 
 
 Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
 sheet, I have not had time to write you 
 farther. When I say that I had not time, 
 that, as usual, means, that the three demons, 
 indolence, business and ennui, have so 
 completely shared my hours among them, as 
 not to leave me a five minutes' fragment to 
 take up a pen in. 
 
 Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying 
 upwards with the renovating year. Now, 
 I sliall in good earnest take up Thomson's 
 songs. I dare say he thinks I have used 
 him unkindly ; and, I must own, with too 
 much appearance of truth. A-propos, do 
 you know the much-admired old Highland 
 air called " The Sutor's Dochter ? " It is a 
 tirst-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
 written what I reckon one of my best 
 songs to it. I will send it to you as it was 
 sung, with great applause, in some fashion- 
 able circles, by Major Robertson, of Lude, 
 who was here with his corps. 
 
 There was one commission that I must 
 trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable 
 seal, a present from a departed friend, which 
 vexes me much. I have gotten one of your 
 Highland pebbles, which I fancy would 
 make a very decent one, and I want to cut 
 my armorial bearing on it : will you be so 
 obliging as inquire what will be the expense 
 of such a business? I do not know that 
 
 my name is matriculated, as the heralds call 
 it, at all, but I have invented arms for my- 
 self; so, you know, I shall be chief of the 
 name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will 
 likewise be entitled to supporters. These, 
 however, I do not intend having on my seal. 
 I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, 
 secundum artem, my arms. On a field, 
 azure, a holy bush, seeded, proper, in base; 
 a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, 
 also jiroper, in chief. On a wreath of 
 the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig 
 of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes; 
 round the top of the crest, Wood notes 
 wild; at the bottom of the shield, in the 
 usual place. Belter a wee busk than nae bield. 
 (146) By the shepherd's pipe and crook, I 
 do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
 Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, 
 such as you see at the head of Allan 
 Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the 
 " Gentle Shepherd." By the bye, do you 
 know Allan? (147) He must be a man of 
 very great genius. Why is he not the more 
 known ? Has he no patrons ? — or do 
 " Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain 
 beat keen and heavy " on him ? I once, 
 and but once, got a glance of that noble 
 edition of the noblest pastoral in the world ; 
 and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my 
 pocket, I would have bought it but I was 
 told that it was printed and engraved for 
 subscribers only. He is the only artist 
 who has hit genuine pastoral costume. 
 What, my dear Cunningliam, is there in 
 riches, that they narrow and harden the 
 heart so ? I think, that were I as rich as 
 the sun, I should be as generous as the 
 day ; but as I have no reason to imagine 
 my soul a nobler one than any other man's, 
 I must conclude that wealth imports a bird- 
 lime quality to the possessor, at wliich the 
 man, in his native poverty, would have 
 revolted. What has led me to this is che 
 idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
 and such riches as a nabob or government 
 contractor possesses, and why they do not 
 form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter 
 and cherish unprotected merit, and the 
 gratitude and celebrity of that merit wiD 
 richly repay it. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCLIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
 
 March 20th, 1793. 
 
 My DEAR Sir — The song prefixed [" Muiy 
 Morison"] is one of my juvenile works 1 
 
TO MRS. BUKNS. 
 
 leave it in your hands. I do not think it 
 very remarkable, either for its merits or 
 demerits. It is impossible fat least, I feel it 
 so in my stinted powers) to be always 
 orisjinal, entertaining, and witty. 
 
 What is become of the hst, &c., of your 
 songs ? I shall be out of all temper with 
 you by and bye I have always looked on 
 myself as the prince of indolent corres- 
 pondents, and valued myself accordingly ; 
 and 1 will not, can not, bear rivalship from 
 you, nor any body else. R. B. 
 
 ing a packet to you, and I beg leave to send 
 you the enclosed sonnet : though to tell you 
 the real truth, the scmnet is a mere pre- 
 tence, that I may have the opportunity of 
 declaring with how much respectful esteem 
 1 have the honour to be, &c. K. U. 
 
 NO. CCLX. 
 
 TO MISS BENSON, 
 
 SINCE MRS. BASIL MONTAGU. 
 
 Dumfries, March 2lst, 1793. 
 
 Madam — Among many things for which 
 I envy those hale, long-hved old fellows 
 before the flood, is this, in particular — that 
 when they met with anybody after their own 
 heart, they had a charming long prospect of 
 many, many happy meetings with them in 
 after-life. 
 
 Now, in this short, stormy, winter-day of 
 our fleeting existence, when you, now and 
 then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an 
 individual whose acquaintance is a real ac- 
 quisition, there are all the probabilities 
 against you, that you shall never meet with 
 that valued character more. On the other 
 hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is 
 none of the least of the miseries belonging 
 to it, that if there is any miscreant whom 
 you hate, or creature whom you despise, the 
 ill-run of the chances shall be so against 
 you, that in the overtakings, turnings, and 
 jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, 
 eternally comes the wretch upon you, and 
 will not allow your indignation or contempt 
 a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy be- 
 liever in the powers of darkness, I take these 
 to be the doings of that old author of mis- 
 chief, the devil. It is well known that he 
 has some kind of short-hand way of taking 
 down our thoughts; and I make no doubt, 
 that he is perfectly acquainted with my sen- 
 timents respecting Miss Benson : how much 
 I admired her abilities and valued her worth, 
 and how very fortunate I thought myself in 
 her acquaintance. For this last reason, my 
 dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of 
 the very great pleasure of meeting with you 
 •gain. 
 Miss Uamiltou tells me that she is send- 
 
 3 
 
 NO. CCLXI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 March, 1793. 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
 Now tired with wandering, baud awa 
 hame; 
 Come to my bosom, my ane only dearie, 
 And tell me thou brings't me my AA'ilUe 
 the same. 
 
 Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our 
 
 parting ; [my ee : 
 
 It was na the blast brought the tear in 
 
 Now welcome the simmer, and Welcome my 
 
 Willie, 
 
 The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 
 
 Ye hurricanes, rest, in the cave o' your 
 slumbers 1 
 Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms 1 
 Awaken, ye breezes ! rool gently, ye billows! 
 And waft my dear laddie, ance mair to my 
 arms. 
 
 But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
 Oh still flow between us, thou wide-roar- 
 ing main ; 
 May I never see it, may 1 never trow it, 
 But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 
 ain ! 
 
 I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to deter- 
 mine whether the above, or the old " Thro' 
 the lang muir" (148), be the best. 
 
 NO. CCLXII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. (149) 
 
 Edinburgh, April 2d, 1793. 
 
 I WILL not recognise the title you give 
 yourself, " the prince of indolent correspon- 
 dents ; " but if the adjective were taken 
 away, I think the title would then tit you 
 exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you 
 can furnish anecdotes with respect to most 
 
395 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 of ihe songs : these will be a literary curi- 
 osity. 
 
 I now send you my list of the songs, 
 which, I believe, will be found nearly com- 
 plete. I have put down the first lines of all 
 the English songs which 1 propose giving, 
 in addition to the Scotch verses. If any 
 others occur to you, better adapted to the 
 character of the airs, pray mention thera, 
 when you favour me with your strictures 
 upon everything else relating to the work. 
 
 Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
 songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
 ments added to them. I wish you were 
 here, that I might serve up some of them to 
 you with your own verses, by way of dessert 
 after diinier. There is so much delightful 
 fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate 
 simplicity in the accompaniments — they are 
 indeed beyond all praise. 
 
 I am very much pleased with the several 
 last productions of your muse : your " Lord 
 Gregory," iu my estimation, is more inte- 
 resting than Peter's, beautiful as his is. 
 Your " Here awa, Willie," must undergo 
 some alterations to suit the air. Mr. 
 Erskine and I have been conning it over : 
 he will suggest what is necessary to make 
 thera a fit match. (150) 
 
 The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
 fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well 
 pleased, both with the musical and poetical 
 part of our work, that he has volunteered 
 his assistance, and has already written four 
 songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send 
 for yoiu: perusal. (151) 
 
 NO. CCLXm. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 April 7th. 1793. 
 
 Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
 You cannot imagine how much this business 
 of composing for your publication has added 
 to my enjoyments. What with my early 
 attachment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad- 
 making is now as completely my hobby- 
 horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; 
 so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the 
 limit of my race — God grant that I may 
 take the right side of the winning post ! — ■ 
 and then cheerfully looking back on the 
 honest folks with whom I have been happy, 
 I shall say or sing, " Sae merry as we a' hae 
 been ! " and, raising my last looks to the 
 whole human race, the last words of the 
 Toice of" Coila" (152) shall be, "Good night, 
 and joy be wi' you a' ! " So much for my 
 
 last words : now for a few present remarks 
 as they have occurred at random, on looking 
 over yoiir list. 
 
 The first lines of "The last time I came 
 o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, 
 are beautiful ; but, in my opinion — pardon 
 me, revered shade of Ramsay ! — the song is 
 unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to 
 make or mend. " For ever, fortune, wilt 
 thou prove," is a charming song ; but 
 "Logan burn and Logan braes " is sweetly 
 susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try that 
 likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song 
 may class among the English ones. I re- 
 member the two last lines of a verse in some 
 of tlie old songs of " Logan Water " (for I 
 know a good many different ones) which I 
 think prettj' : — 
 
 "Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 
 
 " My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. 
 " His mind is never muddy," is a muddy ex- 
 pression indeed. 
 
 " Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
 And syne my cockernony — " 
 
 This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
 your book. 
 
 "Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 
 
 parting, [ee ; 
 
 Fears for ray Willie brought tears in my 
 
 Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 
 
 Willie, 
 
 The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 
 
 Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your 
 
 slumbers 
 
 How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
 
 Wauken. ye breezes ! roll gently, ye billows ! 
 
 And waft my dear laddie ance niair to my 
 
 anus. 
 
 But oh, if he's faithless, and minds nae his 
 
 Nannie, [mam ! 
 
 Flow still between us, thou wide-roanug 
 
 May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
 
 But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 
 
 ain." (153) 
 
 My song, " Rigs of Barley," to the same 
 tune, does not altogether please me ; but if 
 I can mend it, and thrash a few loose senti- 
 ments out of it, I will submit it to your 
 consideration. " The lass o' Paties mill " is 
 one of Ramsay's best songs ; but there is 
 one loose sentiment in it, which my much- 
 valued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his 
 critical consideration. In Sir John Sinclair's 
 statistical volumes, are two claims — one, 1. 
 think, from Aberdeeusliire, and the otlier 
 
TO JOHN FR.\NCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. 
 
 39} 
 
 from Ayrshire — for the honour of this song. 
 The following anecdote, wliich I had from 
 the present Sir Willinin Cunningham of 
 Robertland, who had it of tlie late John 
 Earl of Loudon, I can, oa such authorities, 
 believe : — 
 
 Allan Kamsay was residing at Loudon- 
 castle with the then Earl, father to Earl 
 John ; and one forenoon, riding, or walking, 
 out together, his lordship and Allan passed a 
 sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still 
 called " Patic's mill," where a bonnie lass 
 was ''tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." 
 My lord observed to Allan, that it would be 
 a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the 
 hint, and, lingering behind, he composed 
 tl\e first sketch of it, which he produced at 
 dinner. 
 
 "One day I heard Mary say," is a fine 
 song ; but, for consistency's sake, alter the 
 name " Adonis." Were there ever such 
 banns published, as a purpose of marriage 
 between Adonis and Mary ! I agree with 
 you that my song, " There's nought but care 
 on every hand," is much superior to"Puir- 
 tith cauld." The original song, " The mill, 
 mill, O! " though excellent, is, on account 
 of delicacy, inadmissible ; still, I like the 
 title, and think a Scottish song would suit 
 the notes best ; and let your chosen song, 
 which is very pretty, follow as an English 
 set. " The banks of the Dee," is, you know, 
 literally "Langolee," to slow time. The 
 song is well enough, but has some false 
 imagery in it ; for instance : 
 
 And sweetly the nightingale sang from the 
 tree. 
 
 In the first place, the nightingale sings in 
 a low bush, but never from a tree ; and in 
 the second place, there never was a nightin- 
 gale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, 
 or on the banks of any other river in Scot- 
 land. Exotic rural imagery is always com- 
 paratively flat. If I could hit on another 
 stanza, equal to "The small birds rejoice," 
 &c., I do myself honestly avow, that I think 
 it a superior song. (154) "John Anderson, 
 liiy jo ;" — the song to this tune in Johnson's 
 Museum, is my composition, and I think it 
 not my worst : if it suit you, take it and 
 welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
 and pathetic song, is, in my opinion, very 
 complete; bnt not so your comic ones. 
 Where are '' Tullochgorum," " Lumps o' 
 puddin," '• Tibbie Fowler," and several 
 others, which, in my humble judgment, are 
 well worthy of preservation ? There is also 
 one sentimental song of mine in the !Mu- 
 ■eum, which never was known out of the 
 
 immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
 taken down from a country girl's singing. 
 It is called " Cragieburn wood," and, in the 
 opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest 
 Scottish Songs. He is quite an enthusiast 
 about it ; and I would take his taste in 
 Scottish music against the taste of most 
 connoisseurs. 
 
 You are quite right in inserting the last 
 five in your list, though they are certainly 
 Irish. '■ Shepherds, I have lost my love ! " 
 is to me a heavenly air — what would you 
 think of a set of Scottish verses to it ? I 
 have made one to it, a good while ago, 
 which I think * * *^ but in its original 
 state, it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose 
 an altered, not amended copy for you, if you 
 choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
 Irish verses follow. (155) 
 
 Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
 " Lone vale " is divine. Yours, &c. 
 
 Let me know jast how you like these ran- 
 dom hints. 
 
 NO. CCLXIV. 
 
 TO PATRICK MILLER, Eso, 
 
 OP DALSWINTON. 
 
 Dim fries, April, 1793. 
 
 Sir — ily poems having just come out in 
 another edition, will you do me the honour 
 to accept of a copy ? A mark of my grati- 
 tude to you, as a gentleman to whose good- 
 ness I have been much indebted ; of my 
 respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, 
 sliding age, stands forth the champion of the 
 liberties of ray country; and of my veneration 
 for you as a man, whose benevolence of heart 
 does honour to human nature. 
 
 There was a time. Sir, when I was your 
 dependent : this language then would have 
 been like the vile incense of flattery — I could 
 not have used it. Now that that connexion 
 (156) is at an end, do me the honour to 
 accept of this honest tribute of respect from. 
 Sir, your much indebted humble servant, 
 E. B. 
 
 NO. CCLXV. 
 
 TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE Eso., 
 
 OF MAR. (157) 
 
 Dumfries, April 13th, 1793. 
 
 Sir — 'Degenerate as human nature is said 
 to be — and, in many instances, worthless awl 
 
893 
 
 CORKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 uiipnncipled it ia — still there are bright 
 examples to the contrary ; examples that, 
 even ill the eyes of superior beings, must 
 shed a lustre on the name of man. 
 
 Such an example have I now before me, 
 when you. Sir, came forward to patronise 
 and befriend a distant obscure stranf,'er, 
 merely because poverty had made hira help- 
 less, and his British hardihood of mind had 
 provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. 
 My much esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of 
 Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a 
 letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the 
 silent throb of gratitude; for words would 
 but mock the emotions of my soul. 
 
 You have been misinformed as to my final 
 dismission from the Excise; I am still in the 
 service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a 
 gentleman, who must be known to you, Mr. 
 Graham of Fintry — a gentleman who has 
 ever been my warm and generous friend — I 
 had, without so much as a hearing, or the 
 slightest previous intimation, been turned 
 adrift, with my helpless family, to all the 
 horrors of want. Had I had any other re- 
 source, probably I might have saved them 
 the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
 money I gained by publication, is my almost 
 every guinea, embarked to save from ruin 
 an only brother, who, though one of the 
 worthiest, is by no means one of the most 
 fortunate of men. 
 
 In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
 that whatever might be my sentiments of 
 republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I 
 abjured the idea, that a constitution, 
 which, in its original principles, experience 
 had proved to be every way fitted for our 
 happiness in society, it would he insanity to 
 sacrifice to an untried visionary theory — 
 that, in consideration of my being situated 
 in a department, however humble, immedi- 
 ately in the hands of people in power, 1 had 
 forborne taking any active part, either per- 
 sonally or as an author, in the present 
 business of reform. But that, where I 
 must declare my sentiments, I would say, 
 there existed a system of corruption be- 
 tween the executive power and the represen- 
 tative part of the legislature, which boded 
 no good to our glorious constitution, 
 and which every patriotic Briton must wish 
 to see amended. Some such sentiments as 
 these, I stated in a letter to my generous 
 patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
 the Board at large, where, it seems, my last 
 remark gave great offence ; and one of our 
 supervisors general, a Mr. Corbet, was in- 
 structed to inquire on the spot, and to docu- 
 ment me, " that my business waa to act, not 
 
 to think ; and that, whatever might he men 
 or measures, it was for me to be silent and 
 obedient." 
 
 Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
 so between Mr. Graham and him, I have 
 been partly forgiven : only I understand that 
 all hopes of my getting officially forward 
 are blasted. 
 
 Now, Sir, to the business in which I 
 would more immediately interest you. The 
 partiality of my countrymen has brought 
 me forward as a man of genius, and has 
 given me a character to support. In the 
 poet I have avowed manly and independent 
 sentiments, which I trust will be found in 
 the man. Reasons of no less weight than 
 the support of a wife and family, have 
 pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
 was, the only eligible, line of life for me, my 
 present occupation. Still, my honest fame is 
 my dearest concern ; and a thousand times 
 have I trembled at the idea of those de- 
 I (jradinff epithets that malice or misrepresenta- 
 tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
 blasting anticipation, listened to some future 
 hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of 
 savage stupidity, exidting in his hireling 
 paragraphs — "Burns, notwithstanding the 
 fanfaronade of independence to be found in 
 his works, and after having been held forth 
 to public view, and to public estimation, as a 
 man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of 
 resources within himself to support his bor- 
 rowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry ex- 
 ciseman, and slunk out the rest of his 
 insignificant existence in the meanest of pur- 
 suits, and among the vilest of mankind." 
 
 In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
 to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these 
 slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor 
 man from birth, and an exciseman by neces- 
 sity ; but — / wiU say it ! — the sterling of his 
 honest worth no poverty could debase ; and 
 his independent British mind, oppression 
 might bend, but could not subdue. Have 
 not I, to me, a more precious stake in ray 
 country's welfare, than the richest dukedom 
 in it? I have a large family of children, 
 and the prospect of many more. I have 
 three sons, who, I see already, have brouglit 
 into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit 
 the bodies of slaves. Can I look tamely 
 on, and see any machination to wrest from 
 them the birthright of ray boys — the little 
 independent Britons, in whose veins runs 
 my own blood? No ! I will not, should my 
 heart's blood stream around my attempt to 
 defend it ! 
 
 Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 
 can be of no service, and that it does no* 
 
TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 belong to my humble station to meddle 
 with the concern of a nation ? 
 
 I can tell him, that it is on such indivi- 
 duals as I that a nation has to rest, both 
 for the hand of support and the eye of in- 
 telligence. The uumformed mob may swell 
 a nation's bulk; and the titled, tinsel, 
 courtly throng may be its feathered orna- 
 ment; but the number of those who are 
 elevated enough in life to reason and to 
 reflect, yet low enough to keep clear of the 
 venal contagion of a court — these are a 
 nation's strength ! 
 
 I know not how to apologise for the im- 
 pertinent length of this epistle ; but one 
 fcmall request I must ask of you farther : — 
 when you have honoured this letter with 
 a perusal, please to commit it to the flames. 
 Burns, in whose behalf you have so gene- 
 rously interested yourself, I have here, in his 
 native colours, drawn as he is; but should 
 Riiy of the people in whose hands is the 
 very bread he eats, get the least knowledge 
 of the picture, it would rain the poor bard 
 for ever ! 
 
 My poems having just come out in another 
 edition, I beg leave to present you with a 
 copy, as a small mark of that high esteem 
 and ardent gratitude with which 1 have the 
 honour to be. Sir, your deeply indebted 
 and ever devoted liumble servant, R. B. 
 
 NO. CCLXVI. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
 
 I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that 
 ballad-making continues to be your hobby- 
 horse. Great pity 'twould be were it other- 
 wise. I hope you will amble it away for 
 many a year, and " witch the world with 
 your horsemanship." 
 
 1 know tliere are a good many lively 
 songs of merit that I have not put down in 
 the hst sent you ; but I have them all in my 
 eye. " My Fatie is a lover gay," though a 
 little unequal, is a natural and very pleasing 
 song, and I humbly think we ought not 
 to displace or alter it, except the last 
 ■tanza. (ISS) 
 
 NO. CCLXVII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 April, 1793. 
 I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. 
 I shall answer it and vour former letter, in 
 
 3 
 
 my desultory way, of saying whatever cornea 
 uppermost. 
 
 I'he business of many of our tunes want- 
 ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call a 
 starting-note, is often u rub to us poor 
 rhymers. 
 
 " There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
 That wander tlirough the bloonuug 
 heather," 
 
 you may alter to 
 
 " Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
 Ye' wander," &c. 
 
 IMy song, " Here awa, there awa," as 
 amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve 
 of, and return you. (159) 
 
 Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
 only thing in which it is, in my opinion, 
 reprehensible. You know I ought to know 
 something of my own trade. Of pathos, 
 sentiment and point, you are a complete 
 judge ; but there is a quality more necessary 
 than either in a song, and which is the very 
 essence of a ballad — I mean simplicity : 
 now, if I mistake not, this last feature you 
 are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 
 
 Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
 always equally happy in his pieces ; still, I 
 cannot approve of t.iking such liberties with 
 an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with 
 " The last time I came o'er the moor." Let 
 a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of 
 another, and work it into a piece of his 
 own ; but to mangle the works of the poor 
 bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for 
 ever, in the dark and narrow house — by 
 Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I granc that 
 Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; but I 
 know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
 let him mend the song, as the High'tm ler 
 mended his gun — he gave it a new slock, a 
 new lock, and a new barrel. 
 
 I do not, by this, object to leaving cut 
 improper stanzas, where that can be done 
 without spoiling the whole. One stanza in 
 "The lass o' Patie's mill" must be left out : 
 the song will be nothing worse for it. 1 am 
 not sure if we can take the same liberty 
 with " Corn rigs are bonnie.' Perhaps it 
 might want the last stanza, and 1)(! the 
 better for it. "Cauld kad in Aberdeen," 
 you must leave with me yet a while. I have 
 vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
 lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
 verses, " Piiirtith cauld and restless love.*' 
 At any rate, my other song, " Green grow 
 the rashes," will never suit. That song is 
 current in Scotland under the old title, and 
 to the merry old tune of that name, which. 
 
400 
 
 COREESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 of course, would mar the progress of your 
 son^ to celebrity. Your book will be the 
 standard of Scots songs for the future : let 
 this idea ever keep your judgment on the 
 alarm. 
 
 I send a song on a celebrated toast in this 
 country, to suit "Bonnie Dundee." I send 
 you also a ballad to the "Mill, Mill, 
 O!"(160) 
 
 " The last time I came o'er the moor," I 
 would fain attempt to make a Scots song 
 for, and let Ramsay's be the English set. 
 You shall hear from me soon. When you 
 go to London on this business, can you 
 come by Dumfries ? I have still several 
 MS. Scots airs by me, which I have picked 
 up, mostly from the singing of country 
 lasses. They please me vastly; but your 
 learned lu;is (Itil) would perhaps be dis- 
 pleased with the very feature for which I 
 like them. I call them simple ; you would 
 pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine 
 air called "Jackie Hume's Lament?" I 
 have a song of considerable merit to that 
 air. I'll enclose you both the song and 
 tune, as I had them ready to send to 
 Johnson's Museum. (162) I send you like- 
 wise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I 
 had taken down from viva voce. (163) 
 Adieu. 
 
 NO. CCLXVIII, 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (164) 
 
 \1-Iere the poet inserts the song, lef/inning 
 " Farewell, thou Stream, that winding 
 Hows."] 
 
 April, 1793. 
 
 My dear Sir — I had scarcely put my 
 last letter into the post office, when I took 
 up the subject of "Tiie last time I came o'er 
 the moor," and, ere I slept, drew the outlines 
 of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, 
 I leave on this, as on every other occasion, 
 to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
 flattered, when you give my songs a place in 
 your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
 service to the work is my first wish. As I 
 have often told you, I do not in a single 
 instance wish you, out of compliment to me, 
 to insert any thing of mine. One hint let 
 me give you— whatever INlr. Pleyel does, let 
 him not alter one iota of the original Scottish 
 airs, 1 mean in the song department, but let 
 our national music preserve its native 
 features. They are, I own, frequently wild 
 iutd irreducible to the more modern rules ; 
 
 but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, d^ 
 pends a great part of their effect. 
 
 NO. CCLXIS. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, April 26th, 1793. 
 
 I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, fof 
 your last two letters, and the songs which 
 accompanied them. I am always both in- 
 structed and entertained by your observa- 
 tions ; and the frankness with which you 
 speak out your mind, is to me highly agree- 
 able. It is very possible I may not have the 
 true idea of simplicity in composition. I 
 confess there are several songs, of AUaa 
 Ramsay's for example, that I think silly 
 enough, which another person, more con- 
 versant than I have been with country 
 people, would perhaps call simple and 
 natural. But the lowest scenes of simple 
 nature will not please generally, if copied 
 precisely as they are. 'i'he poet, like the 
 painter, must select what will form an agree- 
 able, as well as a natural picture. On this 
 subject it were easy to enlarge ; but, at 
 present, suffice it to say, that I consider 
 simplicity, rightly understood, as a most 
 essential quahty in composition, and the 
 groundwork of beauty in all the arts. I 
 will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
 new ballad, " When wild war's deadly blast," 
 &c., to the "Mill, Mill, 0!" as well as the 
 two other songs to their respective airs ; but 
 the third and fourth lines of the first verse 
 must undergo some little alteration in order 
 to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a 
 single note of the songs. That would be 
 absurd indeed ! With the airs which he 
 introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to 
 take such liberties as he pleases ; but that 
 has nothing to do with the songs. 
 
 P.S. I wish you would do as you pro- 
 posed with your " Rigs of Barley." If the 
 loose sentiments are thrashed out of it, I 
 will find an air for it ; but as to this there is 
 no hurry. 
 
 NO. CCLXX. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 April 26th, 1793. 
 
 I AM out of humour, my dear Aiuslie, 
 
 and that is the reason why I take up the 
 
TO MISS KENNEDY. 
 
 401 
 
 pen to you : 'tis the nearest way (prohalum 
 eil) to recover my spirits again. 
 
 I received your last, and was much enter- 
 tained witli it ; but I will not at tliis time, 
 nor at any other time, answer it. Answer a 
 letter !— I never could answer a letter in my 
 life. I have written many a letter in return 
 for letters I have received < but then — they 
 were original matter — spurt-away ! — zig, 
 here, zag, there — as if the devil, that my 
 grannie (an old woman, indeed) often tuld 
 me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or, in her more 
 classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking over 
 my elbow. Happy thought that idea has 
 engendered in my head! Spunkte, thou 
 •halt henceforth be my symbol, signature, 
 and tutelary genius ! Like thee, hop-step- 
 and-loup, here-awa-there-awa, higgledy-pig- 
 gledy, pell-mell, hither-and-yont, ram-stam, 
 happy-go-lucky, up tails-a'-by-the-light-o'- 
 the-moon — has been, is, and shall be, my 
 progress through the mosses and moors of 
 tins vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of 
 ours. 
 
 Come, then, ray guardian spirit ! like 
 thee, may I skip away, amusing myself by 
 and at my own light ; and if any opaque- 
 Rouled lubber of mankind complain that my 
 eltin, lambent, glimmerous wanderings have 
 misled his stupid steps over precipices or 
 into bogs, let the thick-headed Blunder- 
 buss recollect that he is not Spunkie : — 
 that 
 
 Spunkie's wanderings could not copied 
 
 be: 
 Amid these perils none durst walk but he. 
 
 I have no doubt but Scholarcraft may be 
 caught, as a Scotsman catches the itch, by 
 friction. How else can you account for it, 
 that born blockheads, by mere dint of hand- 
 linrj books, grow so wise that even they 
 themselves are equally convinced of, and 
 surprised at their own parts ? I once carried 
 this philosophy to that degree, that in a 
 knot of country folks who had a library 
 amongst them, and who, to the honour of 
 their good sense, made me factotum in the 
 business, — one of our members, a little, wise- 
 looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
 tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over 
 the leaves, to hind the book on Ids back. 
 JoUnnie took the hint, and as our meetings 
 were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse 
 Laving a good Scots mile to walk in coming, 
 and, of course, another in returning. Bodkin 
 was sure to lay his hand on some heavy 
 quarto or ponderous folio, with, and uudei 
 
 which, wrapt in his grey plaid, he grew wise, 
 as he grew weary, all the way home. He 
 carried tliis so far, that an old musty Hebrew 
 concordance, which we had in a present from 
 a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of ap- 
 plying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, 
 between bis shoidders. Stitch, in a dozen 
 pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theo- 
 logy as the said priest had done by forty 
 years' perusal of the pages. 
 
 Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
 of this theory. Yoiurs, Spunkie. 
 
 NO. CCLXXl. 
 
 TO j\IISS KENNEDY. 
 
 Madam — Permit me to present you with 
 the enclosed song, as a small though grateful 
 tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. 
 I have, in these verses, attempted some faint 
 sketches of your portrait in the unembel- 
 lished, simple manner of descriptive truth. 
 Flattery I leave to your lovers, whose 
 exaggerating fancies may make them imagine 
 you still nearer perfection than you really 
 are. 
 
 Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most 
 forcibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they 
 are really poets of nature's making, their 
 feelings must be finer, and their taste more 
 delicate, than most of the world. In the 
 clioerful bloom of spring, or the pensive 
 mildness of AUTUMN, the grandeur of sum- 
 mer, or the hoary majesty of winter, the 
 poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of 
 his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, 
 or the company of a fine woman (by far the 
 finest part of God's works below), have sen- 
 sations for the poetic heart that the herd 
 of men are strangers to. On this last ac- 
 count, ]\Ia(lam, I am, as in many other 
 things, indebted to Mr. Hamilton's knidnesa 
 in introducing me to you. Your lovers may 
 view you with a wish, I look on you with 
 pleasure ; their hearts, in your presence 
 may glow with desire, mine rises with admi- 
 ration. 
 
 That the arrows of misfortune, however 
 they should, as incident to humanity, glance 
 a slight wound, may never reach your heart 
 — that the snares of villany may never beset 
 you in the road of life— that innocence 
 may hand you by the path of honour to 
 the dwelling of peace — is the sincere wish 
 of him who has the honour to be, &c. 
 
 R. B. 
 
402 
 
 COERESrONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 NO. CCLXXIl. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 June, 1793. 
 
 When I tell j'ou, my dear Sir, that a 
 friend of mine, in whom I am much in- 
 terested, has fallen a sacrifice to these 
 accursed times, you will easily allow that it 
 might unhinge me for doing any good 
 among ballads. My own loss, as to pecu- 
 niary matters, is trifling ; but the total ruin 
 of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. 
 Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
 commands. 
 
 I cannot alter the disputed lines in the 
 "Jlill, Mdl, O!" (1G5) What you think a 
 defect, I esteem as a positive beauty ; so 
 you see how doctors differ. I shall now, 
 with as much alacrity as I can muster, go 
 on with your commands. 
 
 You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
 Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band 
 of music for a fencible corps cpiartered in 
 this county. Among many of his airs that 
 please me, there is one, well known as a reel, 
 by the name of " The Quaker's AVife ;" and 
 which, I remember, a grand-aunt of mine 
 used to sing, by the name of " Liggeram 
 Cosh, my bonnie wee lass." Mr. Frazer 
 plays it slow, and with aii expression that 
 quite charms me. 1 became such an enthu- 
 siast about it, that ] made a song for it, 
 which I here subjoin, and enclose Frazer's 
 set of the tune, if they hit your fancy, 
 they are at your service ; if not, return me 
 the tune, and 1 will put it in Johnson's 
 Museum. I think the song is not in my 
 worst manner. 
 
 [Here Burns inserts the song " Blythe hue I 
 
 been on yon Hill."} 
 
 I should wish to hear how this pleases 
 you. 
 
 NO. CCLXXIII. 
 
 BURNS TO JIR. THOMSON. 
 
 Jane 25th, 1793. 
 
 Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your 
 bosom ready to burst with indignation, on 
 reading of those mighty villains who divide 
 kingdom against kingdom, desolate pro- 
 vinces, and lay nations waste, out of the 
 wantonness of ambition, or often from still 
 more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
 kmd to-day I recollected the air of " Logan 
 IVater," and it occurred to me that its 
 
 querulous melody probably had its origin 
 from the plaintive indignation of some 
 swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic 
 strides of some public destroyer, and over- 
 whelmed with private distress, the conse- 
 quence of a country's ruin. If I have done 
 any thing at all like justice to my feelings, 
 the following song, composed in three-quar- 
 ters of an hour's meditation in my elbow- 
 chair, ought to have some merit : — 
 IHere is inserted the song," Logan Braes.""] 
 
 Do you know the following beautiful 
 little fragment, in Witherspoon's collection 
 of Scots songs ? 
 
 Air — "Hughie Graham." 
 "Oh gin my love were yon red rose. 
 That grows upon the castle wa'; 
 And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
 Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
 
 Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
 I'd feast on beauty a' the night, 
 
 Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
 Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light !" 
 
 This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; 
 and quite, so far as 1 know, original. It is 
 too short for a song, else I would forswear 
 you altogether, unless you gave it a place. 
 I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but 
 in vain. After balancing myself for a musing 
 five minutes, on the hind-legs of my elbow- 
 chair, I produced the following. 
 
 The verses are far inferior to the fore- 
 going, I frankly confess ; but if worthy of 
 insertion at all, they might be first in place ; 
 as every poet wlio knows any thing of his 
 trade, .vill husband his best thoughts for a 
 concluding stroke. 
 
 Oh were my love yon lilac fair, 
 
 Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 
 
 And I, a bird to shelter there, 
 When wearied on my little wing ! 
 
 How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
 By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
 
 But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
 
 When youthfu' ilay its bloom renewed. 
 
 NO. CCLXXIV. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Monday, July Is', 1793. 
 
 I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, tiiat 
 any thing should happen to unhinge you. 
 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 403 
 
 The time3 are terribly out of tune, and when 
 harmony will be restored, Heaven knows. 
 
 The first book of songs, just published, 
 will be dispatched to you along with this. 
 Let me be favoured with your opinion of it, 
 frankly and freely. 
 
 I shall certainly give a place to the song 
 you have written for the "Quaker's Wife ;" 
 it is quite enchanting. Pray, will you return 
 the list of songs, with such airs added to it 
 as you think ought to be included? The 
 business now rests entirely on myself, the 
 gentlemen who originally agreed to join the 
 speculation having requested to be oif. No 
 matter, a loser I cannot be. The superior 
 excellence of the work will create a general 
 demand for it, as soon as it is properly 
 known; and were the sale even slower than 
 it promises to be, I should be somewhat 
 compensated for my labour, by the pleasure 
 I shall receive from the music. I cannot 
 express how much 1 am obliged to you for 
 the exquisite new songs you are sending 
 me; but thanks, my friend, are a poor 
 return for what you have done — as I shall 
 be benefited by the publication, you must 
 suffer me to enclose a small mark of my 
 gratitude (16G), and to repeat it afterwards 
 M'heu I find it convenient. Do not return 
 it, for, by Heaven ! if you do, our corres- 
 pondence is at an end ; and though this 
 would be no loss to you, it would mar the 
 publication, which, under your auspices, can- 
 not fail to be respectable and interesting. 
 
 Wednesday Morninj. 
 I thank you for your delicate additional 
 verses to the old fragment, and for your 
 excellent song to " Logan \Vater :" — Thom- 
 son's truly elegant one will follow for the 
 Enghsh singer. Your apostrophe to states- 
 men is admirable, but I am not sure if it is 
 quite suitable to the supposed gentle cha- 
 racter of the fair mourner who speaks it. 
 
 NO. CCLXXV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 July 2nd, 1793. 
 
 My dear Sir — I have just finished the 
 following ballad, and, as 1 do think it in my 
 best style, I send it you. i\Ir. Clarke, who 
 wrote down the air from !Mrs. Burns's 
 wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has 
 given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
 young ladies of the first fashion here. If 
 you do not like the air enough to give it a 
 
 place in your collection, please return it. 
 The song you may keep, as I remember it. 
 
 [Here follows the song of " Bonnie Jean."'\ 
 
 I have some thoughts of inserting in 
 your index, or in my notes, the names of 
 the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I 
 do not mean the name at full ; but dashes 
 or asterisks, so as ingenuity may find them 
 out. 
 
 The heroine of the foregoing is Miss iL, 
 daughter to Mr. M., of D., one of your 
 subscribers. I have not painted her in the 
 rank which she holds in life, but in the dress 
 aiid character of a cottager. 
 
 NO. CCLXXVI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 July, 1793. 
 
 I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you 
 truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. 
 It degrades me in my own eyes. However, 
 to return it would savour of affectation; 
 but, as to any more traffic of that debtor 
 and creditor kind, I swear, by that Honour 
 which crowns the upright statue of Robert 
 Burns's Integrity — on the least motion 
 of it, I will indignantly spurn the bypast 
 transaction, and from that moment com- 
 mence entire stranger to you ! Burns's 
 character for generosity of sentiment and 
 independence of mind, will, I trust, long 
 outlive any of his wants which the cold 
 unfeeling ore can supply : — at least, I will 
 take care that such a character he shall 
 deserve. 
 
 Thank you for my copy of your publica- 
 tion. Never did my eyes behold in any 
 musical work such elegance and correctness. 
 Your preface, too, is admirably written, only 
 your partiality to me has made you say too 
 much : however, it will bind me down to 
 double every effort in the future progress of 
 the work. The following are a few remarks 
 on the songs in the list you sent me. I 
 never copy what I write to you, so I may 
 be often tautological, or perhaps con- 
 tradictory. 
 
 " The Flowers o' the Forest," is charming 
 as a poem, and should be, and must be, set 
 to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, 
 the three stanzas beginning, 
 
 "I have seen the smihng o* fortune b©- 
 guiling," 
 
404 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 are worthy of a place, were it but to im- 
 mortalise the author of them, who is an old 
 lady of my acquaintance, and at this 
 moment living in Edinburgh. She is a 
 Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of what place, but 
 from Roxburghshire. (167) What a charm- 
 ing apostrophe is 
 
 " Oh fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
 Why, why torment us, poor sons of a day ! " 
 
 The old ballad, "I wish I were where 
 Helen lies," is silly, to contemptibility. My 
 alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much 
 better. Mr. Pinkerton, in bis, what he calls, 
 ancient ballads (many of them notorious, 
 though beaiitiful enough, forgeries), has the 
 best set. It is full of his own interpolations 
 — but no matter. 
 
 In my next, I will suggest to your con- 
 sideration a few songs which may have 
 escaped your hurried notice. In the mean- 
 time, allow me to congratulate you now, as a 
 brother of the quill. You have committed 
 your character and fame, which will now be 
 tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious 
 jury of the Sons and Daughters of 
 Taste — all whom poesy can please, or 
 music charm. 
 
 Being a bard of nature, I have some pre- 
 tensions to second sight ; and I am war- 
 ranted by the spirit to fortell and affirm, 
 that your great-grand-child will hold up 
 your volumes, and say, with honest pride, 
 " This so much admired selection was the 
 work of my ancestor 1 " 
 
 KO. CCLXXVIl. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, August \st, 1793. 
 
 Dear Sir — I had the pleasure of receiving 
 your last two letters, and am happy to find 
 you are quite pleased with the appearance of 
 the first book. When you come to hear the 
 songs sung and accompanied, you will be 
 charmed with them. 
 
 "The bonnie brucket lassie" certainly de- 
 serves better verses, and I hope you will 
 match her. "Cauld kail in Aberdeen," "Let 
 me in this ane night," and several of the live- 
 lier airs, wait the muse's leisure; these are 
 peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts; besides, 
 you'll notice, that in airs of this sort the 
 singer can always do greater justice to the 
 poet, than in the slower airs of " The bush 
 aboon Traquair," " Lord Gregory," and the 
 
 like; for, in the manner the latter were 
 frequently sung, you must be contented 
 with the sound, without the sense. Indeed, 
 both the airs and words are disguised by the 
 very slow, languid, psalm-singing style iu 
 which they are too often performed ; they 
 lose animation and expression altogether, 
 and, instead of speaking to the mind, or 
 touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, 
 and set us a-yawning I 
 
 Your ballad, " There was a Lass, and she 
 was fair," is simple and beautiful, and shall, 
 undoubtedly grace my collection. 
 
 NO. CCLXXVIII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 My Dear Thomson — I hold the pen 
 for our friend Clarke, who at present is 
 studying the music of the spheres at my 
 elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is 
 rather out of tune ; so, until he rectify that 
 matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial 
 affairs. 
 
 He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, 
 and if more are wanted, he says you shall 
 have them. R. B. 
 
 Confound your long stairs ! 
 
 S. Clarkb. 
 
 NO. CCLXXIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 Your objection, my dear Sir, to the pas- 
 sages in my song of " Logan Water," ia 
 right ir one instance ; but it is difficult to 
 mend it : if I can, I will. The other passage 
 you object to does not appear in the same 
 light to me. 
 
 I have tried my hand on " Robin Adair," 
 and, you will probably think, with little 
 success ; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out- 
 of-the-way measure, that I despair of doiug 
 anything better to it. 
 
 [Here follows "Phillls the Fair."'] 
 
 So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
 all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There 
 I always find myself most at home. 
 
 I have just put the last hand to the song 
 I meant for " Cauld kail in Aberdeen." If 
 
BURNS TO MIL THOMSON. 
 
 40§ 
 
 it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as 
 tlie heroine is a favourite of mine ; if not, I 
 shall also be pleased ; because I wish, and 
 will be glad to see you act decidedly in the 
 business. 'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, 
 and as an editor, which you owe yourself. 
 
 NO. CCLXXX. 
 
 MR. THOJISON TO BURNS. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 My Good Sir — I consider it one of the 
 most agreeable circumstances attending this 
 publication of mine, that it has procured me 
 so many of your much-valued epistles. Pray 
 make my acknowledgements to St. Stephen 
 for the tunes ; tell him I admit the justness 
 of his complaint on my staircase, conveyed 
 in his laconic postscript to your jeu d'esprit, 
 which I perused more than once, without 
 discovering exactly whether your discussion 
 was music, astronomy, or politics ! though a 
 sagacious friend, acquainted with the con- 
 vivial habits of the poet and the musician, 
 offered me a bet of two to one you were just 
 drowning care together ; that an empty 
 bowl was the only thing that would deeply 
 affect you, and the only matter you could 
 then study how to remedy I 
 
 I shall be glad to see you give "Robin 
 Adair" a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing 
 him with an English suit for a change, and 
 you are well matched together. Robin's air 
 is excellent, though he certainly has an out- 
 of-the-way measure as ever poor Parnassian 
 wight was plagued with. 1 wish you would 
 invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza 
 to be substituted for the concluding objec- 
 tionable verses of "Down the Burn Davie," 
 80 that this most exquisite song may no 
 longer be excluded from good company. 
 
 Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
 from your " John Anderson, my jo," which 
 I am to have engraved as a frontispiece to 
 the humorous class of songs ; you will be 
 quite charmed with it, I promise you. The 
 old couple are seated by the lireside. Mrs. 
 Anderson, in great good humour, is clapping 
 John's shoulders, while he smiles and looks 
 at her with such glee, as to show that he 
 fully recollects the i)leasaiit days and nights 
 when they were " first acqnent.'' The 
 drawing would do honour to the pencil of 
 Teuiera. 
 
 NO. CCI.XXXI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 That crinkum-crankura tune, " Robin 
 Adair," has run so in my head, and I suc- 
 ceeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have 
 ventured, in this morning's walk, one essay 
 more. You, my dear Sir, will remember au 
 unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cun- 
 nuighani's story, which happened about 
 three years ago. That struck my fancy, and 
 I endeavoured to do the idea justice as 
 follows : — 
 
 [Here follows "Had I a Cave."] 
 By the way, I have met with a musical 
 Highlander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which 
 are quartered here, who assures me that he 
 well remembers his mother singing Gaelic 
 songs to both " Robin Adair" and " Grania- 
 cliree." They certainly have more of the 
 Scotch than Irish taste in them. 
 
 This man comes from the vicinity of 
 Inverness: so it could not be any intercourse 
 with Ireland that could bring them ; except, 
 what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the 
 wandering minstrels, harpers and pipers, 
 used to go frequently errant through the 
 wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so 
 some favourite airs might be common to both. 
 A case in point — they have lately, in Ireland, 
 published an Irish air, as they say, called 
 "Caun du delis." The fact is, in a publication 
 of Corri's, a great while ago, you will find 
 the same air, called a Highland one, with a 
 Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I 
 think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a fine air it is. 
 Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic 
 parson, about these matters. 
 
 NO. CCLXXXII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOilSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 My Dear Sir — " Let me in this ane 
 night," I will reconsider. I am glad that you 
 are pleased with my song, " Had 1 a Cave," 
 &c., as I liked it myself 
 
 I walked out yesterday evening with a 
 volume cf the Museum in my hand, '.vheii, 
 turning up "Allan "Water," "What numbers 
 shall the muse repeat," &c, as the uords 
 appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine 
 an air, and recollecting that it is on your 
 list, I sat and ra^ed under the shade *f tri 
 
406 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. 
 1 may be \\Tonoj; but I think it is not in iny 
 vrorst style. You must know, that in Ram- 
 say's Tea-table, where the modern song lirst 
 appeared, the ancient name of the tune, 
 Allan says, is " Allan Water," or " My love 
 Annie's very bonnie." This last has cer- 
 tainly been a line of the original song; so I 
 took up the idea, and, as you will see, have 
 introduced the line in its place, which I 
 presume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
 wise give you a choosing line, if it should 
 not hit the cut of your fancy : 
 
 [Here follows "By Allan stream I chanc'd 
 to rove."] 
 
 Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
 you think so too (not else), you can set the 
 music to it, and let the other follow as 
 English verses. . 
 
 Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
 more vrses in it than all the year else. 
 God bless you I 
 
 NO. CCLXXXIII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 Is "AVhistle and I'll come to you, my 
 lad," one of your airs ? I adniire it much ; 
 and yesterday I set the following verses to 
 it. Urbani, whom I liave met with here, 
 begged them of me, as he admires the air 
 much ; but as I understand that he looks 
 with rather an evil eye on your work, I did 
 not choose to comply. However, if the song 
 does not suit your taste, I may possibly send 
 it him. The set of the air which I had in 
 my eye is in Johnson's Museum. 
 
 [Here follows " Oh whistle, and I'll come 
 to you."] 
 
 Another favourite air of mine is, "The 
 muckiu''o' Geordie's byre." When sung 
 slow, with expression, I have wished that it 
 had had better poetry ; that I have endea- 
 voured to supply as follows : — 
 
 [Here he gives the song " Adown winding 
 
 Nith."] 
 
 Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis 
 a corner in your book, as she is a particular 
 flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M':Murdo, 
 sister to " Bonnie Jean." They are both 
 pupils of his. You shall hear from me, the 
 very tirst grist I get from my rhyming-miU. 
 
 NO. CCLXXXIV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOIMSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 
 That tune, " Cauld kail," is such a fovo- 
 rite of yours, that I once more roved out 
 yesterday for gloamin-shot at the muses (168); 
 when the muse that presides o'er the shorea 
 of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest 
 nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. 
 I have two reasons for thinking that it was 
 my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by 
 my elbow, "smooth gliding without step," 
 and pouring the song on my glowing fancy;— 
 In the first place, since I left Coila's native 
 haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen 
 to cheer her solitary musings, by catching 
 inspiration from her, so I more than suspect 
 that she has followed me hither, or, at least, 
 makes me occasional visits; secondly, the 
 last stanza of this song I send you, is in the 
 very words that Coila taught me many years 
 ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel iu 
 Johnson's iluseura. 
 
 [Here follows " Come, let me take thee."] 
 
 If you think the above will suit your idea 
 of your favourite air, I shall be highly 
 pleased. "The last time I came o'er the 
 moor " I cannot meddle with, as to mending 
 it ; and the musical world have been so long 
 accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a 
 dilfercnt song, though positively superior, 
 would not be so well received. I am not 
 fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
 made one for the foregoing. 
 
 NO. CCLXXXV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (169) 
 August, 1793. 
 
 So much for Davie. The chorus, you 
 know, is to the low part of the tune. See 
 Clarke's set of it in the Museum. 
 
 N.B. In the Museum they have drawled 
 out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 
 
 is nonsense. Four lines of soug, 
 
 and four of chorus, is the way. 
 
 TO 
 
 NO. CCLXXXVI. 
 
 MISS CRAIK. (170) 
 
 Dumfries, August, 1793. 
 
 !Madam — Some rather unlooked-for acci- 
 dents have prevented my doin^ myself the 
 
TO LADY GI EXCAIRX. 
 
 407 
 
 honour < ' a second visit to Arbigland, as I 
 was so hospitably invited, and so positively 
 meant to liave done. However, I still hope 
 to have that jik-asiire before the busy 
 months of harvest beyin. 
 
 I enclose you two of my late pieces, as 
 some kind of return for the pleasure 1 have 
 received in perusing a certain MS. volume of 
 poenis in tiie possession of Captain Kiddel. 
 To repay one w ith an old soitr/, is a proverb, 
 whose force, you, Madam. 1 know, will not 
 allow. A\ hat is said of illustrious descent 
 IS, I believe, equally true of a talent for 
 poetry— none ever despised it who had pre- 
 tensions to it. The fates and characters of ! 
 the rhyminsT tribe often employ my thonjrhts 
 wlien I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
 is not, anionic all the martyrolo^es that 
 ever were penned, 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 
 tre formed to bear. Take a being of our 
 kind, give hiiu a stronger imagination and 
 a more delicate sensibility, which between 
 them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
 able set of passions than are the usual lot 
 ot man ; implant in him an irresistible im- 
 pulse to some idle vagary, sucii as arranging 
 wild llowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing 
 the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirp- 
 ing s(uig, watching the frisks of the little 
 muiiious in the sunny pool, or hunting after 
 the intrigues of butterflies^in short, send 
 hira 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, hll up the 
 measure of his woes by bestowing on him a 
 spurning sense of his own dignity — and you 
 have created a wight nearly as miserable as 
 a poet. To yon. Madam, I need not recount 
 the fiiiry pleasures the muse bestows, to 
 counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- 
 witching pcictry is like bewitching woman : 
 she has, in all ages, been accused of mislead- 
 ing mankind from the councils of wisdom 
 and the jialhs of prudence, involving them 
 in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, 
 branding them with infamy, and plunging 
 thein in the whirling vortex of ruin; yet, 
 wliere is the man but must own that all our 
 happiness on earth is not worthy the name — 
 that e\en the holy hermit's solitary prospect 
 of paradisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a 
 northern sun ri.-.ing over a fnizcn region, 
 compared with the many pleasures, the 
 nameless raptures, that we owe to tlie lovely j 
 queeu of the heart of mau ! K. B. I 
 
 36 
 
 NO. CCLXXXVII. 
 
 TO LADY GLENCAIRN (171). 
 ]\Iy Lady — The honour you have done 
 your poor poet, in writing him so very 
 obliging a letter, and the pleasure the en- 
 closed beautiful verses have given him, came 
 very seasonably to his aid, amid the cheerless 
 gloom and sinking despondency of diseased 
 nerves and IJecember weather. As to for- 
 getting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is 
 my witness with what sincerity I could use 
 those old verses, which please me more in 
 their rude simplicity than the most elegant 
 lines I ever saw. 
 
 "If thee, Jerusalem, I forget. 
 
 Skill part from my right hand. 
 My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 
 
 Jfl do thee forget, 
 Jerusalem, and thee above 
 
 My chief joy do not set." 
 
 "When I am tempted to do anything im- 
 proper, I dare not, because I look on myself 
 as accountable to your ladyship and family. 
 Now and then, when I have the honour to 
 be called to the tables of the great, if I 
 happen to meet with any mortilication from 
 the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squires, 
 or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, 
 1 get above the creatures by calling to re- 
 membrance that I am patronised by the noble 
 house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, such 
 as New-year's day, a christening, or the kirn- 
 night, wlieu my punch-bowl is brought from 
 its dusty corner, and tilled up in honour of 
 the occasion, 1 begin with — Tlie Countess of 
 Glencairn! My good woman, with the en- 
 thusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries. My 
 Lord ! and so the toast goes on until I end 
 with Lddi/ Harriet's little aiii/et I (172) 
 whose epiihalamium I liavc pledged myself 
 to write. 
 
 When I received your ladyship's letter, I 
 was just in the aut of transcribing for you 
 some verses I have lately e(nni)osed ; and 
 meant to have sent .them my lirst leisure 
 hour, and acquainted you with my late 
 change of life. 1 mentioned to my lord my 
 fears concerning my farm. '1 hose fears were 
 indeed too true ; it is a bargain would have 
 ruined me, but for the lucky circumstance 
 of my having an Excise commission. 
 
 l'eo|)le may talk as they please of the ig- 
 nominy of the Excise; £.')() a year will sup- 
 port my wife and childien, and keep me 
 independent of the world; and I would 
 much rather have it said that my profession 
 borrowed credit from me, than that 1 bor- 
 rowed credit from my profession. Another 
 
40a 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 advantage I have in this business, is the 
 knowledge it gives me of the various shades 
 of human character, consequently assisting 
 me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the 
 most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when 
 nobody knew me but myself, and that ardour 
 is by no means cooled, now that my Lord 
 Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to 
 all the world. Not that I am in haste for 
 the press. 1 liave no idea of publishing, else 
 I certainly had consulted my noble generous 
 jiatron ; but after acting the part of an 
 honest man, and supporting my family, my 
 whole wishes and views are directed to 
 poetic pursuits. I am aware that, though I 
 were to give performances to the world supe- 
 rior to my former works; still, if they were 
 of the same kind with those, the compara- 
 tive reception they would meet with, would 
 nortify me. I have turned my thoughts on 
 the drama. I do not mean the stately 
 buskin of the tragic muse. 
 
 Does not your ladyship think that an 
 Edinburgh theatre would be more amused 
 with affectation, folly, and whim of true 
 Scottish growth, than manners, which by far 
 the greatest part of the audience can only 
 know at second hand? I have the honour 
 to be, your ladyship's ever devoted and grate- 
 ful humble servant, R. B. 
 
 NO. CCLXXXVm. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinbiinjh, Sept. 1st, 1793. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Since writing you last, I 
 have received half a dozen songs, with which 
 I am delighted beyond expression. The 
 humour and fancy of " Whistle, and I'll 
 come to you, my lad," will render it nearly 
 as great a favourite as "Duncan Gray." 
 " Come, let me take thee to my breast," 
 "Adowii winding Nith," and "By Allan 
 stream," &c., are full .of imagination and 
 feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which 
 they are intended. " Had I a cave on some 
 wild distant shore," is a striking and affect- 
 ing composition. Our friend, to whose story 
 it refers, reads it with a swelling heart, I 
 assure you. The union we are now forming, 
 I think, can never be broken ; these songs 
 of yours will descend, with the music, to tlie 
 latest posterity, and will be fondly cherished 
 so long as genius, taste, and sensibility, 
 fifj^isc ill our i:>land. 
 
 Whilst the muse seems so propitious, I 
 
 think it right to enclose a list of all the 
 favours I have to ask of her — no fewer than 
 twenty- and three! I have burdened the 
 p'easant Peter with as many as it is probable 
 he will attend to ; most of the remaining 
 airs would puzzle the English poet not a 
 little — they are of that peculiar measure and 
 rhythm, that they must be famihar to him 
 who writes for them. 
 
 NO. CCLXXXIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 Sept., 1793. 
 
 You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that 
 any exertion in my power is heartily at your 
 service. But one thing 1 must hint to you ; 
 the very name of Peter Pindar is of great 
 service to your publication, so get a verse 
 from him now and then ; though I have no 
 objection, as well as 1 can. to bear the burden 
 of the business. 
 
 You know that my pretensions to musical 
 taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
 untaught and untutored by art. For this 
 reason, many musical curapositions, particu- 
 larly where much of the merit lies in coun- 
 terpoint, however they may transport and 
 ravish the ears of you connoisseurs, affect 
 my simple lug no otherwise than merely as 
 melodious din. Oh the other hand, by way 
 of amends, 1 am delighted with many little 
 melodies, which the learned musician despises 
 as silly and insipid. 1 do not know whether 
 the old air, " Hey tuttie taitie," may rank 
 among this number ; but well I know that, 
 with i'Vazer's hautboy, it has often tilled my 
 eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which 
 I have met with in many places in Scotland, 
 that it was Robert Bruce's march at the 
 battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in 
 my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a 
 pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty 
 and independence, which I threw into a kind 
 of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one 
 miglit suppose to be the gallant Koyal Scot's 
 address to his heroic followers on that 
 eventful morning. 
 
 BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCK^ 
 BURN. 
 
 Tune — Iley tuttie taitie. 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led. 
 Welcome to your gory bed. 
 Or to victory ! 
 
MR. TirOMSUN TO BURNS. 
 
 409 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour: 
 See the front o' battle lour : 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 Chains and slavery. 
 
 Wha will be a traitor-ktiave? 
 Wild can fill a coward's sjrave? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
 Let him follow me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains. 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 
 But they shall be free! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! — ■ 
 
 Let us do or die ! 
 
 So may God ever defend the cause of 
 truth and liberty, as he did that day ! 
 Amen. 
 
 P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
 hiichly pleased with it, and begged me to 
 make soft verses for it ; but 1 had no idea 
 of giving myself any trouble on the subject, 
 till the accidental recollection of that glorious 
 struggle for freedom, associated with the 
 glowing ideas of some other struggles of the 
 same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my 
 rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, 
 with his bass, you will find in the JMuseum, 
 though I am afraid that the air is not what 
 will entitle it to a place in yoxur elegant 
 selection. 
 
 vo. ccxc. 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Sept. 1793. 
 
 I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will 
 begin to think my correspondence is perse- 
 cution. No matter, [ can't help it; a ballad 
 is my hnbby-horse, which, though otherwise 
 a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast 
 enough, has yet this blessed headstrong 
 property, that when once it has fairly made 
 off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured 
 with the tiugle-gingle, tingle-gingle of its 
 own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgar- 
 lick, tiie bedlam jockey, quite beyond any 
 useful point or post in the common race of 
 men. 
 
 The following song I have composed for 
 " Oran-gaoil," the Highland air, that, you 
 tell me in your last, you have resolved to 
 give a place to in your book. I have this 
 moment finished the song, so you have it 
 glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well! 
 — If not, 'tis also well ! 
 
 [Here fullows " Behold the Hour."^ 
 
 NO. ccxci. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, Sept. 5th, 1 793. 
 
 I BELIEVE it is generally allowed that 
 the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of 
 the greatest merit. While you are sending 
 me verses that even Shakspeare might be 
 proud to own, you speak of them as if they 
 were ordinary productions ! Your heroic 
 ode is to me the noblest composition of the 
 kind in the Scottish language. I happened 
 to dine yesterday with a party of your 
 friends, to whom I read it. They were all 
 charmed with it ; entreated me to find out a 
 suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of 
 giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest 
 or grandeur as "Hey tuttie taitie." Assuredly 
 your partiality for this tune must arise from 
 the ideas associated in your mind by the 
 tradition concerning it, for I never heard any 
 person, — and I have conversed aiain and 
 again with the greatestenthusiasts forScottish 
 airs — I say, I never heard any one speak of 
 it as wortliy of notice. 
 
 I have been running over the whole hun- 
 dred airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; 
 and I think " Lewie Gordon" is most happily 
 adapted to your ode ; at least, with a very 
 slight variation of the fourth line, which I 
 shall presently submit to you. Tlierc is in 
 " Lewie Gordon" more of the grand than the 
 plaintive, particularly when it is stmg with a 
 degree of spirit, which your words would 
 oblige the singer to'give it. I would have 
 no scruple about substituting your ode in 
 the room of "Lewie Gordon," which has 
 neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the 
 poetry, that characterise your verses. Now, 
 the variation I have to suggest upon the last 
 line of each verse, the only line too short for 
 the air is as follows ; — 
 
 Verse 1st, Or to glorious victory. 
 
 2iid, Chains — chains and slavery. 
 3rd, Let him, let him turn and llee. 
 
410 
 
 CORRESrONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 4th, I^t him hrnvely follow me. 
 
 5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 
 
 6ih, Let us, Id us do or die ! 
 
 If you connect each line with its own 
 Terse, 1 do not think you will find that 
 either the sentiment or the expression loses 
 any of its energy. The only line which I 
 dislike in the whole song is, " Welcome to 
 your gory bed." Would not another word 
 be preferable to " welcome ? " In your next 
 I will expect to be informed whether you 
 agree to what I have proposed. The little 
 alterations I submit with the greatest defer- 
 ence. 
 
 The beauty of the verses you have made 
 for " Uran-gaoil" will ensure celebrity to the 
 air. 
 
 NO. CCXCII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Sept. 1793. 
 
 I ii.WE received your list, my dear Sir, 
 and here go my observations on it. (173) 
 
 " Down the Burn Davie." I have this 
 moment tried an alteration, leaving out the 
 last half of the third stanza, and the first 
 half of the last stanza, thus : — 
 As down the burn they took their way. 
 
 And thro' the flowery dale ; 
 His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 
 
 And love was aye the tale. 
 
 With " JIary, when shall we return. 
 
 Sic pleasure to renew ? " 
 Guoth Mary, "Love I like the burn. 
 
 And aye shall follow you." (174) 
 
 " Thro' the wood laddie" — I ara decidedly 
 of opinion, that, both in this, and " There'll 
 sever be peace till Jamie comes hame," the 
 second or high part of the tune being a 
 repetition of the first part an octave higiier, 
 is only for instrumental music, and would be 
 much better omitted in singing. 
 
 " Cowden-knowes." Remember in your 
 index that the song iu pure English to this 
 tuue, beginning. 
 
 When Slimmer comes, the swains on Tweed, 
 
 is the production of Crawford. Robert was 
 his Christian name. 
 
 "Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for 
 some time. 1 do not know the air; and 
 until I am complete master of a tune, iu my 
 own singing (such as it is), I can never com- 
 pose for it. My way is : I consider the 
 poetic seutimeut corresjiondent to my idea 
 
 of the musical expression ; then chouse mj 
 theme ; begin one stanza : when that is 
 composed, which is generally the most diffi- 
 cult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
 down now and then, look out for objects in 
 nature around me that are in unison and 
 harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, 
 and workings of my bosom; humming every 
 now and then the air with the verses I have 
 framed. When I feel my muse beginning to 
 jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my 
 study, and there commit my effusions to 
 paper ; swinging at intervals on the hind- 
 legs of my elljow chair, by way of calling 
 forth my own critical strictures as my pen 
 goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost 
 invariably my way. 
 
 WHiat cursed egotism ! 
 
 " Gill Morice" 1 am for leaving out. It is 
 a plaguy length ; the air itself is never 
 sung ; and its place can well be supplied by 
 one or two songs for fine airs that are not 
 in your list — for instance, "Craigieburn 
 wood" and " Roy's wife." The first, beside 
 its intrinsic merit, has novelty; and the last 
 has high merit, as well as great celebrity. I 
 have the original words of a song for the 
 last air, in the handwriting of the lady who 
 composed it ; and they are superior to any 
 edition of the song which the public has yet 
 seen. 
 
 "Highland-laddie." The old set will 
 please a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new 
 an Italianised one. There is a third, and 
 what Oswald calls the old " llighland- 
 laddie," which pleases me more than eillier 
 of them. It is sometimes called "Uiiigliii 
 Johnnie ;" it being the air of an old liunio- 
 rous tawdry song of that name. You will 
 find it in the Museum, " I hae been at 
 Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, m 
 this musical quandary, to oft'er up your 
 prayers to the muses for inspiring direction ; 
 and, in the meantime, waiting for this direc- 
 tion, bestoiv a libation to Bacchus ; and 
 there is not a doubt but you will hit on a 
 judicious choice. Probatum est. 
 
 "Auld Sir Simon" 1 must beg you to 
 leave out, and put in its place " The 
 Quaker's wife." 
 
 " Blythe hae I been o'er the hill," is one 
 of the finest songs ever I made in my life, 
 and, besides, is composed on a young lady, 
 positively the most beautiful, lovely woman 
 in the world. As I purpose giving you the 
 names and designations of all my heroines, 
 to appear in some future edition of your 
 ^^•ork, perhaps half a century hence, you 
 must certainly include " The bonniest lass in 
 a' the warld," in your c.illectiou. 
 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSOX. 
 
 4U 
 
 " Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nine- 
 teen thousand nnie hundred and ninety-nine 
 times, and always with the chorus to the 
 iow part of the tune ; and uotliing lias 
 surprised me so much as your opinion on 
 this subject. If it will not suit as I pro- 
 posed, we will lay two of the stanzas 
 together, and then make the chorus follow. 
 
 "Fee him, father :" 1 enclose you Frazer's 
 set of tins tune v, hen he plays it slow : in 
 fact, he makes it the language of despair. 
 I sliall here give you two stanzas, in that 
 style, merely to try if it will be any im- 
 provement. (175) AV^ere it possible, in sing- 
 ing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer 
 gives it in playing, it would make an ad- 
 mirably pathetic song. I do not give these 
 verses for any merit they have. I composed 
 them at the time in which " Patie Allan's 
 mither died— that was, about the back o' 
 midnight ; " and by the lee-side of a bowl 
 of punch, which had overset every mortal in 
 company excejjt the hautbois and the muse. 
 
 [//ere follows " Thou liasl left me ever."] 
 
 " Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and 
 in its place would put "There's nae luck 
 a'jout the house," which has a very pleasant 
 air, and which is positively the finest love- 
 ballad in that style iii the Scottish, or 
 perhaps in any other language. " When 
 she cauie ben she bobbit," as an air, is more 
 beautiful than either, and in the andante 
 way would unite with a charming senti- 
 mental ballad. 
 
 "Saw ye my father?" is one of my 
 greatest favourites. The evening before 
 last, I wandered out, and began a tender 
 song, in what I think is its native style. I 
 must premise, that the old way, and the way 
 to give most efl'ect, is to have no starting- 
 note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at 
 once into the pathos. Every country girl 
 sings " Saw ye my father?" &c. 
 
 My song is but just begun ; and I should 
 like, before I proceed, to know your opinion 
 of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish 
 dialect, but it may be easily turned into 
 correct English. (170) 
 
 " Todliu haine." Urbani mentioned an 
 idea of his, which has long been mine, that 
 this air is highly susceptible of pathos : 
 accordingly, you will soon hear him at your 
 concert try it to a song of mine in the 
 Museum, "Ye banks and braes o' boiinie 
 Doon." One song more, and I have done ; 
 "Auld lang syne." The air is but mediocre ; 
 but the following song, the old song of the 
 olden times, and which has never been in 
 print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it 
 
 36 
 
 down from an old man's singing, is enough 
 to recommend any air. 
 
 \_Here the poet (jives "Auld lang syne."'] 
 
 Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience 
 fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
 number of ballads, properly so called. " Gill 
 jMorice," "Tranent Muir," " Macphersou'a 
 farewell," "Battle of Sheriff-muir," or, "We 
 ran, and they ran" (I know the author of 
 this charming ballad, and his history), 
 " Hardiknute," " Barbara Allan" (I can 
 furnish a finer set of this tune than any 
 that has yet appeared) ; and besides, do you 
 know that I really have the old tune to 
 which " The cherry and the slae" was sung, 
 and which is mentioned as a well-known air 
 in "Scotland's Complaint," a book published 
 before poor JIary's days? It was then 
 called, " The banks o' Helicon ; " an old 
 poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. 
 You will see all this in Tytler's History of 
 Scottish Music. The tune, to a learned ear, 
 may have no great merit ; but it is a great 
 curiosity. I have a good many original 
 things of this kind. 
 
 SO. CCXCIII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 S-ptember, 1793. 
 
 I AM happy, ray dear Sir, that my ode 
 pleases you so much. Your idea, " honour's 
 bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed 
 idea ; so, if you please, we will let the line 
 stand as it is. I have altered the son:i aa 
 follows : — 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce lias aften led. 
 Welcome to your gory bed 1 
 Or to glorious victory I 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
 See the front o' battle lour ; 
 See approach proud Edward's power! 
 Edward 1 chains and slavery. 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave? 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave? 
 
 Traitor! coward! turn, and flee! 
 
412 
 
 CORRESPONDF.NCE OF BURNS, 
 
 V\'ha for Scotland's kins^ and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Frpcwan stand, or freeman fa', 
 Sodger ! hero ! on wi' me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chams ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins. 
 But they shall be — shall be freel 
 
 r^y the proud usurpers low ' 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! 
 Forward 1 let us do or die 1 
 
 N.B. I have borrowed the last stanza 
 from the common stall edition of Wallace — 
 
 A false usurper sinks in every foe. 
 And liberty returns with every blow. 
 
 A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
 you had enough of my correspondence. The 
 post goes, and my head aches miserably. 
 One comfort I I suffer so much, just now, in 
 vnis world, for last night's joviality, that I 
 shall escape scot-free for it in the world to 
 come. Amen. 
 
 NO. CCXCIV. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 September \2th, 1793. 
 
 A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear 
 Sir, for your observations on the list of my 
 songs. I am happy to find your ideas so 
 much in unison with ray own, respecting the 
 generality of the airs, as well as the verses. 
 About some of them we differ, but there is 
 no disputing about hobby-horses. 1 shall 
 not fail to profit by the remai'ks you make, 
 and to re-consider the whole with attention. 
 
 " Dainty Davie" must be sung, two stanzas 
 together, and then the chorus : 'tis the 
 proper way. I agree with you, that there 
 may be something of pathos, or tenderness 
 at least, in the air of "Fee him, father," 
 when performed with feeling ; but a tender 
 cast may be given almost to any lively air, if 
 you sing it very slowly, expressively, and 
 wit'., serious words. I am, however, clearly 
 and invariably for retaining the cheerful 
 tunes joined to their own humorous verses, 
 wherever the verses are passable. But the 
 sweet song for "Fee hira, father," which 
 you began about the back of midnight, I 
 will publish as an additional one, Mr. 
 James Balfour, the king of good fellows. 
 
 and the best singer of the lively Scottish 
 ballads that ever existed, has charmed tiiou- 
 sands of companies with " Fee him, father," 
 and witli "Todlin hame" also, to the old 
 words, which never should be disunited from 
 either of these airs. Some bacchanals I 
 would wish to discard. " Fy I let's a' to the 
 bridal," for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, 
 that I tlnnk it fit only to be sung in a com- 
 pany of drunken colliers ; and "Saw ye my 
 father?" appears to me both indelicate and 
 silly. 
 
 One word more with regard to your heroic 
 ode. I think, with great deference to the 
 poet, that a prudent general would avoid 
 saying any thing to his soldiers which might 
 tend to make death more frightful than it is. 
 " Gory" presents a disagreeable image to the 
 mind; and to tell them "Welcome to your 
 gory bed," seems rather a discouraging 
 address, notwithstanding the blternative 
 which follows. 1 have shown the song to 
 three friends of excellent taste, and each of 
 them objected to this line, which emboldens 
 me to use the freedom of bringing it again 
 under your notice. 1 would suggest. 
 
 Now prepare for honour's bed. 
 Or for glorious victory ! 
 
 NO. ccxcv. 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 September, 1793. 
 
 " Who shall decide when doctors disa- 
 gree?" ]\Iy ode pleases me so much that I 
 cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations 
 would, in my opinion, make it tame. I ara 
 exceedingly obliged to you for putting me 
 on reconsidering it, as, 1 think, I have much 
 improved it. Instead of "sodger! hero!" 
 I will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me ! " 
 
 1 have scrutinized it over and over ; and 
 to the world, some way or other, it shall go 
 as it is. At the same time, it will not in the 
 least hurt me should you leave it out alto- 
 gether, and adhere to your first intention of 
 adopting Logan's verses. (177) 
 
 I have finished my song to " Saw ye my 
 father? "and in English, as you will see. 
 That there is a syllable too much for the e.x- 
 pression of the air, is true ; but, allow me to 
 say, that the mere dividing of a dotted 
 crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not 
 a great matter : however, in that I have no 
 pretensions to cope in judgment with you Of 
 
BURNS TO MR, THOMSON 
 
 413 
 
 the poetry I speak with confiJence ; but the 
 music is a business where I hint my ideas 
 with the utmost diftidence. 
 
 Tlie old verses liave merit, though un- 
 equal, and are popular : my advice is to set 
 the air to the old words, and let mine follow 
 as English verses. Here they are : — 
 [Here follows the song " Where are the joys.""] 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir '. the post goes, so I 
 shall defer some other remarks until mure 
 lei.-'ure. 
 
 NO. ccxcvi. 
 
 BURNS TO THOMSON. 
 
 September, 1793. 
 
 I n.WE been turning over some volumes 
 of songs, to find verses whose measures 
 would suit the airs for which you have 
 allotted me to find English songs. 
 
 For "Muirland 'Willie," you have, in 
 Ramsay's Tea-table an excellent song, be- 
 ginning, " Ah, why those tears in Nelly's 
 eyes?" As for "The Collier's dochtcr," 
 take the following old bacchanal : — 
 
 [Here follows " Deluded swain, the 
 pleasure."'] 
 
 The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
 thus : — 
 
 " How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
 '] he widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?" 
 
 The song otherwise will pass. As to 
 "M'Oregoria Rua-Ruth " you will see a 
 song of mine to it, with a set of the air 
 superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. 
 p. 181. The song begins, 
 
 " Raving winds around her blowing." 
 
 Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
 downright Irish. If they were like the 
 "Banks of Banna," for instance, though 
 really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you 
 might adopt them. Since you are so fond of 
 Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of 
 them in an additional number? We could 
 easily find this quaniity of charming airs : I 
 will take care that you shall not want songs; 
 and I assure yon that you would find it the 
 most saleable of the whole. If you do not 
 approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's 
 sake, we shall not insert it. " Dell tak the 
 wars " is a charm'ug song ; so is, " Saw ye 
 my Peggy ? " " There's nae luck about the 
 house " well deserves a place. I cannot say 
 that " O'er the hills and far awa " strikes me 
 B8 equal as your selectiou. " This ia no my 
 
 ain house" is a great favourite air of mine ; 
 and if you will send me your set of it, I will 
 task my muse to her highest effort. What 
 is your opinion of " I hae laid a herrin' iu 
 saut ? " I like it much. Your Jacobite airs 
 are jiretty, and there are many others of the 
 same kind pretty; but yon have not room 
 for them. You cannot, I think, insert " Ey ! 
 let's a' to the bridal," to any other words 
 than its own. 
 
 ^Vhat pleases me, as simple and naif dis- 
 gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this 
 reason, " Ey ! gie me my coggie. Sirs," " Fy ! 
 let's a' to the bridal," with several others of 
 that cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, 
 "Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother? " 
 delights me with its descriptive simple 
 pathos. Thus my song, " Ken ye what Jleg 
 o' the mill has gotten?" pleases myself so 
 much, that I cannot try my hand at another 
 song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I 
 know you will laugh at all this; but "ilka 
 man wears his belt his ain gait." 
 
 NO. CCXCVII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 October 1793. 
 
 Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was 
 indeed ladni with heavy news. Alas, poor 
 Erskine ! (178) The recollection that he 
 was a coadjutor in your publication, has, till 
 now, scared me from writing to you, or 
 turning my thoughts on composing for you. 
 
 I am pleased that you are reconciled to 
 the air of the " Quaker's wife ; " though, by 
 the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a 
 deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, 
 and known by the name of " Leiger m' 
 ehoss." The following verses, I hope, will 
 please you, as an English song to the air. 
 
 [Here follows " Thine am I, my faithful 
 fair."] 
 
 Your objection to the English song I pro- 
 posed for " John Anderson, my jo," is cer- 
 tainly just. The following is by an old 
 acquaintance of mine, and 1 think has merit. 
 The song was never in print, which I think 
 is so much iu your favour. The more origi- 
 nal good poetry your collection contains, it 
 certainly has so much the more merit. 
 
 SONG.— By G.WIN Turnbull. (179) 
 " Oh condescend, dear charming maid. 
 
 My wretched state to view ; 
 A tender swain to love betray'd. 
 
 And sad despair, by you. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 414 
 
 While l-.ere, all melancholy. 
 
 My passion I deplore. 
 Yet, nrg'd by stern resistless fate, 
 
 1 love thee more and more. 
 
 I heard of love, and with disdain 
 
 The urchin's power denied ; 
 I lauffh'd at every lover's pain, 
 
 And niock'd them when they sigh d. 
 
 But how my state is alter'd ! 
 
 Those happy days are o'er ; 
 For all thy unrelenting? hate, 
 
 I love thee more and more. 
 
 Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield ! 
 
 No lonj^er let ine mourn ; 
 And though victorious in the field. 
 
 Thy captive do not scorn. 
 
 Let generous pity warm thee. 
 
 My wonted peace restore ; 
 And, grateful, I shall bless thee still. 
 
 And love thee more and more." 
 
 The following address of Turnbull's to the 
 Nightingale, will suit as an English song to 
 the air, " There was a lass, and she was fair." 
 By the bye, TurnbuU has a great many songs 
 in ]MS., which I can command, if you like 
 his manner. Possibly, as he is an okl friend 
 of mnie, I may be prejudiced in his favour : 
 but 1 like some of his pieces very much. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 " Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
 That ever tried the plaintive strain. 
 
 Awake thy tender tale of love. 
 And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 
 
 For though the muses deign to aid. 
 And teach him smoothly to complain ; 
 
 Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
 Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 
 
 All day, with fashion's gandy sons. 
 In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 
 
 Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
 The notes of her forsaken swain. 
 
 When evening shades obscure the sky. 
 And bring "the solemn hours again, 
 
 Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 
 
 And soothe a poor forsaken swain." 
 
 I shall just transcribe another of Turn- 
 bulFs, which would go charmingly to "Lewie 
 Gordon." 
 
 LAURA. 
 
 "liCt me wander where I will, 
 ijy shady wood, or winding rillj 
 
 Where the sweetest ]\Iay-born flo\»eia 
 Paint the meadows, deck the bowerri ; 
 Where the linnet's early song 
 Echoes sweet the woods araouj : 
 Let me wander where I will, 
 Laura haunts my fancy stilL 
 If at rosy dawn I choose 
 To indulge the smiling muse; 
 If I court some cool retreat. 
 To avoid the noontide heat ; 
 If beneath the moon's pale ray. 
 Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray; 
 Let me wander where I will, 
 Laura haunts my fancy still. 
 
 When at night the drowsy god 
 Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
 And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
 Bids celestial visions rise ; 
 While with boundless joy I rove 
 Thro' the fairy land of love : 
 Let me wander where I will, 
 Laura haunts my fancy still." 
 
 The rest of your letter I ^hall answer OU 
 some other opportunity. 
 
 NO. CCXCVIII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 November Itli, 1793. 
 
 My Good Sir — After so long a silence, 
 it gave me peculiar pleasure to recognise 
 your well known-hand, for I had begun to 
 "be apprehensive that all was not well with 
 you. I am happy to find, however, that 
 your silence did not proceed from that 
 cause, and that you have got among the 
 ballads once more. 
 
 I have to thank you for your English 
 song to " Leiger m' choss," which I think 
 extremely good, although the colouring is 
 warm. Your friend, Mr. Turnbull's songs 
 have doubtless considerable merit ; and as 
 you have the coniraaiul of his manuscripts, 
 I hope you may find out some that will 
 answer as English songs, to the airs yet 
 unprovided. (180) 
 
 NO. CCXCIX. 
 
 TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esa 
 
 Dumfries, December, 1793. 
 
 Sir — It is said that we take the greatest 
 liberties with our greatest friends, and I 
 
TO J[RS. RIDDEL. 
 
 Uo 
 
 pay myself a very his,'h compliment in the 
 manner iu which I am going to apply the 
 remark. I liave owed you money longer 
 than ever I owed it to any man. Here is 
 Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; 
 and now, I don't owe a shilling to niari — or 
 
 woman either. But for these d dirty, 
 
 dog-ear'd little pages (181), I had done my- 
 self the honour to have waited on you long 
 ago. Independent of the ohligations your 
 hospitality has laid me under, the con- 
 ciousness of your superiority iu the rank of 
 man and gentleman, of itself was fully as 
 much as I could ever make head against ; 
 but to owe you money too, was more than I 
 could face. 
 
 1 tiiink I once mentioned something of a 
 collection of Scots songs I have for some 
 years heen nuiking — I send you a perusal of 
 what I have got together. I could not 
 conveniently spare them above five or six 
 days, and live or six glances of them will 
 probably more than suffice you. A very 
 few of them are iny own. A\'hen you are 
 tired of them, please leave them with Mr. 
 Clint, of the King's Arras. There is not 
 another copy of the collection in the world; 
 and 1 should be sorry that any unfortunate 
 negligence should deprive me of what has 
 cost me a good deal of pains. R. B. 
 
 TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq., 
 
 DRUMLANRIG. 
 
 Dumfries, 1793. 
 
 Will Mr. IM'lMurdo do me the favour to 
 accept of these volumes (182) ; a trifling but 
 sincere mark of the very high respect 1 bear 
 for his worth as a man, his manners as a 
 gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. 
 However inferior now, or afterwards, I may 
 rank as a poet, one honest virtue to which 
 few poets (an pretend, I trust I shall ever 
 claim as mine — to no man, whatever his 
 station in life, or his power to serve me, 
 have 1 ever paid a compliment at the 
 expense of TiiuTii. The Author. 
 
 ' pertinent in my anxious wish to be hojionred 
 
 W'ith your acquaintance. You will forgiw it 
 
 — it was the impulse of lieart-fL'lt respect. 
 
 I "He is the father of the Scottish county 
 
 j reform, and is a man who does luiiionr to 
 
 the business, at the same time thui the 
 
 I business does honour to him," .s;iul my 
 
 I worthy friend Glenriddel to somelindy by 
 
 me who was talking of your coming to this 
 
 country with your corps. "Then," I said, 
 
 " 1 have a woman's longing to tiiKe him by 
 
 the hand, and say to him, ' Sir, I honour you 
 
 as a man to whom the interests of humanity 
 
 are dear, and as a patriot to whom the 
 
 rights of your country are sacred.' " 
 
 In times like these. Sir, when our com- 
 moners are barely able, by the glimmering 
 of their own twilight understandings, to 
 scrawl a frank, and when lords are what 
 gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to 
 whom shall a sinking country call for 
 help ? To the independent country gentlo- 
 maii. To him who has too deep a stake in 
 his country not to be in earnest for her 
 welfare ; and who, iu the honest pride of 
 man, can view, with equal contempt, the 
 insolence of office, and the allurements of 
 corruption. 
 
 1 mentioned to you a Scots ode or 
 song I had lately composed (181), and 
 wliicii, I think, has some merit. Allow me 
 to enclose it. When 1 fall in with yon at 
 the theatre, I shall be glad to have your 
 opinion of it. Accept of it. Sir, as a very 
 humble, but most sincere tribute of respect 
 for a man who, dear as he prizes poetic 
 fame, yet holds dearer an independent 
 mind, I have the honour to be, 
 
 K B. 
 
 NO. CCCt. 
 
 TO CAPTAIN 
 
 — . (183) 
 
 Dumfries, December 5lh, 1793. 
 
 Sir — Heated as I was with wine yester- 
 night, I was perhaps rather seemingly im- 
 
 NO. CCCII. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL, 
 
 WHO WAS ABOUT TO BKSPEAK A PLAT ONR 
 EVENING AT TUK DUMFRIES THKATRE. 
 
 I AM thinking to send my " Address " to 
 some periodical publication, but it nas not 
 got your sanction, so pray look over it. 
 
 As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of 
 you, my dear IMadam, to give us "The 
 Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret ! " to 
 which please add, "The Spoilt Child" — you 
 will highly oblige me by so doing. 
 
 All, what an enviable creature you are! 
 There now, this cursed, gloomy, bine-devil 
 day, you are going to a party of choice 
 spirits — 
 
416 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 To play the shapes 
 Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
 Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
 Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. 
 Where hvely loit excites to gay surprise: 
 Or folly-painting humour, grave himself. 
 Calls laughter fortli, deep shaking every 
 nerve. 
 
 But, as you rejoice with them that do 
 rejoice, do also remember to weep with them 
 that weep, and pity your melancholy friend, 
 R. B."(185) 
 
 NO. CCCIII. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYERS BENEflT. 
 
 Dumfries, 1794. 
 
 Madam — You were so very good as to 
 promise me to honour my friend with your 
 presence on his benefit night. That night 
 is fixed for Friday next : the play a most 
 interesting one — "The Way to Keep Him." 
 I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. 
 His merit as an actor is generally acknow- 
 ledged. He has genius and worth which 
 would do honour to patronage : he is a 
 poor and modest man : — claims which, from 
 their very silence have the more forcible 
 power on the generous heart. Alas, for 
 pity ! that, from the indolence of those who 
 have the good things of this life in their 
 gift, too often does brazen-fronted im- 
 portunity snatch that boon, the rightful due 
 of retiring, humble want ! Of all the 
 qualities we assign to the author and 
 director of Nature, by far the most enviable 
 is, to be able " to wipe away all tears from 
 all eyes." Oh what insignificant, sordid 
 wretches are they, however chance may 
 have loaded them with wealth, who go to 
 their graves, to their magnificent mauso- 
 leums, with hardly the consciousness of 
 having made one poor honest heart happy. 
 
 But I crave your pardon. Madam ; I 
 came to beg not to preach. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCIV. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 
 
 Dumfries, January \2th, 1794. 
 
 My Lord — Will your lordship allow me 
 to present you with the enclosed little com- 
 
 position of mine (186), as a small tribute of 
 gratitude for the acquaintance with which 
 you have been pleased to honour me. Inde- 
 pendent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I 
 have rarely met with any thing in history 
 which interests my feelings as a man, equal 
 with the story of Bannockburn. On the one 
 hand, a cruel but able usurper, leading on 
 the finest army in Europe to extinguish the 
 last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring 
 and greatly-injured people ; on the other 
 hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, 
 devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding 
 country, or perish with her. 
 
 Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed 
 invaluable, for never canst thou be too dearly 
 bought 1 
 
 If my little ode has the honour of your 
 lordship's approbation, it will gratify my 
 highest ambition. I have the honour to be. 
 &C. R, B. 
 
 ' NO. CCCV. 
 
 TO CAPTAIN MILLER» 
 
 dalswinton. 
 
 Dear Sir — Tlie following ode (187) is on 
 a subject which I know you by no means 
 regard with indifference. Oh, Liberty, 
 
 Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
 Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to 
 the day. 
 
 It does me so much good to meet with a 
 man whose honest bosom glows with the 
 generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of 
 liberty, that I could not forbear sending you 
 a composition of my own on the subject, 
 which I really think is in my best manner. 
 I have the honour to be, dear Sir, &c. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCVI. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL 
 
 Dear Madam — I meant to have called 
 on you yesternight ; but as I edged up to 
 your box-door, the first object which greeted 
 my view was one of those lobster-coated 
 puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding 
 the Hesperian fruit. On the co;iditions and 
 capitulations you so obligingly offer, 1 shall 
 certainly make my weather-beaten, rustic 
 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
 
 417 
 
 phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, 
 when we may arrange the business of the 
 visit. 
 
 Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
 •which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, 
 incessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, 
 how far exalted above such adoration — per- 
 mit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
 you the honest tribute of a warm heart and 
 an independent mind, — and to assure you, 
 that I am, thou most amiable, and most 
 accomplished of thy sex, with the most 
 respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, 
 &C. K. B. 
 
 NO. CCCVIl. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued 
 friend, but whether in the morning I am not 
 sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst 
 revenue business, and may probably keep 
 me employed with my pen until noon. Fine 
 employment for a poet's pen ! There is a 
 species of the human genus that I call the 
 qin-horse class: what enviable dogs they are! 
 Round, and round, and round they go. 
 Mundell's ox, that drives his cotton mill, is 
 their exact prototype — without an irlea or 
 wish beyond their circle — fat, sleek, stupid, 
 patient, quiet and contented ; while 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 lier tenement, 
 Uke a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of 
 winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, 
 I am persuaded, that it was of me the Hebrew 
 sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And, 
 behold, on whatsoever this man doth set ins 
 heart, it shall not prosper !" If my resent- 
 ment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare 
 not squeak ; and if — * * * 
 
 Pray that wisdom and bliss be more fre- 
 quent visitors of R. B. 
 
 NO. cccvm, 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to 
 me how I lend him anything again. 
 
 I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to 
 have any, the smallest, opportunity of obli- 
 gingyou. 
 
 'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I 
 was at Woodlee ; and that once froze the 
 very life-blood of my heart. Your reception 
 of me was such, that a wretch meeting the 
 eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence 
 of death on him, could only have envied my 
 feelings and situation. But I hate the 
 theme, and never more shall write or speak 
 on it. 
 
 One thing I shall proudly say, that I can 
 pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute of esteem, and 
 appreciate her amiable worth more truly, 
 than any man whom I have seen approach 
 her. R. B. 
 
 I HAVE this moment got the sonj from 
 Syme, and I am sorry to see that he has 
 
 NO. CCCIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 I HAVK often told you, my dear friend, 
 that you had a spice of caprice in your com- 
 position, and you have as often disavowed it; 
 even, perhaps, while your opinions were, at 
 the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could 
 aivjtlwuj estrange me from a friend such as 
 you? No! To-morrow I shall have the 
 honour of waiting on you. 
 
 Farewell, thou first of friends, and most 
 accomplished of women, even with all thy 
 little caprices I R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCX. 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 Madam — I return your common-place 
 book. 1 have perused it with much pleasure, 
 and would have continued my criticisms, but 
 as it seems the critic has forfeited your 
 esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 
 
 If it is true that "offences come only from 
 the heart :" before you I am guiltless. To 
 admire, esteem and prize you, as the most 
 accomplished of women, and the first of 
 friends — if these are crimes, I am the most 
 offending thing alive. 
 
 In a face where I used to meet the kind 
 complacency of friendly confidence, now to 
 
418 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 find cold neglect, an_ contemptuous sconi — 
 is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. 
 It is, however, some kind of miserable good 
 luck, that while de haul-en-has rigour may 
 depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, 
 it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn some- 
 thing in his bosom, which, though it cannot 
 heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an 
 opiate to blunt their poignancy. 
 
 With the profoundest respect for your 
 abilities; the most sincere esteem, and ardent 
 regard for your gentle heart and amiable 
 manners ; and the most fervent wish and 
 prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss — I 
 have the honour to be. Madam, your most 
 devoted humble servant, il. B 
 
 TO JOHN SYME, Esa. (188) 
 
 You know that among other high dignities, 
 you have the honour to be my supreme court 
 of critical judicature, from which there is no 
 appeal. I enclose you a song, which I com- 
 posed since I saw you, and I am going to 
 give you the history of it. (189) Do you 
 know, that among much that I admire in the 
 characters and manners of those great folks 
 whom I have now the honour to call my 
 acquaintances, the Oswald family, — there is 
 nothing charms me more than Mr. Oswald's 
 unconcealable attachment to that incompa- 
 rable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, 
 meet with a man who owed more to the 
 Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O? 
 A fine fortune; a pleasing exterior; self- 
 evident amiable dispositions,and an ingenuous, 
 upright mind, — and that informed, too, much 
 beyond the usual run of young fellows of his 
 rank and fortune : and to all this, such a 
 woman ! — but of her I shall say nothing at 
 all, in despair of saying anything adequate : 
 in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice 
 to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in 
 the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his 
 Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with 
 my performance, I, in my first fervour, 
 thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald, but, 
 on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as 
 the honest incense of genuine respect, might, 
 from the well-known character of poverty 
 and poetry, be construed into some modifi- 
 cation or other of that servility which my 
 Boul abhors. K. B. 
 
 NO. cccxn. 
 TO MISS — 
 
 Dumfries, 1794 
 
 Madam — Nothmg short of a kind of 
 absolute necessity could have made me trouble 
 you with this letter. Except my ardent and 
 just esteem for your sense, taste and worth, 
 every sentiment arising in my breast, as I 
 put pen to paper to you, is painful. The 
 scenes I have passed with the friend of my 
 soul, and his amiable connexions ! the wrench 
 at my heart to think that he is gone, for 
 ever gone from me, never more to meet 
 in the wanderings of a weary world ! and 
 the cutting reflection of all, that I had most 
 unfortunately, though most undeservedly, 
 lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere 
 it took its flight 1 
 
 These Madam, are sensations of no ordi- 
 nary anguish However, you also may be 
 olfended with some imputed improprieties of 
 mine ; sensibility you know I possess, and 
 sincerity none will deny me. 
 
 To oppose those prejudices which have 
 been raised against me, is not the business 
 of this letter. Indeed, it is a warfare I know 
 not how to wage. The powers of positive 
 vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
 against direct malevolence I can be on my 
 guard : but who can estimate the fatuity of 
 giddy ciprice, or wird off the unthinking 
 mischief of prec'pita'e folly ? 
 
 I have a favour to request of you. Madam ; 
 
 and of your sister, Mrs. , through your 
 
 means. You know that, at the wish of my 
 late friend, I made a collection of all my 
 trifles iu verse which I had ever written. 
 They are many of them local, some of thera 
 pvif-rile and silly, and all of them unfit for 
 the public eye. As I have some little fame 
 at stake — a fame that I trust may live when 
 the hate of those who "watch for my halting," 
 and the contumelious sne2r of those whom 
 accident has made my superiors, will, with 
 themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion 
 — I am uneasy now for the fate of those 
 manuscripts. Will Mrs. have the good- 
 ness to destroy them, or return them to me? 
 As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed; 
 and that circumstance, indeed, was all their 
 merit. IMost unhappily for me, that merit 
 they no longer possess ; and I hope that 
 
 Mrs. 's goodness, which I well know, 
 
 and ever will revere, will not refuse this 
 favour to a man whom she once held in some 
 degree of estimation. 
 
 With the sincerest esteem, I have the 
 honour to be. Madam, &c. II. B. 
 
ME. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 419 
 
 NO. CCCXIII. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 February 25th, 1794. 
 
 Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? 
 Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul 
 tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly 
 star to guide her course, and dreading that 
 the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst 
 thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive to the 
 tortures of suspense, the stability and hardi- 
 hood of the rock that braves the blast ! If 
 tliou canst not do the least of these, why 
 wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, 
 with thy inquiries after me ? 
 
 For these two months I have not been 
 able to lift a pen. My constitution and 
 frame were ab orUjine, blasted with a deep, 
 incurable taint of hypochondria, which 
 poisons my existence. Of late a number of 
 domestic vexatious, and some pecuniary 
 share in the ruin of these cursed times — 
 losses which, though trifling, were yet what 
 1 could ill bear — have so irritated me, that 
 ray feelings at times could only be euvied by 
 a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
 that dooms it to perdition. 
 
 Are you deep in the language of consola- 
 tion ? I have exhausted in reflection every 
 topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
 have been charmed with my sentiments and 
 reasonings ; but as to myself, I was hke 
 Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel : he 
 might melt and mould the hearts of those 
 around him, but his own kept its native 
 mcorrigibilty. 
 
 Still, there are two great pillars that bear 
 us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and 
 misery. The ONii is composed of the diflTerent 
 modifications of a certain noble, stubborn 
 something in man, known by the names 
 «if courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The 
 OTHER is made up of those feelings and sen- 
 timents, which, however the sceptic may 
 deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, 
 are yet, I am convinced, original and compo- 
 nent parts of the human soul ; those senses 
 of the mind — if I may be allowed the expres- 
 sion—which connect us with, and link us to, 
 those awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
 ful, and equally beneficent God, and a world 
 to come, beyond death and the grave. The 
 first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray 
 of hope beams on the field: the last pours 
 the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
 time can never cure. 
 
 I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
 that you and I ever talked on the subject of 
 religion at all. I know some who laugh at 
 
 it, as the trick of the crafty few to lead the 
 undiscerning many; or, at most, as an 
 uncertain obscurity, which mankind can 
 never know anything of, and with which 
 they are fools if they give themselves much 
 to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for 
 his irreligion, any more than I would for 
 his want of a musical ear. I would regret 
 that he was shut out from what, to me and 
 to others, were such superlative sources of 
 enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
 for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
 mind of every child of mine with religion. 
 If my son should happen to be a man of 
 feeling, sentiment and taste, I shall thus add 
 largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
 myself, that this sweet little fellow, who is 
 just now running about my desk, will be a 
 man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart, — • 
 and an imagination delighted with the 
 painter, and rapt with the poet. Ij&t, me 
 figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, 
 to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
 growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself 
 the while in the blooming youth of life. He 
 looks abroad on all nature, and through 
 nature up to nature's God. His soul, by 
 swift, delighting degrees, is rapt above this 
 sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no 
 longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
 enthusiasm of Thomson : — 
 
 " These, as they change. Almighty Father 
 
 these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of thee ;" — 
 
 and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of 
 that charming hymn. These are no ideal 
 pleasures, they are real delights ; and 1 ask, 
 what of the delights among the sons of men 
 are superior, not to say equal, to them ? 
 And, they have this precious, vast addition, 
 that conscious virtue stamps them for her 
 own, and lays hold on them to bring herself 
 into the presence of a witnessing, judging, 
 and approving God. R. B. 
 
 WO. CCCXIV. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS, 
 
 Edinburgh, April llth, 1794. 
 
 My dear Sir — Owing to the distresj 
 of our friend for the loss of his child, at the 
 time of his receiving your admirable but 
 melancholy letter, I had not an opportuaa., , 
 
 37 
 
120 
 
 COEKESPONDENCE OF BTJENS. 
 
 till lately, of perusing' it. How sorry I 
 am to find Burns saying, " Canst thou not 
 minister to a mind diseased? " while he is 
 delighting others from one end of the island 
 to the other. Like the hypochondriac who 
 went to consult a physician upon his case — 
 "Go," says the doctor, " and see the famous 
 Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good 
 humour." "Alas ! Sir," replied the patient, 
 " 1 am that unhappy Carlini ! " 
 
 Your plan for our meeting together 
 pleases me greatly, and I trust that by some 
 means or other it will soon take place ; but 
 your bacchanalian challenge almost frightens 
 me, for I am a miserable weak drinker ! 
 
 Allan is much gratified by your good 
 opinion of his talents. He has just began a 
 sketch from your " Cotter's Saturday Night," 
 and, if it pleases himself in the design, 
 he will probably etch or engrave it. In 
 subjects of the pastoral and humorous 
 kind, he is, perhaps, unrivalled by any artist 
 living. He fails a little in giving beauty 
 and grace to his females, and his colouring 
 is sombre, otherwise his paintings and 
 drawings would be in greater request. 
 
 I like the music of the " Sutor's dochter," 
 and will consider whether it shall be added 
 to the last volume ; your verses to it are 
 pretty ; but your humorous English song, 
 to suit "Jo Janet," is inimitable. What 
 think you of the air, "Within a mile of 
 Edinburgh?" It has always struck me as 
 a modern English imitation, but it is said to 
 be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I 
 believe I must include it. The verses are 
 little better than namby-pamby. Do you 
 consider it worth a stanza or two ? 
 
 NO. cccxv. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 May, 1794. 
 
 My Dear Sir — I return you the plates, 
 with which I am highly pleased; I would 
 humbly propose, instead of the younker 
 knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn 
 into his hands. A friend of mine, who is 
 positively the ablest judge on the subject I 
 have ever met with, and though an unknown, 
 is yet a superior artist with the burin, is 
 quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got 
 liim a peep of the " Gentle Shepherd ;" and 
 he pronounces Allan a most original artist 
 of great excellence. 
 
 For my part, I look on Jlr. Allan's choos- 
 ing my favourite poem for his subject, to be 
 one of the highest compliments 1 have ever 
 received. 
 
 I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being ecoped 
 up in France, as it will put an entire stop to 
 our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
 I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by 
 and bye. I got an air, pretty enough, com- 
 posed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, 
 which she calls "The banks of Cree." Cree 
 is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
 ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have 
 written the following song to it. 
 
 [Here follows the song entitled " The Banka 
 of Cree." 
 
 NO. cccxvi. 
 TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
 May, 179t. 
 
 My Lord — Wlien you cast your eye on 
 the name at the bottom of this letter, and 
 on the title-page of the book I do myself 
 the honour to send your lordship, a more 
 pleasurable feeling than my vanity, tells me 
 that it must be a name not entirely unknown 
 to you. The generous patronage of your late 
 illustrious brother found me in the lowest 
 obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to 
 the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
 owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
 anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
 protector and friend, I have endeavoured to 
 express in a poem to his memory, which I 
 have now published. This edition is just 
 from the press ; and in my gratitude to the 
 dead, and my respect for the living (fame 
 belies you, my lord, if you possess not the 
 same dignity of man, which was your noble 
 brother's characteristic feature), I had des- 
 cined a copy for the Earl of Glencairu. J 
 learnt just now that you are in town : allow 
 me to present it to you. 
 
 I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal 
 contagion which pervades the world of let- 
 ters, that professions of respect from an 
 author, particularly from a poet to a lord, 
 are more than suspicious. I claim, by ray 
 past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, 
 an exception to the too just conclusion. 
 Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's 
 name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of 
 mine; with the uprightness of an honest 
 man, I come before your lordship, with an 
 offering — however humble, 'tis all I have to 
 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 
 
 421 
 
 give, of my grateful respect ; and to beg of 
 yovi, my lord, 'tis all I have to ask of you, 
 that you will do me the honour to accept of 
 it. I have the honour to be, B. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXVII. 
 
 TO DAVID MACCULLOCH, Esq. (190) 
 
 Dumfries, June 2\sf, 1794. 
 
 My Dear Sir — My long projected jour- 
 ney throujih your country is at last fixed ; 
 and ou Wednesday next, if you have nothing 
 of more importance to do, take a saunter 
 dowii to Gatehouse about two or three 
 o'clock ; I shall be happy to take a draught 
 of M'Kuue's best with you. Collector 
 Syme will be at Cilens about that time, and 
 %vill meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme 
 goes also to Kerrougbtree, and let me remind 
 you of your kind promise to accompany me 
 there; I will need all the friends I can muster, 
 for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach 
 your honourables and right-honourables. 
 Yours sincerely, R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Castle Doufjlas, June 25tli, 1794. 
 
 Here, in a solitary inu, in a solitary village, 
 am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding 
 fancy as T may. Solitary confinement, you 
 know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaim- 
 ing sinners ; so let me consider by what 
 fatality it happens that I have so long been 
 exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspond- 
 ence of the most valued friend I have on 
 earth. To tell you that 1 have been in poor 
 health will not be excuse enough, though it 
 is true. I am afraid that I am about to 
 eufter for the follies of my youth. I\Iy 
 medical friends threaten me with a flying 
 gout ; but I trust they are mistaken. 
 
 I am just going to trouble your critical 
 patience with the first sketch of a stanza I 
 have been framing as I passed along the road. 
 The subject 13 liberty : you know, my hon- 
 oured friend, how dear the theme is to me. 
 I design it as an irregular ode for General 
 Washington's birth-day. After having men- 
 tioned liie degeneracy of other kingdoms, I 
 conge to Scotland thus : 
 
 Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths amonj, 
 Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred 
 song. 
 
 To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
 Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
 Imniiiigled with the mighty dead, 
 
 Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace 
 lies! 
 Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death. 
 
 Ye babbHng winds in silence sweep, 
 
 Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. 
 
 With the addition of 
 
 That arm which nerved with thundering 
 fate, 
 Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
 One quenched in darkness like the sinking 
 star. 
 And one the palsied arm of tottering, 
 powerless age. 
 
 You will probably have another scrawl 
 from me iu a stage or two. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXIX. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 
 
 Dumfries, 1794. 
 
 My Dear Friend — You should have 
 heard from me long ago; but over and above 
 some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses 
 of tiiese accursed times, I have all this win- 
 ter been plagued with low spirits and blue 
 devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on 
 the willow trees. 
 
 I am just now busy correcting a new 
 edition of my poems, and this with my ordi- 
 nary business, finds me in full employment. 
 
 1 send you by my friend, Mr. AVallace, 
 forty-one songs for your fifth volume ; if we 
 cannot finish it any other way, what would 
 you think of Scots words to some beautiful 
 Irish airs ? In the meantime, at your leisure, 
 give a copy of the "Museum " to my worthy 
 friend, iMr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for 
 me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as 
 he did the Laird of Gienriddel's, that I may 
 insert every anecdote I can learn, together 
 with my own criticisms and remarks on the 
 songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave 
 with you, the editor, to publish at some after 
 period, by way of making the " Museum " a 
 book famous to the end of time, and you 
 renowned for ever. 
 
 I have got a Highland dirk, for which I 
 have great veneration, as it once was the 
 dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad 
 
422 
 
 CORRESPON HENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 hands, who stripped it of the silver mountiiijr, 
 us well as the knife and fork. I have some 
 thoujjhts of sending it to your care, to get 
 it mounted anew. 
 
 'I'liiuik you for the copies of ray Volunteer 
 Ballad. Our friend Clarke has done indeed 
 well! — 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not 
 met with anything that has pleased me so 
 much You know I am no connoisseur ; but 
 that I am an amateur will be allowed me. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 July, 1794. 
 
 Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is 
 your work to be at a dead stop, until the 
 allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty 
 from the savage thraldom of democrat dis- 
 cords ? Alas, the day ! And woe is me ! 
 That auspicious period, pregnant with the 
 happiness of millions. * « » • 
 
 1 Lave presented a copy of your songs to 
 the daughter of a much-valued and much- 
 honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of 
 Fintry. I wrote on the blank side of the 
 title-page the following addiess to the young 
 lady: 
 
 '' Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
 lives, [join'd. 
 
 In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
 Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives. 
 
 Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 
 So may no ruffian-feeling (191) in thy 
 breast, 
 
 Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 
 But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
 
 Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 
 Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 
 
 As modest want the tale of woe reveals : 
 
 While conscious virtue all the strain 
 
 endears, [seals." 
 
 And heaven-bora piety her sauction 
 
 NO. cccxxi. 
 TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Jun., 
 
 DUMFRIES. 
 
 Sunday Morning 
 
 Dear Sir — I was, I know, drunk last 
 night, but I am sober this morning. From 
 the expressions Capt. made use of to 
 
 me, had I had nobody's welfare to care foi 
 but my own, we should certainly have come, 
 according to the manners of the worM, to 
 the necessity of murdering one another 
 about tlie business. The words were such 
 as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of pis- 
 tols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
 did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife 
 and family of children in a drunken squabble. 
 Farther, you know that the report of certaia 
 political opinions being mine, has already 
 once before brought me to the brink of de- 
 struction. I dread lest last night's business 
 may be misrepresented in the same way. 
 You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I 
 tax your wish for Mr. Burns's welfare with 
 the task of waiting, as soon as possible, on 
 every gentleman who was present, and state 
 this to hini, and, as you please, show hira 
 this letter. What, after all, was the ob- 
 noxious toast ? " May our success in the 
 present war be equal to the justice of our 
 cause" — a toast that the most outrageous 
 frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I re- 
 quest and beg, that this morning you will 
 wait on the parties present at the foolish 
 dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly 
 sorry that a man who stood so high in my 
 
 estimation as Mr. , should use me in 
 
 the manner in which I conceive he has done. 
 R. B. 
 
 KO. CCCXXIl. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinhunjh, Aiiyust lOth, 1794. 
 My Dear Sir— I owe you an apology 
 for having so long delayed to acknowledge 
 the favour of your last. 1 fear it will be, as 
 you say, I shall have no more songs from 
 Pleyel till France and we are friends ; but, 
 nevertheless, I am very desirous to be pre- 
 pared with the poetry ; and as the season 
 approaches iu which your muse of Coda 
 visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be 
 frequently gratified with the result of your 
 amorous and tender interviews I 
 
 NO. cccxxm. 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 August 30(/i, 1794. 
 The last evening, as I was straying out, 
 and thinking of " O'er the hiLls and far 
 
BURNS TO MR. lIIOiESON. 
 
 423 
 
 away," 1 spun the following stanza for it ; 
 but wlietlier my spinniiif:^ will deserve to be 
 laid up ill store, like the precious thread of 
 the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like 
 the vile maiuifacture of the spider, 1 leave 
 my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. 
 1 was pleased with several lines in it at first, 
 but I own that now it appears rather a 
 flimsy business. 
 
 This is just a hasty sketch, until I see 
 whether it be worth a critique. We have 
 many sailor songs, but as far as I at preseut 
 recollect, they are mostly the effusions of 
 the jovial sailor, not the wailiiicrs of his love- 
 lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet 
 exception — " Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach 
 came." Now for the sons : — 
 
 [" On the seas and far awny."] 
 
 I give you leave to abuse this song, but 
 do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. 
 
 NO. CCCXXIV. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, Sept. 16th, 1794. 
 
 My Dear Sir — You have antiEipated 
 ray opinion of " On the seas and far away ; " 
 1 do nut think ic one of your very happy 
 produeliiiiis, though it certainly contains 
 stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. 
 
 'I'lie second is the least to my liking, par- 
 ticularly " Bullets, spare my only joy." 
 Confound the bullets ! It miijht, perhaps, 
 be objected to the third verse, " At the 
 starless midnight hour," that it has too 
 much grandeur of imagery, and that greater 
 simplicity of thought would have better 
 suited the character of a sailor's sweetheart. 
 The tune, it must be remembered, is of the 
 brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole, there- 
 fore, in my bumble opinion, the song would 
 be better adapted to the tune, if it con- 
 sisted only of the first and last verses, with 
 the choruses. 
 
 NO. CCCXXV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Sept. 1794. 
 
 I SHALL withdraw my " On the seas and 
 far away " altogether : it is unequal, an J 
 iinworthy the work. Making a poem is like 
 begetting a son : you cannot know whether 
 
 you have a wise man or a fool, until you 
 produce him to the world to try him. 
 
 For that reason I send you the offspring 
 of my brain, abortions and all ; and, as 
 such, pray look over them and forgive them, 
 and burn them. (192) I am flattered at your 
 adopting " Ca' the yowes to the knowes," 
 as it was owing to me that ever it saw the 
 light. About seven years ago I was well 
 acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a 
 clergyman, a Mr. Clniiie, who sang it charm- 
 ingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took 
 it down from his singing. AVIien I gave it 
 to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
 song, and mended others, but still it will 
 not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I 
 took to-day, I tried my hand on a few 
 pastoral lines, following up the idea of the 
 chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, 
 with all its crudities and imperfections on 
 its head. 
 
 [Here follows " Ca' the yoices."'] 
 I shall give you my opinion of your 
 other newly adopted songs my first scrib- 
 bling fit. 
 
 NO. CCCXXVI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 
 
 Sept. 1794. 
 
 Do you know a blackguard Irish song 
 called " Onagh's "Waterfall ? " The air is 
 charming, and I have often regretted the 
 want of decent verses to it. It is too much, 
 at least for my humble rustic muse, to 
 expect that every effort of hers shall have 
 merit ; still, I think it is better to have 
 mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none 
 at all. Oil this principle I have all along 
 proceeded on the Scots Musical Museum ; 
 and as that publication is at its last volume, 
 I intend the following song, to the air 
 above mentioned, for that work. 
 
 If it does not suit you as an editor, you 
 may be pleased to have verses to it that you 
 can sing in the company of ladies. 
 
 [Uere follows "She says she loues me bi'st 
 of a'."] 
 
 Not to compare small things with great, 
 my taste in music is like the mighty 
 IVederick of Prussia's taste in painting ; we 
 are told that he frequently admired what 
 the connoisseurs decried, and always with- 
 out any hypocrisy confessed bis admiration. 
 I am sensible that my ta:>te in music must 
 1* 
 
424 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 be inelegant and vulgar, because people of 
 undisputed and cultivated taste can find no 
 merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because 
 I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason 
 why I should deny myself that pleasure ? 
 ilaiiy of our strathspeys, ancient and 
 modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, 
 where you and other j\ulges would probably 
 be showing disgust. For instance, I am 
 just now making verses for " Rothemurche's 
 rant," an air which puts me in raptures ; 
 and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the 
 tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I 
 have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that 
 I will pit against any of you. " Rothe- 
 murche," he says, " is an air both original 
 and beautiful ; " and, on his recommenda- 
 tion, I have taken the first part of the tune 
 for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for 
 the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the 
 work, and possibly you may think, and 
 justly, that the poetry is as little worth 
 your attention as the music. 
 
 [Here follow two stanzas of the song, 
 heyinning "Lassie ivi' the lint-white locks."} 
 
 I have begun anew, "Let me in this ane 
 night." Do you think that we ought to 
 retain the old chorus ? I think we must 
 retaia both the old chorus and the first 
 stanza of the old song. I do not altogether 
 like the third line of the first stanza, but 
 cannot alter it to please myself I am just 
 three stanzas deep in it. Would you have 
 the denoHcnient to be successful or other- 
 wise ? — should she " let him in " or not ? 
 
 Did you not once propose "The sow's 
 tail to Geordie " as an air for your work ? 
 I am quite delighted with it ; but I acknow- 
 ledge that is no mark of its real excellence. 
 I once set about verses for it, which I meant 
 to be in the alternate way of a lover and his 
 mistress chanting together. I have not the 
 pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's 
 Christian name ; and yours, I am afraid, is 
 rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had 
 meant to have made you the liero and 
 heroine of the little piece. 
 
 How do you like the following epigram 
 which I wrote the other day on a lovely 
 young girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor 
 Maxwell was the physician who seemingly 
 saved her from the grave ; and to him I 
 address the following : — 
 
 TO DR. MAXWELU 
 
 ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. 
 
 Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 
 'I'hat merit I deny : 
 
 You save fair Jessie from the grave ? 
 An angel could not die ! 
 
 God grant you patience with this stupid 
 epistle 1 
 
 NO. CCCXXVII. 
 
 ^ra. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now 
 attendant upon her favourite poet, whose 
 woodnotes wild are become as enchanting as 
 ever. " She says she loes me best of a'," is 
 one of the pleasantest table songs I have 
 seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the 
 song is going round. I'll give Cunningham 
 a copy ; he can more powerfully proclaim 
 its merit. I am far from undervaluing 
 your taste for the strathspey music ; on the 
 contrary, I think it highly animating and 
 agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, 
 when graced with such verses as yours, will 
 make very pleasing songs, in the same way 
 that rough Christians are tempered and 
 softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
 you know, they had been brutes. 
 
 I am clear for having the "Sow's tail," 
 particularly as your proposed verses to it are 
 so extremely promising. Geordie, as you 
 observe, is a name only fit for burlesque 
 composition. Mrs. Thomson's name (Katha- 
 rine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, 
 therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any 
 other that sounds agreeably. 
 
 Your " Ca' the ewes " is a precious little 
 morceau. Indeed, I am perfectly astonished 
 and charmed with the endless variety of 
 your fancy. Here let me ask you, whether 
 you never seriously turned your thoughts 
 upon dramatic w'riting? That is a field 
 worthy of your genius, in which it might 
 shine forth in all its splendour. One or 
 two successful pieces upon the London stage 
 would make your fortune. The rage at 
 present is for musical dramas : few or none 
 of those which have appeared since the 
 "Duenna," possess much poetical merit; 
 there is little in the conduct of the fable, or 
 in the dialogue, to interest the audience; 
 they are chiefly vehicles for music and 
 pageantry. I think you might produce a 
 comic opera in three acts, which would live 
 by the poetry, at the same time that it 
 would be proper to take every assistance 
 from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, 
 of course, would be to our favourite Scottish 
 airs ; the rest might be left to the London 
 composer — Storace for Drury-laiie, or Shield 
 
RITRNS TO Vn. THOMSON'. 
 
 4S.'5 
 
 for Covent-garden, both of tlietn verj able 
 and popular musicians. I believe that 
 interest and manoeuvring are often necessary 
 to have a drama brought on ; so it may be 
 with the namby-pamby tribe of flowery 
 scribblers : but were you to address Mr. 
 Sheridan himself by letter, and send hira a 
 dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, 
 for the honour of genius, give it a fair and 
 candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding 
 these hints upon your consideration. (193) 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXXVIII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 Edinburgh, October Ut/i, 1794. 
 
 The last eight days have been devoted to 
 the re-examination of the Scottish collections. 
 I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and 
 considered, till I am half blind, and wholly 
 stupid. The few airs 1 have added, are 
 enclosed. 
 
 Peter Pindar has at length sent me all 
 the songs I expected from him, which are, 
 in general, elegant and beautiful. Have 
 you heard of a London collection of Scottish 
 airs and songs, just published by Mr. 
 Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall send you 
 a copy. His introductory essay on the 
 subject is curious, and evinces great reading 
 and research, but does not decide the 
 question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
 though he shows clearly that Jlr. Tytler, in 
 his ingenious dissertation, lias adduced no 
 sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to 
 establish, aud that his classification of the 
 airs according to the eras \i hen they were 
 composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. 
 On John Pinkerton, Esq., he has no mercy, 
 but consigns him to damnatiou. He snarls 
 at my publication, on the score of Pindar 
 being engaged to write songs for it ; un- 
 candidly and unjustly leaving it to be 
 inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers 
 liad been sent a-packing to make room for 
 Peter's ! Of you he speaks with some 
 respect, but gives you a parsing hit or two, 
 for daring to dress up a little some old 
 foolish songs for the IMuseum. His sets of 
 the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
 the oldest collections and best authorities ; 
 many of them, however, have such a strange 
 aspect, and are so unlike the sets wliich are 
 sung by every person of taste, ol<l or young, 
 in town or country, that we can scarcely 
 recogmse the features of our favourites. By 
 
 going to the oldest collections of our music, 
 it does not follow that we find the melodies 
 in their original state. These melodies had 
 been preserved, we know not how long, by 
 oral coiumunication, before being collected 
 and printed ; and, as different persons sing 
 the same air very differently, according to 
 their accurate or confused recollection ol it, 
 so, even supposing the first collectors to 
 possess the industry, taste, and discernment, 
 to choose the best they could hear (which is 
 far from certain), still it must evidently be 
 a chance, whether the cuUeetions exhibit 
 any of the melodies in the state they wert 
 first composed. In selecting the melodies 
 fir my own collection, I have been as much 
 guiiled by the living as by the dead 
 Where these differed, I preferred the sets 
 that appeared to me the most simple and 
 beautiful, and the most generally approved : 
 and without meaning any compliment to my 
 own capability of choosing, or speaking of 
 the pains I have taken, I flatter myself that 
 my !.ets will be found equally free from 
 vulgar errors on the cue hand, and affected 
 graces on the other. 
 
 NO. CCCXXIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 October IQlh, 1794. 
 My Dear Friend — By this morning's 
 post I have your li^t, and, in general, I 
 liighly approve of it. I shall, at more lei- 
 sure, give you a critique on the whole. 
 Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, 
 and 1 wish you would call on him and take 
 his opinion in general : you know his taste 
 is a standard. He will return here again in 
 a week or two, so please do not miss asking 
 for him. One thing I hope he will do — 
 persuade you to adopt my favourite, "Craigie- 
 burn wood," in your selection : it is as great 
 a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on 
 whom it was made is one of the finest women 
 in Scotland ; aud in fact {enire nous) is in a 
 manner to me, what Sterne's Eliza was to 
 hira — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, 
 in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. 
 (Now, don't put any of your squinting con- 
 structions on this, or have any clishmadaver 
 about it among our acquaintances.) I assure 
 you that to ny lovely friend you are indebted 
 for many of your best songs of mine. Uo 
 you think ti.at the sober, giu-horse routine 
 of existence could inspire a man with life. 
 
42fi 
 
 fORnp'ST'oynPivriR of burns. 
 
 and love, and joy — could tire liiiu with enthu- 
 siasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the 
 peniiis of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever 
 1 want to be more than ordinary in song — to 
 be in some degree equal to your diviner airs 
 — do you imagine I fast and pray for the 
 celestial emanation ? Tout au contraire ! I 
 have a glorious recipe; the very one that for 
 his own use was invented by the divuiity of 
 healing and poetry, when erst he piped to 
 the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a 
 regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in 
 proportion to the adorability of her charms, 
 in proportion you are delighted with my 
 verses. The lightning of her eye is the god- 
 head of I'arnasius, and the witchery of her 
 smile the divuiity of Helicon 1 
 
 To descend to business ; if you like my 
 idea of " When she cam ben she bobhit," the 
 following stanzas of mine, altered a little 
 from what they vere formerly, when set to 
 another air, may perhaps do instead of worse 
 stanzas : — 
 
 [Here follows " Savi ye my Philly."'} 
 
 Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. 
 "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my compo- 
 sition ; the air was taken down from Jlrs. 
 Buriis's voice. (194) It is well known in 
 the west country, but the old words are 
 trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune 
 again, and tell me if you do not think it is 
 the original from which "Roslin Castle" is 
 composed. The second part, in particular, 
 for the first two or three bars, is exactly the 
 old air. " Strathallan's Lament " is mine ; 
 the music is by our right trusty and 
 deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. 
 "Donocht-Head" (193) is not mine; I would 
 give ten pounds it were. It appeared first 
 in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the 
 editor of that paper with the Newcastle post- 
 mark on it. (196) "Whistle o'er the lave 
 o't" is mine : the music said to be by a 
 John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in 
 Dumfries, about the beginning of this 
 century. This I know, Bruce, wlio was an 
 honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, 
 constantly claimed it ; and by all the old 
 musical people here, is believed to be the 
 author of it. 
 
 "Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
 which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
 was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
 Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called 
 the Flower of Stratliraore. 
 
 " How long and dreary is the niglit ! " I 
 met with some such words iu a collection of 
 songs sou;ewhere, which I altered and 
 
 enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit 
 )'our favourite air, 1 have taken a stride or 
 two across my room and have arranged it 
 anew, as you will find on the other jiage. 
 
 [^Ilere folloius " How long and dreary is 
 the Night."] 
 
 Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
 your idea of the expression of the tune. 
 There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in 
 it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense 
 with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of 
 my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays 
 and sings at the same time so charmingly, 
 that I shall never bear to see any of her songs 
 sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What- 
 d'ye-call-uni has done in his London collec- 
 tion. (197) 
 
 These English songs gravel me to death. 
 I have not that command of the language 
 that I have of my native tongue. I have 
 been at " Duncau Gray," to dress it in 
 English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. 
 For instance : — 
 
 [Here follows "Let not Woman e'er 
 complain."] 
 
 Since the above, I have been out in the 
 country taking a dinner with a friend, where 
 I met with the lady whom I mentioned 
 in the second page iu this odds-and-ends of 
 a letter. As usual, I got into song ; and 
 returning home I composed the following: — 
 
 THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
 TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Tune — Deil tak the Wars. 
 
 Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 
 ture ; 
 
 Rosy morn now lifts his eye. 
 Numbering ilka bud which nature 
 
 Waters wi' the te.irs o' joy : 
 
 Now thro' the leafy woods, 
 
 And by the recking floods, 
 Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray. 
 
 The lintwhite in his bower 
 
 Chants o'er the breathing flower; 
 
 The lav'rock to the sky 
 
 Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
 While the sun and thou arise to bless tho 
 day. 
 
 Phoebus gilding the brow o' raornmg. 
 
 Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
 Nature gladd'ning and adorning; 
 
 Such to me my lovely maid. 
 
 When absent frae ray fair. 
 
 The murky shades o' care 
 
TO MR THOMSON. 
 
 427 
 
 \.'.tn dtarless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 
 
 lint when in beauty's lijjht, 
 
 She meets my ravished sii;ht, 
 
 When throui,'h my very heart 
 
 Her beaming glories dart ; 
 Tis then I wake to life, to light, end 
 joy! (198) 
 
 If you honour my verses by setting the 
 air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and 
 wake it English enough to be understood. 
 
 1 enclose you a musical cnriosity, an East 
 Indian air, which you would swear was a 
 Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, 
 as tlie gentleman who brought it over is a 
 particular acquaintance of mine. Do pre- 
 serve uie the copy 1 send you, as it is the 
 only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, 
 and I intend putting it into the Musical 
 Museum. Here follow the verses I intend 
 for it. 
 
 [Here fuUows "But lately seen in glad- 
 some yreen."^ 
 
 I would be obliged to you if you would 
 procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of 
 English songs, which you mention in your 
 letter. I will thank you for another infor- 
 mation, and that as speedily as you please : 
 whether this miserable, drawling, hotchpotch 
 epistle has not completely tired you of my 
 correspon deuce ? 
 
 NO. CCCXXX. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, October 27th, 1794. 
 
 I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a 
 genuine poet can no more exist without his 
 mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the 
 adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching 
 smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish 
 bard, that I might drink her sweet health 
 w hen the toast is going round. " Craige- 
 burn wood " must certainly be adopted into 
 my family, since she is the object of the 
 song; but, in the name of decency, I must 
 beg a new chorus verse from you. " Oh to 
 be lying beyond thee, dearie," is perhaps a 
 consummation to be wished, but will not do 
 for singing in the company of ladies. The 
 Bongs in your last will d ) you lasting credit, 
 aiid suit the respective airs charmingly. I am 
 perfectly of your opinion with respect to 
 the additional airs. The idea of sending 
 
 them into the world naked as they were 
 born, was ungenerous. Thf-y must all be 
 cldtlied and made decent by our friend 
 Clarke. 
 
 1 lind I am anticipated by the friendly 
 Cunningham in sending you Ritson's Scot- 
 tish collection. Permit me, therefore, to 
 present you with his English collection, 
 which you will receive by the coach. 1 do 
 not lind his historical essay on Scottish song 
 interesting. Your anecdotes and miscella- 
 neous remarks will, I am sure, be much more 
 so. Allan has just sketched a charming de- 
 sign from " Maggie Lauder." She is dancing 
 with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
 seems almost dancing too, while he is playing 
 with the most exquisite glee. 1 am much 
 inclined to get a small copy, and to have it 
 engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. 
 
 PS. Pray what do your anecdotes say 
 concerning " Maggie Lauder ?" — was she a 
 real personage, and of what rank ? You 
 would surely ■' spier for her, if you ca'd at 
 A.nstruther town." 
 
 NO. cccxxxi. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 November, 1794. 
 
 !Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
 your present; it is a book of the utmost 
 importance to me. I have yesterday begun 
 my anecdotes, &c., for your work. 1 intend 
 drawing them up in the form of a letter to 
 yon, which will save me from the tedious 
 dull business of systematic ari-angemcnt. 
 Lideed, as all I have to say consists of un- 
 unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of 
 old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give 
 the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
 which the critics insist to be abolutely iieces- 
 sary in a work. In my last, I told you my 
 objections to the song you had selected for 
 " My lodging is on the cold ground." On 
 my visit the other day to my fair Chloris 
 (that is the poetic name of the lovely god- 
 dess of my inspiration), she suggested an 
 idea, which I, on my return from the visit, 
 wrought into the following song. 
 
 "My Chloris, mark how green the groves." 
 
 How do you like the simplicity and ten- 
 derness of this pastoral ? I think it prett) 
 well. 
 
12» 
 
 CORRESPOND E.NCE OF BURXS. 
 
 1 like you for entering so candidly and so 
 kiiidly into the story of " ma chere ctmle." 
 I assure you I was never more earnest in my 
 life, than in the account of tliat aifuir whicli 
 I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a 
 passion which I deeply feel, and hijchly vene- 
 rate ; but somehow it dues not make such a 
 tijfure in poesy as that other species of the 
 passion, 
 
 Wliere love is liberty, and nature law. 
 
 Musically speaking, the first is an instru- 
 ment of which tlie gamut is scanty and 
 conliiied, bat the tones inexpressibly sweet, 
 while tlie last has powers equal to all tiie 
 inff-llectual modulations of the human soul. 
 Still, 1 am a very poet in my enthusiasm 
 of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
 of the beloved object is tlie first and invio- 
 late sentiment that pervades my soul ; and 
 whatever pleasures I might wish for, or 
 whatever might be the raptures they would 
 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 I (199) 
 
 Despairing of my own powers to give you 
 variety enough in English songs, 1 have 
 been turning over old collections, to pick 
 out songs, of which the measure is some- 
 tliiiig similar to what I want; and, with a 
 little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of 
 the air exactly, to give you them for your 
 work. Where the songs have hitherto been 
 but little noticed, nor have ever been set to 
 music, 1 think the shift a fair one. A song, 
 which, under the same first verse, you will 
 find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I 
 have cut down for an English dress to your 
 " Dainty Davie," as follows : — 
 
 " It was the charming month of May." 
 
 You may think meanly of this, but take 
 a look at the bombast original, and you will 
 be surprised that 1 have made so much of 
 it. 1 have finished my song to " Rothe- 
 murche's rant," and you have Clarke to 
 consult as to the set of the air for singiii"'-. 
 
 [Here follows "Lassie wi' the liiU-white 
 locks : "1 
 
 This piece has at least the merit of being 
 a regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the 
 summer noon, the autumnal evening, and 
 the winter night, are regularly rounded. If 
 you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in 
 the Museum. 
 
 NO. CCCXXXII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 I All out of temper that you should set 
 80 sweet, so tender an air, as " Deil tak the 
 wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk 
 of the silliness of " Saw ye my father ? " 
 (200) — by Heavens! the odds are gold to 
 brass I Besides, the old song, though now 
 pretty well modernised into the Scottish 
 language, is originally, and in the early 
 editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
 Scottish manner, by that genius Tom 
 D'Urfey, so has no pretensions to be a 
 Scottish production. There is a pretty 
 English song by Sheridan, in the " Uuenua," 
 to this air, which is out of sight superior to 
 D'Urfey's. It begins, 
 
 " When sable night each drooping plant 
 restoring." 
 
 The air, if I understand the expression of 
 it properly, is the very native language of 
 simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have 
 again gone over my song to the tune as 
 follows. (201) 
 
 Now for my English song to " Nancy'g 
 to the greenwoods," &c. 
 
 [Here follows the song "Farewell thou 
 stream."^ 
 
 There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's 
 delight," to which I wrote a song that you 
 will find in Johnson, " Ye banks and braes 
 o' bonnie Doon : " this air, I think, might 
 find a place among your hundred, as Lear 
 says of his knights. Do you know the 
 history of the air ? It is curious enough. 
 A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, 
 writer in your good town, a gentleman whom 
 possibly you know, was in company with our 
 friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, 
 Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be 
 able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
 partly by way of joke, told him to keep to 
 the black keys of the harpsicord, and pre- 
 serve some kind of rhytlnn, and he would 
 infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is 
 that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the 
 rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with 
 some touches and corrections, fashioned into 
 the tune in question. Ritson, you know, 
 has the same story of the black keys ; but 
 this account which I have just given you, 
 Mr. Clarke informed me of several years 
 ago. Now, to show you how ditticult it is 
 to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard 
 it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish 
 air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman 
 
TO MR. THOIISON. 
 
 who affirmed lie had heard it in Ireland 
 among the old women ; while, on the other 
 hand, a countess informed me, that the first 
 person who introduced the air into this 
 country, was a baronet's lady of her ae- 
 quaintanre, who took down the notes from 
 an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How 
 difficult, then, to ascertain the truth re3| ect- 
 ing our poesy and music ! I, myself, have 
 lately seen a couple of ballads sung through 
 the streets of Dumfries, with my name at 
 the head of them as the author, though 
 it was the first time I had ever seen 
 them. 
 
 I thank you for admitting " Craigieburn 
 wood : " and I shall take care to furnish 
 you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus 
 was not my work, but a part of some old 
 verses to the air. If I can catch myself in 
 a more than ordinarily propitious moment, 
 I shad write a new " Cragieburu wood" 
 altogether. IMy heart is much iu the 
 theme. 
 
 I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make 
 the request; 'tis dunning your generosity; 
 but in a moment when I had forgotten 
 whether I was rich or poor, I promised 
 Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings 
 my honest pride to write you this ; but an 
 ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious 
 apology. To make you some amends, as 
 soon as I have extracted the necessary infor- 
 mation out of them, I will return you Rit- 
 sou's volumes. 
 
 The lady is not a little proud that she is 
 to make so distinguished a figure in your 
 collection, and I am not a little proud that I 
 have It in my power to please her so much. 
 Lucky it is for your patience that my paper 
 is done, for when 1 am in a scribbling 
 humour, I kuow not when to give over. 
 
 NO. cccxxxm. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 November I5th, 179-1. 
 
 My Good Sir— Since receiving your last, 
 I have had anotlier interview with Mr. Clarke, 
 and a long consultation. He thinks the 
 " Caledonian Hunt " is more bacchanalian 
 than amorous in its nature, and recommends 
 it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray, 
 did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well 
 the Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the 
 form of a dialogue ? The first part of the 
 air is generally low, and suited for a man's 
 
 voice ; and the second part, in many in- 
 stances, cannot be sung, at concert pitch, 
 hut by a female voice. A song thus per- 
 formed mikes an agreeable variety, but few 
 of ours are written in this form : I wish you 
 would think of it in some of those that 
 remain. The only one of the kind you have 
 sent me is admirable, aud will be an universal 
 favourite. 
 
 Your verses for " Rothemurche " are so 
 swcf.ly pastoral, and your serenade to 
 Chloris, for "Deil tak the Wars," so passion- 
 ately tender, that I have sung myself into 
 raptures with them. Your song for " My 
 lodging is on the cold ground," is likewise a 
 diamond of the first water : I am quite daz- 
 zled and delighted by it. Some of your 
 Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxen hair, from 
 your partiality for this colour — else we differ 
 aliout it ; for I should scarcely conceive a 
 woman to be a beauty, on reading that she 
 had lint-white locks ! 
 
 " Farewell thou stream that winding 
 flows," I think, excellent, but it is much too 
 serious to come after "Nancy;" — at least, it 
 would seem an incongi-uity to provide the 
 same air with merry Scottish and melancholy 
 English verses ! The more that the two sets 
 of verses resemble each other, in their gen- 
 eral character, the better. Those you have 
 manufactured for "Dainty Davie" will 
 answer charmingly. I am happy to find you 
 have begun your anecdotes : I care not how 
 long they be, for it is impossible that any- 
 thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
 me beseech you not to use ceremony in 
 telling me when you wish to present any of 
 your friends with the songs: the next carrier 
 will bring you three copies, and yon are as 
 welcome to twenty as to a pinch of 8uu£L 
 
 NO. cccxxxiv. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 November Idth, 1794. 
 
 You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual 
 correspondent I am ; though, indeed, you 
 may thank yourself for the tedium of my 
 letters, as you have so flattered me on my 
 horsemanship with my favourite hobby, aud 
 have praised the grace of his ambling so 
 much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. 
 For instance, this morning, though a keea 
 blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I 
 finished my duet, which you were pleased to 
 praise so much. Whether I have uniformly 
 
4:^0 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 BuccecJed, I will not say ; but here it is for 
 you. thoujrh it is not an hour old. 
 
 [Here follows the sonj "Pldlly and 
 TVilly."] 
 
 Tell me honestly how you like it, and point 
 out whatever you think faulty. 
 
 I am much pleased with your idea of 
 singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and 
 regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. 
 In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. 
 I remember your objections to the name 
 Philly, but it is the common abbreviation of 
 Pliillis. Sally, the only other name that 
 suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, 
 which unfits it for anything except burlesque. 
 The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, 
 whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks 
 with me as my coevals, have always mistaken 
 vulgarity for simplicity ; whereas, simplicity 
 is as much eloignee from vulgarity on the one 
 hand, as from affected point and puerile con- 
 ceit on the other. 
 
 I agree with you as to the air, " Craigie- 
 bnrn wood," that a chorus would, in some 
 degree, spoil the effect, and shall certainly 
 have none in my projected song to it. It is 
 not, however, a case in point with " Rothe- 
 murche ; " there, as in " Roy's wife of Ahli- 
 valloch," a chorus goes, to my taste, well 
 enough. As to the chorus going first, 
 that is the case with Roy's wife, as well 
 as " Rothemnrche." In fact, in the first 
 part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar 
 and irregular, and on that irregularity 
 depends so much of their beauty, that we 
 must e'en take them with all their wildness, 
 and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving 
 out the starting note, in both tunes, has, I 
 think, an effect that no regularity could 
 counterbalance the want of. 
 
 Try, 
 and 
 
 Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
 Oh lassie wi' the lint-white 
 ' locks. 
 
 ■ Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
 oompare with, \ Lassie wi' the liut-white 
 ( locks. 
 
 Does not the tameness of the prefixed sylla- 
 ble strike you? In the last case, with the 
 tnie furor of genius, you strike at once into 
 the wild originality of the air; whereas, in 
 the first insipid method, it is like the grating 
 screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought 
 into tune. This is my taste; if I am wrong, 
 1 bfg pardon of the co(/Hoscenti. 
 
 "The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, 
 that it would make any subject in a song go 
 down ! but pathos is certainly its native 
 tongue. Scottish bacchanalians we certainly 
 
 want, though the few we have are excellent. 
 For instance, " Todlin hame," is, for wit and 
 humour, an unparalleled composition; and 
 "Andrew and his cutty gun," is the work of 
 a master. By the way, are you not quite 
 vexed to think that those men of genius, for 
 such they certainly were, who composed our 
 fine Scottish lyrics, should be uuknown? It 
 has given me many a heart-ache. A-propos 
 to bacchanalian songs in Scotch, I com- 
 posed one yesterday, for an air I like much 
 — " Lumps o' pudding." 
 
 [Here follows " Contented wi' Little."'] 
 
 If you do not relish this air, I will send it 
 to Johnson. 
 
 jro. cccxxxv. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Since yesterday's penmanship, I have 
 framed a couple of English stanzas, by way 
 of an English song to " Roy's Wife." You 
 will allow me, that in this instance my 
 English corresponds in sentiment with the 
 Scottish. 
 
 [Here follows " Canst thou leave me thus, 
 my Katy ? "] 
 
 Well ! I think this to be done in two or 
 three turns across my room, and witli two or 
 three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so 
 far amiss. You see I am determined to have 
 my quantum of applause from somebody. 
 
 Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that 
 we only want the trifling circumstance of 
 being known to one another, to be the best 
 friends on earth), that I much suspect he 
 has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the 
 stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, 
 but it is a very rude instrument. It is com- 
 posed of three parts; the stock, which is the 
 hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you 
 see in a mutton ham ; the horn, which is 
 a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at 
 the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
 enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
 through the horn until it be held by the 
 thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, 
 an oaten reed exactly cut and notched 
 like that which you see every shepherd l>oy 
 have, when the corn-stems are green and 
 full-grown. The reed is not made fast iu 
 the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays 
 loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while 
 the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
 larger end, is held by the hands in playing. 
 
MR. THO^rSON TO BURNS. 
 
 431 
 
 TTie stoc1< ha' six or seven vpnti;;fe3 on the 
 upper side, and one back-veiitige, like the 
 coniinou lltite. This of mine was made by a 
 man from tlie braes of Athole, and is exactly 
 what the shepherds are wont to use in that 
 country. 
 
 However, either it is not quite properly 
 bored in the holes, or else we have not the 
 art of blowing- it rightly ; for we can make 
 little of it. If Air. Allan chooses, I will send 
 him a sight of mine, as I look on myself to 
 be a kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride 
 in poets is nae sin ; " and I will say it, that 
 I look on Jlr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be 
 the only genuine and real painters of Scottish 
 costume in the world. 
 
 NO. CCCXXXVI. 
 
 TO PETER MILLER, JuN., Esa. (202), 
 
 OP DALSWINTON. 
 
 Dumfries, November, 1/94. 
 
 Dear Sir — Your offer is indeed truly 
 generous, and most sincerely do I thank you 
 for it ; but in my present situation, I find 
 that I dare not accept it. You well know 
 my political sentiments ; and were I an 
 insular individual, unconnected with a wife 
 and a family of children, with the most 
 fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered 
 my services : I then could and would have 
 despised all consequences that might have 
 ensued. 
 
 Jly prospect in the Excise is something ; 
 at least, it is, encumbered as I am with the 
 welfare, the very existence, of near half-a- 
 score of helpless individuals — what I dare 
 not sport with. 
 
 In the mean time, they are most welcome 
 to my ode ; only, let them insert it as a 
 thing they have met with by accident, and 
 unknown to me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose 
 hoiioiir, after your character of him, I 
 cannot doubt, if he will give me an address 
 and channel by which any thing will come 
 safe from those spies with i,\hich he may be 
 certain that his correspondence is beset, I 
 will now and then send him any bagatelle 
 that I may write. In the present hurry of 
 Europe, nothing but news and politics will 
 be regarded ; but against tlic days of peace, 
 which Heaven send soon, my little assis- 
 tance may perhaps fill up an idle column of 
 a newspaper. 1 have long had it in my 
 head to try my hand in the way of little 
 prose essays, which I propose sendiug into 
 
 3 
 
 the world through the medium of some 
 newspaper ; and should these be worth his 
 while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome : 
 and all my reward shall be, his treating me 
 with his paper, which, by the bye, to any 
 body who has the least relish for wit, is !% 
 high treat indeed. With the most grateful 
 esteem, I am ever, dear Sir, K. B 
 
 NO. CCCXXXVI I. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 November 28lk, 1794. 
 
 I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sir, you are not 
 only the most punctual, but the most delec- 
 table correspondent I ever met with. To 
 attempt flattering you never entered into my 
 head ; the truth is. 1 look back with surprise at 
 my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at 
 lines and couplets of your incomparable 
 lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served 
 me right, you would have sent me to the 
 devil. On the contrary, however, you have 
 ail along condescended to invite my criticism 
 with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be 
 wonderful if I have sometimes given myself 
 the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget 
 demands unqualified praise : all the songs 
 are charming, but the duet is a chsj 
 d'ceuvre. " Lumps o' pudding " shall cer- 
 tainly make one of my family dislies ; you 
 have cooked it so capitally, that it will 
 please all palates. Do give us a few more 
 of this cast when you fiiul yourself in good 
 spirits ; these convivial songs are more 
 wanted than those of the amorous kind, of 
 which we have great choice. Besides, one 
 does not often meet with a singer capable of 
 giving the proper effect to the latter, while 
 the former are easily sung, and acceptable to 
 every body. I participate in your regret 
 that the authors of some of our best songs 
 are unknown ; it is provoking to every 
 admirer of genius. 
 
 I mean to have a picture painted from 
 your beautiful ballad " The Soldier's Re- 
 turn," to be engraved for one of my frontis- 
 pieces. The most interesting point of time 
 appears to me, when she first recognises her 
 ain dear M illy, " She gaz'd, she rcdden'd 
 like a rose.'' The three lints immediately 
 following are no doubt more impressive on 
 the reader's feelings ; but were the painter 
 to fix on these, then you'll ob>er\e the 
 animation and anxiety of her countenance la 
 gone, and he could only represent her faint 
 
432 
 
 CORRESrOXDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 ing in the soldier's arms. But I submit the 
 matter to yovi, and beg your opinion. 
 
 Allan desires me to thank you for your 
 accurate description of the stock and horn, 
 and for the very gratifying compliment you 
 pay him in considering him worthy of 
 standing in a niche by the side of Burns in 
 the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the 
 rude instrument you describe, so does not 
 want you to send it ; but wishes to know 
 whether you believe it to have ever been 
 reiierally used as a musical pipe by the 
 Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what 
 part of the country chiefly. I doubt much 
 if it was capable of any thing but routing 
 and roaring. A friend of mine says he 
 remembers to have heard one in his younger 
 days, made of wood instead of your bone, 
 and that the sound was abominable. 
 
 Do not, I beseech vou. return any books. 
 
 NO. CCCXXXVIII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 December, 1794. 
 
 It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart 
 to do any thing to forward or add to the 
 value of your book ; and as I agree with 
 you that the Jacobite song in the IMuseum 
 to "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
 hame," would not so well consort with 
 Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to that 
 air, I have just framed for you the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 "My Nannie's awa," §'c. 
 
 How does this please you? As to the points 
 of time for the expression, in your proposed 
 print from my " Sodger's Return," It must 
 certainly be at — " She gaz'd." The in- 
 teresting dubiety and suspense taking 
 possession of her countenance, and the 
 gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish 
 playfulness in his, strike me as things of 
 which a master will make a great deal. In 
 great haste, but in great truth, yours, R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXXXIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 January, 1795. 
 
 I FEAR for my songs ; however, a few 
 taay please, yet originality is a coy feature 
 
 in composition, and in a nmltiplitcity of 
 efforts in the same style, disappears al- 
 together. For these three thousand years, 
 we poetic folks have been describing the 
 spring, for instance ; and as the spring con- 
 tinues the same, there must soon be a same- 
 ness in the imagery, &c., of these said 
 rhyming folks. 
 
 A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that 
 love and wine are the exclusive themes for 
 song-writing. The following is on neither 
 subject, and consequently is no song ; but 
 will be allowed, I think, to be two or three 
 pretty good prose thoughts inverted into 
 rhyme. 
 
 " For a' that, and a' that." 
 
 I do not give you the foregoing song for 
 your book, but merely by way of vive la 
 bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry. 
 How will the following do for " Craigie-bum 
 wood ? '■ — 
 
 \_Here follows " Craigle-bum wood," 
 
 Farewell 1 God bless you I 
 
 NO. CCCXL. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, January 30, 1795. 
 
 My dear Sir— I thank you' heartily for 
 " Nannie's awa," as well as for " Craigie- 
 burn," which I think a very comely pair. 
 Your observation on the difficulty of original 
 writing in a number of efforts, in the same 
 style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has, 
 again and again, excited my wonder to find 
 you continually surmounting this difficulty, 
 in the many delightful songs you have sent 
 me. Your vive la bagatelle song, "For a' 
 that," shall undoubtedly be included in my 
 list. (203) 
 
 NO. CCCXLI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. TH0:MS0N. 
 
 Ecclefechan, February 7th, 1795. 
 
 My dear Thomson — You cannot hare 
 any idea of the predicament in which I write 
 to you. In the course of my duty as super- 
 visor (in which capacity I have acted of late), 
 I came yesternight to this unfortunate. 
 
TO MRS. x^IDDEL. 
 
 4£3 
 
 wicked, little village. (204) I have frone 
 forward, I nt snows, of ten feet deep, have 
 impeded my progress : I have tried to " gae 
 back the gate I cam again," but tlie same 
 obstacle has shut me up within insuperable 
 bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, 
 a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds 
 that would have insulted the dying agonies 
 of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and 
 thinks himself, on that very account, ex- 
 ceeding good company. In fact, I have been 
 in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget 
 these miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid 
 of them : like a prudent man (a character 
 congenial to ray every thought, word, and 
 deed), I, of two evils, have chosen the least, 
 and am very drunk, at your service ! 
 
 I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
 had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
 say ; and. Heaven knows, at present I have 
 not capacity. 
 
 Uo you know an air — I am sure you must 
 know it — "We'll gang no more to yon town?" 
 1 iliink, in slowish time, it would make an 
 excellent song. I am highly delighted with 
 it ; and if you should think it worthy of 
 your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye, 
 to whom I would consecrate it. 
 
 As I am just going to bed, I wish you a 
 good night. 
 
 NO. CCCXLII, 
 
 .MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 February 2'Uli, 1795. 
 
 T HAVE to thank yoti, my dear Sir, for two 
 epistles ; one containing " Let me in this ane 
 night;" and the other from Ecclefechan, 
 proving thai, drunk or sober, your " mmd is 
 never nnuhly." You have displayed great 
 address iu the above song. Her answer is 
 excellent, and, at the same time, takes away 
 the indelicacy that oth'Twise would have 
 attached to his entreaties. I like the song, 
 as it now stands, very much. 
 
 1 had hopes you would be arrested some 
 days at Eccleiechan, and be obliged to be- 
 guile the tedious forenoons by song-making. 
 It will give me pleasure to receive the verses 
 you intend for " Oh wat je wLa's iu you 
 town?" 
 
 NO. CCCXLIII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (205) 
 May, 1793. 
 
 Let me know, your very first leisure, how 
 you like this song. 
 
 [Ilere follows the song " On Chloris being i.'Z."] 
 
 IIow do you like the foregoing? The 
 Irish air, " Humours of {jlen," is a great 
 favourite of mine, and as, e.vcept tlie silly 
 stuff in the " Poor Soldier," there are not 
 any decent verses for it, 1 have written for it 
 as follows : — 
 
 [Here follow " Their groves o' sweet myrtle," 
 and " 'Twos na her boniiie blue ee was my 
 ruin."] 
 
 Let me hear from you. 
 
 ^Burna supposes himself to be writing from 
 the dead to the lioing.^ 
 
 NO. CCCXLIV. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEI.. 
 
 ^I.ADAM — I dare say that this is the first 
 epistle you ever received from this nether 
 world. I write you from the regions of hell, 
 
 amid the horrors of tlie . The lime 
 
 and manner of my leaving your earth I do 
 not exactly know, as I took my departure in 
 the beat cf a fever of intoxication, contracted 
 at your too hospitable mansion ; but, on my 
 arrival here, L was fairly tried, and sentenced 
 to endure the purgatorial tortures of this 
 infernal conline for the space of ninety-nine 
 years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, 
 and all on account of the impropriety of my 
 conduct yesternight under your roof Here 
 am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
 my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
 piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
 wrinkled, and o'd, and cruel, his name, I 
 think, is Recollection, with a whip of scor- 
 pious, forbids peace or rest to approach me, 
 and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
 Madam, if 1 could in any measure be rein- 
 stated in the good opinion of the fair circle 
 whom my conduct last nisrht so much injured, 
 I think !t wouhl be an alleviation to my tor- 
 ments. For this reason, I trouble you with 
 this letter. To the men of the comjiany I 
 will make no apology. Your husband, who 
 insisted on my drinking more tlia.n I chose, 
 ' has no right to blame me ; and the otiier 
 
434 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But 
 to you. Madam, I have much to apologise. 
 y(Hir good opinion I valued as one of the 
 greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, 
 and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There 
 
 was a Miss I , too, a woman of fine 
 
 sense, gentle and unassuming manners— do 
 
 make, on my part, a miserable 
 
 wretch's best apology to lier. A Mrs. 
 
 Gf , a charming woman, did me the 
 
 honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this 
 makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
 beyond all forgiveness. To all the other 
 ladies please present my humblest contrition 
 for my conduct, and my petition for their 
 gracious pardon. Oh all ye powers of de- 
 cency and decorum ! whisper to them that 
 my errors, though great, were involuntary — 
 that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
 beasts — that it was not in my nature to be 
 brutal to any one — that to be rude to a 
 woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
 
 with me — but 
 
 * * • • • 
 
 Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
 hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at 
 my heels, spare me ! spare me ! 
 
 Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
 of Madam, your humble sla\ e, R, B. 
 
 NO. CCCXLV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Dumfries, 1795. 
 
 Me. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel 
 —IS much obliged to her for her polite atten- 
 tion m sending him the book. Owing to 
 Mr. B. at present acting as supervisor of 
 Excise, a department that occupies his every 
 hour of the day, he has not that time to 
 spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre 
 pursuit ; but as he will in a week or two 
 agani return to his wonted leisure, he will 
 then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beauti- 
 ful song, "To thee, loved Nith," which it so 
 well deserves. (206) When "Anacharsis' 
 Travels " come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel 
 mentioned as her gift to the public library, 
 Mr. B. will feel honoured by the indulgence 
 of a perusal of them before presentation : it 
 is a book he has never yet seen, and the 
 regulations of the library allow too little 
 •eisure for deliberate readinjr. 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged tc 
 Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a 
 perusal of any of her poetical pieces which 
 he may not ha\e seen. 
 
 Ntt nccxLVi. 
 
 TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. (207} 
 Dumfries, 1795. 
 Sir — I enclose you some copies of a couple 
 of political ballads, one of which, I believe, 
 you have never seen. (208) Would to 
 Heaven I could make you master of as many 
 votes in the Stewartry — but— 
 
 Who does the utmost that he can. 
 Does well, acts nobly— angels could no more. 
 
 In order to bring my humble efforts to 
 bear with more effect on the foe, I have pri- 
 vately printed a good many copies of both 
 ballads, and have sent them among friends 
 all about the country. 
 
 To pillory on Parnassus the rank reproba- 
 tion of character, the utter dereliction of all 
 principle, in a profligate junto, which has not 
 only outraged virtue, but violated common 
 decency; which, spurning even hypocrisy as 
 paltry iniquity below their daring— to un- 
 mask their flagitiousness to the broadest day 
 —to deliver such over to their merited fate 
 —is surely not merely innocent, but lauda- 
 ble ; is not only propriety, but virtue. You 
 have already as your auxiliary, the sober de- 
 testation of mankind on the heads of your 
 opponents; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia 
 to muster on your side all the votaries ol 
 honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule ! 
 
 I am extremely obliged to you for your 
 kind mention of my interests in a letter 
 which Mr. Syine showed me. At present 
 my situation in life must be in a great mea- 
 sure stationary, at least for two or three 
 years. The statement is this — I am on the 
 supervisors' list, and as we come on there by 
 precedency, in two or three years I shall be 
 at the head of that list, and be appointed 
 of course. Then, a friend might be ol 
 service to me in getting me into a place of 
 the kingdom which I would like. A simer- 
 visor's income varies from about a hundi cd 
 and twenty to two hundred a-year ;' but the 
 business is an incessant drudgery, and would 
 be nearly a complete bar to every species of 
 literary pursuit. The moment I am apjiointed 
 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 4bo 
 
 e\.pervisor, in the common routine, I may be 
 uorainated on the collector's list ; and this is 
 always a business purely of political patron- 
 age. A coUectorship varies much, from better 
 than two hundred a-year to near a thousand. 
 They also come forward by precedency on 
 the list ; and have, besides a handsome in- 
 come, a life of complete leisure. A life of 
 literary leisure, with a decent competency, 
 is the summit of my wishes. It would be 
 the prudish affectation of silly pride in me 
 to say that I do not need, or would not be 
 indebted to, a political friend ; at the same 
 time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
 you thus, to hook my dependent situation 
 on your benevolence. If, in my progress of 
 hfe, an opening should occur where the good 
 offices of a gentleman of your public charac- 
 ter and political consequence might bring me 
 forward, I shall petition your goodness with 
 the same frankness as I now do myself the 
 hououi to subscribe myself, B. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXLVII. 
 
 TO MISS FONTENELLE. 
 
 Dumfries, 1795. 
 
 Madam — ^In such a bad world as ours, 
 those who add to the scanty sum of our 
 pleasures are positively our benefactors. To 
 you. Madam, on our humble Dumfries boards, 
 I have been more indebted for entertainment 
 than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your 
 charms as a woman would ensure applause 
 to the most indifferent actress, and your 
 theatrical talents would ensure admiration to 
 the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the 
 unmeaning or insidious compliment of the 
 frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
 same honest impulse that the sublime of 
 nature excites my admiration, or her beauties 
 give me delight. 
 
 Will the foregoing lines (209) be of any 
 service to you in your approaching benefit 
 night ? If they will, I shall be prouder of 
 my muse than ever. They are nearly ex- 
 tempore : I know they have no great merit ; 
 but though they should add but little to the 
 entertainment of the evening, they give me 
 the happiness of an opportunity to declare 
 h3w much I have the honour to be, &c. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCXLVIII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 You must not think, ray good Sir, that J. 
 have any intention to enhance the value of 
 my gift, when I say, in justice to the in- 
 genious and worthy artist, that the design 
 and execution of the "Cotter's Saturday 
 Night " is, in my opinion, one of the happi- 
 est productions of Allan's pencil. I shall 
 be grievously disappointed if you are not 
 quite pleased with it. 
 
 The figure intended for your portrait, I 
 think strikingly like you, as far as I can 
 remember your phiz. This should make 
 the piece interesting to your family every 
 way. Tell me whether Jlrs. Burns finds 
 you out among the figures. 
 
 I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
 with which I have read your pathetic " Ad- 
 dress to the "Woodlark," your elegant pane- 
 gyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses 
 on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal 
 of these gives new delight. The other song 
 to " Laddie, lie near me," though not equal 
 to these, is very pleasing. 
 
 KO. CCCXLIX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (210) 
 
 Well ! this is not amiss. You see how 
 I answer your orders — your tailor could not 
 be more punctual. I am just now in a high 
 fit for poetising, provided that the strait 
 jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you 
 can, in a post or two, administer a little of 
 the intoxicating potion of your applause, it 
 will raise your humble servant's frenzy to 
 any height you want. I am at this moment 
 " holding high converse " with the jMuses, 
 and have not a word to throw away on such 
 a Tjrosaic dog as you are. 
 
 NO. CCCL. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 May, 1795. 
 
 Ten thousand thanks for your elegant 
 present — though I am ashamed of the value 
 of it being bestowed on a man who ha-S not, 
 by any means, merited such an instance of 
 kiudness. I have shown it to two or tlncc 
 
 38* 
 
43') 
 
 CORKESPOXDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 judges of the first abilities here, and they 
 nil agree with me in classing it as a first- 
 rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, 
 tliat \he very joiner's apprentice, whom Mrs. 
 Burns employed to break up the parcel (I 
 was out of town that day), knew it at once. 
 My most grateful compliments to Allan, 
 who has honoured my rustic muse so much 
 with his masterly pencil. One strange coin- 
 cidence is, that the little one who is making 
 the felonious attempt ou the cat's tail, is the 
 most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, 
 d — n'd, wee, rumble-gairie urchin of mine, 
 whom, from that propensity to witty wicked- 
 ness, and manfu' mischief, which, even at 
 twa days' auld, I foresaw would form the 
 striking features of his disposition, I named 
 Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, 
 who is one of the masters of a grammar- 
 school in a city which shall be nameless. 
 
 Give the enclosed epigram to my 
 much-valued friend Cunningham, and tell 
 him, that oi Wednesday 1 go to visit a 
 friend of his, to whom his friendly par- 
 tiality in speaking of me, in a manner in- 
 troduced me— I mean a well-known military 
 and literary character. Colonel Dirom. 
 
 You do not tell me how you liked my two 
 last songs. Are they condemned ? 
 
 NO. CCCLI. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS 
 
 May I3th, 1795. 
 
 It gives me great pleasure to find that 
 yon are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's 
 production. The chance resemblance of 
 your little fellow, whose promising disposi- 
 tion appeared so very early, and suggested 
 whom he should be named after, is curious 
 enough. I am acquainted with that person, 
 who is a prodigy of learning and genius, and 
 a pleasant fellow, though no saint. 
 
 You really make me blush when you tell 
 me you have not merited the drawing from 
 me. 1 do not think I can ever repay you, 
 or sufficiently esteem and respect you, for 
 the liberal and kind manner in which you 
 have entered into the spirit of my under- 
 taking, which could not have been perfected 
 \vithout you. So I beg you would not 
 make a fool of me again by speaking of 
 obligation. 
 
 1 like your two last songs very much, and 
 
 am happy to find you are in such a high fit 
 of poetising. Long may it last ! Clarke 
 has made a fine patlietic air to Mallet's 
 superlative ballad of " William and Marga- 
 ret," and is to give it to me, to be enrolled 
 among the elect. 
 
 NO. CCCLII. 
 
 BURNS TO IMR. THOMSON. 
 
 In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my 
 lad," the iteration of that line is tiresome to 
 my ear. Here goes what I think is aa 
 improvement : — • 
 
 " O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
 Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
 Tho' father and mother and a' should gae 
 
 mad. 
 Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad." 
 
 In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, 
 the Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense 
 of Parnassus — a darne whom the Graces 
 have attired in witchcraft, and whom the 
 Loves have armed with lightning — a fair 
 one, herself the heroine of the song, insists 
 on the amendment, and dispute her com- 
 mands if you dare ! 
 
 [//erf follows " This is no my ain lassie."'\ 
 
 Do you know that you have roused the 
 torpidity of Clarke at last? He has re- 
 quested me to write three or four songs for 
 him, which he is to set to music himself. 
 The enclosed sheet contains two songs for 
 him, which please to present to my valued 
 friend Cunningham. 
 
 I enclose the sheet open, both for your 
 inspection, and that you may copy the song 
 "Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier." I do not 
 know whether I am right, but that song 
 pleases me ; and as it is extremely probable 
 that Clarke's newly-roused celestial spark 
 will be soon smothered in the fogs of indo- 
 lence, if you like the song, it may go as 
 Scottish verses to the air of "I wish my 
 love was in a mire ; " and poor Erskine's 
 English lines may follow. 
 
 I enclose jou a " For a' that and a' that," 
 which was never in print ; it is a much 
 superior song to mine. I have been told 
 that it was composed by a lady. 
 
 [Ilere follow the sowjs, " Now spring has 
 clad the grove in green," and " bonnie was 
 yon rosy briar." 
 
I 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 43J 
 
 Written on the blank leaf of a copy of 
 the last edition of my poems, presented to 
 the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries 
 of passion, but with the most ardent senti- 
 ments of real friendship, I have so often 
 sunu: under the name of Chloris, is the fol- 
 lowmg : — 
 
 [" To Chlom."] 
 
 CoiLA. 
 Uiie bagatelle de I'amitie. 
 
 NO. CCCLIII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Edinburgh, August 3rd, 1795. 
 
 My Dear Sir — This will be delivered 
 to you by a Dr. Brianton, who has read 
 your works, and pants for the honour of 
 your acquaintance. I do not know the 
 gentleman ; but his friend, who applied to 
 me for this introduction, being an excellent 
 young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 
 of all acceptation. 
 
 My eyes have just been gladdened, and 
 my mind feasted, with your last packet — 
 full of pleasant things indeed. AVhat an 
 imagination is yours ! — it is superfluous to 
 tell you that I am delighted with all the 
 tliree songs as well as with your elegant 
 ;ind tender verses to Chloris. 
 
 1 am sorry you should be induced to alter 
 " Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad," 
 to the prosaic line, "Thy Jeanie!*will venture 
 wi* ye, my lad." I must be permitted to 
 say, that I do not think the latter either 
 reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, 
 therefore, you would in my name petition 
 the charming Jeanie, whoever she be, to let 
 the line remain unaltered. 
 
 I should he happy to see Mr. Clarke pro- 
 duce a few airs to be joined to your verses. 
 Everybody regrets his writing so very little, 
 as everybody acknowledges his ability to 
 write well. Pray was the resolution formed 
 coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight 
 von made over a bowl of punch with the 
 bard? 
 
 I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham 
 what you have sent him. 
 
 P.S.— The lady's "For a' that, and a' 
 that," is sensible enough, but no more to be 
 compared to yours than 1 to Hercules. 
 
 NO. CCCLIV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (211) 
 
 How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
 writtten it within this hour : so much for 
 the speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you 
 to this bottom. 
 
 NO. CCCLV. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (212) 
 
 Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of 
 this air, that I find it impossible to make 
 another stanza to suit it. 
 
 I am at present quite occupied with the 
 charming sensations of the toothache, so 
 have not a word to spare. 
 
 NO. CCCLVI. 
 
 MR THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 June 3rd, 1793. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Your English verses to 
 " Let me in this ane night," are tender and 
 beautiful ; and your ballad to the " Lothian 
 Lassie " is a master-piece for its humour and 
 naivete. The fragment for the " Caledonian 
 Hunt " is quite suited to the original 
 measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 
 so, the fragment must content it. 1 would 
 rather, as 1 said before, have had bacchana- 
 lian words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, 
 nevertheless, for what we have received. 
 Lord, make us thankful I 
 
 NO. CCCLVII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 December loth, 1795. 
 
 ]\Iy Dear Friend — As I am in a com- 
 plete Deceraberish humour, gloomy, sullen, 
 stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness herself 
 could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy 
 letter with a number of heavier apologies 
 for my late silence. Only one I shall men- 
 tion, because 1 know you will sympathise in 
 it : these four months, a sweet little girl, 
 my youngest child, has been so ill, that every 
 day, a week or less threatened to terminate 
 her existence. There had much need be 
 
438 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 many pleasures annexed to the states of 
 husband and father, for, God knows, they 
 have many pecuHar cares. I cannot describe 
 to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
 ties frequently give me. 1 see a train of 
 helpless little folks; myself and my exertions 
 all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread 
 does the life of man lianj; ! If I am nipt 
 off at the command of fate, even in all the 
 vigour of manhood, as 1 am — such things 
 happen every day — Gracious God! what 
 would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here 
 that I envy your people of fortune. A 
 father on his death-bed, taking an ever- 
 lasting leave of his children, has indeed 
 woe enough ; but the man of competent 
 fortune leaves his sons and daughters 
 independency and friends; while I — but I 
 shall run distracted if I think any longer on 
 the subject ! 
 
 To leave talking of the matter so gravely, 
 I shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 
 
 *' Oh that I had ne'er been married, 
 
 I would never had nae care : 
 
 Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 
 
 They cry crowdie evermair. 
 
 Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, 
 Crowdie three times in a day: 
 
 An ye crowdie ony mair. 
 
 Ye '11 crowdie a' my meal away." 
 
 December 2ith. 
 
 We have had a brilliant theatre here this 
 season ; only, as all other business does, it 
 experiences a stagnation of trade from the 
 epidemical complaint of the country, tuant of 
 cash. I mentioned our theatre merely to 
 lug in an occasional Address, which I wrote 
 for the benefit night of one of the actresses, 
 and which is as follows : — » » * 
 
 25th, Christmas Morning. 
 
 This, my much-loved friend, is a morning 
 of wishes ; accept mine — so Heaven hear 
 me as they are sincere ! — that blessings may 
 attend your steps, and affliction know you 
 not 1 In the charming words of my favourite 
 author. The Man of Feeling, "May the 
 Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy grey 
 hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them 
 rest ! " 
 
 Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
 like Cowper? Is not the "Task" a glorious 
 poem ? The religion of the " Task," bating 
 a few scraps of Calvanistic divinity, is the 
 religion of God and Nature — the religion 
 that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not 
 you to send me your " Zeluco," in return for 
 ranieV 'i'ell me how you like my marks and 
 
 notes through the book. I would not give a 
 farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty 
 to blot it with my criticisms. 
 
 I have lately collected, for a friend's peru- 
 sal, all my letters ; I mean those which I 
 first sketched, in a rough draught, and after- 
 wards wrote out fair. On looking over some 
 oil! musty papers, which from time to time 
 I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce 
 worth preserving, and which yet, at the same 
 time, I did not care to destroy, I discovered 
 many of these rude sketches, and have 
 written, and am writing them out, in a bound 
 MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote 
 always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 
 I cannot find a single scroll to you, except 
 one, about the commencement of our ac- 
 quaintance. If there were any possible con- 
 veyance, I would send you a perusal of 
 my book. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLVm. 
 
 TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER 
 (213), 
 
 SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 
 
 Sir — Enclosed are the two schemes. I 
 would not have troubled you with the col- 
 lector's one, but for suspicion lest it be not 
 right. IMr. Erskine promised me to make it 
 right, if you will have the goodness to show 
 him how. As I have no copy of the scheme 
 for myself, and the alterations being very 
 considerable from what it was formerly, I 
 hope that I shall have access to this scheme 
 I send you, when I come to face up my new 
 books. So much for schemes. And that no 
 scheme to betray a friknd, or mislead a 
 stranger; to seduce a young girl, or 
 rob a iien-roost; to subvert liberty, or 
 bribe an exciseman; to disturb the 
 GENERAL ASSEMBLY, or anuoy a gossip- 
 ping ; to overthrow the credit of ortho- 
 doxy, or the authority of old songs ; to 
 oppose your tvishes, or frustrate 7ny hopes, — 
 MAY prosper — is the sincere wish and 
 prayer of R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLIX. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING 
 CHRONICLE. 
 
 Dumfries, 1795. 
 
 Sir — ^You will see, by your subscribers' 
 list, th?-t I have been about jine months of 
 that number. 
 
TO MES. DUNLOP. 
 
 439 
 
 I am sorry to inform yon that in that time 
 seven or eight of your papers either have 
 never been sent me, or else have never 
 reached me. To be dejjrived of any one 
 uuraber of the first newspaper in Great 
 Britain for information, ability, and inde- 
 pendence, is what I can ill brook and bear ; 
 but to be deprived of that most admirable 
 oration of the Marquis of Lausdowne, when 
 he made the great, though ineffectual at- 
 tempt (in the language of the poet, I fear 
 too true) "to save a sinking state "-- 
 this was a loss that I neither can, nor will 
 forgive you. That paper. Sir, never reached 
 me; but I demand it of you. lamaBRiTON, 
 and must be interested in the cause of 
 liberty; I am a man, and the rights 
 OF HUMAN NATURE Cannot be indifferent to 
 me. However, do not let me mislead you — 
 I am not a man in that situation of hfe, 
 wluL-h, as your subscriber, can be of any 
 CDusequeuce to you, in the eyes of those to 
 
 W.lOUl SITUATION OF LIFE ALONE is the 
 
 criterion of man. I am but a plain trades- 
 niui, in this distant, obscure country town; 
 b It, that humble domicile in which 1 shelter 
 my wife and children, is the Castellum of 
 a Briton; and that scanty, hard-earned 
 irtcome which supports them, is as truly my 
 property, as the most magnificent fortune of 
 the most puissant member of your house 
 OF nobles. 
 
 These, Sir, are my sentiments, and to 
 them I subscribe my name ; and were I a 
 man of ability and consequence enough to 
 address the PUBLIC, with that name should 
 they appear. I am, &c. (214) 
 
 NO. CCCLX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, 
 
 IN LONDON. 
 
 Dumfries, 20th Deceinbcr, 1795. 
 
 I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in 
 this London journey of yours. In the first 
 place, when your last to me reached Dum- 
 fries, 1 was in the country, and did not 
 return until too late to answer your letter ; 
 in the ne\t place, I thought you would cer- 
 tainly take tins route ; and now 1 know not 
 what is become of you, or whether this may 
 reach you at all. God grant that it may 
 find you and yours in prospering health and 
 good spirits ! Do let me hear from you the 
 soonest possible. 
 
 As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
 Captain iMiUer, I shall, every leisure hour, 
 take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
 comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. 
 In this last article I have abounded of late. 
 1 have often mentioned to you a superb pub- 
 lication of Scottish songs, which is making 
 its appearance in your great metropolis, and 
 where I have the honour to preside over the 
 Scottish verse, as no less a personage than 
 Peter Pindar does over the English. 
 
 December 29th. 
 
 Since I began this letter, 1 have been ap- 
 pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor 
 here, and I assure you, what with the load 
 of business, and what with that business 
 being new to me, I could scarcely have com- 
 manded ten minutes to have spoken to you, 
 had you been in town, much less to have 
 written you an epistle. This appointment 
 is only temporary, and during the illness of 
 the present incumbent ; but 1 look forward 
 to an early period w^hen I shall be appointed 
 in full form — a consummation devoutly to be 
 wished ! My political sins seem to be for 
 given me. 
 
 This is the season (New-year's-day is now 
 my date) of wishes; and mine are most 
 fervently offered up for yon ! May life to 
 you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for 
 your own sake; and that it may yet be 
 greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own 
 sake, and for the sake of the rest of your 
 friends ! What a transient business is hfe? 
 Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I 
 was a young man ; and I already begin to 
 feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
 old age coming fast o'er ray frame. With 
 all my follies of youth, and 1 fear, a few 
 vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself 
 on having had, in early days, religion strongly 
 impressed on my mind. 1 have nothing to 
 say to any one as to which sect he belongs 
 to, or what creed he believes ; but I look on 
 the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite 
 wisdom and goodness superintending and 
 directing every circumstance that can happen 
 in his lot — I felicitate such a man as having 
 a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment 
 — a firm prop and sure stay in the hour of 
 ditticulty, trouble, and distress — and a never- 
 failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond 
 the grave. 
 
 January 12th. 
 
 You will have seen our worthy and inge- 
 nious friend, the doctor, long ere this. I 
 hope he is well, and beg to be remembered 
 to him. 1 have just been reading over again, 
 
440 
 
 COERESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, 
 his View of Society and Manners ; and still 
 I read it with delight. His humour is per- 
 fectly original — it is neither the humour of 
 Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any- 
 body but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have 
 deprived me of Zeluco; remember that, when 
 you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
 neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 
 He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
 quoting me in his last publication (215). 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXI. 
 
 ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH 
 DISTILLERS 
 
 TO THE EIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 
 
 Sir — While pursy burgesses crowd your 
 gate, sweating under tlie weight of heavy 
 addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers 
 in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, 
 to approach you, not with venal approbation, 
 but with fraternal condolence ; not as what 
 you are just now, or for some time have been, 
 but as what, in all probability, you will 
 shortly be. We shall have the merit of not 
 deserting our friends in the day of their 
 calamity, and you will have the satisfaction 
 of perusing, at least, one honest address. 
 You are well acquainted with the dissection 
 of human nature ; nor do you need the 
 assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to 
 inform you, that man is always a selfish, 
 often a perfidious being. This assertion, 
 however the hasty conclusions of superficial 
 observation may doubt of it, or the raw inex- 
 perience of youth may deny it, those who 
 make the fatal experiment we have done, 
 will feel. You are a statesman, and conse- 
 quently are not ignorant of the traffic of 
 these corporation compliments. The little 
 great man who drives the borough to market, 
 and the very great man who buys the borough 
 in that market, they two do the whole busi- 
 ness ; and you well know, they, likewise, 
 have their price. With that sullen disdain 
 which you can so well assume, rise illustrious 
 Sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal 
 stupidity. At best they are the compliments 
 of a man's friends on the morning of his 
 execution : they take a decent farewell : 
 resign you to your fate ; and hurry away 
 from your approaching hour. 
 
 If fame say true, and omens be not very 
 much mistaken, you are about to make yjur 
 exit from that world where the sun of glad- 
 uess gilds the paths of prosperous men : 
 permit us, great Sir, with the sympathy of 
 fellow-feeling, to hail your passage to the 
 realms of ruin. 
 
 Whether the sentiment proceed from the 
 selfishness or cowardice of mankind, is imma- 
 terial ; but to point out to a child of misfor- 
 tune those who are still more unhappy, is to 
 give him some degree of positive enjoyment. 
 In this light. Sir, our downfall may be again 
 useful to you : though not exactly in the 
 same way, it is not, perhaps, the first time 
 it has gratified your feelings. It is true, 
 the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly 
 despiteful. At an age when others are the 
 votaries of pleasure, or underlings in business, 
 you had attained the highest wish of a 
 British statesman ; and with the ordinary 
 date of human life, what a prospect was 
 before you! Deeply rooted ni royal favour, 
 you overshadowed the land. The birds of 
 passage which follow ministerial sunshine 
 through every clime of political faith and 
 manners, flocked to your branches ; and the 
 beasts of the field (the lordly possessors of 
 hills and valleys) crowded under your shade. 
 " But behold a watcher, a holy one, came 
 down from heaven, and ciied aloud, and said 
 thus : Hew down the tree, and cut off his 
 branches ; shake off his leaves, and scatter 
 his fruit; let the beasts get away from under 
 it, and the fowls from his branches ! " A 
 blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of 
 those terrible accidents which peculiarly 
 mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your 
 career, and laid all your fancied honours in 
 the du5t. But turn your eyes. Sir, to the 
 tragic scenes of our fate. An ancient nation, 
 that for many ages had gallantly maintained 
 the unequal struggle for independence with 
 her much more powerful neighbour, at last 
 agrees to a union which should ever after 
 make them one people. In consideration of 
 certain circumstances, it was covenanted that 
 the former should enjoy a stipulated allevia- 
 tion in her share of the public burdens, 
 particularly in that branch of tlie revenue 
 called the Excise. This just privilege has of 
 late given great umbrage to some interested, 
 powerful individuals of the more potent part 
 of the empire, and they have spared no 
 wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to 
 subvert what they dared not openly to attack, 
 from the dread which they yet entertained 
 of the spirit of their ancient enemies. 
 
 In this conspiracy we fell; nor did wa 
 alone suffer — our couutry was deeply 
 
TO SIRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 441 
 
 \rotinded. A number of (we will say) 
 respectable individuals, largely engaged in 
 trade, where we were not only useful, but 
 absolutely necessary, to our country in her 
 dearest interests ; we, with all that was near 
 and dear to us, were sacrificed, without 
 remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
 jiediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of 
 dark envy, and the views of unprincipled 
 ambition ! Your foes, Sir, were avowed ; 
 were too brave to take an ungenerous advan- 
 tage : you fell in the face of day. On the 
 contrary, our enemies, to complete our over- 
 thpow, contrived to make their guilt appear 
 the villany of a nation. Your downfall only 
 drags with you your private friends and 
 partisans : in our misery are more or less 
 involved the most numerous and most valu- 
 able part of the community — all those who 
 immediately depend on the cultivation of 
 the soil, from the landlord of a province 
 down to his lowest hind. 
 
 Allow us. Sir, yet further, just to hint at 
 another rich vein of comfort in the dreary 
 regions of adversity — the gratulations of an 
 approving conscience. In a certain great 
 assembl}', of which you are a distinguished 
 member, panegyrics on your private virtues 
 have so often wounded your delicacy, that, 
 we shall not distress you with anything on 
 the subject. There is, however, one part of 
 your public conduct which our feelings will 
 not permit us to pass in silence ; our grati- 
 tude must trespass on your modesty : we 
 mean, worthy Sir, your whole behaviour to 
 the Scots distillers. In evil hours, when 
 obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the 
 sense, let that. Sir, come, like a healing angel, 
 and speak the peace to your soul which the 
 world can neither give nor take away. We 
 have the honour to be. Sir, your sympa- 
 thising fellow-sufferers and grateful humble 
 servants, 
 
 John Barleycorn, Praeses. 
 
 NO. CCCLXII. 
 
 'lO THE HON. THE PROVOST, 
 H ATTTES, AND TO\VN COUNCIL OP 
 DUMFKIEii 
 
 Gkntlemen — The literary taste and 
 liberal spirit of your good town has so ably 
 filled the various departments of your 
 schools, as to make it a very great object for 
 a parent to have his children educated in 
 them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my 
 
 large family, and very stinted income, to 
 give my young ones that education 1 wish, 
 at the high-school fees wh'ch a stranger pay?, 
 will bear hard upon me. 
 
 Some years ago your good town did me 
 the honour of making me an honorary bur- 
 gess. Will you allow me to request that 
 this mark of distinction may extend so far 
 as to put me on a footing of a real freeman 
 of the town, in the schools ? 
 
 If you are so very kind as tc grant my 
 request, it will certainly be a constant incen- 
 tive to me to strain every nerve where 1 can 
 officially serve you ; and will, if possible, 
 increase that grateful respect with which I 
 have the honour to be, gentlemen, your 
 devoted, humble servant, R. B. (216J 
 
 KO. CCCLXIII. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
 Dumfries, January 20ik, 1796. 
 
 I CANNOT express my gratitude to you 
 for allowing me a longer perusal of " Ana- 
 charsis." In fact, I never met with a book 
 that bewitched me so much ; and I, as a 
 member of the library, must warmly feel 
 the obligation you have laid us under. 
 Indeed, to me the obligation is stronger than 
 to any other individual of our society ; as 
 " Anacharsis" is an indispensable desideratum 
 to a son of the muses. 
 
 The health you wished me in your morn- 
 ing's card, is, I think, flown from me for 
 ever. I have not been able to leave my bed 
 to-day till about an hour ago. These 
 wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did 
 wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go 
 in quest of him. 
 
 The muses have not quite forsaken rae. 
 The following detached stanzas I intend to 
 interweave in some disastrous tale of a 
 sheoherd. R- B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXIV. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Dumfries, January 31st, 1706. 
 
 These many months you have been two 
 
 packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance 
 
 I have committed against so highly valued 
 
 a friend, I am utterly at a loss to guess. 
 
442 
 
 COKEESrONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 Alas ! ]\Iadam, ill can I afford, at this time, 
 to be deprived of any of the small remnant 
 of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep 
 of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed 
 me of my only daughter and darling child 
 (217), and that at a distance, too, and so 
 rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay 
 the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun 
 to recover from that shock, when I became 
 myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
 fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, 
 after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to 
 ha\ e turned up life, and I am beginning to 
 crawl across my room, and once, indeed, 
 liave been before my own door in the street. 
 
 When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 
 Affliction purities the visual ray. 
 
 Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 
 And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful 
 day. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXV. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Felmary 5th, 1796. 
 
 On Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet? 
 
 Or are ye w auking, I would wit ? 
 
 The pause you have made, my dear Sir, 
 is awful ! Am I never to hear from you 
 again? I know, and I lament how much 
 you have been afflicted of late ; but I trust 
 that returning health and spirits will now 
 enaljle you to resume the pen, and delight 
 us with your musings. I have still about a 
 dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish 
 " married to immortal verse." We have 
 several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish 
 list ; but they are now naturalized, and 
 reckoned our own good subjects. Indeed, 
 we have none better. I believe I before told 
 you that I have been much urged by some 
 friends to publish a collection of all our 
 favourite airs and songs in octavo, embel- 
 lished with a number of etchings by our 
 ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opinion 
 of this ? 
 
 NO. CCCLXVl. 
 
 liURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 February, 1796. 
 
 Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
 mc, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and 
 
 for my remaining volume of P. Pin lur, 
 Peter is a delightful fellow, and a fi'st f.iVou- 
 rite of mine. I am much pleased with ynar 
 idea of publishing a collection of our songs 
 in octavo with etchings. I am extremely 
 willing to lend every assistance in my power. 
 Tiie Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake 
 the task of finding verses for. 
 
 I have already, you know, equipt three 
 with words, and the other day I strung up a 
 kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian 
 melody, which I admire much. 
 
 [Here follows " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher."'] 
 
 If this will do, you have now four of my 
 Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I 
 dislike one thing; the name Chloris — I 
 meant it as the fictitious name of a certain 
 lady : but, on second thoughts, it is a high 
 incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a 
 Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some 
 things else, in my next : I have more amend- 
 ments to propose. What you once men- 
 tioned of " flaxen locks " is just • they 
 cannot enter into an elegant description of 
 beauty. Of this also again — God blesa 
 you ! (218). 
 
 NO. CCCLXVII. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 Your "Hey for a lass wi' a tocher" is a 
 most excellent song, and with you the 
 subject is something new indeed. It is tho 
 first time I have seen you debasing the god 
 of soft desire into an amateur of acres and 
 guineas. 
 
 I am happy to find you approve of my 
 proposed octavo edition. Allan has designed 
 and etched about twenty plates, and I am to 
 have my choice of them for that worL 
 Independently of the Hogarthian humour 
 with which they abound, they exhibit the 
 character and costume of the Scottish pea- 
 santry with inimitable felicity. In tliis 
 respect, he himself says, they will far exceed 
 the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle 
 Shepherd, because in the etching he sees 
 clearly what he is doing, but not so with the 
 aquatinta, which he could not manage to his 
 mind. 
 
 The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely 
 more characteristic and natural than the 
 Scottish figures in those etchings.-- 
 
 i 
 
 H 
 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 443 
 
 NO. CCCLXVIII. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 April, 1796. 
 
 Alas ! my dear Tliorason, I fear it will 
 be some time ere I tune my lyre again ! 
 " By Babel streams I have sat and wept " 
 almost eve- since 1 wrote you last ; I have 
 only known existence by the pressure of the 
 heavy hand of sickness, and have counted 
 time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheu- 
 matism, cold and fever, have formed to me 
 a terible combination. I close my eyes in 
 misery, and open them without hope. I 
 look on the vernal day, and say with poor 
 Fergusson, 
 
 Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
 Light to the comfortless and wretched given? 
 
 Tliis will be delivered to you by a Mrs. 
 Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, 
 which for these many years has been my 
 house, and where our friend Clarke and I 
 have had many a merry squeeze. I am 
 highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. 
 " Woo'd an' married an' a'," is admirable ! 
 The grouping is beyond all praise. The 
 expression of the figures, conformable to the 
 story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless 
 perfection. I next admire " Turnimspike." 
 What I like least is " Jenny said to Jocky," 
 Besides the female being in her appearance 
 •****, if you take her stooping into the 
 account, she is at least two inches taller 
 than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I 
 sincerely sympathise with him. Happy I 
 am to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
 hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
 As for me — but that is a sad subject 1 
 
 NO. CCCLXIX. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 May 4lh, 1796. 
 
 I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what 
 concern the receipt of your last gave me, 
 and how much I sympathise in your suffer- 
 ings. But do not, I beseech you, give 
 yourself up to despondency, or speak the 
 language of despair. Tiie vigour of your 
 constitution, I trust, will soon set you on 
 your feet again ; and then, it is to be lioped, 
 you will see the wisdom and the necessity 
 of taking due care of a life so valuable to 
 
 your family, to your friends, and to the 
 world. 
 
 Trusting that your next will biing 
 agreeable accounts of your convalescence 
 and returning good spirits, I remain, with 
 sincere regard, yours. 
 
 P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
 the gold seal to you in good condition. 
 
 NO. CCCLXX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 My dhar Sir — I once mentioned to 
 you an air which I have long admired — 
 " Here's a health to them that's awa, hiiiey," 
 but I forget if you took any notice of it. I 
 have just beeu trying to suit it with verses, 
 and I beg leave to recommend the air to 
 your attention once more. I have only 
 begun it. 
 
 [Here follow the three first stanzas of the 
 Sony : the fourth was found among his MSS. 
 after his death.'] 
 
 NO. CCCLXXI. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. TH0:MS0N. 
 
 This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, 
 a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he 
 will be a day or two in town, you will have 
 leisure, if you choose, to write me by him : 
 and if you have a spare half hour to spend 
 with him, I shall place your kindness to my 
 account. 1 have no copies of the songs I 
 have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to 
 review them all, and possibly may mend 
 some of them : so, when you have complete 
 leisure, I will thank you for either the 
 originals or copies. (219) I had rather be 
 the author of live well-written songs than of 
 ten otherwise. 1 have great hopes that the 
 genial influence of the approaching summer 
 will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot 
 I .ii-i (if rfturiiiiig health. I have now rea- 
 -ini 1(1 bflieve that my complaint is a flying 
 gout — a siiii business ! 
 
 Do let me know how Gleghorn is, and 
 remember me to him. 
 
 This should have been delivered to you a 
 month ago. I am still very poorly, but 
 sliould like much to hear from you. 
 
 39 
 
444 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXIl. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL, 
 
 WUO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIKTHDAY 
 
 ASSEMBLY, ON THAT DAV, TO SHOW HIS 
 
 LOYALTY. 
 
 Dumfries, June Atk, 1796. 
 
 I AM in such miserable health as to be 
 utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in 
 any way. Racked as I am with rheumatism, 
 1 meet every face with a greeting, like that 
 of Balak — " Come, curse me, Jacob ; and 
 come, defy me, Israel ! " So say I — Come, 
 curse me that east wind ; and come, defy 
 me the north ! Would you have me in such 
 circumstances copy you out a love- song! 
 
 I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but 
 I will not be at the ball. Why should I ? — 
 " man delights not me, nor woman either 1 " 
 Can you supply me with the song, " Let us 
 all be unhappy together" — do if you can, 
 and oblige le pauvre miserable, R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXIIl. 
 
 TO MR. CLARKE, 
 
 SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. 
 
 Dumfries, June 26tk, 1796. 
 
 My Dear Clarke — Still, the victim of 
 affliction ! Were you to see the emaciated 
 figure who now holds the pen to you, you 
 would not know your old friend. Whether 
 I shall ever get about again, is only known 
 to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature 
 I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the 
 worst. As to my individual self, I am tran- 
 quil, and would despise myself if I were not; 
 but Burns's poor widow, and half-a-dozeu 
 of his dear little ones — helpless orphans !^ 
 there I am weak, as a woman's tear. 
 Enough of this ! 'Tis half of my disease. 
 
 I duly received your last, enclosing the 
 note. It came extremely in time, and I am 
 much obliged by your punctuality. Again 
 I must request you to do me the same kind- 
 ness. Be so very good as, by return of 
 post, to enclose me another note. I trust 
 you can do it without inconvenience, and it 
 will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I 
 shall leave a few friends behind me, whom 
 j[ shall regret while consciousness remains. 
 I know I shall live in their remembrance. 
 Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see 
 Mill again, is, 1 am afraid, highly improbable. 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 
 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Dumfries, July Ath, 1796. 
 
 How are you, my dear friend, and how 
 comes on your fifth volume ! You nuiy 
 probably think that for some time past 1 
 have neglected you and your work ; but, 
 alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and 
 care, has these many months lain heavy on 
 me. Personal and domestic affliction have 
 almost entirely banished that alacrity and 
 life with which I used to woo the rural muse 
 of Scotia. 
 
 You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, 
 and have a good right to live in this world 
 — because you deserve it. Many a merry 
 meeting this publication has given us, and 
 possibly it may give us more, though, alas ! 
 I fear it. This protracting, slow, cousuming 
 illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt 
 much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun 
 before he has well reached his middle career, 
 and will turn over the poet to far more im- 
 portant concerns than studying the brilliancy 
 of wit, or the pathos of sentiment. How- 
 ever, hope is the cordial of the human heart 
 and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I 
 can. 
 
 Let me hear from you as soon as con- 
 venient. Your work is a great one ; and 
 now that it is finished, I see, if we were to 
 begin again, two or three things that might 
 be mended ; yet I will venture to prophesy, 
 that to future ages your publication will be 
 the text-book and standard of Scottish song 
 and music. 
 
 I am ashamed to ask another favour of 
 you, because you have been so very good 
 already ; but my wife has a very particular 
 friend of hers, a young lady who slugs well, 
 to whom she wishes to present the " Scots 
 Musical Museum." If you have a spare 
 copy, will you be so obliging as to send it 
 by the very first fly, as 1 am anxious ta 
 have it soon. (220,) Yours ever, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXV. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Brow, Sea-lathing Quarters, 
 July 7th, 1796. ■ 
 
 My Dear Cunnixgham — I received 
 yours here this morning, and am indeed 
 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 445 
 
 highly flattered with the approbation of the 
 hterary circle you mention — a literary circle 
 inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! 
 my friend, 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 bedfast, and sometimes not ; but 
 these last three months I have been tortured 
 with an excruciating rheumatism, which has 
 reduced me to nearly the last stage. You 
 actually would not know me if you saw me. 
 Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally 
 to need help from the chair — my spirits 
 fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on the sub- 
 ject ; only the medical folks tell me that my 
 last and only chance is bathing, and country 
 quarters and riding. The deuce of the 
 matter is this ; when an exciseman is off 
 duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead 
 of £50. What way, in the name of thrift, 
 shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in 
 country quarters, with a wife, and five chil- 
 dren at home, on £35 ? I mention this, 
 because I had intended to beg your utmost 
 interest, and that of all the friends you 
 can muster, to move our commissioners of 
 Excise to grant me the full salary ; I dare 
 say you know them all personally. If they 
 do not grant it me (221), I must lay my 
 account with an exit truly en poete — if 
 I die not of disease, I must perish with 
 hunger. 
 
 I have sent you one of the songs ; the 
 other my memory does not serve me with, 
 and 1 have no copy here; but I shall be at 
 home soon, when 1 will send it you. A-propos 
 to being at home, — ^Mrs. Burns threatens in 
 week or or two to add one more to my 
 paternal charge, which, if of the right 
 gender, I intend shall be introduced to the 
 world by the respectable designation of 
 Alexander Cunninrjham Burns. My last was 
 James Glencairn, so you can have no 
 objection to the company of nobility. 
 Farewell. R. B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 Juli/ lOtli, 1796. 
 
 Dear Brother — It will be no very 
 pleasing news to you to be told that I am 
 dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. 
 An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me 
 to such a state of debility, and my appetite 
 M 80 totally gone, that I can scarcely stand 
 
 on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 
 bathing, and I will continue there, or in a 
 friend's house in the country, all the sum- 
 mer. God keep my wife and children : if I 
 am taken from their head, they will be poor 
 indeed. I have contracted one or two 
 serious debts, partly from my illness these 
 many months, partly from too much thought- 
 lessness as to expense when I came to town, 
 that will cut m too much on the little I 
 leave them in your hands. Remember me 
 to my mother. Yours, R, B. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXVII. 
 
 TO MRS. BURNS. 
 
 Brow, Thursday. 
 
 My Dearest Love — I delayed writing 
 until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing 
 was likely to produce. It would be injustice 
 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 I swallow : porridge and milk are the 
 only thing I can taste. I am very happy 
 to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are 
 all well. My very best and kindest com- 
 pliments to her, and to all the children. I 
 will see you on Sunday, Your affectionate 
 husband, R. B. 
 
 no. CCCLXXVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 Brotv, Saturday, July \2tli, 1796. 
 
 Madam — I have written you so often, 
 without receiving any answer, that I would 
 not trouble you again, but for the circumstan- 
 ces in which I am. An illness which has long 
 hung about me, in all probability will 
 speedily send me beyond that hourne whence 
 no traveller returns. Your friendship, with 
 which for many years you honoured me, 
 was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your 
 conversation, and especially your corres- 
 pondence, were at once highly entertaining 
 and instructive. With what pleasure did I 
 use to break up the seal ! The remem- 
 brance yet adds one pulse more to my 
 poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! 
 
 R. B. (222) 
 
410 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 NO. CCCLXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 
 
 WKITER, MONTROSE. 
 
 Dumfries, July \2th, 1796. 
 
 My dear Cousin — When you offered 
 me money assistance, little did I think I 
 should want it so soon. A rascal of a 
 haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
 bill, taking it into his head that I am dying-, 
 has commenced a process against me, and 
 will infallibly put my emaciated body into 
 jail. W\\\ you be so good as to accommodate 
 me, and that by return of post, with ten 
 pounds ? Oh, James I did you know the 
 pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for 
 me ! Alas I I am not used to beg. The 
 worst of it is, my health was coming about 
 finel}', you know ; and my physician assured 
 me, that melancholy and low spirits are half 
 my disease : — guess, then, my horrors since 
 this business began. If I had it settled, I 
 would be, I think, quite well in a manner, 
 flow shall I use the language to you, — oh do 
 not disappoint me ! — but strong necessity's 
 curst command. 
 
 I have been thinking over and over my 
 brother's affairs, and I fear I must cut him 
 up ; but on this I will correspond at another 
 time, particularly as I shall [require] your 
 advice. 
 
 Forgive me for once more mentioning by 
 return of post : — save me from the horrors of 
 a jail! (223) 
 
 My compliments to my friend James, and 
 to all the rest. I do not know what I have 
 written. The subject is so horrible, I dare 
 not look it ever agaia. Farewell 1 
 
 R. B. 
 
 NO CCCLXXX. 
 
 BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Brow, on the Solway-frith, 
 
 July Uth, 1796. 
 
 After all my boasted independence, curst 
 necessity compels me to implore you for five 
 pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, 
 to whom I owe an account, taking it into his 
 head that I am dying, has commenced a 
 process, and will infallibly put me into jail. 
 Do for God's sake, send me that sum, and 
 that by return of post. Forgive me this 
 
 earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have 
 made me half distracted. I do not ask all 
 this gratuitously ; for, upon returning healtli, 
 I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
 with five pounds' worth of the neatest song- 
 genius you have seen. I tried my hand on 
 " Rotlieimurche " this morning. The mea- 
 sure is so difficult that it is impossible to 
 infuse much genius into the lines; they are 
 ou the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! (224) 
 
 NO CCCLXXXI. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
 
 July Uth, 1796. 
 
 My dear Sir — Ever since I received 
 your melancholy letters by Mrs. Ilyslop, I 
 have been ruminating in what manner I 
 could endeavour to alleviate your sufferings. 
 Again and again I thought of a pecuniary 
 offer, but the recollection of one of your 
 letters on this subject, and the fear of offend- 
 ing your independent spirit, checked my 
 resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, 
 for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, 
 and, with great pleasure, enclose a draft for 
 the very sum I proposed sending (225). 
 Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer 
 but for one day, for your sake I 
 
 Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for 
 you to ^muster a volume of poetry? If too 
 much trouble to you, in the present state of 
 your health, some literary friend might be 
 found here, who would select and arrange 
 from your manuscripts, and take upon him 
 the task of editor. In the meaniime, it 
 could be advertised to be published by sub- 
 scription. Do not shun this mode of obtain- 
 ing the value of your labour : remember. 
 Pope published the Iliad by subscription. 
 Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not 
 reckon me intrusive with my advice. You 
 are too well convinced of the respect and 
 friendship I bear your to impute anything I 
 say to an unworthy motive. Yours faith- 
 fully. 
 
 The verses to " Rothermurche " will 
 answer finely. I am happy to see you can 
 still tune your lyre. 
 
TO JAMES ARMOUR. 
 
 447 
 
 NO. CCCLXXXIl. 
 
 TO JAMES GRACIE, Esq. 
 
 Brow, Wednesday morning, 
 July ]6th, 1796. 
 
 AIy Di:ar Sir — It would be do'ng 
 hipfh injustice to this place not to ackuow- 
 lei^e that my rheumatism has derived great 
 benefits from it already ; but, alas ! my 
 loss of appetite still continues. I shall not 
 need your kind offer this week (226), and I 
 \ ^turn to town the beginning of next week, 
 it not being a tide week. I am detaining a 
 man io n buruing hurry. So, God bless 
 you ! 
 
 KB. 
 39 
 
 NO. CCCLXXXIII. 
 
 TO JAMES ARMOUR (227), 
 
 MASON, MAUCHLINE. 
 
 Dumfries, July, 18th, 1796. 
 
 My Dear Sir — Do, for Heaven's sake, 
 send Mrs. .\rmour here immediately. My 
 wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed 
 Good God! what a situation for her to be 
 in, poor girl, without a friend ! I returned 
 from sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my 
 medical friends would ahnost persnaile me 
 that I am better, but I think and feel thai 
 my strength is so gone, that the disorde: 
 will prove fatal to me. Your son-in-law, 
 R. B. (2'.J8) 
 
I^ote 
 
 TX) |i}>i Ui'E. I'OEMS, CORKESPONDENCE, &c_ &«, 
 OP BURNS 
 

]MtB ta tjie life nf Snrns, 
 
 Page 4, Note 1. — ^To account for the 
 co-existence of a taste for dancing, music, 
 and song, with the austere religious feehngs 
 above descril)ed, we must bear in mind that 
 the latter are not of such long standin;^, 
 having only existed in great force since the 
 time of the civil wars. It is also to be observed, 
 that those tastes and those feelings did not 
 always possess the same minds. Throughout 
 the most rigid times, the young formed a 
 party whom the promptings of nature com- 
 pelled to favour mirthful recreation and the 
 productions of the muse, all preachings 
 from the old notwithstanding. Then the 
 Episcopalian or Jacobite party, formed a 
 large and important exception from the 
 general spirit of the nation, being declared 
 patrons of not only dancing and song, but 
 cf theatricals. 
 
 Page 4, Note 2. — Till a recent period, and 
 previous to the reign of George I., the his- 
 tory of Scottish music was a matter of con- 
 jecture only. Even the remark in the text 
 as to the existence of music before the 
 Reformation, had no proper basis. The 
 existence of popular airs at a time little sub- 
 sequent to the Reformation, including some 
 which still flourish, is at length ascertained, 
 in consccpience of the discovery of an MS. 
 collection of airs, which belonged to Sir 
 John Skene of Currie-hill, and must have 
 been written about the year 1(520. See an 
 elegant and laborious work by AVilliam 
 Dauncy, Esq, Advocate, 4to., 1833. 
 
 Page 5, Note 3. — The North American 
 
 Indians, among whom the attachraent 
 between the sexes is said to be weak, and 
 love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, 
 seem nearly unacquainted with the charms 
 of poetry and music. — See Weld's Tour. 
 AVe quote this as an explanatory reference. 
 It is, however, very far from the truth in 
 both respects ; with due deference to the 
 information whence Dr. Currie drew his 
 authority. 
 
 Page 5, Note 4. — Edward Gibbon. 
 
 Page 6, Note 5. — This practice has 
 ceased to prevail, so that the remarks of Dr. 
 Currie on this subject are no longer appli- 
 cable. 
 
 Page 6, Note 6. — In this instance, again, 
 the description of Dr. Currie is no longer 
 applicable. And it is rather true, at present, 
 that the tenant farmers of Scotland are 
 superior, than that they are inferior to the 
 same class in England ; and there is cer- 
 tainly as much evidence of comfort in their 
 mode of living. There has been a very 
 rapid progress made in agricultural science, 
 especially amongst the Lowland farmers of 
 late years ; and even the labouring classes 
 are upon an equal footing in respect of means 
 and comforts in both portions of groat 
 Britain, whereas, they are certainly better 
 informed and educated in Scotland. Suppo- 
 sing the remark to be reserved to the holders 
 of land, or the capitalist peasantry, so to call 
 them, the distinction has here even ceased 
 to exist. 
 
 Page 7, Note 7. — The rapid increase io 
 
4' 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 inc i:o\i~umption of spirituous liquors is 
 truly astonishing^. Ihe following fijfures 
 ii,i>e been stated by a contemporary : " The 
 amount of the duty on spirits distilled in 
 Scotland is now upwards of £250,000 per 
 annum. In 1777, it did not reach £8000." 
 AUowino^ for the difference of values, and of 
 the scale of duties levied, there is yet an 
 enormous disparity ; and, when it is con- 
 sidered that this is nidepeudently of all 
 merely fermented liquors, au idea may be 
 formed of the immense increase in the con- 
 ruraption of intoxicating beverages. Taking 
 ai,iin the returns of distillery for 1832, we 
 have a gross of 5,407,097 gallons, and an 
 aggregate duty of nearly a milliou sterling. 
 
 Page 11, Note 8. — According to some 
 authorities, the fair heroine of this young 
 passion was called Nelly Blair. The lines 
 which immortalized her are those which 
 commence — "Once I loved a bonnie lass." 
 
 Pace 12, Note 9.— In October, 1837, 
 the editor conversed at Tarboltou with John 
 Lees, shoemaker, who, when a stripling, used 
 to act as Burns's second in his courting ex- 
 peditions. The old man spoke with much 
 glee of the aid he had given the poet in the 
 way of askinri out lasses for him. When he 
 had succeeded in bringing the girl out of 
 doors, he of course became Monaicur de 
 Trop, and Burns would say, " Now, Jack, ye 
 may gang harae." 
 
 Page 12, Note 10. — A correspondent of 
 the Scotsman newspaper, 1828, communi- 
 cated the following as recollections of Burns 
 in his early rustic years : — " lie was par- 
 ticularly distinguished at that species of 
 merry-maknig called ' Rockings,' which are 
 frequently alluded to in his writings. This 
 kind of meeting is, or was (for I suppose 
 the change of manners will have suppressed 
 tliis innocent species of ' play ' ) formed of 
 young people — servants generally, of both 
 sexes, to the neighbouring farmers — who 
 were allowed, during moonlight, to meet 
 alternately at their respective houses, each 
 lass thriftily carrying with her the spinning- 
 wheel, and, while the song and the tale went 
 round, never failing to complete her assigned 
 task of spinning ; the lads, in the meanwhile, 
 being as busily employed in knitting the 
 stocking : the entertainment ending with a 
 supper of a particular dish or two of country 
 fare. On these occasions my narrator 
 remembers well the distinguished part 
 Burns used to take in the business of the 
 evening. Often has she met hiin at the 
 head of a little troop, coming from a distance 
 nf three or four miles, with the spinning- 
 M heel of his favourite, for the time being, 
 
 mounted on his shoulders, and liis af* 
 preach announced by the bursts of merri- 
 ment which his ready and rough jokes had 
 excited amongst the group. It was always 
 expected that some new effusion of his 
 muse should be produced to promote the 
 enjoyment of the party, and sel-dom were 
 they disappointed, ' Rob Burns's last 
 night's poem' generally reaching the parlour 
 in the course of the next day. At the 
 kitchen of my friend's father (an extensive 
 land proprietor) Burns's visits were of such 
 frequency and duration as to call down the 
 animadversions of the lady of the house, the 
 alertness of her damsels in the morning 
 being at times impaired by his unreasonable 
 gallantry. 'I'his was supposed to be occa- 
 sioned by a penchant he had formed for a 
 certain Nelly Blair, a pretty girl, a servant 
 in the family, and whom be celebrated in 
 more songs and odes than her name appears 
 in ; the only one likely to be applied to her 
 now, being one which he himself transcribes, 
 in a letter to Mr. Thomson, as one of his 
 earliest effusions, and of which his ' Hand- 
 some Nell,' I think, forms the burden. My 
 friend describes him as being considered at 
 that time as a clever fellow, but a wild 
 scamp. " 
 
 Page 12, Note 11. — The songs in ques- 
 tion are respectively identified by the first 
 lines of each as follows : — 
 
 1. "It was upon a Lammas night." 
 
 2. " Now westling winds and slaughterin' 
 guns." 
 
 3. " Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 
 Page 13, Note 12. — One Richard Browii, 
 
 who however lived until within the last few 
 years, and was latterly held in general 
 esteem. 
 
 Page 13, Note 13. — On the birth of an 
 illegitimate child. 
 
 Page 13, Note 14. — "The twa herds." 
 Page 14, Note 15. — John Blane, at one 
 time driver of a coach between Glasgow and 
 Cumnock, and now (183S) residing at 
 Kilmarnock, was for four years and a half 
 farm-servant in the Burns family at 
 Lochlee and Mossgiel. With Robert Bums, 
 who was eight years his senior, he slept for 
 a long time in the same bed, in the stable 
 loft, at Mossgiel. He reports that Burns 
 had a little deal table with a drawer in it, 
 which he kept constantly beside the bed, 
 with a small desk on the top of it. The 
 best of his poems were here written during 
 the hours of rest ; the table-drawer being 
 the depository in which he kept them. To 
 think of the Cotter's Saturday Night, the 
 Lameut, and the Vision, being written in 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 4. '3 
 
 tlie poor a:arret over a small farmer's stable ! 
 He used to employ Blane to read the poems 
 to liim, immediately after their composition, 
 that he miuht be able the more cfl'ectually 
 to detect faults in them. AVheii dissatisfied 
 with a particular passage, he would stop the 
 reading-, make an alteration, and then desire 
 his companion to proceed. Blaue was often 
 awakened by him during the night, that he 
 might serve hiin in this capacity. It is to 
 be gathered from the old man's conversation, 
 that the bard of Ayr was a most rigid 
 critic of his own compositions, and burned 
 many with which he was displeased. 
 
 P.vGE 14, Note 16. — iliss Helen Maria 
 Vrilliams. 
 
 Page 14, Note 17. — There are various 
 copies of this letter in the auihor's hand- 
 writing ; and one of these, evidently cor- 
 rected, is in the book in which he had 
 copied several of his letters. This has been 
 used for the press, with some omissions, and 
 one slight aJteration suggested by Gilbert 
 Burns. 
 
 Page 14, Note 18. — This house is on 
 the right-hand side of the road from Ayr to 
 Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
 from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. When the 
 poet's father afterwards removed to Tarbol- 
 ton parish, he sold his leasehold right in 
 this house, and a few acres of land adjoining, 
 to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. 
 It is now a country ale-house. 
 
 Page 15, Note 19.— Mrs. Burns, the 
 mother of Robert Burns, survived to the 
 advanced age of 88. She died on the I4th 
 of January, IS'20. 
 
 Page 15, Note 20 — Quoted from a 
 letter addressed by G. Burns, to Mrs. 
 Bunlop. 
 
 Page 15, Note 21. — Tlie farm alluded to 
 was Mount Oliphant in the parish of Ayr. 
 The passage is quoted from a letter from G. 
 Burns to ^Irs. Uunlop. 
 
 Page 16, Note 22. — The reading from 
 Titus Adronicus, was from the revolting 
 passage, — Act ii. Sc. 5. 
 
 Page 17, Note 23.— Mr. Tennant, of 
 Ayr, one of the few surviving early friends 
 of Burns, has the following recollections 
 respecting him : — " He first knew the poet, 
 when attending Mr. Murdoch's school at 
 Ayr, he being then fifteen, and Burns a year 
 and a half older. Burns and he were fa- 
 vourite pupils of Murdoch, who used to take 
 them alternately to live with him, allowing 
 them a share of his bed. Jlr. Murdoch 
 was a well-informed and zealous teacher — a 
 particularly good French scholar, insomuch 
 that he at one time taught the language iu 
 
 France. He thought his voice had some 
 peculiar quality or power, adapting it in an 
 uncoinraon degree for French pronunciation. 
 To this predilection of the teacher, it ia 
 probably owing that Burns acquired so 
 much French, and had such a fancy for in- 
 trodncing snatches of it in his letters. ' 
 Murdoch was so anxious to advance his two 
 favourite pupils, that, while they were lying 
 with him, he was always taking opportu- 
 nities of communicating knowledge. The 
 intellectual gifts of Burns even at this time 
 greatly impressed his fellow-scholar. Bobert 
 and Gilbert Burns were like no other young 
 men. Their style of language was quite 
 above that of their compeers. Robert had 
 borrowed great numbers of books, and ac- 
 quainted himself with their contents, lie 
 read rapidly, but remembered all that was 
 interesting or valuable in what he read. 
 He had the New Testament more at com- 
 mand than any other youth ever known 
 to Mr. Tennant, who was, altogether, 
 more impressed in these his boyish days by 
 the discourse of the youthful poet, than he 
 afterwards was by his published verses. 
 The elocution of Burns resembled that of 
 Edmund Kean — deep, thoughtful, emphatic; 
 and in controversy, no man could stand 
 before him." 
 
 Page 17, Note 24. — Mr. John Murdoch 
 died April 20, 1824, aged seventy-seven. 
 He had published a Radical vocabulary of 
 the French language, 12mo, 1783 ; Pro- 
 nunciation and Orthography of the 
 French language, 8vo. 1788 ; Diction- 
 ary of Distinctions, 8vo. 1811 ; and other 
 works. He was a highly amiable and 
 worthy man. In his latter days, illness had 
 reduced him to the brink of destitution, 
 and an appeal was made to the friends and 
 admirers of his illustrious pupil, in his 
 behalf. Some money was thus raised, and 
 applied to the relief of his necessities. It ii 
 stated, in the obituary notice of Mr. Mur- 
 doch, published in the London papers, that 
 he had taught English in London to several 
 distinguished foreigners ; among the rest, 
 to the celebrated Talleyrand, during his 
 residence as an emigrant in England. 
 
 Page 19, Note 25. — Both Robert and 
 Gilbert speak of the total ruin of their 
 father at the time of his death. " His all," 
 says Robert, " went among the hell-hounds 
 that prowl in the kennel of justice." it 
 appears diiiicidt to reconcile this with the 
 immediately ensuing statement, that Moss- 
 giel was stocked by the property and indi- 
 vidual savings of the whole family. But 
 the fact, we understand to be, that at the 
 
454 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 baiikruptoy of William Burns, his children 
 had respectively considerable claims upon 
 his estate, on account of their services to 
 him on the farm, which claims were prefer- 
 able to those of the other creditors. They 
 thus, with the perfect approbation of the 
 law, and we rather think of justice also, 
 (though some thought otherwise at the time), 
 rescued a portion of his property from the 
 " hell-hounds." 
 
 Page 19, Note 26. — John Blane, already 
 mentioned, reports that, at Lochlee, the 
 whole family, including the daughters, 
 wrought at the various labours of the farm. 
 The second daughter, Annabella by name, 
 had a turn for poetry, but, not having been 
 taiight to M'rite, was unable to commit her 
 compositions to paper : few women of the 
 same rank were at that time taught to write. 
 I'he family was one which regularly went to 
 church, one male and one female being left 
 at home, to take care of the house, and 
 "the beasts." Annabella would contiave to 
 have Blane for her companion, that he might 
 write down her poems during the absence 
 of the rest. She took possession of the 
 manuscripts, but was obliged by the severity 
 of parental discipline, to conceal her love of 
 the divine art. 
 
 Page 20, Note 27. — According to credi- 
 ble authorities, he was in the habit of walking 
 every day to Kilmarnock, for the purpose of 
 superintending the progress of his literary 
 labours, through press ; and it is very 
 certain that he was at this time labouring 
 under the utmost privations, and subsisting 
 upon the most scanty fare : — " dining off a 
 piece of out cake, and tivo-pennyivorth of 
 ale," according to one of his biograjihers. 
 
 Page 20, Note 28. — Burns, himself, in 
 many of his extant letters of this date, declares 
 that he was " skulking from covert to covert, 
 uiuler the terror of a jail," and that he was 
 pursued to persecution by the officers, under 
 proceedings intended to extort a compulsory 
 provision for his twin children, by Miss Ar- 
 mour, which, however, he was bent upon legi- 
 timating, by marrying their mother; whilst 
 the relations of Miss A. were driving him 
 from pillar to post, in the hope of eifectualiy 
 separatnig the lovers. 
 
 Page 21, Note 29. — There is another 
 observation of Gilbert Burns on his brother's 
 narrative, in which some persons will be 
 interested. It refers to where the poet 
 speaks of his youthful friends. " My 
 brother," says Gilbert Burns, " seems to set 
 otfhis early companions in too consequential 
 a manner. The principal acquaintance we 
 baii in Ayr, while boys, were four sons of 
 
 Mr. Andrew M'Cnlloch, a distant relation 
 of my mother's, who kept a tea shop, and 
 had made a little money in the contraband 
 trade, very common at that time. He died 
 while the boys were young, and my father 
 was nominated one of the tutors. The two 
 eldest were bred shopkeepers, the third a 
 surgeon, and the youngest, the only survi- 
 ving one, was bred in a counting-house in 
 Glasgow, where he is now a respectable 
 merchant. I believe all these boys went to 
 the West Indies. Then there were two sons 
 of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in 
 my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest a 
 very worthy young man, went to the East 
 Indies, where he had a commission in the 
 army ; he is the person whose heart, my 
 brother says, the Munny Becjum scenes could 
 not corrupt. The other, by the interest of 
 Lady Wallace, got an ensigncyin a regiment 
 raised by the Duke of Hamilton during the 
 American War. I believe neither of them 
 are now (1797) alive. We also knew the 
 present Dr. Paterson of Ayr, and a younger 
 brother of his, now in Jamaica, who were 
 much younger than ns. I had almost forgot 
 to mention Dr. Charles of Ayr, who was a 
 little older than my brother, and with whom 
 we had a longer and closer intimacy than 
 with any of the others, which did not, how- 
 ever, continue in after life." 
 
 Page 21, Note 30. — A Scottish term 
 meaning fire. 
 
 Page 21, Note 31. — The hoary brow. 
 
 Page 21, Note 32. — Wishes or chooses. 
 
 Page 21, Notes 33, 34, and 33. — An 
 allusion to some airs known amongst the 
 Scottish Psalmody. Reference is especially 
 made to the three adopted by William 
 Burns. 
 
 Page 21, Note 36.— Supplies, adds fuel 
 to. 
 
 Page 21, Note 37.— The father of the 
 family leading the family devotion. 
 
 Page 25, Note 38. — " This business was 
 first carried on here from the Isle of Man, 
 and afterwards to a considerable extent 
 from France, Ostend, and Gottenburgli. 
 Persons engaged in it found it necessary 
 to go abroad, and enter into business with 
 foreign merchants ; and by dealing in tea, 
 spirits, and silks, brought home to their 
 families and friends the means of luxury 
 and finery at the cheapest rate." — Statistical 
 Account of Kirkosivakl, 1794. 
 
 Page 28, Note 39. — The subjoined anec- 
 dote may serve to throw some additional 
 hght upon the nature of Burns' connexions 
 at the period referred to. "The poet's May- 
 bole friend, on inspecting the volume, was 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 455 
 
 mortifipd to find the poetical epistle which 
 had been addressed to him, printed with tlie 
 name Andrew substituted for his own, and 
 the motto from Blair, as was but proper, 
 omitted. He said nothing at the time ; but, 
 young:, ambitious, and conscious of liavin^^ 
 done all in his humble power for friendship's 
 cause, he could not forgive so marked a 
 slight. He, therefore, from that time ceased 
 to answer Burns's letters. When the poet 
 was next at Maybole, he asked the cause, 
 and Willie answered by inquiring if he could 
 not himself divine it. lie said he thought 
 he could, and adverted to the changed 
 name in the poem. Mr. Robert Aiken, 
 writer in Ayr, had been, he said, a useful 
 friend aud patron to him. He had a son 
 commencing a commercial life in Liverpool. 
 I thought, he saul, that a few verses ad- 
 dressed to this youth would gratify the 
 father, and be accepted as a mark of my 
 gratitude. But, my muse being lazy, I 
 could not well make them out. After all, 
 tliis old epistle occurred to rae, and by put- 
 ting his name into it, in place of yours, I 
 made it answer this purpose. Willie told 
 him in reply, that he had just e.xclianged 
 his friendship for that of Mr. Aiken, and 
 recpiested that their respective letters might 
 be burnt — a duty which he scrupulously 
 performed on his own part. The two dis- 
 putants of Kirkoswald never saw or cor- 
 responded with each other again." 
 
 Page 29, Note 40. — " Therefore are they 
 before the throne of God, and serve him day 
 and night in his temple : and he that sitteth 
 on the throne shall dwell among them. 
 'I'hey shall hunger no more, neither thirst 
 any more; neither shall the sun light on 
 them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which 
 is in the midst of the throne shall feed 
 them, and shall lead them unto the living 
 fouutaiiis of waters : and God shall wipe 
 aw ay all tears from their eyes." 
 
 1'age 29, Note 4L — We have had several 
 occasions lo notice the narrowness of t5urns's 
 means, and the straits to which he was 
 often reduced ; and the account which we 
 have of the closing scene of his father's life, 
 sufticiently explains how this extremity of 
 tlistress should have failed to be relieved by 
 his relatives. To those to whom such a cir- 
 cumstance, however, may appear somewhat 
 extraordinary, the subjoined particulars may 
 be interesting: — "It is no uncommon case 
 for a small farmer, or even cotter, in Scot- 
 land, to have a son placed at some distant 
 ecminary of learning, or serving an appren- 
 ticeship to some metropolitan writer or 
 Iradesmaii ; in which case, the youth is 
 
 almost invariably supplied with oatmeal, tiie 
 staple of the poor Scotsman's hfe — cheese, 
 perhaps — oaten or barley bread, &c., from 
 the home stores, by the intervention of the 
 weekly or fortnightly carrier. The above 
 passage recals to the Editor an anecdnte 
 whicli is related of a gentleman, now high in 
 consideration at the Scottish bar, whuse 
 father, a poor villager in the upper ward of 
 Lanarkshire, having contrived to get hira 
 placed at Glasgow University, supported him 
 there chiefly by a weekly bag of oatmeal. 
 On one occasion, the supply was stopped for 
 nearly three weeks by a snow-storm. The 
 young man's meal, like Burns's, was out; 
 but his pride, or his having no intimate ac- 
 quaintance, prevented him from borrowing. 
 And this remarkable and powerful-minded 
 man had all but perished, before the dissolvhig 
 snow allowed a new stock of provisions to 
 reach him." 
 
 Page 29, Note 42.— In his letter to Ur. 
 Moore, Burns gives the following account 
 of the consequences of this calamity to 
 himself: — "This was an unlucky affair; as 
 we were giving a welcome carousal to the 
 new year the shop took fire, and burnt to 
 ashes, and / was left, like a true poet, not 
 worth a sixpence." " One who had known 
 Burns at Irvine thus reported his recollec- 
 tion of the poet's appearance and demeanour. 
 He looked older than he was — was of a very 
 dark complexion, and had a strong dark eye; 
 his ordinary look, while in company, was 
 thoughtful, amounting to what might be 
 called a gloomy attentiveness. 'When not 
 interested in the conversation, he might 
 sometimes be seen, for a considerable space, 
 leaning down on his palm, with his elbow 
 resting on his knee — perhaps the most mel- 
 ancholy of all postures short of the prostra- 
 tion of despair. He was in common silent 
 and reserved ; but when he found a man to 
 his mind, he made a point of attaching him- 
 self to the company of that person, and 
 endeavouring to bring out his powers. 
 Aniong women he never failed to exert liim- 
 self, and always shone. People remarked, 
 even then, that when Robert Burns did 
 speak, he always spoke to the point, ami in 
 general with a sententious brevity. Frdiu 
 another source we learn that Burns at this 
 time loved to debate theological to))ics 
 amongst the rustic groups which met in the 
 churchyard after service." 
 
 Page 30, Note 43. — Sillar was a brother 
 rhymster of Burns's, and it was to him that 
 the Epistle to Davie was addressed. Mr, 
 Sillar subsequently became a wealthy magis- 
 trate hi Irvine, by uihenting, very unex- 
 
 40 
 
45*^ 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 ptciedly, a large fortune trom a distant rela- 
 tive, he had, however, before this, settled 
 Hs a teaclier in the same place, and lived in 
 competent circumstances. He has only been 
 dead a few years. 
 
 Page 31, Note 44. — At the period at 
 which Dr. Currie wrote his biographical 
 account of Burns, these societies were com- 
 paratively scarce, and it was worthy of some 
 remark that works of this particular character 
 were held in preference. The Scotch, besides, 
 beincr an imaginative people, are, however, 
 essentially a scientific nation, and in these 
 days a great variety of literary material has 
 become poptdarised amongst them. Indeed, 
 " book societies and village libraries have 
 greatly increased in number, and means, for- 
 merly undreamt of, have been taken for fur- 
 nishing intellectual food to the people. It 
 may, at the same time, be mentioned that no 
 evil result of any kind is known to have 
 arisen from the alleged predilection of the 
 Scottish peasantry for books of elegant lite- 
 rature. We tiiink it likely that this predi- 
 lection is greatly overstated in the text. 
 One great change has, however, taken place 
 in the tastes of the rural people of Scotland. 
 Their book-shelves or window-soles, which 
 formerly contained only a few books of 
 divinity, with perhaps Blind Harry's Wallace 
 and Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, or some 
 specimens of secular literature, now exhibit, 
 in many instances, a considerable store of 
 productions in the belles lettres, and of valu- 
 able books of information. The individuals 
 who sell books in numbers, or small parts, 
 speak strongly of the change which has taken 
 place amongst them, during the last thirty 
 years, from an exclusively theoolgical to a 
 general taste." 
 
 Page 35, Note 45.— In Cobbett's Maga- 
 zine. 
 
 Page 35, Note 46. — The female infant 
 continued to be nursed by its mother, but 
 unable to provide any better attention for 
 the hoy, the family entrusted him to the care 
 of some good people at Mos-^giel, where he 
 was reared by hand, being fed upon cow's milk. 
 Page 36, Notb 47. — JMiss Alexander, 
 who had become the purchaser of the estate 
 in the scenery of which Burns delighted to 
 revel. Wilhelmina Alexander was the sister 
 of Mr. Claude Alexander, who has served as 
 paymaster to the troops in India. 
 
 Page 36, Note 48.— This letter is pre- 
 tierved as a great treasure at Ballochmyle. 
 At the close. Burns requests, as a favour, 
 the permission to include the poem which 
 accompanied it in the forthcoming second 
 edition of his works. 
 
 Page 36, Note 49. — This is correct in 
 Scottish phraseology ; in strictly grammati- 
 cal English, we should have used the word 
 hung for hang. 
 
 Page 36, Note 50. — These lines origi- 
 nal'y stood thus : — 
 
 " The lily's hue and roses' dye 
 
 Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle." 
 
 Page 37, Note 51. — The individual al- 
 luded to was a modest and amiable girl, named 
 Mary Campbell, whose parents resided at 
 Campbelltown in Argyleshire. It can never 
 detract from the pathos of her history, to 
 relate that she was a servant — we believe, 
 the dairy-woman — at Coilsfield House, the 
 seat of Colonel Montgomery, afterwards 
 twelfth earl of Eglinton. Burns partly 
 narrates the tale of his affection for this 
 young woman. " After a pretty long trial," 
 he says, "of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
 tion, we met, by appointment, on the second 
 Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the 
 banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking 
 a farewell before she should embark for the 
 West Highlands, to arrange matters annmg 
 her friends for our projected change of life. 
 At the close of the autumn follownig, 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 illness." 
 Mr. Cromek further informs us, that this 
 adieu was performed with all those simple 
 and striking ceremonials, which rustic senti- 
 ment has devised to prolong tender emotions 
 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 between them, pronounced 
 their vows to be faithful to each other. 
 They parted — never to meet again." It is 
 proper to add," says Mr. Lockhart, " that 
 Mr. Cromek's story has recently been con- 
 firmed very strongly by the accidental dis- 
 covery of a Bible, presented by Burns to 
 Mary Campbell, in tiie possession of her 
 still surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon 
 the boards of the first volume is inscribed, iu 
 Burns's handwriting — ' 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, 
 butshalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths.' 
 — St. Matlh. chap. v. 33. And, on a blank 
 leaf of either — ' Robert Burns, Mossgiel' — • 
 with his mason-mark." The fine lyrics. 
 Highland Mary, and To Mary in Heaven, 
 
LIFE n? imRXS. 
 
 4-57 
 
 with tlip notes attached to them, tdl the 
 remainder of this sorrowful tale. 
 
 Page 37, Note 52. — Gilbert Burns, in a 
 letter addressed to the Editor [Dr. Ciirrie], 
 has gjiven the following account of the friends 
 which Robert's talents procured him before 
 he left Ayrshire, or attracted the notice of 
 the world : — 
 
 " The farm of Moss£jiel, at the time of our 
 coniint; to it (Martinmas, 1783), was the pro- 
 perty of the Earl of Loudon, but was held 
 in tack by Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer, in 
 iMauchline, from whom we had our bargain ; 
 who had thus an opportunity of knowing:, 
 and showing a sincere regard for my brother, 
 before he knew that he was a poet. The 
 poet's estimation of him, and the strong out- 
 lines of his character, may be collected from 
 tlie dedication to this gentleman. When 
 tlie publication was begun, Jlr. Hamilton 
 entered very warmly into its interests, and 
 prom'>ted the subscription very extensively. 
 Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man 
 of worth and taste, of warm affections, and 
 connected with a most respectable circle of 
 friends and relations. It is to this gentleman 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. 
 The poems of my brother, which I have for- 
 merly mentioned, no sooner came into his 
 hands, tlian they were quickly known, and 
 well received in the extensive circle of Mr. 
 Aiken's friends, wL'ich gave them a sort of 
 currency, necessary in this wise world, even 
 for the good reception of things valuable in 
 thcnTielves. But Mr. Aiken not oidy ad- 
 mired the poet ; as soon as he became 
 acquainted with him, he showed the warmest 
 regard for the man, and did everything in 
 his power to forward his interest and re- 
 spectability. The Epistle to a Young Friend 
 was addressed to this gentleman's son, JNIr. 
 A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was 
 the oldest of a young family, who were 
 taught to receive my brother with respect, 
 as a man of genius, and their father's friend. 
 
 The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John 
 Ballantine, Esq., banker, in Ayr; one of those 
 pentlemen to whom my brother was intro- 
 duced by Mr. Aiken. He interested himself 
 very warmly in my brother's concerns, and 
 constantly showed the greenest friendship 
 and attachment to him. When the Kilmar- 
 nock edition was all sold off, and a consider- 
 able demand pointed out the propriety of 
 publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, who 
 had prnited the first, was asked if he 
 would print the second, and take his chance 
 of beinir paid from the first sale. This he 
 dcclnied. and when this came to Mr. Ballan- 
 tine's knowledge, lie generously offered to 
 
 accommodate Robert with what money he 
 might need for that purpose; but advi?ed 
 him to go to Edinburgh, as the fittest place 
 for publishing. When he did go to l'](iin- 
 bnrgh, his friends advised him to publish 
 again by subscription, so that he did not 
 need to accept this offer. Mr. Wdliani 
 Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock, wan a sub- 
 scriber for thirty-five copies of the Kilmar- 
 nock edition. This may, perhaps, appear 
 not deserving of notice here; but if the 
 comparative obscurity of the poet at this 
 period, be taken into consideration, it appears 
 to me a greater effort of generosity than 
 many thnigs which appear more brilliant in 
 my brother's future history. 
 
 "Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmar- 
 nock, was one of those friends Robert's 
 poetry had procured him, and one who was 
 dear to his heart. This gentleman had no 
 very great fortune, or long line of dignified 
 ancestry ; but what Robert says of Captain 
 Matthew Henderson, might be said of him 
 with great propriety, thnt he held the patent 
 of his honours imniedialeli/ from Almight'j 
 God. Nature had, indeed, marked him a 
 gentleman in the most legible characters. 
 He died while yet a young man, soon after 
 the publication of my brother's first Edin- 
 burgh edition. Sir William Cunningham of 
 Robertland, paid a very flattering attention, 
 and showed a good deal of friendship for the 
 poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as 
 well as after, Robert seemed peculiarly 
 pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship 
 and conversation. 
 
 " But of all the friendships which Robert 
 acquired in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none 
 seemed more agreeable to him than that ot 
 Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop ; nor any which has 
 been more uniformly and constantly exerted 
 in behalf of him and his family, of which, 
 were it proper, I could give many instances. 
 Robert was on the point of setting out for 
 Edinburgh before ^Irs. Dunlop had heard of 
 him. About the time of my brother's pub- 
 lishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afHicted 
 with a long and severe illness, which had 
 reduced her mind to the most distressing 
 state of depression. In this situation, a copy 
 of the printed poems was laid on her table 
 by a friend ; and, happening to open on 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night, she read it 
 over with the greatest pleasure and surprise; 
 the poet's description of the simple cottagers 
 operating on her mind like the charm of a 
 powerful exorcist, expelling the demon ennui, 
 and restoring her to her wonted inward har- 
 mony and satisfaction. Mrs. Dunlop sent 
 oU' a person express to Moss^iel, distant 
 
468 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very obliging 
 letter to my brother, desiring him to send 
 her half a dozen copies of his poems, if he 
 had them to spare, and begging he would do 
 her tlie pleasure of calling at Dunlop House 
 as soon as convenient. This was the begni- 
 ning of a correspondence which ended only 
 with the poet's lile. The last use he made 
 of his pen. was writing a short letter to this 
 lady a li days before his death. 
 
 Colducl Fullarton, who afterwards paid a 
 very particular attention to the poet, was not 
 in the country at the time of his first com- 
 mencing author. At this distance of time, 
 and in the hurry of a wet day, snatched from 
 laborious occupations, I may have forgot 
 some jiersons who ought to have been men- 
 tioned on this occasion ; for which, if it 
 come to my knovvledge, I shall be heartily 
 sorry." 
 
 'liie friendship of IMrs. Dmdop was of 
 particular value to Burns. Tiiis lady, 
 daugiiter and sole heiress to Sir Thomas 
 AValhce of Craigie, and lineal descendant of 
 the ilhistrious Wallace, the first of Scottish 
 warriors, possesses the qualities of mind 
 suited to her high lineage. Preserving, in 
 the decline of life, the generous affections of 
 youth, her admiration of the poet was soon 
 accompanied by a sincere friendship for the 
 man, which pursued him in after-life through 
 good and evil report — in poverty, in sickness, 
 and in sorrow — and wlncli is continued to 
 his infant family, now deprived of their 
 parent. [Mrs. Dunlop was the lineal de- 
 scendant, not of Sir William Wallace, but of 
 his father's elder brother. This amiable and 
 enlightened person died May 24, 1815, 
 Bt an advanced age ] 
 
 Page 38, Note 53. — "Thomas Blacklock, 
 P.D. (horn at Annan, Nov. 10, 1721, died at 
 Ediidmrgh, July 7, 1791), though blind 
 from the age of six months, acquired the 
 education suitable for the clerical profession, 
 and wrote poetry considerably above medi- 
 ocrity. It was a fortunate circumstance that 
 the person whom Dr. Laurie applied to, 
 merely because he was the only one of his 
 literary acquaintances with whom he chose 
 to use that freedom, happened also to be the 
 person best qualified to render the applica- 
 tion successful. Dr. Blacklock was an en- 
 thusiast in his admiration of an art which he 
 had practised himself with applause. He 
 felt the claims of a poet with a paternal 
 sympathy, and he had in his constitution a 
 tenderness and sensibility that would have 
 engaged his beneficence for a youth in the 
 circuuistances of Burns, even though he had 
 not been indebted to him, for the delight 
 
 which he received from his works ; for if tho 
 young men were enumerated whom he drew 
 from obscurity, and enabled by education to 
 advance themselves in life, the catalogue 
 would naturally excite surprise. * • • He 
 was not of a disposition to discourage with 
 feeble praise, and to shift off the trouble of 
 future patronage, by bidding him relinquish 
 poetry, and mind his plough." — Professor 
 Walker. 
 
 The following is the letter of Dr. Black- 
 lock to Dr. Laurie, by which the poet was 
 prevented from going to Jamaica, and had 
 his steps turned towards Edinburgh : — 
 
 " I ought to have acknowledged your 
 favour long ago, not only as a testimony of 
 your kind remembrance, but as it gave me 
 an opportunity of sharnig one of the finest, 
 and perhaps, one of the most genuine enter- 
 tainments of which the human mind is 
 susceptible. A number of avocations retarded 
 my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
 however, I have finished 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 humour in those of a more festive 
 turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
 nor too warmly approved ; and I think I 
 shall never open the book without feeling 
 my astonishment renewed and increased. It 
 was my wish to have expressed my approba- 
 tion in verse; but whether from declining 
 life, or a temporary ilepression of spirits, it 
 is at present out of my power to accomplish 
 that intention. 
 
 " Mr Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
 university, had formerly read me three of the 
 poems, and I had desired him to get my 
 name inserted among the subscribers ; but 
 whether this was done or not, I never could 
 learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. 
 Blair, but will take care to have the poems 
 communicated to him by the intervention of 
 some mutual friend. It has 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 impres- 
 sion is already exhausted. It were, therefore, 
 much to be w ished, for the sake of the young 
 man, that a second edition, more numerous 
 than the former, could immediately he 
 printed; as it ajipears certain that its in- 
 trinsic merit, and the exertion of tiie 
 author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
 versal circulation than anything of the kuiJ 
 which has been pubhshed in my memory." 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 459 
 
 Page 38, Note 54. — Mr. Dalziel was 
 employed by the Earl of Glencairn, in the 
 capacity of steward to his estates, and was 
 located iu Ayrshire, in the estate called 
 Finlayston, belonging to that nobleman. 
 
 Page 38, Note 55. — Mr. Cunningham, 
 in his account of this period, in the poet's 
 career, has given the following portraiture of 
 him : — " After his return to Edinburgh, he 
 seemed for some days, as in earlier life, i}u- 
 fitted with an aim, and wandered about, 
 looking down from Arthur's seat surveying 
 the palace, gazing at the castle, or contem- 
 plating the windows of the bookseller's 
 shops, wherein he saw all works save the 
 poems of the ploughman of Ayrshire. He 
 picked his way to the solitary tomb of Fer- 
 gusson, and kissed the sod as he knelt down; 
 he sought out the house of Allan Ramsay, 
 and on entering it, took off his hat ; and 
 when, subsequently, he was introduced to 
 Creech, the bibliopole remembered that he 
 had before heard of his inquiring whether 
 this had been the shop of the author of the 
 Gentle Shepherd. 
 
 Page 38, Note 56. — The following are 
 the lines in question : — 
 
 This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
 I. Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 
 
 October twenty-third, 
 A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
 Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 
 
 I diuner'd wi' a lord. 
 
 I've been at drunken writer's feasts. 
 Nay, been bitcli-fou'd 'mang gadly priests, 
 
 VVi' rev'rence be it spoken : — 
 I've even joined the honour'd jorum, 
 \\ hen miglity squireships of the quorum. 
 
 Their hydra drouth did sloken. 
 
 But wi' a lyord ! stand out my shin ! 
 A Lord ! a Peer ! a true Earl's son ! 
 
 Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
 And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
 Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 
 
 As 1 look o'er my sonnet. 
 
 But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
 To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r. 
 
 And how he star'd and stammer'd. 
 When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
 And stumpiu' on his ploughman shanks, 
 
 lie in the parlour hammer'd. 
 
 I sliding shclter'd in a nook. 
 And at his i>ordship steal't a look. 
 
 Like some portentous omen : 
 Except good sense and social glee, 
 And (what surprised me) modesty, 
 
 I marked nought uncommon. 
 
 I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, 
 
 The gentle prido, the lordly state. 
 
 The arr.i, it assuming: 
 The fieut a pride, uae pride had he. 
 Nor sauce, nor state, tliat I could see, 
 Mair than an honest ploughman. 
 
 Then from his Lordship I shall learn. 
 Henceforth to meet with unconcern 
 
 One rank as well's another; 
 Nae honest worthy man need care. 
 To meet with noble youthful Daer» 
 
 For he but meets a brother. 
 
 The nobleman alluded to in these lines, was, aa 
 has been noticed, Basil Lord Daer, the eldest 
 sou and heir of Dunbar Earl of Selkirk. 
 Imbued with the equalising notions of the 
 French Revolution, from the seat of whic'n 
 he had but very recently returned, he was 
 free from all the absurd affectation of sim- 
 plicity and hypocritical pretence of equality, 
 and was as truly simple in his manners and 
 appearance, as genuinely courteous to his 
 inferiors in rank, and as unostentatiously 
 benevolent, as his heart was sound, and his 
 judgment untainted and unbiassed. His 
 early death, on the 5 th of November, 1794, 
 was sincerely lamented by the many of the 
 humble, yet meritorious associates whom he 
 had rescued from undeserved obscurity. 
 Lord Uaer was only 31 years of age when 
 he died. 
 
 Page 39, Note 57. — Dr. Currie had seen 
 and conversed with Burns. 
 
 Page — , Note 58. — Refer to note 59, 
 the number 58 having been omitted in the 
 corrections. 
 
 Page 41, Note 59. — There issome want of 
 preciseness about this date. Gilbert Uurus 
 seems to have been under the impression 
 that the real date should have been rendered 
 1789-90, whilst others amongst the biogra- 
 phers, &c., who furnish us with material re- 
 lating to the poet, prefer to render the date 
 as 1787-83. I believe, from other docnnients, 
 that the date is correctly rendered in liie text, 
 and from some scraps of memoranda derived 
 originally from Dr. Mackenzie through .Mr. 
 Bland, I should say that the matter waa 
 beyond a doubt. — [Ed.] 
 
 Page 41, Note 60. — The reader is re- 
 ferred from this quotation to the '• General 
 Correspondence of Burns" in the foregoing 
 part of this volume, under the date of Feb. 
 14, 179L It will be seen that the context 
 furnished by other letters of an approximato 
 date, throw much light on this period iu 
 his life. 
 
 Page 41, Note 61. — The recollections 
 of Mr. John Richmond writer in Maucli 
 
 40^ 
 
460 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 line, respecting Burns's arrival, and the 
 earlier period of liis residence, in Edinbnrgh, 
 are curious. Mr. Richmond, who hsd been 
 brought up in the office of a country writer, 
 and was now perfecting his studies in that 
 of a metropolitan practitioner, occupied a 
 room in the house uf a Mrs. Carfrae, in 
 Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, at the rent of 
 three shillings a-week. His circumstances 
 as a youth just entering the world made 
 him willing to share his apartment and bed 
 with any aijreeable companion, who might 
 be disposed to take part in the expense. 
 These terms suited his old Mauchline ac- 
 quaintance, Burns, who accordingly lived 
 with him in Mrs. Carfrae's from his arrival 
 in November till his leaving town in May, 
 on his southern excursions. Mr. Ricliraond 
 mentions that the poet was so knocked up 
 by his walk from ]\iauchline to Edinburgh, 
 that he could not leave his room for tlie 
 next two days. During the whole time of 
 his residence there, his habits were tempe- 
 rate and regular. Much of his time was 
 necessarily occupied in preparing his poems 
 for the press — a task in which, as far as 
 transcription was concerned, Mr. Richmond 
 aided him, when not engaged in his own 
 office duties. Burns, though frequently 
 invited out into company, usually returned 
 at good hours, and went soberly to bed, 
 where he would prevail upon his companion, 
 by little bribes, to read to him till he fell 
 asleep. Mr. Lockhart draws an unfavour- 
 able inference from his afterwards removing 
 to the house of his friend Nicol; but for 
 this removal Mr. Richniond supplies a 
 reason which exculpates the bard. During 
 Burns's absence in the south and at IMauch- 
 line, Mr. Richmond took in another fellow- 
 lodger ; so that, when the poet came back, 
 and applied for re-adraission to Mrs. 
 Carfrae's humble menage, he found liis 
 place filled up, and was compelled to go 
 elsewhere. 
 
 The exterior of Burns for some time after 
 his arrival in Edinburgh, was little superior 
 to that of his rustic compeers. " What a 
 clod-hopper ! " was the descriptive exclama- 
 tion of a lady, to whom he was abruptly 
 pointed out one day in the Lawnmarket. In 
 the course of a few weeks he got into com- 
 paratively fashionable attire — a blue coat 
 with metal buttons, a yellow and blue 
 stripped vest (being the livery of Mr. Fox), 
 a pair of buckskins, so tight that he seemed 
 to have grown into them, and top-boots, 
 meeting the buckskins under the knee. 
 His neckcloth of white cambric, was neatly 
 mraugel, and his whole appearance was 
 
 clean and respectable, though the taste in 
 which he was dressed was still obviously a 
 rustic taste. 
 
 Though his habits during the winter oi 
 1786-7 were, upon the whole, good, he was 
 not altogether exempt from the bacclia- 
 nalianisra which at this period reigned ia 
 Edinburgh. Mr. "William Nicol of the 
 High School, and Mr. John Gray, city-clerk, 
 were amongst his most intimate convivial 
 friends. Nicol lived in the top of a house 
 over what is called Buccleuch Pend, in the 
 lowest floor of which there was a tavern, 
 kept by a certain Lucky Pringle, having a 
 back entry from the pend, through which 
 visitors could be admitted, unwotted of by a 
 censorious world. Tlieie Burns was much 
 with Nicol, both before and after his taking 
 up his abode in that gentleman's house. 
 He also attended pretty frequently the 
 meetings of the Crochallan Fencihles, at their 
 howff in the Anchor Close; and of Johnnie 
 Bowie's tavern, in Libberton's Wynd, he 
 was a frequent visitor. Mr. Alexander 
 Cunningham, jeweller, and Mr. Robert 
 Cieghorn, farmer at Saughton Mills, may ba 
 said to complete the list of Rurns's convivial 
 acquaintance in Edinburgh. The intimacy 
 he formed with Mr. Robert Ainslie, then a 
 young writer's apprentice, appears to have 
 been of a different character. 
 
 P.^GE 41, Note 62. — Mr. Dalrymple of 
 Oraugefield, and the Honourable Henry 
 Erskine, may be mentioned as individuals 
 who exerted themselves in behalf of Burns, 
 immediately after his arrival in Edinburgh. 
 Dr. Adam Fergusson, author of the History 
 of the Roman Republic, may also be added 
 to Dr. Currie's Ur.t of his literary and 
 philosophical patrons. At ths house of the 
 latter gentleman. Sir Walter Scott met with 
 Burns, of whom he has given his recollec- 
 tions in the following letter to Mr. 
 Lockhart : — 
 
 " As for Burns, I may truly say, Vtr- 
 giliuin vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 
 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, 
 but had sense and feeling enough to be 
 much interested in his poetry, and would 
 have given the world to know him ; but I 
 had very little acquaintance with any literary 
 people, and still less with the gentry of the 
 west country, the two sets whom he most 
 frequented. Blr. T. 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, I saw him oue day at the late ven& 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 461 
 
 rable Professor Fergiisson's. where there were 
 several jcentlemeii of literary reputation, 
 amono: whom I remember the celebrated 
 Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we young- 
 sters sat silent, looked and listened. The 
 only thing I remember which was remark- 
 able in Buvns's manner, was the effect 
 produced upon him by a prmt of Bunbury's, 
 representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, 
 his dog sitting in misery on one side 
 - — on the other, his widow, with a child in 
 her arms. These lines were written be- 
 neath : — ■ 
 
 'Cold on Canadian hills, or Mnulen's plain, 
 Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — 
 Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
 The big drops mingling with the milk he 
 
 drew. 
 Gave the sad presage of his future years. 
 The child of misery baptised in tears.' 
 Burns seemed much affected by the print, or 
 rather 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 informa- 
 tion to a friend present, who mentioned it to 
 Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a 
 word, which, though in mere civility, I then 
 received, and still recollect, with great plea- 
 sure. His person was strong and robust ; 
 his manners rustic, not clownish ; a sort of 
 diguilied plainness and simplicity, which 
 received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's 
 knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
 features are represented in Jlr. 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. 1 would 
 have taken the poet, had I not known what 
 he was, for a very sagacious country farmer 
 of the old Scotch school ; that is. none of 
 your modern agriculturists, who keep 
 labourers for their drudgery, but the douce 
 guidmaii who held his owu plough. There 
 was a strong expression of sense and shrewd- 
 ness in all his lineaments ; tlie eye alone, 1 
 think, indicated the poetical character and 
 temjieraraent. It was large, and of a cast, 
 whit h glowed (I say literally glowed} wiieii 
 he spoke with feeling or interest. 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 
 presumptioo. Amon^ the men who were 
 
 the most learned of their time and country, 
 he expressed himself with perfect firmness 
 but without the least intrusive forwardness ; 
 and when he differed in opinion, he did not 
 hesitate to express it firmly, yet, at the same 
 time, with modesty. I do not remember 
 any part of his conversation distinctly enough 
 to quote it ; nor did I ever see him again, 
 except in the street, where he did not recog- 
 nise me, as I could not expect he should. 
 He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but 
 (considering what literary emoluments have 
 Ijeen raised since his day) the efforts made 
 for his relief were extremely trifling. I 
 remember, on this occasion I mention, I 
 thought Burns's acquaintance with English 
 poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
 having twenty times the abilities of Allan 
 Ramsay and of Fergusson, he talked of them 
 with too much humility as his models : there 
 was, doubtless, 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 malam 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. I was 
 told, but did not observe it, that his address 
 to females was extremely deferential, and 
 always with a turn either to the pathetic or 
 humorous, which engaged their attention 
 particularly. I have heard the late Duchess 
 of Gordon remark this. I do not know any- 
 thing I can add to these recollections of forty 
 years since." 
 
 Page 41, Note 63. — Jane Duchess of 
 Gordon, so remarkable in her time, was one 
 amongst the most striking personages of his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Page 42, Note 64. — It was by the Earl 
 of Gleiicairn, or through his instrumentality, 
 that ]\Ir. W. Creech, the bookseller, was 
 introduced to Burns. Mr. Creech liad 
 travelled on the continent, in the character 
 of tutor and companion to the young noble- 
 man, and the latter had in view the produc- 
 tion of a new edition of Burns's works when 
 he effected the introduction. The Earl did 
 not long survive. He died in the prime of 
 life (at the age of 42 years), on the 30th of 
 January, 1791, at Falmouth. 
 
 Page 44, Note 65. — The second edition 
 of the poems came out in April, 1787 — a 
 handsome octavo, price five shillings to sub- 
 scribers, and one shilling more to others. 
 Above 2,800 copies had been bespoke by 
 rather more than 1,500 subscribers; the 
 
4H2 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 Caledonian Hunt taking 100 copies, Creech 
 500, the Earl of Eshnton 42, the Duchess 
 of Gordon, 21, the Earl of Glencairn and his 
 Countess 24, while many other individuals 
 eubscribed for numbers ranging between two 
 and twelve. The number of names of nobility 
 and gentry is very surprising, the rest being 
 chiefly persons in the middle walks of life, 
 from all districts, however, of Scotland. The 
 list has now some historical value, as a 
 chronicle of the society of the day. 
 
 The new edition of his poems was embel- 
 lished by a portrait of himself, engraved by 
 Beugo, from a painting by Alexander Na- 
 smyth. Tlie engraver, who, to his honour 
 be it said, did his work gratuitously, improved 
 upon the original portrait by a few sittings 
 from the bard ; and his production is allowed 
 to be the most faithful likeness of Burns in 
 existence. 
 
 Page 45, Note 66. — After seeing this 
 remark in priiit. Dr. Somerville never punned 
 more. -He was the author of two substan- 
 tial works on the history of England between 
 the Restoration and the accession of the 
 Brunswick dynasty. He died. May 16, 1830, 
 at the age of ninety years, sixty-four of 
 which had been passed in the clerical pro- 
 fession. A son of Dr. Somerville is husband 
 to a lady distinguished in the scientific world. 
 
 Page 46, Note 67. — "Burns returned to 
 Mauchline on the 8th of June. It is pleasing 
 to imagine the delight with v;hich he must 
 have been received by his family after an 
 absence of six months, in which his fortunes 
 and prospects had undergone so wonderful a 
 change. He left them comparatively un- 
 known, his tenderest feelings torn and 
 wounded by the conduct of the Armours, 
 and in such a wretched state of utter indi- 
 gence, as to be compelled to lurk about from 
 hiding-place to hiding-place to escape the 
 otlicers, whose pursuit was unabated, and on 
 account of a very inconsiderable claim against 
 him. He returned ; his poetical fame esta- 
 blished ; the whole country ringing with his 
 praises, from a capital in which he was known 
 to have formed the wonder and delight of 
 the polite and learned ; if not rich, yet with 
 more money already 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 society, which might 
 have dazzled steadier eyes than those of ma- 
 ternal and fraternal affection. The prophet 
 had at last honour in his own country, but 
 the haughty spirit which had preserved its 
 balance at Edinburgh was not likely to lose 
 it at Mauchline; and we have him writing 
 for " auld day biggin," on the 18th of July, 
 
 in terms as strongly expressive as any that 
 ever emanated from his pen; of that jealous 
 pride which formed the groundwork of his 
 character, the dark suspiciousness of fortune 
 which the subsequent course of his history too 
 well justified; that nervous intolerance of 
 condescension, and consummate scorn of 
 meanness, which attended and characterised 
 him through life, and made the study of his 
 species, for which nature had endowed him 
 with such peculiar qualifications, the source 
 of more pain than was ever counterbalanced 
 by the requisite capacity for enjoyment with 
 which he was also endowed. There are few 
 of his letters in which more of the dark 
 abodes and secret lurking places of his spirit 
 are made manifest: — "1 never," says he, 
 "my friend, dreamt that mankind were capa- 
 ble of anything very lofty or generous ; but 
 the stateliness of the patricians of Edin- 
 burgh, and the servility of my own plebeian 
 brethren (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me 
 askance), since I returned home, have almost 
 put me out of conceit altogether of my 
 species. I have bought a pocket-Milton, 
 which I carry continually about me, in order 
 to study the sentiments, the dauntless raag- 
 nauimity, the intrepid, unyielding independ- 
 ence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance 
 of hardship in that great personage, Satan. 
 The many ties of acquaintance or friendship 
 I have, or think I have in life, I have felt 
 along the lines, and, damn 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." — 
 
 LOCKHART. 
 
 Page 46, Note 63. — This person was 
 Mr. James Smith, a former resident of 
 Mauchline, but who, at the period in ques- 
 tion, had removed to Linlithgow. 
 
 Page 46, Note 69. — All three of these 
 are the titles of popular Scottish songs. 
 They were all collated with the assistance of 
 Burns, and published in the shape of a 
 monthly periodical. Burns used to delight 
 in reverting to the praise of TuUochgnrum, 
 as a most genuine specimen of Scottish 
 minstrelsy; and this song had been attributed 
 to various authors, but was the work of the 
 Rev. Mr. Skinner. 
 
 Page 47, Note 70. — Here would be suffi- 
 cient evidence that up to this time Burns 
 was legally, and to all intents and purposes 
 an unmarried man, altliough much against 
 his own inclination, and his repeated entrea- 
 ties to the inexorable Armours. The penance 
 to which he had submitted, of itself entitled 
 him to a certificate of single blessedness ; 
 which, indeed, was offered by the officiating 
 
i.i'-'i'. <w ni'Tj''"?. 
 
 iiiiiiister. But l\ere have we in a letter ad- 
 dressed to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and bearing 
 date from Edinbiirsh, January 7th, 1787, 
 some additional and conclusive evidence ou 
 the subject. 
 
 " To tell the truth," says Burns, " amonjrst 
 frieiid*, I feel a miserable blank in my heart 
 with the want of her (that is Jean Armour), 
 and I don't think I shall ever meet with so 
 d»'h<"it.u9 an armful a;;aiii. She lias her 
 faults; but so have you and 1, and so has 
 everybody else. 
 
 ' Their tricks and craft have put me daft: — 
 They've taen me in and a' that ; 
 But clear the decks, and here's the sex, 
 I loe the jaJs for a' that! 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 Aud twice as muckie's a' that.* 
 [Part wanting.'] 
 
 ''I have met," he proceeds, with a very 
 pretty lass, a Lothian farmer's daughter, 
 whom I have almos-t persuaded to accompany 
 me to the \., sc country, should I ever return 
 to settle there. By tiie bye, a Lotliian/ar- 
 nier is about an Ayrshire squire of the lower 
 kind ; and I had a most exquisite ride from 
 liCith to her house yesternight, in a hackney 
 coach, with her brother and two sisters, and 
 brother's wife. ^\ e had dined altogether at 
 a common friend's house in Leith, aud drank, 
 danced, and sang, till late enougli. The 
 night was dark, the claret had been good, 
 
 and 1 thirsty ." Hence, at all events, 
 
 it is not only evident that Burns considered 
 himself free, but that he did so much against 
 his own iucliuatio.i. The supposition that 
 the Armours could, according to Scotch law, 
 which recognised a promise as an actual 
 marriage, have enforced the legal observation 
 of all the duties incumbent upon a husband, 
 is completely refuted by the performance of 
 the public penance at their own instance, 
 and by wliicli all c(;ntract between the parties 
 was an lnjnUij amiulled, and by the persecu- 
 tion which Jean Armour's friends instituted 
 against Burns, to render the alienation irre- 
 vocable. At any rate, at this |ierind there 
 there was a tacit consent of all parties that 
 either or both should be considered free. 
 
 Page 47, Note 71. — Br. Adair has been 
 dead many years. 
 
 Page 47, Note 72. — A reference to 
 Burns's own account of his wanderings, 
 whicli may he gatliered from the letters of 
 thii peridd, will serve to explain the matter 
 more fully. The Jacobitism of Burns was 
 the offspring of pure national pride and 
 national tradition. The Stuarts were Scots, 
 ard Scots who, in the earlier days of their 
 
 dynasty, had retlecled some ghiry upon the 
 land of their birth, and contributed sonio 
 share to her sonr/s, above all. Their degene- 
 racy was, by the way ; — the degradation of 
 more recent Stuarts could not obliterate the 
 charm which the patriotic enthusiasm was 
 apt to fling about their very weaknesses. It 
 is, however, well known that the same senti- 
 ment of opposition which fed upon the name 
 of Stuart, in Burns, gradually verged to the 
 greater extreme of republicanism, as this 
 charm faded before his imagination. The 
 following remarks, quoted as they are from 
 the memoranda of a former editor, will serve 
 to furnish some additional elucidation. "It 
 was probably at this time that certain ob- 
 noxious stanzas of notoriety were written on 
 a pane of glass in the apartment occupied 
 by the poet and his friend : — 
 
 'Here Stuarts once in triumph reigned. 
 And laws for Scotia's weal ordained ; 
 But now unroofed their palace stands, 
 Their sceptre's swayed by other hands. 
 The injured Stnart line is gone, 
 A race outlandish fills the throne— 
 An idiot race, to honour lost : 
 Who know them best, despise them most.' 
 
 Tliese lines have usually been attributed to 
 Burns, notwithstanding an obvious want of 
 that peculiar concentration and emphasis 
 which he gave to all his effusions. A writer 
 in the Paisley Magazine, December, 18.^8, 
 gives the following more satisfactory ac- 
 count of them, involving circumstances 
 which reflect the brightest lustre on the 
 character of the Ayrshire poet : — ' I'hey 
 were not,' says this writer, ' the composi- 
 tion of Bums, but of his friend Nicol. This 
 we state,' he continues, ' from the testimony 
 of those who themselves knew the fact as it 
 truly stood, and who were well acquainted 
 with the high-wrought feelings of honour 
 and friendship which induced Burns to re- 
 main silent uiuler the obl.')quy which their 
 artiliatlon entailed upon him. » * * The in- 
 dividual whose attention they first attracted 
 was a clerk in the eniployment of the Carroii 
 Iron Company, then travelling through the 
 country collecting accounts, or receiving 
 orders, who happened to arrive iiumediatcly 
 after the departure of the poet and his 
 friend. * * * . On inquiry he learned that 
 the last occupant of the apartment was the 
 far-famed Burns, and on this discovery 
 he imiuiicliately transferred a copy of them 
 to his memorandum-book of orders, made 
 every person as wise as himself on the sub- 
 ject, and poiiued an answer to them, which, 
 with the lines themselves, soon spread 
 
4C4 
 
 VOTES TO TKl': 
 
 o'f*r tlie country, and found a place in 
 every periodical of the day. To this poetic 
 crtic of the Carron Works do we owe the 
 first hint of Burns being the author of this 
 tavern effusion. They who saw the writing 
 on the glass know that it was not the hand- 
 writing of the poet ; but this critic, who 
 knew neither his autograph nor his person, 
 chose to consider it as such, and so an- 
 nounced it to the world. On his return to 
 Stirling, Burns was both irritated and 
 grieved to find that this idle and mischiev- 
 ous tale had been so widely spread and so 
 generally believed. The reason of the cold 
 and constrained reception he met with from 
 some distinguished friends, which at the time 
 he could not occount for, was now explained, 
 and he felt in all its bitterness the misery 
 of being innocently blamed with a thing I 
 which he despised as unworthy of his head 
 and heart. To disavow the authorship was 
 to draw down popular indignation on the 
 head of Nicol — a storm which would have 
 anihilated him. Kather than ruin the 
 interests of that friend, he generously and 
 magnanimously, or, as some less fervent 
 mind may think, foolishly, devoted him- 
 self to unmerited obloquy, by remaining 
 silent, and suffering the story to circulate 
 uncontradicted. The friend who was with 
 Burns when he indignantly smashed the 
 obnoxious pane with the butt end of his 
 whip, and who was perfectly aware of the 
 whole circumstances as they really stood, 
 long and earnestly pleaded with him to con- 
 tradict the story that had got wind, and 
 injured him so mucli in public estimation. 
 * ♦ * It was with a smile of peculiar 
 melancholy that Burns made this noble and 
 
 characteristic reply. ' I know, , I am 
 
 not the author; but I'll be damned ere I 
 betray the author. It would ruin him — he 
 is my friend.' It is unnecessary to add, 
 that to this resolution he ever after remained 
 firm. " 
 
 P AGE 47, Note 73.— The Mrs. Hamilton 
 here alluded to, was the mother of Mr. 
 tiavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, the constant 
 correspondent of Burns. 
 
 P.4.GE 48, Note 74. — Mrs. Bruce was 
 somewhat mistaken about her family dignity; 
 as the common ancestor of all the Brnces of 
 Stirlingshire, Clackmannanshire, and Fife, is 
 only known to have been a relation of Daviil 
 II., and has never been supposed to stand 
 higher in genealogy than as a descendant of a 
 younger brother of the father of King Robert. 
 The main line of the Clackmannan family, the 
 head of the name in Scotland, became extinct i 
 »u the person of Henry Bruce, the husband ' 
 
 of this old lady, and is now represented by 
 the Earl of Elgin, in whose house of Broom- 
 hall the sword and helmet of the heroic king 
 are yet preserved. Mrs. Katherine Bruce, 
 daughter of Mr. Bruce of Newton, and 
 widow of Henry Bruce of Clackmannan, died 
 November 4, 1791, at the age of ninety-five. 
 There is an interesting portrait of her, taken 
 in 1777, in the possession of Mr. R. Scott 
 Moncrieff, of Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 48, Note 75,— The bard Brace 
 was no longer living at this period: he died 
 a few years before at an early age. 
 
 Page 48, Note 76. — To Dr. Currie alone 
 we are indebted for this contribution ; it is 
 extracted from a letter addressed to himself 
 by Dr. Adair. 
 
 Page 49, Note 77. — This reasoning 
 might be extended, with some modification, 
 to objects of sight of every kind. To have 
 formed beforehand a distinct picture in the 
 mind, of any interesting person or thing, 
 generally lessens the pleasure of the first 
 meeting with them. Though this picture be 
 not superior, or even equal to the reality, 
 still it can never be expected to be an exact 
 resemblance; and the disappointment felt at 
 finding the object something different from 
 what was expected, interrupts and diminishes 
 the emotions that would otherwise be pro- 
 duced. In such cases, the second or third 
 interview gives more pleasure than the first. 
 — See the Elements of the Philosophy of the 
 Human Mind, by Mr. Stewart, p. 484. Such 
 publications as The Guide to the Lakes, 
 where every scene is described in the most 
 minute manner, and sometimes with consi- 
 derable exaggeration of language, are in this 
 point of view objectionable. 
 
 Page 49, Note 78. — This young lady, 
 subsequently married to Dr. Adair, was Miss 
 Katherine Hamilton, sister to the poet'a 
 intimate friend, Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 
 
 Page 49, Note 79. — Amongst others, in 
 the lines entitled "lines on scaring some 
 water-fowl in Loch Turit ; " of the date of 
 these, however, there is some doubt, for 
 there is more reason to attribute them to a 
 previous visit to the Highlands. If this 
 conjecture be correct, they were probably 
 written on the occasion of the poet's visit to 
 Ochtertyre, in Perthshire, (as it is in the im- 
 mediate vicinity of this place that Loch- 
 Turit IS situated), in the month of June. 
 Allusions and descriptions of a similar nature 
 are to be found in the "Lines written with a 
 pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers," and 
 in those " Written at an Inn at Kenmore." 
 
 Page 50, Note 80. — Such an account 
 would have been most applicable, as regards 
 
LIFE OF BURXS. 
 
 465 
 
 uie lirst iiitrodui.tion of the poet into hi^h 
 society. But in the winter which preceded 
 this period, lie had been the hon of the best 
 society of Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 50, Note 81. — The humble petition 
 of Bruar Water. 
 
 Page 50, Note 82. — This account is 
 derived from a letter addressed by Mr. 
 Walker to ilr. Cunningham ; and it is to 
 the latter to whom we are indebted for this, 
 as well as for so many other interesting par- 
 ticulars relating to Burns, The letter in 
 question is dated from Perth, October 24th, 
 1797. 
 
 Page 50, Note 83. — This gentleman, as 
 is well known, lield an important oiKce in 
 the administration of William Pitt, and was 
 subsequently raised to the peerage by the 
 title of Lord Melville. At this time he was 
 better known as the Rt. Hon. Henry Dundas. 
 
 Page 51, Note 84. — Such is the pur- 
 port of a letter addressed to Dr. Currie, by 
 Dr. Couper of Focahbers ; and it is to the 
 former that we are immediately indebted for 
 this contribution. 
 
 Page 51, Note 85. — The measure in 
 which these lines are composed, was intended 
 to accomodate them to Burns' very favourite 
 Scotch air of Morag. 
 
 Page 51, Noris 86. — The subjoined par- 
 ticulars, published by Mr. Lockhart, may be 
 of some interest in respect of this period of 
 our Biography. "At this time the publica- 
 tion called Johnsoii's Musical Museum was 
 conducted at Edinburgh, and the Editor 
 appears to have early prevailed upon Burns to 
 atf'ird him his assistance in the arrangement 
 of his material." [This, indeed, is evident 
 from the letters addressed by Burns himself 
 10 his ditferent friends, which will be found 
 amoiigst his correspondence of this period, 
 and in which he mentions the earnest interest 
 wnicli lie was takuig in the piiblication, and 
 the request of its editor that he should 
 do so.] " Though Green r/rotv the Rushes O ! 
 IS the only song which is entirely his (Burns), 
 and which appears in the first volume, pub- 
 U lied in 1787, many of the old ballads 
 included in that volume bear traces of his 
 hand." [Had ]\Ir. Lockhart examined a 
 little more closely, or, had he possessed the 
 niattrial which has since fallen into our 
 hands, he would have discovered that there 
 are, at le;ist. three more of which no earthly 
 trace could be found, save in the handiwork 
 of the Ayrshire Bard; and that the majority, 
 even the work of his favourite Skinner, had 
 received adilitiors and touche" frutn his hand. 
 At any rate, it was a very pardonable niis- 
 representatiou ; tor, it must be confessed, 
 II H 
 
 that the collection is, perhaps, onh the more 
 meritorious for his contributions.] " But in 
 the second volume," continues Jlr. LocKhart, 
 "which appeared in March 1788, we find 
 no fewer than five songs by Burns : — two 
 that have been already mentioned {Clarinda, 
 and How pleasant the Banks of the clear 
 whidbuj Devon), and three far better than 
 them, namely, Theniel Memie's Bonny 
 Mari/, that grand lyric which runs as 
 follows : — 
 
 Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong. 
 
 The wretch's destiny ; — 
 Macphersou'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, a;:d I will come to thee, 
 my lad. Burns had been, from his youth 
 upwards, an enthusia.stic lover of the old 
 minstrelsy and music of his country ; but 
 he now studied both subjects with far better 
 opportunities and appliances than he could 
 have commanded previously ; and it is from 
 this time that we may date his ambition to 
 transmit his own poetry to posterity, in 
 eternal association witli those exquisite airs, 
 which had hitherto, in far too many in- 
 stances, been coupled to verses which did 
 not deserve to be immortal. It is very well 
 known that from this time Burns com- 
 posed very few pieces but songs ; and 
 whether we ought or ought not, to regret 
 that such was the case, must wlmlly dcpt-iid 
 upon the estimate which we muke of his 
 songs as compared with his other poems : — 
 a point on wliich critics are to this hour 
 divided, and on which neither they, nor 
 their descendants or successors, are very 
 likely to agree. Mr. Walker, who is one of 
 those who lament Burns's comparative 
 dereliction 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 
 from this time forward surrounded him, — 
 to say nothing of the active duties of life 
 I in which he was at length about to he 
 I encaged" — Loci411akt. To this Mr. Lock- 
 i hart might have added, or Mr. Walker 
 I might liave suggested, the peculiarly re>tli'ss 
 and desultory nature of his disposition, which 
 having been harrassed and iciideied more 
 constantly unsettled by a series of siicres- 
 sive disappointments, vexation';, cinban-as 
 ments. &c., forbad the leiiuthe, ui nrjr,!..! n( 
 
46-: 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 uny larpe suliject, and which rendered verse 
 a kind of safety valve whereby the ebulli- 
 tion of vexation, sorrow, or excitement of 
 any kind found vent, and iu which the 
 brilliancy of a momentary flash of imagery 
 found life and light like a passing meteor. 
 [Ed.] 
 
 Page 51, Note 87. — Burns was occupy- 
 ing apartments in the house, or rather 
 cliambers of Mr. William Cruikshaiiks, one 
 of the masters of the high school. The 
 portion in which Burns resided overlooked 
 the enclosure in the rear of the Register 
 House. The house was at that time called 
 No. 2, St. James's Square, (since No. 30,) 
 and it was the top story which was in the 
 occupation of Mr. C. It was in the month 
 of December of this year (1787) that Burns 
 first met and became acquainted with the 
 celebrated Clarinda (Mrs. Mac Leliose) at 
 a tea party in the house of Miss Ninino 
 (of some literary celebrity) in Allison's 
 Square, Potter Row. ]\Irs. Mac Lehose, 
 whose personal beauty, amiable disposition, 
 and remarkable taste and intelligence made 
 so deep an impression upon the poet, was 
 at this time (and had so been since the deser- 
 tion of her husband, who had betaken him- 
 self to the West Indies in quest of fortune), 
 residing with her young children in Edin- 
 burgh upon very limited means, chiefly 
 supplied liy the friends or members of her 
 own family. The charms of her person 
 and conversation, added to the peculiar 
 interest of her story, which involved the 
 tender chord of unhappy attachment, at 
 once wrought upon Burns, and one of those 
 peculiar intimacies sprung up between them, 
 which could only be understood by persons 
 of equally refined sensibilities and purity ol 
 principle. The correspondence between them 
 was thenceforward almost as ardent as it 
 was constant and innocent, as may be 
 gathered from the letters included in the 
 correspondence of the poet. It has been 
 said that the publication of Mrs. Mac 
 Lehose's letters to Burns, and of those of 
 Burns to her, was to be regretted, and was 
 to be attributed to the indiscretion of her 
 friends. It does not at all appear that she 
 was opposed to their publication after her 
 death, nor could any thing serve to reflect 
 higher honour upon her than the contents 
 of this reciprocal correspondence. 
 
 Page 52, Note 88. — The commencement 
 of this lyric piece was subsequently intro- 
 duced into the Chevallier's Lament, and the 
 lines so introduced are remarkable for the 
 masmificence of their imagery. 
 
 Page 52, Note 89. — Mr. Ramsay was 
 
 an enthusiastic student of the classics, and 
 had his house and grounds garnished 
 thickly with passages of aucieiit wisdom. It 
 is necessary to distinguish his house, situated 
 near Stirling, from Ochtertyre near Crielf, 
 the seat of Sir William Murray, where Burns 
 was also entertaiued. Mr. Ramsay died 
 at his house of Ochtertyre, ilaich 2, 1814. 
 
 Page 52, Note 90. — Extract of a letter 
 from Mr. Ramsay to Dr. Currie. This 
 incorrigibility of I5urns extended, however, 
 only to his poems printed before he arrived 
 in Edinburgh; for, iu regard to his nn- 
 publislied poems, he was amenable to criti- 
 cism, of which many proofs might be 
 given. 
 
 Page 52, Note 91. — Patrick Miller, 
 Esq., had realised, as a banker m Edinburgh, 
 the means of purchasing the estate of Dais- 
 winton on the Nith. He was a man of 
 enlightened mind, and much mechanical inge- 
 nuity, the latter of which qualities he dis- 
 played in the invention of a vessel propeMed 
 by paddled wheels, to which, at the sugges- 
 tion of his children's preceptor, Mr. Taylor, 
 the steam engine was afterwards applied, so 
 that he was enabled to make the Jirsl ascer- 
 tained exemplification of steam namyulion 
 upon a small lake near his house, in October 
 1788. Some discouraging circumstances, 
 unconnected with the invention, were the 
 sole means of preventing him from bringing 
 it into practical operation — an honour 
 which was reserved for the American 
 Fulton. Mr. Miller died, December 9th, 
 1815. 
 
 Page 52, Note 92.— Mr. Heron states 
 that the peet's appointment to the excise 
 was owing to the kindness of Mr. Alexander 
 Wood, surgeon, (affectionately remeniliered 
 in Edinburgh by the appellation of Sandy 
 Wood), who having, while in attendance 
 on Burns for Ids bruised limb, heard him 
 express his wishes, waited on Mr. Graham, 
 of Fiiitry, one of the commissioners, by 
 whom the name of the poet was iinraediatly 
 put upon the roll. 
 
 Page 53, Note 93.— The Edinburgh 
 Magazine for June 1799, contains tlie follow- 
 ing statement, apparently from authority : — 
 " j\Ir. Jililler offered Mr. Burns the choice 
 of several farms on the estate of Dalswinton, 
 which were at that time out of lease. Mr. 
 Burns gave the preference to the farm of 
 Ellisland, most charmingly situated on the 
 banks of the Nith, containing upwards of a 
 hundred acres of most excellent land" (this 
 must be taken with a deduction), " then 
 worth a rent of from eighty to a hundred 
 pounds. Jlr. Aliller, alter showing Mr 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 467 
 
 Burns what the farm cost him to a farthing, 
 allowed him to tix the rental himself, and 
 the endurance of the lease. A lease was 
 accordingly given to the poet on his own 
 terms, namely, for fifty-seven years, at the 
 very low rent of fifty pounds. And, in addi- 
 tion to tliis, when Mr. Burns signed the tack, 
 Mr. Miller presented him with two hundred 
 pounds, to enable liim to enclose and im- 
 prove his farm. It is usual to allow tenants 
 a year's rent for this purpose, but the sum 
 Mr. jMiller gave him was at least four years' 
 rent. Sir. Miller has since sold the farm to 
 John M'jNIorrine, Esq., at nineteen hundred 
 pounds, leaving to himself seven acres on 
 the Dalswiuton side of the river." Mr. 
 Lockhart, on the other hand, states that the 
 lease was for four successive terms, of nine- 
 teen years each, at fifty pounds for the 
 first three years' crops, and seventy for all 
 the rest ; Mr. Jliller giving three hundred 
 pounds to renew the farm-house and offices, 
 and agreeing to defray tlie expense of any 
 plantations which Burns might make on the 
 banks of the river. 
 
 F.\GE 54, Note 94. — In apposite illus- 
 tration of the feelings roused by this cir- 
 cumstance, we have the following hues 
 which celebrate the moment. 
 
 I hae a wife o' my ain, 
 I'll partake wi' iiae-body; 
 
 I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
 I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 
 
 I hae a penny to spend. 
 
 There ! — thanks to nae-body ; 
 
 I hae nae-thing to lend. 
 I'll borrow frae nae-body. 
 
 I am nae -body's lord, 
 I'll be slave to nae-body ; 
 
 I hae a guid braid sword, 
 I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 
 
 I'll be merry and free, 
 I'll be sad for nae-body; 
 
 If nae-body care for me, 
 I'll care for nae-body. 
 
 Page 54, Note 95. — The poem 'of The 
 Whistle celebrates a bacchanalian contest 
 among three gentlemen of Nithsdale, where 
 Burns appears as umpire. 'M.i. Riddel died 
 before our bard, who wrote some elegiac 
 verses to his memory, entitled, Sonnet on 
 the Death of Robert Riddel. From him, 
 and from all the members of his family. 
 Burns received not kiudncss only, but friend- 
 Bhip ; and the society he met in general at 
 Friar's Carse was calculated to improve his 
 habits as well as his manners. Mr. Fergus- 
 
 son, of Craigdarroch, so well known for hw 
 eloquence and social talents, fell a victiui to 
 an accidental injury occasioned by a fall fro'u 
 his chaise, according to some, after the (ieu'h 
 of Burns, but more autlieuticatly, tlu-i's 
 months before that event, viz., in the month 
 of March, 1796. Sir Robert Laurie, tlie 
 third person in the drama, has since been 
 engaged in contests of a bloodier nature, 
 and outlived the last century. 
 
 Page 54, Note 96. — Respecting Burns's 
 appointment to the Excise, Mr. \V. Nicol 
 wrote in the following terms to Mr. R. 
 Ainslie, from Edinburgh, August 13, 1790: 
 — " As to Burns, poor folks, like you and I, 
 must resign all thoughts of future corres- 
 pondence with him. To the pri.'e of ap- 
 plauded genius is now superadded ilie pride 
 of office. He was lately raised to the dignity 
 of an Examiner of Excise, which is a step 
 preparative to attaining that of a Supervisor. 
 Therefore, we can expect no less tlian that 
 his language will become perfectly Jluraluin 
 — ' odi profanum vulgus et arceo.' However, 
 I will see him in a fortnight hence, and if I 
 find that Beelzebub has inflated his heart, 
 like a bladder, with pride, and given it the 
 fullest distension that vanity can effect, you 
 and I will burn him in effigy, and write a 
 satire, as bitter as gall and wormwood, 
 against government for employing its enemies, 
 like Lord North, to effect its purposes. 
 This will be taking all the revenge in our 
 power." 
 
 Page 5o, Note 97. — Some misapprehen- 
 sion, perhaps, exists with respect to Burns's 
 qualifications for ordinary business. The 
 real state of the case we take to have been 
 this : that Burns disliked the drudgery of 
 common worldly affairs, but was by no means 
 detiuent in the sagacity, observation, and 
 perseverance required from a man of the 
 world. Colonel Fullerton has paid him a 
 compliment on a farmer-like piece of acumea 
 in a note to his View of Agriculture in 
 Ayrshire, 1793 : — "In order," he says, "to 
 prevent the danger arising from horned 
 cattle in studs and straw-yards, the best 
 mode is to cut out the budding knob, or 
 root of the horn, while the calf is very young. 
 This was suggested to me by Mr. Robert 
 Burns, whose general talents are no less 
 conspicuous than the poetic powers which 
 have done so much honour to the county 
 where he was born." 
 
 Page 55, Note 98. — This bowl wag 
 made of the stone of which Inverary House 
 is built, the mansion of the f iinily of Argyle 
 The stone is the lapis ollaris. The punch- 
 bowl passed through the hands of Mr 
 
 41 
 
i6e> 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 A'lPV.inffer CiiniiiiigliaTn, jeweller, iu Edin- 
 burtrh, to those of Mr. Hastie, present 
 representative of Paisley in parliament, who 
 is said to have refused three hundred f^uineas 
 for it — a sum that would have set the poet 
 on his lej^s for ever. 
 
 Page 56, Note 99.— Tliis ballad begins 
 with the following well penned lines : — 
 
 The moon had climbed the highest hill 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 
 And from the eastern summit shed 
 Its silver light on tower and tree. 
 
 Page 56, Note 100. — Mr. Gordon has 
 since become Lord Viscount Kenmure. 
 
 Page 56, Note 101. — A very expressive 
 Scotch term, which, as will be seen in the 
 glossary, signifies the brink or margin of 
 flowing water. 
 
 Page 57, Note 102.— The identical Lord 
 Selkirk, of whom Sir Walter Scott has 
 furnished us with a smart and interesting 
 anecdote. 
 
 Page 58, Note 103.— Mr. Chambers's 
 vaUiable contributions to the anecdotes and 
 traditions relating to Burns, furnish us with 
 tlie following collectanea ; — 
 
 " Mr. Ladyman, an English commercial 
 traveller, alighting one afternoon, in the year 
 1791, at Brownhill, a stage about thirteen 
 miles from Dumfries, was informed by the 
 landlord that Mr. Burns, the celebrated poet, 
 was in the house, and that he had now the 
 best possible opportunity of being introduced 
 to tlie company of the cleverest man in 
 Scotland. Mr. Ladyman immediately re- 
 quested the honour of an introduction, and 
 was forthwith shown into the room in which 
 the bard was sitting with two other gentle- 
 men of the road. The landlord, who was a 
 forward sort of a man, and stood upon no 
 ceremony with Burns, presented Mr. Lady- 
 man ; and while the poet rose and received 
 the stranger traveller with that courtesy 
 which always marked his conduct towards 
 strangers, sat down himself along with his 
 guests, and mixed in the conversation. 
 
 When Mr. Ladyman entered the inn, it 
 was about two o'clock. The poet had been 
 drinking since mid-day with the two gentle- 
 men, and was slightly elevated with liquor, 
 but not to such a degree as to make any 
 particular alteration upon his voice or manner. 
 He did not speak much, or take any eager 
 share in the conversation. He frequently 
 leant down his head upon the edge of the 
 table, and was silent for a considerable time, 
 as if he had been suffering bodily pain. 
 However, when opportunity occurred, he 
 would start up, and say something shrewd 
 
 or decisive upon the subject in agita- 
 tion. 
 
 About an hour after "Sir. Ladyman arrived, 
 dinner was presented, consisting of beans 
 and bacon, &c., of whicii tlie landlord partook, 
 like the rest of the company, evidently to 
 the displeasure of the poet. During the 
 course of the subsequent toddy, Mr. Lady- 
 man ventured to request of Burns to let the 
 company have a small specimen of his poetry 
 upon any subject he liked to think of — 'just 
 anytliing, in short — whatever might come 
 uppermost — doggrel or not.' Burns was 
 never offended by any solicitation of this 
 sort, when it was made in a polite manner, 
 and with proper deference to his own good 
 pleasure. In the present case, he granted 
 the request so readily, that, almost imme- 
 diately after Mr. Ladyman had done speaking, 
 he deliberately uttered the following lines : — ■ 
 
 At Brownhill we always get dainty good 
 
 cheer. 
 And plenty of Bacon, each day in the year ; 
 We've all things that's iioat, and mostly m 
 
 season — 
 But why always Bacon ? — come, give me a 
 
 reason ! 
 
 It must be understood that Bacon was the 
 name of the landlord, whose habit of intruding 
 into all compauies was thus cleverly ridiculed. 
 
 As far as ^Mr. Ladyman can recollect. 
 Burns pronounced the lines without the 
 least hesitation of voice, and apparently 
 without finding any difficulty in embodying 
 the thought in rhyme. No effort seemed 
 necessary. He happened to have the glass 
 iu his hand at the time the request was 
 made, and so trifling was the exertion of 
 intellect apparently required, that he did 
 not put it down upon the table, but waited 
 till he concluded the epigram, and then 
 drank off his liquor amidst the roar of ap- 
 plause that ensued. The landlord had retired 
 some little time before, otherwise Burns 
 would not, perhaps, have chosen him as the 
 subject of his satire. There is no doubt, 
 however, that he would see and hear enough 
 of it afterwards : for Burns, at the earnest 
 entreaties of the company, immediately com- 
 mitted it to the breath of Fame, by writing 
 it upon one of the panes in the window 
 behind his chair. — Extract from an early 
 M.S. nole-hook. 
 
 The acquaintance which Burns maintained 
 with a considerable number of the gentry of 
 his neighbourhood, was not favourable to 
 him. They frequently sent liim game from 
 their estates, and disdained not to come to 
 his house to partake of it. The large quan- 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 469 
 
 tities of nim which flowed into his stores 
 gratuitously, in consequence of seizures, as 
 was then the custom, were also injurious. 
 Yet, as far as circumstances left him to his 
 own inclinations, he was a man of simple, as 
 well as kindly domestic habits. As he was 
 often detained by company Iroia tne aumer 
 provided for him by his wife, she sometunes, 
 on a conjecture of his probable absence, 
 would not prepare that meal for him. When 
 he chanced to come home and find no dinner 
 ready, he was never in the least troubled or 
 irritated, but would address himself with 
 the greatest cheerfulness to any succeda- 
 neum that could be readily set before him. 
 They generally had abundance of good Dun- 
 lop cheese, sent to them by their Ayrshire 
 friends. The poet would sit down to that 
 wholesome fare, with bread and butter, and 
 his book by his side, and seem, to any casual 
 visitor, such as ]\liss Lcwars, as happy as a 
 courtier at the feast of kings. 
 
 He was always anxious that his wife 
 should have a neat and genteel appearance. 
 In consequence, as she alleged, of the duties 
 of nursing and attending to her infants, she 
 could not help being sometimes a little slo- 
 venly. Burns disliked this, and not only 
 remonstrated against it in a gentle way, but 
 did the utmost that in him lay to counteract 
 it, by buyuig for her the best clothes he 
 could afford. Any little novelty in female 
 dress was almost sure to meet with patronage 
 from Burns — all with the aim of keeping up 
 a spirit for neat dressing in his wife. She 
 was, for instance, one of the first persons in 
 Dumfries who appeared in a dress of ging- 
 ham — a stuff now common to all, but, at its 
 first introduction, rather costly, and almost 
 exclusively used by persons of superior con- 
 dition." 
 
 Page 58, Note 104.— Mr. Lockhart 
 enters into a long discussion of the poet's 
 political sentiments, and the nature of the 
 circumstances here alluded to. He leaves 
 the whole matter in a state of doubt, for 
 w Inch, we think, there is no just occasion. 
 Burns unquestionably felt as a zealous par- 
 tisan of the French Revolution. A mind so 
 generous and upright as his could have taken 
 no other course. That such was the case, 
 his " Vision" at Lincluden College, his In- 
 scription for an altar of Independence, and 
 his Tree of Liberty, introduced into the pre- 
 sent edition of his poems, are sufficient proof: 
 more may be found iu some specimens of an 
 unpublislied poem given by Mr. Cunning- 
 ham ; — 
 " Why should we idly waste our prime 
 
 Repeating our oppressions? 
 
 Come, rouse to arras, 'tis now the time 
 
 To punish past transgressions. 
 'Tis said that kings can do no wrong — 
 
 Their murderous deeds deny it ; 
 And, since from us their power is sprung, 
 
 We have a right to try it. 
 r\nw eacn true patriot's song shall be. 
 Welcome death or libertie. 
 
 « • • 
 
 Proud bishops next we will translate. 
 
 Among priest-crafted martyrs ; 
 The guillotine on peers shall wait. 
 
 And knights shall hang in garters ; 
 Those despots long have trod us down. 
 
 And judges are their engines — 
 Such wretched minions of a crown 
 
 Demand the people's vengeance. 
 * • • 
 
 The golden age we'll then revive, 
 
 Each man v.'ill be a brother; 
 In harmony we all shall live, 
 
 And share the earth together. 
 In virtue trained, enlightened youth 
 
 Wdl love each fellow-creature ; 
 And future years shall prove the truth 
 
 That man is good by nature. 
 Then let us toast, with three times three. 
 The reign of peace aud libertie." 
 
 A lady with whom a recent editor oi 
 Burns's works, once conversed, remembered 
 being present in the theatre of Dumfries, 
 during the heat of the French Revolution, 
 on which occasion, the poet, somewhat heated 
 with liquor, entered the pit. Upon the 
 orchestra, striking up the national anthem, 
 the company, and audience of the theatre 
 rose, with the single exception of Burns, 
 who loudly shouted fa ira. An uproar 
 ensued, and the poet was obliged to leave 
 the theatre. The apologists of the govern- 
 ment who, say what they will, neglected 
 and slighted the purest genius of his age, 
 make escapades of this nature their excuse. 
 They attempt, however, to adduce the 
 testimony of Mr. Alexander Findlater, the 
 officer under whom Burns served in the 
 Excise, to show that the most harmless re- 
 buke only, was levelled at the unruly and 
 independent spirit of the bard. However 
 this may be, his promotion was very much 
 retarded, although it is admitted that 
 ultimately it was not prevented. 
 
 Page 59, Note 105. — Mr. Lockhart has 
 favoured us with a most interesting anecdote 
 respecting the effect of the political opinions 
 of Burns upon his social position. To the 
 shame of the Scottish Whiggism be it re- 
 corded. "Mr. David MacuUoch, a son of 
 the Laird of Ardwell, has told me that he 
 
470 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 was seldom more grieved, than when riding 
 into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, to 
 attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking 
 alune, on the shady side of the principal 
 street of the town, while the opposite part 
 was gay with successive groups of gentlemen 
 and ladies, all drawn together for the festi- 
 vities of the night, not one of whom appeared 
 willing to recognise him. The horseman 
 dismoimted and joined Burns, who, on his 
 proposing to him to cross the street, said, 
 ' Nay, nay, my young friend— that's all over 
 now ;' and quoted, after a pause, some verses 
 of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad : — 
 
 'His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
 Uis auld ane look'd better than mony 
 
 ane's new ; 
 But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing, 
 And casts himsel dowie upon the corn-bing. 
 
 Oh were we young, as we ance hae been. 
 We should hae been galloping douu on yon 
 
 green. 
 And linking it ower the lily-white lea — 
 And werena my heart licjht I wad die.' 
 
 It was little in Burns's character to let 
 his feelings on certain subjects escape 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 bon- 
 nie Jean's singing of some verses which he 
 had recently composed." — LocivHARt. 
 
 Page 59, Note 106.— See the poem enti- 
 tled The Dumfries Volunteers. — Currie. 
 Previous to one of the public meetings of 
 this body^a regular field-day, which was to 
 terminate in a grand dinner — it was hinted to 
 the bard that something would be expected 
 from him in the shape of a song or speech- 
 some glowing tribute in honour of the patrio- 
 tic cause that had linked them together, and 
 eke in honour of the martial glory of old 
 Scotland. The poet said nothing, but as 
 silence gives consent, it was generally expected 
 that he would share them on the occasion of 
 <he approaching festival with another lyric 
 or energetic oration. The day at length 
 arrived ; dinner came and passed, and the 
 usual loyal toasts were drunk with all the 
 honours. Now came the poet's turn ; every 
 eye was fixed upon him, and, slowly lifting 
 his glass, he stood up and looked aroimd 
 him with an arch, indescribable expression of 
 countenance, 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'may 
 we never see the French, nor the French see 
 us!' The toast fell like a 'wet blanket,' as 
 
 Moore says, on the hopes of the Voluii. 
 teers. 
 
 'Is that a'?' they muttered one to another, 
 dropping down to their seats — to use the 
 words of my informant, who was present — 
 'like so many old wives at afield-preaching; 
 ' Is that the grand speech or fine poem that 
 we were to have from him ? — but we could 
 hae expected nae better!' Not a few, how- 
 ever, 'raxed their jaws,' as the Ettrick Shep- 
 herd saj's, at the homely truth and himiour 
 of the poet's sentiment, heightened by the 
 first rueful aspect (A the company ; and, long 
 after, in his jovial moments. Burns used to 
 delight in telling how he had cheated tlie 
 volunteers of Dumfries." — R. Carrutheks, 
 in the Edinburgh Literary Journal. 
 
 Page 59, Note 107. — These lines wer? 
 published in the periodical collection of Scot- 
 tish songs produced under the title of John- 
 soit's Musical Museum. They bear date about 
 1791, and, as the text is given above, they 
 bear the latest corrections of the poet. It 
 is one of the best of Burns's productions, 
 but its merit failed to be strongly or popu- 
 larly observed until the first few years of the 
 present century, when the martial glory of 
 Great Britain had grown of more general 
 admiration, and had enlisted a more univer- 
 sal enthusiasm, such as to overwhelm all 
 minor political predilections. It is, perhaps, 
 on account of this tardy popularity that 
 Burns was readily dissuaded at the time 
 from reprinting it separately, in extenso, with 
 a new and appropriate air. 
 
 Page 61, Note 108. — According to the 
 current story which is generally received at 
 Dumfries, it was in this condition of intoxi- 
 cation that he sat down on the door step of 
 a hotise on his way homeward, and fell fast 
 asleep. Exposed to the inclemency of the 
 season and night air, and doubly susceptible, 
 owing to the exhausted condition of his ner- 
 vous system, and to the deleterious effect of 
 liquor, he became so chilled as to induce a 
 fatal disorder. 
 
 Page 61, Note 109. — This was Mrs. 
 Riddel, of Woodlee Park. 
 
 Page 62, Note 110. — According to Mr. 
 Cunningham, Burns expired after a violent 
 and convulsive struggle, " rising at the last 
 moment, and springing to the bottom of the 
 bed." Mr. Cunningham, however, it is ad- 
 mitted, supplies lis with this information on 
 hearsay. Another biographer denies the 
 possibility of such an effort, stating that 
 Burns was in "no condition" (i. e. too ex- 
 hausted), to have made such a movement. 
 Were the question of any import.ince, and 
 no better refuted than by the possibilUy 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 471 
 
 being called in question, Mr. Cunningham 
 might certainly overthrow the denial of his 
 statement. But there is an account for 
 which we are indebted to Dr. Maxvvell, the 
 medical attendant, who was at the bedside 
 of the poet, in which it is averred that poor 
 Burns expired with perfect calmness, and in 
 ajiparent consciousness, after some hours of 
 low muttering delirium. 
 
 Page G3, Note 111.— Mr. Whyte is the 
 author of a poem entitled St. Guerdon's 
 Well, and of the piece entitled a tribute to 
 the memory of Burns. 
 
 Page Go, Note 112. — Dr. Currie men- 
 tions that Burns died free of debt Accord- 
 ing to another biographer, however, " the 
 strict fact that he owed but £7. 4s. at that 
 period, serves, like the exception with the 
 nde, to confirm the report of the biogra- I 
 pher. It is also worthy of notice that he i 
 left a collection of books, estimated as worth I 
 ninety-two pounds. The terror of a jail, I 
 which haunted him a short while before his 
 death, and afterwards recurred in delirium, 
 was excited by a pressing note for payment 
 of his regimentals, which had been sent to 
 him by Mr. David M'illiamson, a Dumfries 
 shopkeeper — a person, we have been assured, 
 who ne\er could have resorted to any ex- 
 treme nieasuie with his illustrious debtor. 
 Five pounds, requested from and promptly 
 sent by Mr. Thomson a few days before his 
 death, removed the cause of the terror, but 
 unfortunately did not obhterate the feeling 
 which it had raised." 
 
 Page 63, Note 113.— This Mr. Stobie 
 was in the ordinary service of the Excise as 
 late as 1818, at Pinkie Salt Pans. He is 
 said to have spoken of Burns's musical ac- 
 complishments in the following terms : — 
 " He sang like a nightingale ; but he had 
 the voice of a boar." The expression ap- 
 pears contradictory ; but, by the complimen- 
 tary pirt of it, he only understood, in all 
 probability, the readiness with which tiie 
 poet would attune his voice when requested 
 to do so. [This anecdote has been told by 
 some one else of two different persons, who, 
 although, they affected to shun Burns as a 
 reprobate whilst living (though God wot, the 
 poet would certainly not have sought their 
 company), were prone to boast of him as lui 
 acqnainUmcc when his reputation alone re- 
 mained to hallow and endear popular recol- 
 lections. I am, therefore, mucli inclined to 
 exonerate Mr. Stobie from an ill-natured 
 remark, which seems scarcely in accordance 
 with the tenor of his conduct.] 
 
 Page 63, Note 114.— The death of 
 Burns occurred on the 21st of July, and he 
 
 41^ 
 
 lost consciousness as early as the 16th, from 
 which time he continued almost continually 
 unconscious and rambling. The letter from 
 IMr. Graham could not, in all probability, as 
 cross country posts went at that time, have 
 been delivered until the 15th, for it was only 
 dated on the 13th. 
 
 Page 04, Note 115. — "During his resi- 
 dence in Glasgow, a characteristic instance 
 occurred of the way in which he would re- 
 press petulance and presumption. A young 
 man of some literary pretensions, who had 
 newly commenced business as a bookseller, 
 had been in the practice of writing notices 
 of Burns's Poems in a style so flippant, and 
 withal so patronising, as to excite feelings ia 
 the poet towards him very different from 
 what he counted upon. Reckoning, however, 
 upon a very grateful reception from Burns, 
 he was particularly anxious for an early in- 
 troduction to his company, and, as his friends 
 knew, had been at some pains to prepare 
 himself for making dazzling impressions 
 upon the Ayrshire ploughman — as it was 
 then the fashion, amongst a certain kind of 
 literary fi)lks, to call the poet. At the 
 moment the introduction took place. Burns 
 was engaged in one of his hai)piest and most 
 playful veins with my friend and another 
 intimate or two ; but, upon the gentleman's 
 presentation, who advanced in a manner 
 sutliciently affable, the 'ploughman' assumed 
 an air of such dignified coldness, as froze 
 him into complete silence during the time 
 he remained in his company." — Correspond- 
 ent of the Scotsmnn, 1828. 
 
 Page 65, Note 116.— Smellie's Philc 
 sojihyof Natural History. 
 
 Page 65^ Note 117. — The subjoined 
 passage quoted from Quintilian, Inst. Orat. 
 ii, 9, is appositely parallel to the sense of 
 this observation : — An vero Isocrates cum 
 de Ephoro atque Theopompo sic judicaret, 
 
 Ut ALTEia FKENIS, ALTER! CALCARIBUS 
 
 OPUS ESSE diceret ; aut in illo lentiore tar- 
 ditatem, aut in illo pene prsecipiti con- 
 citationeni adjuvandum docendo existimavit, 
 cum alterum alterius natura miscendum 
 arbitraretur? Imbeciliis tanien ingeniis sane 
 sic obsequendum sit, ut tantum in id quo 
 vocat natura, ducantur. Ita enim, quod 
 solum possunt, melius efficient." 
 
 Page 66, Note 118. — The reader must 
 not suppose it is contended, that the same 
 individual could have excelled in all these 
 directions. A certain degree of instruction 
 and practice, is necessary to excellence in 
 every one, and life is too short to admit 
 of one man, however great his talents, 
 acquiring this in all of them. It is only 
 
472 
 
 '"'t Tjl V 
 
 asserted, that the same talents, difl'ereiiiiy 
 applied, might have succeeded in any one, 
 though, perhaps, not equally well iu each. 
 And, after all, this position requires certain 
 limitations, which the reader's candour 
 and judgment wdl supply. In supposing 
 that a great poet might have made a great 
 orator, the physical qualities necessary 
 to oratory are pre-supposed. In supposing 
 that a great orator might have made a great 
 poet, it is a necessary condition, that he 
 should have devoted himself to poetry, and 
 that he should have acquired a proficiency 
 in metrical numbers, which by patience and 
 attention may be acquired, though the 
 want of it has embarrassed and chilled many 
 of the first efforts of true poetical genius. 
 In supposing that Homer might have led 
 armies to victory, more, indeed, is assumed 
 than the physical qualities of a general. To 
 these must be added that hardihood of 
 mind, that coolness in the midst of difficulty 
 and danger, which great poets and orators 
 are found sometimes, but not always, to 
 possess. The nature of the institutions of 
 Greece and Rome produced more instances 
 of single individuals who excelled in various 
 departments of active and speculative life, 
 than occur in modern Europe, where the 
 employments of men are more subdivided. 
 Many of the greatest warriors of antiquity 
 e.xcelled in literature and in oratory. That 
 they had the minds of great poets also, will 
 be admitted, when the qualities are justly 
 appreciated which are necessary to excite, 
 combine, and command the active energies 
 of a great body of men ; to rouse that en- 
 thusiasm which sustains fatigue, hunger, and 
 the inclemencies of the elements, and which 
 triumphs over the fear of death, the most 
 powerful instinct of our nature. 
 
 The authority of Cicero may be appealed 
 to, in favour of the close connection between 
 the poet and the orator. " Elst enim 
 finitimus oratori poeta, numeris adstrictior 
 paulo, verborum autuin licentia liberior," 
 &c. — De Okator. lib. i. c. 16. See also 
 lib. iii. c. 7. It is true, the example of 
 Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. 
 His attempts in verse, which are praised 
 by Plutarch, do not seem to have met tlie 
 approbation of Juvenal, or of some others. 
 Cicero probably did not take sufficient 
 time to leavn the art of the poet ; but that 
 he had the affl.alus necessary to poetical 
 excellence, may be abundantly proved from 
 his compositions in prose. On theother hand, 
 nothing i? more clear, than that, in the 
 character of a great poet, all the mental 
 qualities of iui orator are included. It is 
 
 said by Quintihau, of Homer, " Omr.ibu.i 
 eloquentiae partibus exemplum et ortum de- 
 dit." — Lib. i. 47. The study of Homer is 
 therefore recommended to the orator, as ot 
 the first importance. Of the two sublime 
 poets in our own language, who are hardly 
 inferior to Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, 
 a similar recommendation may be given. 
 It is scarcely necessary to mention how 
 much an acquaintance with them has 
 availed the great orator who is now the 
 pride and ornament of the English bar, a 
 character that may be appealed to with 
 singular propriety, when we are contending 
 for the universality of genius. 
 
 The identity, or at least the great simi- 
 larity, of the talents necessary to excellence 
 in poetry, oratory, painting, and war, will 
 be admitted by some who will be iuclined 
 to dispute the extension of the position 
 to science or natural knowledge. On this 
 occasion, I may quote the following obser- 
 vations of Sir William Jones, whose own 
 example will, however, far exceed in weight 
 the authority of his precepts : — " Abul Ola 
 had so flourishing a reputation, that several 
 persons of uncommon genius were ambi- 
 tious of learning the art of poetry from so 
 able an instructor. His most illustrious 
 scholars were Feleki and Khakani, who were 
 no less eminent for their Persian composi- 
 tions than for their skill in every branch of 
 pure and mixed mathematics, and particu- 
 larly ill astronomy — a striking proof that a 
 sublime poet may become master of any 
 kind of learning which he chooses to 
 profess ; since a tine imagination, a lively 
 wit, an easy and copious style, cannot 
 possibly obstruct the acquisitior of any 
 science whatever, but must necessarily 
 assist him in his studies, and shorten his 
 labour." — Sir IVilliam Jones's Works, vol. iu 
 p. 317. 
 
 Page 67, Note 119. — Tliese strictures 
 may, however, be very considerably extended. 
 Cobbett is not the only philosojiher who lias 
 revealed the deleterious properties of other 
 stimulants, or of other productions, which 
 are, to all intents and purposes, employed as 
 such. There are a great number of other 
 substances which may be considered under 
 this point of view — tobacco, tea, and coffee, 
 are of the number. These substances essen- 
 tially differ from each other in their qualities ; 
 and an inquiry into the particular effects of 
 each on the health, morals, and happiness of 
 those who use them, would be curious and 
 useful. The effects of wine and of opium on 
 the temperament of sensibility, the editor 
 intended to have discussed m this place at 
 
\ 
 
 LIFE OF BTJENS. 
 
 1." i 
 
 Sdme leiijrtJi ; but he found tlie subject too 
 extensive and too professional to he intro- 
 duced with propriety. The difficulty of 
 abaiidoninfrany of these narcotics (if we may 
 so term them), when inclination is strength- 
 ened by halnt, is well known. Johnson, in 
 his distre.<ses, had experienced the cheering 
 but trcaclierous influence of wine, and, by a 
 powerful effort, abandoned it. He was 
 obliged, however, to use tea as a substitute, 
 and this was the solace to which he con- 
 stantly had recourse under his habitual 
 melancholy. The praises of wine form 
 many of the most beautiful lyrics of the 
 poets of Greece and Rome, and of modern 
 Europe. Whether opium, which produces 
 visions still more ecstatic, has been the 
 theme of the eastern poets, I do not know. 
 
 Wine is drunk in small quantities at a 
 time, in company, where, for a time, it pro- 
 motes harmony and social affection. Opium 
 is swallowed by the Asiatics in full doses at 
 once, and the inebriate retires to the solitary 
 indulgence of his delirious imaginations. 
 Hence, the wine drinker appears in a supe- 
 rior light to the imbiber of opium, a dis- 
 tinction which he owes more to the form 
 tlian to the qnnUty of his liquor. 
 
 Page 68, Note 120.— Mrs. Riddel of 
 Woodlee Park. 
 
 Page 72, Note 121. — Take, forinstance, 
 the authors or collaters of the Delicia Poet- 
 arum Scotonim, and others. 
 
 Page 73, Note 122. — Lord Karnes. 
 
 Page 71. Note 123. — X few Scottish 
 ballads, attributable to the last century, have 
 been got together in the Pepys collection, 
 but without clue to the authorships. 
 
 Pare 74, Note 121. — Some strong rea- 
 sons are assigned by a contributor signing 
 himself J. Runcole, who addresses Mr. 
 Ramsay in the second volume of T/ie Bee, for 
 doubting the autiienticity of a great number I 
 of Scottish Songs of professedly remote [ 
 antiquity, and of much celebrity. The quo- i 
 tation cited above, is extracted from a letter , 
 addressed by Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, to 
 Dr. Currie, and dated Sept. 11th, 1799. 
 
 Page 175, Note 25 — Allan Ramsay, it 
 is said, was employed in the capacity of a 
 washer of ore, in the lead mines, at Lead 
 Hills, belonging to the Earl of Hopetown. 
 His father was, and had from his youth, 
 also been a workman in the same mines. 
 But it is to be remarked that the limited 
 hours of inine-tabonr (only six per diem, or, 
 according to some, only four), together with 
 the general good character, sobriety, and 
 intelligence of the people, and the con- 
 venience of a good library containing some 
 
 thousands of volumes, in common amongst 
 them, contributed to afford these men very 
 superior opportunities of intellectual im- 
 provement. 
 
 Page 75, Note 12G.— Mr. Ramsay of 
 Ochtertyre, writing to one of Burns's Bio- 
 graphers, gives the following account of 
 Allan Ramsay; — "He was coeval with 
 Joseph Mitchell, and his club of sm:(ll wits, 
 who, about 1719, published a very p )or 
 miscellany, to which. Dr. Young, the iMtlior 
 of Niqht Thoughts, prefixed a copy of 
 verses." 
 
 Page 75, Note 127.— The first line of 
 this piece runs thus : — 
 
 " What beauties does Flora disclose !" 
 
 Page 75, Note 128. — The first line oi 
 this piece runs thus : — 
 
 "I have heard a lilting at our ewe's milking." 
 
 Page 76, Note 129 —This Mrs. Cock- 
 burn died before the poet ; that is, on the 
 22nd of November, 1794. 
 
 P.YGE 76, Note 130. — See the Intro- 
 (Inctiou to the History of Poetry in Scotland, 
 by T. Campbell, and an article affording a 
 Biographical Sketch of this writer in the 
 Supplement to the Encyclopedia Britannica. 
 
 Page 77, Note 131. — Critics and .•Anti- 
 quarians are equally divided on this point, 
 jlr. Tytler has struggled very bird to 
 establish the genuineness of authorship for 
 this piece, whilst Sir D. Dalryinple most 
 unaccountably attributes it to James V! 
 Pray, Sir David, where did you discover that 
 the tifth James was either a wit or a poet ? 
 That he was an arrant pedant is undoubtedly 
 true. But the first James was certainly one 
 of the best of poets whom Scotland has pro- 
 duced. There is ample evidence of his 
 having fathered verses, and verses of very 
 great merit, and of his peculiar love of music 
 and minstrelsy. 
 
 Page 78, Note 132. — This is the title of 
 the poem selected as an instance; and being 
 rendered into English, would mean The 
 Farmer's Fireside. 
 
 Page 78, Note 133. — Why the acute 
 observation, and true portraiture, afforded in 
 this surprising production, should, upon its 
 first appearance, have struck the higher 
 orders of society with astonisliment, is 
 readily to be understood. The circuiustances 
 and position of the poet, which effect nally 
 excluded him from ever having bid an 
 opportunity of mingling with any but the 
 society of peasants, seemed to adii tlie charm 
 of inspiration, or of intuitive perception, to 
 the accurate delineation of charairter, cir 
 
NOTES TO THE 
 
 cumstaiice, &c., in the upper walks of life. 
 But, like all true and natural philosophers, 
 Burns saw iu human nature iiothinj^ but 
 human nature, and that same nature bearintf 
 the indelible stamp of its constitution 
 identical and unerased, notwithstanding the 
 small differences of condition and circum- 
 stance. The poem, therefore, is merely a 
 testimony to the natural sagacity of the 
 poet. 
 
 Page 79, Note 134.— The poet's "Ear- 
 nest Cry and Prayer to the Scottish Repre- 
 sentatives in Parliament." 
 
 P.\GE 79, Note 135. — ^By a "Highland 
 gill," is meant a gill of the native Highland 
 beverage, namelv, whisky. 
 
 Page 79, Note 136. — In Enghsh, we 
 should express these terms by the para- 
 phrase — " the middle of the street, and the 
 footway." 
 
 Page 79, Note 137. — In the piece en- 
 titled the " Brigs of Ayr." 
 
 Page 79, Note 138. — As will be seen in 
 the s:lossarv, this term signifies a messenqer. 
 
 Page 79, Notes 139 and 140.— The 
 " Dungeon Clock" (or Tower Clock) and the 
 "Wallace Tower," are the names of the 
 steeples of Ayr. 
 
 Page 80, Note 141. — This festival is 
 still very popularly observed (or rather, was 
 so, until the political and religious agitations 
 had been revived of late years) iu some parts 
 of Ireland. In the remote and aboriginal 
 districts of North Wales also, we have 
 many instances of its constant observance. 
 
 Page 80, Note 142.— For truth and 
 exactness of pencilling, for the brightness of 
 colour, and for the delicacy and gentleness 
 of description, this passage is almost un- 
 rivalled, in its own melting, soft, impressive 
 monosyllabic diction, it is inimitable. The 
 bold descriptions of Thomson here compared 
 with this passage, have a ruggedness, almost 
 a harshness, which destroys all parallel; and 
 the beautiful lines of Lord Byron, which 
 run on a similar vein of description, are 
 wanting in the naif, inexpressible sim- 
 plicity of this passage, as for instance : — ■ 
 
 " 'Tis sweet to hear 
 At midnight o'er the blue and moonlit deep 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier," &c. 
 
 Page 81, Note 143. — The word owrie, 
 used as it is iu this instance, may have two 
 interpretations, or may be saddled with both 
 constructions simultaneously. Refer also to 
 the (jlossanj. In general, as applied to cattle, 
 or to domestic animals, it signifies such 
 as are left abroad during the winter instead 
 of being brought home to the pens, or sheds 
 
 of the homestead. Added to this, the word 
 owrie is also used in the sense of that 
 pinched, wretched, shioering, drooping, ap- 
 pearance which cattle sometimes present in 
 wet and cold weather. 
 
 Page 81, Note 144. — The word silly is 
 not here to be understood in its offensive 
 sense. It is very t'ommonly used by the 
 Scotch, and occurs very frequently in the 
 poems of Burns, as a term of affection and 
 pity. 
 
 Page 82, Note 145. — It must be borne 
 in mind, that throughout the portraiture of 
 the Cotter, there is an evident affectionate 
 tracing of the character, situation. Sic, of 
 the poet's own father — an acceptation which 
 adds much poignancy to many of its 
 passages. 
 
 Page 83, Note 146. — It is a peculiar 
 feature of the Scottish minstrelsy that it 
 abounds in dialogues between man and wife. 
 To the labours of Mr. Pinkerton, in his 
 earnest and successful pursuit of remote 
 Scottish literary productions, we are in- 
 debted for a multiplicity of parallel passages 
 in the songs, as well as amongst the un- 
 polished attempts at comic dramatic writing. 
 The salient point of these pieces, is the in- 
 variable triumph of the " better half" in 
 the contest, in the course of which as many 
 caustic things have baen said, as may con- 
 veniently be crammed into a brief conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Page 83, Note 147. — The subjoined ex- 
 tracts may be cited as illustrations of the 
 question. First let us detail the romance of 
 a Scottish song of the early part of the 
 eighteenth Century. We have a Highland 
 lad wooing a Lowland lass to fly with him to 
 the Highlands, and share his fare and fortune. 
 The scene is on the banks of a most beauti- 
 ful stream (Ettric banks), in the calm and 
 stillness of a summer's evenin'4, and the ex- 
 ordium of the tale runs as fcU'jws : — 
 " On Ettrick banks, one summer's night 
 
 At gloaming when the sheep drove hame, 
 I met my lassie, braw and tight. 
 
 Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
 My heart grew hght, I ran, I flang 
 
 My arms about her lily neck ; 
 And kissed and clasped her here fu' lang; — 
 
 My words they were ua mouy feck." 
 
 In another of these pieces we have the 
 heroine lamenting o'er the sweet recollections 
 of the trysting place, and raptured hour. 
 The comparison of the love scene w-ith the 
 present, which quickens the vivid recollection, 
 is most apparent in the contrast between the 
 two subjoined stanzas ; — 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 475 
 
 How blythe, each mom, was I to see 
 
 My swain come o'er the l\ill ; 
 He skiiit the burn, and flew to itie : — 
 I met liim \vi' guiil will. 
 
 * « * • 
 
 Oh ! tlie broom, — the bonm'e, boiinie broom, 
 
 The Broom of Cowderi-Knowes ! 
 I wish I were with my dear Swain, 
 ^^'ith his pipe, and mi/ ewes. 
 Page 83, Note 148.— That the dramatic 
 form of writing characterises the productions 
 of ail early, or, what amounts to the same 
 thing, of a rude stage of society, may be 
 illustrated by a reference to the most ancient 
 compositions that we know of, the Hebrew 
 Scriptures, and the writings of Homer. The 
 form of dialogue is adopted in the old 
 Scottish ballads, even in narration, whenever 
 the situations described become interesting. 
 This sometimes produces a very striking 
 effect, of which an instance may be given 
 from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a com- 
 position, apparently, of the sixteenth century. 
 The story of the ballad is shortly this : — The 
 Castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, 
 is attacked by the robber Edom o' Gordon, 
 The lady stands on her defence, beats off the 
 assailants, and wounds Gordon, who, in his 
 rage, orders the castle to be set on fire. 
 That his orders are carried into effect, we 
 learn from the expostulation of the lady, who 
 is represented as standing on the battlements, 
 and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is 
 interrupted: — 
 
 " Oh then bespake her little son. 
 Sate on his nourice knee ; 
 Says, ' blither dear, gi' owre this house. 
 
 For the reek it smithcrs me.' 
 'I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 
 
 Sae wad I a' my fee. 
 For ane blast o' the westlin wind, 
 To blaw the reek frae thee.' " 
 Tlie circumstantiality of the Scottish love- 
 songs, and the dramatic form which prevails 
 so generally in them, probably arises from 
 their being the descendants and successors 
 of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
 modern song of Mary of Castle-Cary, the 
 dramatic form has a very happy effect. The 
 same may be said of Donald and Flora, and 
 Come under my Pladdie, by the same author, 
 Mr. Macniel. 
 
 r.\r.E 84, Note 149.— IMrs. Barbauld 
 has fallen into an error in this respect. In 
 her prefatory address to the works of Collins, 
 speaking of the natural objects that may be 
 employed to give interest to the descrip- 
 tion of passion, she observes : — " They 
 present an inexhaustible variety, from the 
 
 Song of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrru, 
 and cinnamon, to the Gentle Sliepherd of 
 Ramsay, whose damsels carry their milking- 
 pails through the frosts and snows of their 
 less genial, but not less pastoral country." 
 The damsels of Ramsay do not walk in the 
 midst of frost and snow. Almost all the 
 scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in 
 the open air, amidst beautiful natural 
 objects, and at the most genial season of the 
 year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with 
 a prefatory description to assure us of this. 
 The fault of the climate of Britain is 
 not, that it does not afford us the beauties 
 of summer, but that the season of such 
 beauties is comparatively short, and even 
 uncertain. There are days and nights, even 
 in the northern division of the island, 
 which equal, or perhaps surpass, what are to 
 be found m the latitude of Sicily, or of 
 Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote his ex- 
 quisite Ode to May, felt the charm as well 
 as the transientness of these happy days :— 
 
 "Salve fugacis gloria seculi. 
 Salve secunda digna dies nota, 
 Salve vetustse vitse imago, 
 Et specimen venientis ^Evi! 
 
 Park 86, Note 150. — Those who, primed 
 with the statistics of Sir John Sinclair, at- 
 tribute the expatriation of the Scotch to a 
 disproportion between the numerical aggre- 
 gates of the sexes, seem to consider the 
 number stated in round figures above, as 
 inadequate. The latter proposition is easily 
 granted, but the current joke against 
 Sawney, seems to allege some more probable 
 and prevailing cause for the spontaneous 
 expatriation in question. He has en- 
 terprise, and requires a broader field, 
 and above all, more ample resources ; and 
 those of his own country would be limited 
 but for the adjunct of the sister realm. 
 Whether, or not, the beautiful song of 
 Burns : — 
 
 " Their groves of sweet mjTtle," 
 be addressed to these wandering fellow 
 countrymen, I am fully prepared to 
 admit its excellence, and the probability 
 that it will be read with as much admiratiou 
 by others. 
 
 Paoe 89, Note 151. — This was in reply 
 to a report which had come to the cars of Dr. 
 Currie, to the effect that a violent hurricane, 
 which actually levelled a portion of the 
 cottage, occurred simultaneously with the 
 birth of Burns. 
 
 Page 90, Note 152.— This was Mr. 
 Peter Ewart, of Manchester, a friend of Dr. 
 Curric's. 
 
476 
 
 ADDITIONAL NOTE TO THE 
 
 Page 95, Note 153. — The household 
 effects (if I^Irp. Burns were sold by public 
 auction on the 10th and 11th of April, and 
 from the anxiety of the public to possess 
 relics of this interesting household, brought 
 uncoinmonly high sums. According to the 
 Dumfries Courier, " the auctioneer com- 
 menced with small articles, and when he 
 came to a broken copper coffee-pot, there were 
 80 many bidders, that the price paid exceeded 
 twenty-fold the intrinsic value. A tea-kettle 
 of the same metal succeeded, and reached 
 £2 sterling. Of the linens, a table-cloth, 
 marked 1792, which, speaking commercially, 
 may be worth half-a-crown or five shillings, 
 was knocked down at £5. 7s. Many otlier 
 articles commanded handsome prices, and 
 the older and plainer the furniture, the better 
 it sold. The rusty iron top of a shower- 
 bath, which Mrs. Dunlop, of Duidop, sent 
 to the poet when afflicted with rheumatism, 
 was bought by a Carlisle gentleman for 
 
 £1. 8s. ; and a low wooden kitchen chair, on 
 which the late Mrs. Burns sat when nursing 
 her children, was run up to £3. 7s. The 
 crystal and china were much coveted, and 
 brought, in most cases, splendid prices. 
 Even an old fender reached a figure which 
 would go far to buy half-a-dozen new ones, 
 and everything towards the close attracted 
 notice, down to grey-beards, bottles, and a 
 half-worn pair of bellows. The poet's eight- 
 day clock, made by a Mauchline artist, at- 
 tracted great attention, from the circumstance 
 that it had frequently been wound up by his 
 own hand. In a few seconds it was bid up 
 to fifteen pounds or guineas, and was finally 
 disposed of for £33. The purchaser had a 
 hard battle to fight; but his spirit was good, 
 and his purse obviously not a light one, and 
 the story ran that he had instructed Mr. 
 Richardson to secure a preference at any 
 sum under £60." 
 
 5liihitifliinl if^afe, 
 
 RELATING TO THE BACHELOR'S CLUB, AT TARBOLTON. 
 
 RULES AND REGULATIONS. 
 
 1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton 
 every fourth Monday night, when a question 
 on any subject shall be proposed, disputed 
 points of religion only excepted, in the 
 manner hereafter directed , which question 
 is to be debated in the club, each member 
 taking whatever side he thinks proper. 
 
 2nd. When the club is met, the president, 
 or, he failing, some one of the members, till 
 he come, shall take his seat ; then the other 
 members shall seat themselves ; those who 
 are for one side of the question, on the pre- 
 sident's right hand ; and those who are for 
 the other side, on his left — which of them 
 shall have the right hand, is to be determined 
 by the president. The president and four 
 of the members being present, shall have 
 power to transact any ordinary part of the 
 society's business. 
 
 3rd. The club met and seated, the presi- 
 dent shall read the question out of the club's 
 book of records (which book is always to be 
 
 kept by the president) ; then the two mem- 
 bers nearest the president shall cast lots who 
 of them shall speak first, and, according as 
 the lot shall determine, the member nearest 
 the president on that side shall deliver his 
 opinion, and the member nearest on the other 
 side shall reply to him ; then the second 
 member of the side that spoke first ; then 
 the second member of the side tliat spoke 
 second — and so on to the end of the com- 
 pany ; but if there be fewer members on the 
 one side than on the other, when all tlie 
 members of the least side have spoken ac- 
 cording to their places, any of them, as they 
 please among themselves, may reply to the 
 remaining members of the opposite sidt ; 
 when both sides have spoken, the president 
 shall give his opinion, after which, they may 
 go over it a second or more limes, and so 
 continue the question. 
 
 4th. The club shall then proceed to the 
 choice of a question for the subject of the 
 next night's meeting. The president shall 
 first propose one, and any other member who 
 
LIFE OF BURNS. 
 
 477 
 
 chooses may propose more questions , and 
 whatever one of them is most agreeable to 
 . the majority of the niemhers, shall be the 
 subject of debate next club-niglit. 
 
 5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new 
 president for the next meeting; the president 
 shall first name one, then any of the club 
 may name another, and whoever of them 
 has the majority of votes shall be duly elected 
 — allowing the president the first vote, and 
 the casting vote upon a par, but none other. 
 Then, after a general toast to the mistresses 
 of the club, they shall dismiss. 
 
 6th. There shall be no private conversa- 
 tion carried on during the time of debate, 
 nor siiall any member interrupt another 
 while he is speaking, under the penalty of a 
 reprimand from the president for the first 
 fault, doubhng his share of the reckoning 
 for the second, trebling it for the third, and 
 so on in proportion for every other fault ; 
 provided always, however, that any member 
 may ,-peak at any time after leave asked and 
 given by the president. All swearing and 
 profane language, and particularly all obscene 
 and indecent conversation, is strictly pro- 
 hibited, under the same penalty, as aforesaid, 
 in the first clause of this article. 
 
 7th. No member, on any pretence what- 
 ever, shall mention any of the club's affairs 
 to any other person but a brother member, 
 under the pain of being excluded ; and, par- 
 ticularly, if any member shall reveal any of 
 the speeches or affairs of the club, with a 
 view to ridicule or laugh at any of the rest 
 of the members, he shall be for ever excom- 
 municated from the society ; and the rest of 
 tim members are desired, as much as possible. 
 
 to avoid and have no communication with 
 him as a friend or comrade. 
 
 8th. Every member shall attend at the 
 meetings, without he can give a proper 
 I excuse for not attending ; and it is desired 
 that every one who cannot attend, will send 
 his excuse with some other member; and he 
 who shall be absent three meetings, without 
 sending such excuse, shall be summoned to 
 the club-night, when, if he fad to appear, or 
 send an excuse, he shall be excluded. 
 
 9th. The club shall not consist of more 
 than sixteen members, all bachelors, belong- 
 ing to the parish of Tarbolton ; except a 
 brother-member marry, and iu that case he 
 may be continued, if the majority of the 
 club think proper. No person shall be ad- 
 mitted a member of this society, witiiout 
 the unanimous consent of the club; and any 
 member may withdraw from the club alto- 
 gether, by giving a notice to tiie president 
 in writing of liis departure. 
 
 10th. Every man proper for a member of 
 this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
 heart ; above any thing dirty or mean ; and 
 must be a professed lover of one or more of 
 the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited 
 person, who looks upon himself as superior 
 to the rest of the club, and especially no 
 mean-spirited, worldly mortal, whose only 
 will is to heap up money, shall npou any 
 pretence whatever, bb admitted. In short, 
 the proper person for this society is, a cheer- 
 ful, honest-hearted lad, who, if he has a 
 friend that is true, and a mistress that is 
 kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to 
 make both ends meet, is just as happy bi 
 this world caji make ium< 
 
Jlates tn tlie ^nemn nf ®urtii 
 
 Page 101, Note 1.— According to Gil- 
 bert Burns, this poem may be dated an- 
 teriorly to 1784. The subjoined is his 
 account of the circumstance of which these 
 lines are a faithful record : — 
 
 " Robert had, partly by way of frolic, 
 bought an ewe and two lambs from a neigh- 
 bour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
 joining the house at Lochlee. He and I 
 were going out with our teams, and our two 
 younger brothers to drive for us, at midday, 
 when Hugh Wilson (the Hue/hoc of the 
 poem, who was a neiglibouring farmer's 
 herd-mate), a curious looking, awkward boy, 
 clad in pl;iiding, came to us, with miich 
 anxiety in his face, with the information that 
 the ewe liad entangled herself in the tether, 
 and was lying in the ditch. Robert was 
 much tickled with liughoc's appearance and 
 postures on the occasion. Pour Mailie was 
 set to rights, and when we returned from the 
 plougii, in the evening, he repeated to me 
 her death and dying words, pretty much in 
 the way they now stand." 
 
 r.\GE 102, Note 2. — This Davie was Mr. 
 David Sillar, of whom we have had occasion 
 to speak as a brother rhymester of Burus's. 
 lie was one of the intimates of the Batche- 
 lour's Club, at Tarbolton, to which he had 
 been introduced in 17S1. In his subsequent 
 career he became connected with the borough 
 of Irvine, first as a teacher, and afterwards 
 as a bailie ; and he survived to the advanced 
 age of seventy years. He died on the 2nd 
 of May, 1830. 
 
 Page 102, Note 3. — A quotation from 
 Allan Ramsay. 
 
 Page 102, Note 4.— The tolerated 
 beggar was a species of travelling historian, 
 traditionist, bard, or jester, according to the 
 humour o^ his respective audiences, and he 
 was expected to earn the bounty of his 
 hearers by entertaining them. 
 
 Page 103, Note 5. — Meg (or more 
 properly, Margaret Orr, of whom Burns 
 speaks so familiarly) was nursery maid in the 
 establishment of Mrs Stewart, of Stair. In 
 Sillar's visits to his Meg, he was not un- 
 freqiiently accompanied by Burns, who 
 would supply verses for the songs of other 
 female servants ; some of these accidentally 
 fell, in manuscript, into the hands of Mrs. 
 Stewart, who was so struck with their 
 beauty, that she desired that, upon his next 
 visit, the author should be presented to her. 
 He was accordingly introduced, and Mrs. 
 Stewart is numbered amongst the first 
 friends whom Burus's genius had secured 
 amongst those of superior rank. 
 
 Page 103, Note 6.— This poem may 
 be dated, according to Gilbert Burns, to 
 whom it was first repeated, in the winter of 
 1784-5. 
 
 Page 104, Note 7. — The original manu- 
 script affords the subjoined version of these 
 lines : — 
 
 " Lang syne in Eden's happy scene. 
 When strapping Adam's days were green, 
 And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 
 
 My dearest part, 
 A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, 
 
 O' guiless heart." 
 
 Page 106. Note 8. — The author's own 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 479 
 
 intos have been appended to the references 
 taroiighoiit tliis poem, not but that the 
 spells of this characteristic festival are now 
 very generally understood. — " It is thought 
 to be a night when all the superhuman 
 beings who people space, and e;irth and iiir, 
 in search of mischief, revel at miduight — 
 and it is also a grand anniversary of the 
 more beneficent tribe of fairies, whose occu- 
 pation is to baffle each evil genius in his 
 wicke 1 pursuit. — R. B, 
 
 Page 106, Note 9. — Certain little, ro- 
 mantic, rocky, green hills in the neighbour- 
 hood of the ancient seat of the Earl of 
 Cassilis. — R. B. 
 
 Page 106, Note 10. — A noted cavern 
 near Colean House, called the Cave of 
 Colean, wliich, as well as Cassihs Downans, 
 is famed in country story as the haunt of 
 fairies. — R. B. 
 
 Page 106, Note 11.— The heads of the 
 race of Bruce were Earls of Carrick. — R. B. 
 
 Page 106. Note 12— The first certi-' 
 mony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock 
 or plant of kail. They must go out hand 
 in hand with eyes shut, and pull the first 
 they meet with : its being big or little, 
 straight or crooked, is proplietic of the size 
 and sliajie of the grand object of all their 
 spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, 
 or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, 
 or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, or 
 heart of the stem, is indicative of the 
 natural temper or disposition. Lastly, the 
 stems, or as they are called, the runts, 
 are placed above the cornice of the door ; 
 and the Christian names of those whom 
 chance brings into the house, are, according 
 to the order in which the runts were placed, 
 the names in question. — R. B. 
 
 Page 106, Note 13.— Tliey go to the 
 barn yard, and pull each, at three several 
 times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk 
 wants a top pickle, or grain at the top of the 
 stalk, the lady will be wedded, but not a 
 maid.— R. B. 
 
 Page 106, Note 14. — When the corn 
 is in n doubtful state, by beiug too green or 
 wet, the stackbuilder, by means of old tim- 
 ber, &c., makes a large apartment in his 
 stack, with an opening in the side which is 
 fau-est exposed to the wind : this he calls a 
 fause-house. — R. B. 
 
 Page 106, Note 15. — Burning the nuts 
 is a famous charm. They name the lad 
 and lass to each particular nut, as they lay 
 them in the fire, aiul accordmgly as they 
 burn quietly together, or start from beside 
 one another, the course and issue of the 
 courtship will be. — R. B. 
 
 42 
 
 Page 106, Note 16. — Whoever would, 
 with success, try this spell, must strictly 
 observe these directions : — Steal out, all 
 alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, tlirow into 
 the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a 
 clue otf the old one, and, towards the latter 
 end something will hold the thread ; de- 
 mand "wiia hands?" that is, who holds? 
 An answer will be returned from tlie kiln- 
 pot, by naming the Christian and sur- 
 name of your fut\ire spouse. — R. B. 
 
 Page 106, Note 17. — Take a candle, 
 and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple 
 before it, and some traditions say, you 
 should comb your hair all the time; the 
 face of your conjugal companion, to be, will 
 be seen in the glass, as if peeping o\er your 
 shoulder. 
 
 Pack 107, Note 28. — Steal out, unper- 
 ceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, 
 harrowing it with any thing you can con- 
 veniently draw after you. Repeat, now and 
 then, " Hemp seed I saw thee ; hemp-seed 
 I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be 
 my true love, come after me and pou thee." 
 Look over your left shoulder, and you will 
 see the appearance of the person invoked, 
 in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some 
 traditions say, " Come after me, and sha sv 
 thee," that is, show thyself : in which case 
 it simply appears. Others omit the harrow- 
 ing, and sav, " Come after me, and harrow 
 thee."— R. "b. 
 
 Page 107, Note 19. — This charm must 
 likewise be performed uuperceived and 
 alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
 doors, taking them off the hinges, if possi- 
 ble ; for there is danger that the being about 
 to appear may shut the doors, and do you 
 some mischief. Then take that instrument 
 used in winnowing the corn, wliich, in our 
 country dialect, we call a wecht ; and go 
 through all the attitudes of letting down 
 corn against the wind. Repeat it three 
 times, and the third time, an apparition w dl 
 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 employment or station 
 in life.— R. B. 
 
 Page 107, Note 20. — Take an oppor- 
 tunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, 
 and fathom it three times round. The last 
 fathom of the last time, you wdl catch in 
 your arms the appearance of your future 
 conjugal yoke-fellow. — R. B. 
 
 Page 107. Note 21. — You go out, one 
 or more, for this is a social spell, to a south 
 running spring or rivulet, where " three 
 laird's lands meet," and dip your left shirt- 
 
4Mj 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and 
 hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 
 Lie awake ; and some time near midnight, 
 ftn apparition, having the exact tigure of the 
 grand object in question, v\ ill come and turn 
 the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of 
 it.— R. B. 
 
 Page IOS.Note 22.— Take three dishes: 
 put clean water in one, foul water in an- 
 other, 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 Imsband or wife will come to the 
 bar of matrimony a maid ; if jii the foul, 
 a widow ; if in the empty dish, it fortells 
 with equal cert;iinty, no marriage at 
 all. It is repeated three times, and 
 every time the arrangement of the dishes 
 is altered. — R.. B. 
 
 Page 108, Note 23. — Sowens, with 
 butter instead of milk to them, is always 
 the Halloween supper. — R. B. 
 
 Page 108, Note 24. — Burns has omitted, 
 amongst the other ceremonies of Halloween, 
 that of ducking for apples in tubs of water, 
 Few of those of which the poet has fur- 
 nished particulars, are now observed. Tlie 
 lottery of dishes, the pulling kail stalks, and 
 the ducking for apples, comprising the 
 whole, or nearly the whole, of the frolic- 
 some enchantments now in common obser- 
 vance. 
 
 Page 109, Note 25. — The author of a 
 song beginning thus. (Johu Lapraik, of 
 Dalfram, near MuirkirkJ : — 
 
 " ^\Tien I upon thy bosom lean. 
 
 And fondly ca' thee a' my ain ; 
 I glory in the sacred tie 
 
 That made us ane, wha ance were twain." 
 
 This song was sung at one of those merry 
 meetings, called rockings, from the rock, or 
 distaff, which was the invariable accompani- 
 ment of the female guests. 
 
 Page 110, Note 26.— A festivity which 
 took place on the road by Burus's farm, at 
 Mossgiel. 
 
 Page 111, Note 27. — "William Simpson 
 has accomplished some very passable poetry, 
 amongst which is an elegy on the Emperor 
 Paul. He was first the teacher at Ochiltree, 
 and afterwards engaged in the same capa- 
 city at New Cumnock. 
 
 Page 113, Note 28. — Hornbook's career 
 seems to have borne out his claim to some 
 more elevated occupation than the ownership 
 of a shop of all wares, the duties of an 
 obscure dispenser, or those of a wretched 
 parish schoolmaster. Such were his occupa> 
 
 tions at Tarbolton, where first he was engagtil 
 as a teacher. He subsequently stocked a 
 small store of grocery and general wares, to 
 which, after some poring over medical books, 
 he also added the diugs in more ordinary 
 demand. This last acqui.sition was of the more 
 consequence, as there was no medical man in 
 the place; and Hornbook having started up 
 into a medical authority, pompously paraded 
 his knowledge and skill at a Mason meeting 
 at Tarbolton, in the presence of Burns, and 
 thus suggested this poem. Hornbook sub- 
 sequently settled in Glasgow, and outlived 
 the poet nearlv half a century. 
 
 Page 113,"Note 29.— \Villie's Mill waa 
 the name of a null just out of the village of 
 Tarbolton, on the road to Mossgiel, and on 
 a small stream called the Fade. It was 
 occupfed by Mr. William Muir, an intimate 
 friend of the Burns's, and one of the sub- 
 scribers to the first Edinburgh Editiou of 
 Robert's Poems. 
 
 Page 113, Note 30. — Buchan's well- 
 known work on Domestic Medicine. 
 
 Page 114, Note 31. — The Grave-digger. 
 
 Page 114, Note Z2.— (Misprinted \\.) 
 This poem was probably suggested by 
 Fergusson's Hallow Fair of Edinbinyh, 
 although it is rather constructed after the 
 model of the same poet's Leith Raves. 
 The ceremonial of rural communion, as 
 it lias been till very recently, or still is 
 observed in some parts of Scotland, furnishes 
 the incidents of the poem. 
 
 Page 11.5, Note 33. — The popular name 
 of a poor crazy girl, who was in the habit of 
 running for wagers. 
 
 Page 115, Note 34. — This was an exqui- 
 site hit at the preaching of Moodie, who 
 was fond of holding forth the terrors of the 
 law. In the first, or Kilmarnock edition, 
 this word was printed saloation, which, as 
 applied to Moodie, was comparatively tame. 
 Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, is said to have 
 suggested the correction. Moodie was the 
 minister of Riccarton. 
 
 Page 115, Note 35. — The minister of 
 Galston, who also figures in the Kirk's 
 Alarm, under the name of Irvine-side. This 
 person was subsequently better known as 
 a preacher by the name of Dr. George 
 Smith. 
 
 Page 110, Note 36. — Dr. William 
 Peebles, then the Rev. Mr. W. Peebles, who 
 was minister of Newton-upou-Ayr, and who 
 also figures in the Kirk's Alarm, as having 
 been prominent in the persecution of Dr. 
 McGill. 
 
 Page 116, Note 37.— Dr. Mackenzie, 
 afterwards minister at Irvine, but at this 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 431 
 
 period of Mauchline, who is thus introduced 
 in allusion to a pamphlet, in exposition of 
 some village controxersy which he had pro- 
 mulgated under the title of Common Sense. 
 
 Page 116, Note 38. — The name of a 
 street at Jlauchline. 
 
 Page 116, Note 39.— This Mr. Miller 
 was subsequently minister at Kilniaur's, and 
 a little portlv person he was. 
 
 Page 116, Note 40.— The Rev. John 
 Russell, who also tigures in the Twa Herds. 
 He subsequently became minister at Stirling, 
 but was at this period attached to the chapel 
 of ease at Kilmarnock. 
 
 Page 116, Note 41. — Expression bor- 
 rowed from the subjoined passage in 
 Hamlet. 
 
 " I could a tale unfold — 
 Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young 
 
 blood ; 
 Make thine eyes like stars start from their 
 
 spheres ; 
 Tliy knotty and combined locks to part ; 
 A ud each particular hair to stand on end. 
 Lake quills upon the fretful porcupine." 
 
 Page 117 Note 42.— The ultra ortho- 
 doxy of the newly-appointed minister of the 
 parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of 
 April, 17S6, and the consequent triumph of 
 the Auld Lights over the Moderates, elicited 
 the bitter irony of this poem. 
 
 Page 117, Note 43. — An allusion to the 
 chief occupation of the people of Kilmar- 
 nock, in the manufacture of leather and 
 woollen goods, carpets and articles of this 
 nature. 
 
 Page 117, Note 44. — The landlord of a 
 tavern near the parish church. 
 
 Page 117, Note 45. — This passage refers 
 to a satirical ballad, circulated upon the in- 
 duction of the Kev. Mr. Lindsay, as minister 
 of the parochial church. 
 
 Page 117, Note 46. — See Genesis chap, 
 ix, V. 22. 
 
 Page 117, Note 47. — See Numbers 
 chap. XXV, V. 8. 
 
 Page 117, 
 chap, iv, V. 25. 
 
 Page 117, Note 49.— The Rev. Mr. 
 Robertson was the colleague of the new 
 minister; but not of the ultra-orthodox 
 Kirk party. 
 
 Page 117, Note 50. — ^Netherton was 
 the name of a quarter of the town of Kil- 
 marnock. 
 
 Page 117, Note 51. — The predecessor 
 of the new minister. 
 
 Page 117, Note 52. — The person here 
 alluded to is apparently unknown to all 
 II 
 
 Note 48. — See Exodus 
 
 those who have made local researches 
 respecting Burns and his poems. One 
 commentator supposes it to be an allusion 
 to the author of the Essay on Truth. This, 
 however, is mere hypothesis. 
 
 Page 118, Note 53.— In the west of 
 Scotland, the term New Lir/ht is a popu- 
 lar designation of the opinions promulgated 
 by Dr. Taylor and his partisans. 
 
 Page 118, Note 54. — James Smith was 
 formerly a shopkeeper at Mauchline ; subse- 
 quently, a calico printer, at Avon, near 
 Linlithgow ; and lastly, an emigrant to the 
 West Indies, where he died. 
 
 Page 119, Note 55. — The authenticity 
 of this poem has been very erroneously 
 doubted. It was written by Burns in 1783, 
 but was not published in his own editions, 
 probably, because he had retained no copy of 
 it, clearly not that he thought it unworthy 
 of him. In 1801, this piece appeared in a 
 small volume, published at Glasgow, by 
 Messrs. Brash and Reid, under the unpre- 
 tendnig title of Poems ascribed to Robert 
 Burns. All the more recent authorities 
 have been convinced of its authenticity, 
 which, in fact, appears to be incontestibly 
 established by its style ; and Mr. Chambers 
 has furnished some partictilars respecting 
 the incident to which it is attributable. The 
 following is the anecdote : — 
 
 "It is understood to have been founded 
 on the poet's observation of an actual scene 
 which one night met his eye, when, in com- 
 pany with his friends John Richmond and 
 James Smith, he dropped accidentally, at a 
 late hour, into a very humble hostelry in 
 Ma\ichline, the landlady of which was a 
 jMrs. Gibson, more familiarly named Poosie 
 Nancy. After witnessing much jollity 
 amongst a company, who, by day, appeared 
 abroad as miserable beggars, the three 
 young men came away. Burns professing to 
 have been greatly delighted with the scene, 
 but, particularly with the gleesome behaviour 
 of an old maimed soldier. In the course of 
 a few days, he recited a part of the poem to 
 Richmond, who has informed the present 
 editor, that, to the best of his recollection, it 
 contained, in its original complete form, 
 songs by a sweep and a sailor, which do not 
 now appear. The landlady of the house 
 was mother to Racer Jess, alluded to in the 
 Holy Fair, and her house was at the left hand 
 side of the opening of the Cowynte, mentioned 
 in the same poem, and opposite to the church. 
 An account of the house, the characters who 
 frequented it, and the scenes which used to 
 take place in it, is given in Chambers's Edir^- 
 burgh Journal, No 2. A lithographic fao- 
 
482 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 simile of the original manuscript of the Jolly 
 Beijgars has been pubUshed." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, with some taint of a 
 prudery, which accasionally exposed him to 
 the charge of affectation, has, however, been 
 liberal enough in his remarks on this poem, 
 to attach a defence to his own censure. 
 Subjoined is his own criticism totidem 
 verbis : — 
 
 " In one or two passages of the Jolly 
 Beyijurs, the muse has slightly trespassed 
 on decorum, where, in the language of Scot- 
 tish song, 
 
 ' High kilted was she, 
 As she gaed ower the lea.' 
 
 Something, however, is to be allowed to the 
 nature of the subject, and something to the 
 education of the poet: and if from veneration 
 to the names of Swift and Dryden, we tolerate 
 the grossness of the one and the indelicacy 
 of the other, the respect due to that of Burns 
 may surely claim indulgence for a few light 
 strokes of broad humour." 
 
 Page 119, Note 56. — An allusion to the 
 large wooden dish or platter, carried by men- 
 dicants in Scotland, to receive any contribu- 
 tions of broken food. 
 
 Page 120, Note 57.— The heights of 
 Abraham, on the land side of Quebec, on 
 which the English army under General 
 Wolfe, succeeded in giving battle to the 
 enemy ; and where the general fell, mortally 
 wounded, at the moment of victory, in Sep- 
 tember, 1759. 
 
 Page, 120, Note 58.— El Morro, the 
 castle which defends the entrance to the 
 harbour of Havanuah, in the island of Cuba. 
 In 1762, this castle was stormed and taken 
 by the British, after which, the Havannah 
 was surrendered, with spoil to the value of 
 three millions. 
 
 Page 120, Note 59. — "The destruction 
 of the Spanish floating batteries during the 
 famous siege of Gibraltar, in 1782 — on 
 which occasion the gallant Captain Curtis ren- 
 dered the most signal service — is the heroic 
 exploit here referred to." — iNIotherwell. 
 
 Page 120, Note 60. — George Augustus 
 Elliot, created Lord Ileathtield for his admi- 
 rable defence of Gibraltar, during a siege of 
 three years. Born 1717, died 1790. 
 
 Page 122, Note 61.^The whisky made 
 at the distillery of that name in Clackmua. 
 nanshire, and famous throughout the couatry 
 for its superiority. 
 
 Page 123, Note 62.— Several of the 
 poems were produced for the purpose of 
 bringing forward some favourite sentiment 
 of the author, lie used to remark to me, 
 
 that he could not well conceive a more mor- 
 tifying picture of human life, than a man 
 seeking work. In casting about in his mind 
 how this sentiment might be brought for- 
 ward, the elegy, Man was made to mourn, 
 was composed. — Gilbert Burns. 
 
 The metre is adopted from an old ballad 
 known by the name of the Life and Afje of 
 Man, and of which the subjoined are the 
 initiatory lines : — • 
 
 " Upon the sixteen hunder 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 ninati." 
 
 That the moral of this ballad had made a 
 deep impression upon the mind of Burns, is 
 evident from the following passage extracted 
 from one of his letters to Mrs. Diuilop : — 
 
 " I had an old grand-uncle with whom my 
 mother lived while in her girlish years ; the 
 good old man, for such he wa.s, was long 
 blind ere he died; during which time, his 
 happiest moments and his highest enjoyment 
 were, when he sat down and cried, whilst 
 my mother would sit down and siiig the 
 simple old ballad, 2'he Life and A/e of Man. 
 
 We are indebted to the compiler of the 
 Land of Burns, for the following interesting 
 anecdote in illustration of this poem : — 
 
 "Close beside the end of Barskimraing 
 old bridge, stands a neat, small house, in- 
 habited, at the time to which this anecdote 
 relates, by an old man named Kemp, and his 
 daughter. The old man, not originally pos- 
 sessed of the best of tempers, was rendered 
 peevish and querulous by disease, and in con- 
 sequence of slight paralysis, generally sup- 
 ported himself on two sticks. His daughter 
 Kate, however, a trim trig, lass, was one of the 
 leading belles of the district, and, as such, had 
 attracted a share of the attentions of Robert 
 Burns. One evening the poet had come 
 from Mauchline to see Kate; but, on arriving 
 at the house, he found the old man at the 
 door in a more than usually peevish mood, 
 and was informed by him that the cow was 
 lost, and that Kate had gone in quest 
 of her, but she had been so long away 
 he was afraid she was lost too. The poet, 
 leaving the old man, crossed the bridge, 
 and at the further end he met the miller 
 of Barskimming mill, then a young man 
 about his own age, whom he accosted thus : 
 ' Weel, miller, what are you doing here?' 
 I ' Na, Robin,' said the miller, ' I should put 
 
POEMS OF LUENS. 
 
 483 
 
 '.hat question to yon, for I am at hame' 
 itnd ye're no.' ' Why,' said Robin, ' I 
 cam doun to see Kate Hemp. ' ' I was 
 just gaun the same gate,' said the miller. 
 ' Then ye need gang nae farther,' said 
 Burns, ' for baitli she and the cow's lost, 
 and the auld man is perfectly wud at the 
 wan., o' tlieta. But come, we'll tak a turn 
 or two in the holm till we see if she cast up.' 
 They accordingly went into the liolm, and 
 during the tirst two rounds they made, 
 the poet chatted freely, but subsequently 
 got more and more taciturn, and, durnig the 
 last two rounds, spoke not a word. On 
 reaching the stile that led from the place, he 
 abruptly bade the miller good night, and 
 walked rapidly towards Mauchline. Next 
 time the miller and he met, he said, ' Miller, 
 I owe you an apology for my silence during 
 GUI last walk together, and for leaving you 
 so abruptly.' '<Jh, oh!' said he, ' Kobin, 
 there is no occasion, for I supposed some 
 subject had occurred to you, and that you 
 were thinking, and perhaps composing some- 
 thing on it.' 'You were quite right, miller,' 
 said Burns, ' and I will now read you what 
 was chiefly the w'ork of that evening.' " 
 
 The composition he read was Man was 
 made to Mourti ! 
 
 Page 124, Note 63. — This exquisite 
 poem was actually composed at the plough- 
 tail, and suggested by an incident which 
 occurred to the poet whilst at work. Burns 
 was handling the plough, and John Blane, 
 one of the farm servants (who many years 
 since remembered the incident), was driving, 
 at the same time holding in his hand the 
 pattle or pettle (a small wooden spud with 
 which the plunghsliare was scraped at the 
 commencement of every fresh furrow), when 
 suddenly a mouse started from the furrow, 
 and was running across the field, closely 
 pursued by Blane, pattle in hand, who had 
 started in chase. Burns, however, called his 
 driver back, and very calmly asked him 
 " What hurt the mouse had done him, that 
 he should wish to kill it." From that 
 moment Burns remained moody and silent 
 during the rest of the day, and woke Blane 
 at night (for they were bed-fellows), to 
 repeat to him the lines which the incident of 
 the day had suggested. 
 
 Page 124, Note 64. — Duan is the term 
 (analogous to strophe, fytte, &c.) applied by 
 Ossian to the divisions of rambling poems. 
 
 P.\GE 124, Note 65. — Curtbig is a very 
 boisterous game, played upon the ice, when 
 eutticicntly strong, and which consists in the 
 trundling of flattened, smoothed round stones. 
 The plavers are divided into sides. 
 
 4 
 
 Page 124, Note 66.— The parlour of the 
 farm-house of Mossgiel, namely, the ouiy 
 apartment besides the kitchen. This liti.e 
 apartment still exists in the state in which 
 it was when the poet described it as the 
 scene of his vision of Coila. " Though in 
 every respect humble, and partly occupied by 
 fixed beds, it does not appear uncomfortable. 
 Every consideration, however, sinks beneath 
 the one intense feeling, that here, within 
 these four walls, warmed at this little fire- 
 place, and lighted by this little window (it 
 has but one), lived one of the most extraor- 
 dinary men ; here wrote some of the most 
 celebrated poems of modern times." — 
 Chambers's Journal, No. 93. 
 
 Page 125, Note 67. — The charter of the 
 borough of Ayr bears date as early as the 
 beginning of the thirteenth century. 
 
 Page 125, Note 68. — The illustrious 
 family of Wallace. 
 
 Page 125, Note 69.— Alluding to the 
 great ^^'illiam Wallace, the hero of Scottish 
 independence. 
 
 Page 125, Note 70. — Adam AVallace, of 
 Richardton, dbusin to William Wallace. 
 
 Page 125, Note 71. — The Laird of 
 Craigie, also, of the family of Wallace, who 
 held the second command at the battle 
 fought in 1448, on the banks of Sark, and 
 gained by the Scottish troops, under 
 Douglas, Earl of Ormond, and Wallace, 
 Laird of Craigie; and in which the desperate 
 valour, and masterly skill of the latter, were 
 chiefly instrumental in securing the victory. 
 The Laird of Craigie was mortally wounded 
 in the engagement. 
 
 Page 125, Note 72. — The shade of the 
 supposed Coilus, King of the Picts, who, 
 accordiug to tradition, was buried close to 
 the seat of Slontgomeries, of Coitefield, 
 beneath a small mound crowned with trees. 
 On the 29th of Jlay, 1837, this mound was 
 excavated in search of remains, and two 
 urns were found, which so far corroborated 
 the tradition, that the mound was ascer- 
 tained to have actually held the remains of 
 some illustrious chiefs. 
 
 Page 125, Note 73. — Alluding to Bar- 
 skimming, the seat of Sir Thomas JMillar, at 
 that time Lord Justice Clerk, and since 
 President of the Court of Session. 
 
 Page 125, Note 74. — This stanza refers 
 to Catrine, the seat of Dugald Stewart (and 
 formerly of his father, the Rev. Dr. Matthew 
 Stewart), and which is situated on the banbi 
 of the river Ayr. 
 
 Page 125, Note 75. — Alluding to the 
 two successive possessors of Catrine. Dr. 
 i Matthew, and his sou, Dugald Stewart ; the 
 .1* 
 
 I 
 
481 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 first Rrninent foT his mathematical attain- 
 ment, the second for his elegant philosophical 
 writings. 
 
 Page 125, Note 76.— Colonel Fullarton. 
 
 Page 126, Note 77. — Coila (the muse of 
 Burns) had been suggested to the promoter 
 of her fabulous existence, by the equally 
 visionary personage, wlio figures under the 
 name of Scota in Mr. A. Rosa's poem. The 
 Fortunate ShepJierdess. 
 
 Page 126, Note 78.— Mossgiel, which 
 has since become the property of Mr. 
 Alexander, of Ballochmyle, was then amongst 
 the possessions of tlie Earls of Loudon, that 
 is, of the Loudon branch of the race of 
 Campbell. 
 
 Page 127, Note 79. — Towards the close 
 of the year 1785, loud complaints were made 
 by the Scottish distillers respecting the 
 vexatious and oppressive manner in which 
 the Excise laws were enforced at their 
 establishments — such rigour, they said, being 
 exercised at the instigation of the London 
 distillers, who looked with jealousy on the 
 success of their northern brethren. So great 
 was the severity of the Excise, that many 
 distillers were obliged to abandon the trade, 
 and the price of barley was beginning to be 
 affected. Illicit distillation was also found 
 to be alarmingly on the increase. In conse- 
 quence of the earnest remonstrances of the 
 (listdlers, backed by the county gentlemen, 
 an Act was passed in the session of 1786, 
 (alluded to lay the author), whereby the 
 duties on low wines, spirits, &c., were dis- 
 continued, and an annual tax imposed on 
 stills, according to their capacity. This act 
 gave general satisfaction. It seems to have 
 been during the general outcry against fiscal 
 oppression at the end of 1785, or beginning 
 of lf86, that the poem was composed. 
 
 Page 127, Note 80.— William Pitt, who 
 in his twenty-second year was at the head of 
 an administration, and controlling the Ex- 
 chequer. 
 
 Page 127, Note 81.— Hugh Mont- 
 gomery, of Coilsfield, afterv.'ards twelfth 
 Earl of Eglinton, at that time M.P. for 
 Ayrshire, and who had served in the army 
 during the American war. 
 
 Page 127, Note 82. — James Boswell, 
 well known to the party politicians of Ayr- 
 shire, as one of the orators of their meetings, 
 but better known to the world at large as 
 the shadow and biographer of Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Page 127, Note 83. — George Dempster, 
 of Dunnichen, in the county of Forfar, an 
 eminent Scottish Whig representative, of the 
 »;;e of Fox and Pitt. He commenced his 
 4iarliamentary career in 1762, and closed it 
 
 in 1790, after having sat in five succeeding 
 parliaments. Every patriotic and liberal 
 scheme had the support of this excellent 
 man, who died in 1818, at the age of 
 eighty-two. 
 
 Page 127, Note 84.— Sir Adam Fer- 
 gusson, of Kilkerran, Bart. He had several 
 times represented Ayrshire, but at present 
 was member for the city of Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 127, Note 85.— The Marquis of 
 Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Mont- 
 rose. He afterwards became the third Duke 
 of Montrose, and died in 1836. 
 
 Page 127, Note 86 —The Right Hon. 
 Henry Dundas, Treasurer of the Navy, and 
 M.P. for Edinburghshire, afterwards Viscount 
 Melville. 
 
 . Page 128, Note 87.— Probably Thomas 
 Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskme ; but he 
 was not then in Parliament. 
 
 Page 128, Note 88. — Lord Frederick 
 Campbell, second brother of the Duke of 
 Argyle, Lord Registrar of Scotland, and M.P. 
 for the county of Argyle in this, and the 
 one preceding, and the two subsequent Par- 
 liaments. 
 
 Page 128, Note 89.— Hay Campbell, 
 Lord Advocate of Scotland, who afterwards 
 became President of the Court of Session, 
 and survived to an advanced age. He was 
 at this period M.P. for the burghs compre- 
 hended within the limits of Glasgow. He 
 died in 1823. 
 
 Page 128, Note 90. — This stanza was 
 suppressed in all the editions which Burns 
 himself superintended whilst in press, out of 
 respect for the Montgomery, whose clumsy 
 oratory he could not help ridiculing. 
 
 Page 128, Note 91.— Mr. Pitt's father, 
 the Earl of Chatham, was the second son of 
 Robert Pitt, of Boconnock, in the county of 
 Cornwall. 
 
 Page 128, Note 92. — "Scones made 
 from a mixture of oats, peas, or beans, with 
 wheat or barley, ground fine, and denomi- 
 nated mashhiin, are in general use, and form 
 a wholesome and palatable food." — New 
 Statistical Account of Scotland, parish of 
 Dairy, Ayrshire. 
 
 Page 128, Note 93. — A worthy oW 
 hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where 
 he sometimes studies politics over a glass of 
 guid auld Scotch drink. Nanse's story was 
 difl'erent. On seeing the poem, she declared 
 that the poet had never been but once or 
 twice in her house. 
 
 Page 128, Note 94.— The young Chan- 
 cellor of the Exchequer had gained some 
 credit by a measure introduced in 1784 for 
 preventing smuggling of tea by reducing thi^ 
 
POEJIS OF BURNS. 
 
 48S 
 
 duty, the revenue being compensatel by a 
 tax on windows. 
 
 Page 129, Note 95.— The model which 
 Burns followed in this poeiu is evidently tlie 
 Cauler Wulcr of Fergusson. Tlie poet's 
 imagination is evidently more concerned in 
 the bacchanalian rant, than his actual pre- 
 dilection ; for it does not transpire that he 
 was more especially devoted to Bacchus or 
 his compeers, than the majority of his 
 associates or contemporaries. 
 
 Page 129, Note 9G — The vulgar name 
 of beer being repudiated, and the more re- 
 fined co<rnomen of " «/e " being substituted 
 for such decoctions of malt as grace the 
 tables of the great in silver tankards. 
 
 Page 129, Note 97. — An allusion to the 
 favourite draught of beer after a mess of 
 porridge. 
 
 Page 129, Note 9S.— An allusion to the 
 crowding of the congregation round the 
 moveable pulpits out of doors, as was 
 actually the case at a parochial distribution 
 of the sacrament. 
 
 Page 130, Note 99.— The Scottish Par- 
 liament passed an Act in the year 1()90, 
 empowering Forbes of CuUoden to distil 
 whisky free of duty, on his manor of 
 Ferintosh, of Cromartyshire, in consideration 
 of his services, and of the losses which he 
 had sustained in the public service at the 
 period of the Revolution. The immense 
 wealth to which such an immunity opened 
 the way, gradually stimulated the successors 
 of the Forbes to the distillation of so im- 
 mense a quantity of the spirit, that by 
 degrees Ferintosh became a bye-word signi- 
 fying whisky. This privilege was abolished 
 by the Act of the British parliament, passed 
 in 1785, and which regulated the Scotch dis- 
 tilleries in general. But a provision was 
 reserved in that act to the effect that the 
 Lords of the Treasury should indemnify the 
 present proprietor of the barony for the 
 immense deterioration of his estate, and that 
 if the Lords of the Treasury sho\dd fail to 
 settle the matter fairly, it should be sub- 
 mitted to a jury in the Scottish Court of 
 Exchequer. Accordingly, afterfutile attempts 
 at redress from the Treasury, Mr. Duncan 
 Forbes prosecuted his claim, proving that the 
 right had actually produced £1000 a year to 
 ills family, and might have been productive of 
 seven tmies as much; and the jury awarded 
 him the substantial sum of £21,580 as com- 
 pensation, on the 29tli of November, 1785. 
 
 Page 130, Note 100.— A preacher of 
 very general popularity amongst the poorer 
 classes. 
 
 Page 130, Note 101. — A preacher not 
 
 much admired by the people generally, but 
 received as an oracle by the select few who 
 were his partisans. Robertson was out of 
 health at the time these lines were writtei. 
 
 Page 131, Note 102. — Killie, a po|inlar 
 or familiar designation amongst the country 
 people, moaning Kilmarnock. 
 
 Page 131, Note 103, — Thomas Samson, a 
 nurseryman, at Kilmarnock, was one amoug<t 
 the earliest friends of Burns. He was 
 devoted to sporting. Supposing one of his 
 seasons to be his last in pursuit of game, he 
 had expressed a desire to die, and to be 
 buried in the Muirs, and this suggested to 
 Burns the elegy and epitaph. At his death 
 he was buried in Kilmarnock Churchyard, 
 and at the western extremity of the church 
 is a plain monumental slab, with the inscrip- 
 tion: — Thomas Samson, 
 
 Died the 12th of December, 1795, 
 
 Aged 72 yeJTrs. 
 
 "Tam Samson's weel-worn clav here lies;" 
 
 &c., &c., 
 in the identical words with which Burns had 
 humorously provided him. 
 
 Page 132, Note '101. — Mr. Aiken was 
 one of the first persons moving in thehi.'^her 
 orders of society, who noticed the remark- 
 able talents of Robert Burns, and whose 
 patronage and countenance upheld the poet, 
 and promoted the success of his subsequently 
 brilliant career. He was somewhat distin- 
 guished amongst his professional colleagues 
 (being a lawyer), for the superior intellec- 
 tual qualifications which he possessed, and 
 amongst his friends for the unaffected gene- 
 rosity of his character. He died on the 
 24th of March, 1807. 
 
 Page 132, Note 103.— "Several of the 
 poems were produced for the purpose of 
 bringing forward some favourite sentiment 
 of the author. He had frequently remarked 
 to me, that he thought there was something 
 peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Ixjt 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 Cotter's Saturday Night. 
 The hint of the plan, and title of the 
 poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer't 
 Iiiflle." — Gilbert Burns. "The house- 
 hold of the virtuous William Burness was 
 the scene of the poem, and William himself 
 was the saint, and father and husband, of 
 this truly sacred drama."— Ci'nningiiam. 
 
 Page 134, Note 106.— See Pope's Wmd- 
 sor Forest. 
 
 Page 134, Note 107. — This poem is 
 another remarkable instance of the fertility 
 of genius which so strikingly characterised 
 
48" 
 
 NOTi:S TO THE 
 
 the muse of Burns. Like the lines to a mouse, 
 it is elicited by the simplest and most trivial 
 occuiretioe, and, nevertheless, is wrought up 
 to a prufound dey^iee of thought and senti- 
 ment, which the utmost sublimity of scenery 
 could barelv have excelled. 
 
 Page 135, Note 108.— The friend to 
 whom this poem is addressed, was Mr. 
 Andrew Aiken, the son of Mr. Aiken, of 
 Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Nifjht 
 is dedicated, and wlio had been taught by 
 his father to venerate the genius and charac- 
 ter of his lowly but illustrious fellow-country- 
 man. Mr. Andrew Aiken survived fifty years 
 after Burns, and died at St. Petersburgh, 
 after a very successful mercantile career into 
 which lie had early embarked at Liverpool. 
 
 Page 136, Note 109. — The first person 
 of respectable rank and good education who 
 took any notice of Burns, was Mr. Gavin 
 Hamilton, writer in Mauchline, from whom 
 he took his farm of Mossgiel on a sub-lease. 
 ?.Ir. Hamilton lived in what is still called the 
 Castle of Mauchline, a half-fortified old 
 mansion near the church, forming the only 
 remains of the ancient priory. He was the 
 son of a gentleman who had practised the 
 same profession in the same place, and was 
 in every respect a most estimable member of 
 society — generous, affable, and huiuane. 
 Unfortunately his religious practice did not 
 square with the notions of the then minis- 
 ter of Mauchline, the Daddy Auld of 
 Burns, who, in 1785, is found in the session 
 records to have siunmnned him for rebuke, 
 on the four following charges: — 1. Unne- 
 cessary absence from church, for five conse- 
 cutive Sundays (apparently the result of 
 some dispute about a poor's rate) ; 2. Setting 
 out on a journey to Carrick on a Sunday ; 
 3. Habitual, if not total neglect of family 
 worship; 4. Writuig an abusive letter to 
 the session, in reference to some of their 
 former proceedings respecting him. Strange 
 thoush this prosecution may seem, it was 
 s'rictly accordant with the right assumed by 
 tlie Scottish clergy at that period, to inquire 
 into the private habits of parishioners ; and 
 as it is universally allowed that Mr. Auld's 
 designs in the matter were purely religious, 
 it is impossible to speak of it disrespectfully. 
 It was unfortunately, however, mixed up 
 with some personal motives in the members 
 of the session, which were so apparent to 
 the Presbytery, to which Mr. Hamilton 
 appealed, that that reverend body ordered 
 the proceedings to be stopped, and all notice 
 of them expunged from the records. A 
 description of the sufferings of tlie Mauch- 
 iiiie Session, while orator Aiken was exposing 
 
 them before the Presbytery, is to be founa in 
 Holy Willie's Prayer. Partly from antipathy 
 to the high orthodox party, but more from 
 friendship for Mr. Hamilton, whom he re- 
 garded as a worthy and enlightened man, 
 persecuted by narrow-witted bi^'ots. Burns 
 threw his partisan muse into the quarrel, 
 and produced several poems, that just men- 
 tioned amongst the rest, in which it is but 
 too apparent that religion itself suffers in 
 common with those whom he holds up aa 
 abusing it. 
 
 Page 137, Note 110. — On reading in 
 the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with 
 the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the 
 author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he 
 imagined himself transported to the birth- 
 day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, made 
 the address conveyed in these lines. — R. B. 
 [The Poet Laureate of the time being was 
 Thomas Wartou, and the subjoined are the 
 opening lines of the ode of which Burns 
 became the quaint commentator in the 
 dream: — 
 
 "When Freedom nursed her native fire 
 In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre, 
 Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's brow 
 
 The tinsel gifts of flattery tore ; 
 But paid to guiltless power their willing vow; 
 
 And to the throne of virtuous kings, &c.,&c." 
 
 Vapid enough, it must be confessed ] 
 
 Page 138, Note 111. — Gait, gett, or 
 gyte, a homely substitute for the word child 
 in Scotland. 
 
 Page 138, Note 112.— When the vote of 
 naval supplies was inider discussion in the 
 session of 1786, several mndilicatious of the 
 management of our naval armaments were 
 hotly agitated by a Captain Mc Bride and 
 his adherents. Amongst other projects, the 
 abandonment of 64-gun ships was proposed 
 by him. 
 
 Page 133, Note 113.— Charles James 
 Fox. 
 
 Page 138, Note 114. — In this respect 
 Burns has followed the account of the 
 chronicles, adopted as it had subsequently 
 been by Shanespeare, in speaking of 
 Henry V., as mingling in the wildest frolics 
 of his coiniiauious ; Prince Hal was clearly 
 of such habits in his younger days, if we 
 may trust the anecdotes in which his just 
 punishment, by authority, reflected credit 
 on a worthy and impartial judge. But, 
 according to the memoirist Tyler, these 
 were uotliing better than a tissue of ingenious 
 fables. However this may be. Burns oidy 
 adopted a degree of licence, which the 
 greatest British Poet liad considered liim. 
 
f 
 
 POEMS OF BURXS. 
 
 4S7 
 
 self iVee to use when the traditions were yet 
 mure positive on tlie subject. 
 
 Page 138, Note 115. — A humorous 
 hit at Frederick, Duke of York (the second 
 son of George III.), whose earlier career had 
 been spent in Ecclesiastical vocations, as 
 Bisliop of Osnahnrg'. 
 
 P.\GE 138, NoiE 116 — 'William Henry, 
 afterwards Duke of Clarence, and finally 
 Kins, by the name of William IV., whose 
 profession was the navy. 
 
 Page 138, Note 117. — An allusion to 
 the current tale of some youthful intrigue of 
 the roval sailor. 
 
 Page 132, Note 118.— "The tale of the 
 Twa Vcir/s was composed after the resolution 
 of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 
 a dog, which he called Luath, that was a 
 great favourite. The dog had been 
 killed by the wanton cruelty of some person, 
 tlie night before my father's death. Robert 
 said to me that he should like to confer 
 such an immortality as he could bestow on 
 his old Friend Luatli, and that he had a 
 great mind to introduce something into the 
 buck under the title of Stanzas to the 
 jNIemory of a Cinadruped Friend ; but this 
 plan was given up for the poem as it now 
 stands. Cresar was merely the creature of the 
 poet's imagination, created for the purpose 
 of holding chat with his favourite Luath." 
 — Gilbert Bur.ns. Allan Cuuningham 
 mentions that John Wilson, printer, Kil- 
 nuirnock, on undertaking the first edition of 
 the poems, suggested the propriety of 
 placing a piece of a grave nature at the 
 beginning, and that Burns, acting on the 
 hint, composed or ci>mpk'ted the 'I'lva Dorjs 
 in walking home to Mossgiel. Its exact date 
 is fixed at February 1780, by a letter of the 
 poet to John Richmond. 
 
 Page 139, Note 119. — Kyle, the native 
 province of the poet, is supposed to derive 
 its name from Coilus, a real or supposed 
 king of the Picts, alluded to in the notes to 
 the V'lsmi. Recent antiquaries are disposed 
 to deduce the appellative from quite a dif- 
 ferent source, from clioillie, to wit, signifying 
 in the Celtic tongue a woody region. Upon 
 the whole, the popular etymology appears 
 the more rational. 
 
 Page 139, Note 120.— CuchulUn's dog 
 in Ossian's Fingal. 
 
 Page 141, Note 121. — In the earUpait 
 of 1780, when the friends of his Jean forced 
 her to break the nuptial engagement into 
 which he had clandestinely entered with her, 
 and took legal steps to force him to find 
 security for the maintenance of her expec- 
 ted offspring — in this dismal time, when 
 
 nothing but ruin seemed before him — our 
 bard poured forth, as in the name of 
 another, the following eloquent effusion of 
 indignation and grief. 
 
 Page 142, Note 122. — Allusion is here 
 made to Miss Eliza Burnet, the beauty 
 of her day in Edinburgh — daughter of the 
 eccentric scholar and philosopher, l>ord 
 Monboddo. Burns was several times en- 
 tertained by his lordship at his house in St. 
 John Street, Canongate, where the lady 
 presided. He speaks of her in a letter iii 
 the following terms: — "There has not been 
 any thing nearly like her, in all the combi- 
 nations of beauty, grace, and goodness, ihe 
 great Creator has formed, since .Milton's 
 Eve on the first day of her existence." It 
 may be curious to learn what was thought of 
 this lovely woman by a man of a very differ- 
 ent sort from Burns — namely, Hugii Chis- 
 holm, one of the seven broken men (usually 
 called robbers) who kept Prince Charles in 
 their cave in Inverness-shire for several 
 weeks, during his hidings, resisting the 
 temptation of thirty thousand pounds to 
 give him up. This man, when far advanced 
 in life, was brought on a visit to Edinburgh, 
 where it was remarked he would never allow 
 any one to shake his right hand, that 
 member having been rendered sacred in his 
 estimation, by the grasp of the Prince. 
 Being taken to sup at Lord Monboddo's, 
 old Hugh sat most of the time gazing ab- 
 stractedly on Miss Burnet, and being asked 
 afterwards what he thought of her, he ex- 
 claimed, in a burst of his eloquent native 
 tongue, which can be but poorly rendered in 
 English, " She is the finest animal I ever 
 beheld." Yet an enviously minute inquirer, 
 in the letter-press accompanying the reprint 
 of Kay's Portraits, states that she had one 
 blemish, though one not apt to be observed 
 — bad teeth. She died, in 1700, of con- 
 sumption, at the age of twenty-rive, and the 
 poet wrote an elegy upon her. — Chambeus. 
 
 Page 143, Note 123. — An hostelry of 
 high repute throughout the neighbourhood, 
 situated at the Auld Brig End. 
 
 Page 143, Note 124. — Ibis clock, as well 
 as the tower or steeple in w liich it stood, has 
 been removed for some years. The stteple 
 was formerly attached to the old gaol of 
 Ayr. 
 
 Page 143, Note 125 — The ancient 
 Wallace To>ver, which fell into a dangerous 
 state of repair, was ultimately pulled down, 
 and replaced by a new Tower, w liicli is still 
 known by the si;ne name The Ohl Wallace 
 Tower was an incongruous building, par- 
 rikiug of the rule comiuixture of 9e\frul 
 
488 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 styles of architecture, and from it rose a 
 
 slender spire, whicii, though, by no means in 
 exact keeping with the basement, certainly 
 contributed to the picturesque aspect of the 
 building. Tlie new tower stands upon the 
 same foundation in the High Street of Ayr. 
 
 Page 143, Note 126. — The falcon, or as 
 it is commonly called, the Gos-hawk. The 
 imagery of this passage is as beautiful as 
 the expression. 
 
 Page 143, Note 127. — A well-known 
 ford in the Kiver, immediately auove the 
 Auld Brig. 
 
 Page 143, Note 128. — Generally, as the 
 rapid enlightenment of the Scottish people 
 has dispelled the superstitions which were 
 wont to hang about some localities, even to 
 the charm and poetical imagery with which 
 such superstitions served at times to invest 
 them, the spirits of Garpal Water are yet 
 acknowledged to letain tlieir supremacy, and 
 the spot is as firmly believed to be lianuted 
 by many of the ])easants, as it was of okl. 
 
 Page 144, Note 129. — The source of the 
 river Ayr. 
 
 Page 144, Notk 130. — A narrow land- 
 ing place on the upward side of the chief 
 quay. 
 
 Page 144, Note 131. — Mr. McLachlan 
 was at that time well known, and nnich ad- 
 mired for his taste in the pertonnance of 
 Scottish airs on the violin. 
 
 Page 145, Note 132. — A complimen- 
 tary allusion to Captain Hugh Montgomery, 
 otherwise called Sodger llnt/k by Burns, 
 (who subsequently succeeded to the Earldo-n 
 of EglintonJ, and wiiose family seat of 
 Coilstield is situated on the Fade, or Feal, a 
 small stream which falls into the river Ayr, 
 at no great distance. 
 
 Page 145, Note 133. — In the foregoing 
 notes, on the Epistle to Davie, the intro- 
 duction of Burns to Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, 
 has been detailed. The present passage is a 
 complimentary allusion to tlie same lady. 
 
 Page 145, Note 134. — Catrine was, as 
 we have already had occasion to state, the 
 seat of Dr. Stewart, the father of Professor 
 Dugald Stewart, to whose honour, and in 
 compliment of whom, this alhisiou is made. 
 
 Page 145, Note 135. — " The Elegy on 
 Captain Henderson is a tribute to the 
 memory of a man I loved much." — Burns. 
 Captain Henderson was a retired soldier, of 
 agreeable manners, and upright character, 
 who liad a lodging in Carrubber's Close, 
 Edinburgh, and mingled with the best so- 
 ciety of the city. Air. Cunningham states, 
 on the authority of Sir Thomas Wallace, who 
 knew him. that he " dined regularly at For- 
 
 tune's Tavern, and was a member of the 
 Capillaire Club, which was composed of all 
 who inclined to the witty and the joyous." 
 The poem was written in Dumfriesshire, 
 in 17'J0. 
 
 Page 145, Note 13G.— Yearns — Eagles. 
 
 Page 146, Note 137. — "1 look on Tarn o' 
 Shunter as my standard performance in the 
 poetical line." — Burns. 
 
 "When my father fewedhis little property 
 near Alloway Kirk, the wall of the cliurch- 
 yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free 
 liberty of pasture in it. My father and two 
 or three neighbours joined m an application 
 to the town-councd of Ayr, who were supe- 
 riors of the adjoining laud, for liberty to 
 rebuild it, and raised by subscription a sum 
 for enclosing this ancient cemetery with a 
 wall : hence, he came to consider it as his 
 burial place, and we learned that reverence 
 for it people generally have for the burial- 
 place of tlieir ancestors. My brother was 
 living in Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on 
 his perigrinations through Scotlaml, staid 
 some time at Carse-house in the neighbour- 
 hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
 riddel, a particular friend of my brother's. 
 The antiquary and the poet were ' uiico pack 
 and thick thegither.' Robert requested of 
 Captain Grose, when he should come to 
 Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of 
 Alloway Kirk, as it was the burial-place of 
 his father, where he himself had a sort of 
 claim to lay down his bones when they 
 should be no longer serviceable to him ; and 
 added, by way of encouragement, that it was 
 the scene of many a good story of witches 
 and apparitions, of which he knew the cap- 
 tain was very fond. The captain agreed to 
 the request, provided the poet would fur- 
 nish a witch story, to be printed along with 
 it. ' Tam o' Shanter ' was produced on this 
 occasion, and was tirst published in 
 'Grose's Antiquities of Scotland.'" — Gilbert 
 
 BuitNS. 
 
 It was while spending his nineteenth sum- 
 mer in the parish of Kirkoswald, in Carrick, 
 that the poet became acquainted with the 
 characters and c rcumstauces afterwards in- 
 troduced into Tam o' Shanter. The hero 
 was an honest farmer, named Douglas Gra- 
 ham, wlio lived at Shanter, between 
 Tnrnberry and Colzean. His wife, Helen 
 M'Taggart, was much addicted to supersti- 
 tious beliefs. Graham, dealing much in 
 malt, went co Ayr every market day, whither 
 he was- frequently accompanied by a shoe- 
 making neighbour, John Davidson, who 
 dealt a litllf in leather. The two would 
 often luigc* I'o a late hour iu the taverns a( 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 489 
 
 I lie market town. One ni^jht, when riding 
 iiome more than usually late by himself, in a 
 storm of wind and rain, Graham, in passing; 
 over Brown Carrick Hill, near the ciridge of 
 Doon, lost his bonnet, which contained the 
 money he had drawn that day at the market. 
 To avoid the scolding of his wife, he imposed 
 upon her credulity with a story of witches 
 seen at Alloway Kirk, but did not the less 
 reiurn to the Carrick Hill, to seek for his 
 m'^/uey, which he had the satisfaction to find, 
 with his bonnet, in a plantation near the 
 road. Burns, hearing Graluiiu's story told 
 between jest and earnest among the smug- 
 glers of the Carrick shore, retained it in his 
 memory, till, at a comparatively late period 
 of his career, he wove from it one of the most 
 admired of his poems. Douglas Graham 
 and John Davidson, the originals of Tam o' 
 Shanter and Souter Johnnie, have long 
 reposed in the churchyard of Kirkoswald, 
 where the former had a handsome monu- 
 ment, bearing a very pious inscription.— 
 Chambers. 
 
 Page 146, Note 138. — The village where 
 a parish church is situated is usually called 
 the Kirktou in Scotland. A certain Jean 
 Kennedy, v ho kept a reputable public-house 
 in the village of Kirkoswald, is here alluded 
 to. 
 
 Page 147, Note 139. — "Alloway Kirk, 
 with its httle enclosed burial ground, stands 
 beside the road from Ayr to Maybole, about 
 two miles from the former town. The 
 church has long been roofless, but the walls 
 are pretty well preserved, and it still retains 
 its bell at the east end. Upon the whole, 
 the spectator is struck with the idea, that 
 the witches must have had a rather narrow 
 stage for the performance of tiieir revels, as 
 described in the poem. The inner area is 
 now divided by a partition-wall, and one part 
 forms the family burial-place of Mr. Catch- 
 cart, of Blairston. The ' winnock bunker in 
 the east,' wliere sat the awful musician of the 
 party, is a conspicuous feature, being a small 
 window, divided by a thick mnllion. Around 
 the buidiiig are the vestiges of other open- 
 ings, at any of which the hero of the tale 
 may be supposed to have looked in upon the 
 hellish scene. A\'itliin the last few years the 
 old oaken rafters of the kirk were mostly 
 entire, but they have now been entirely 
 taken away, to form, in various shapes, 
 memorials of a place so remarkably signal- 
 ised by genius. It is necessary for those 
 who survey the ground in reference to the 
 poem, to be informed that the old road from 
 Ayr to this spot, by which Burns supposed 
 his hero to have approached Alloway Kirk, 
 
 was considerably to the west of the present 
 one, which, nevertheless, has existed since 
 before the time of Burns. Upon a field 
 about a quarter of a mile to the north-west 
 of the kirk, is a single tree enclosed with a 
 paling, the last reiuuaut of a group whicu 
 covered 
 
 ' the cairn 
 
 Where hunters faud the murdered bairn ; 
 and immediately beyond tint objact is 
 -the ford. 
 
 Wliere in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ;' 
 
 namely, a ford over a small burn (which 
 soon after joins the Doon), being two places 
 which Tam o' Shanter is described as having 
 passed on his solitary way. The road then 
 made a sweep towards the river, and, pas- 
 sing a well which trickles down into the 
 Doon, where formerly stood a thorn, on 
 which an individual, called in the poem 
 ' Muugo's mither,' committed suicide, ap- 
 proached Alloway Kirk upon the west. 
 These circumstances may here appear trivial, 
 but it is surprising with what interest any 
 visitor to the real scene will inquire into, and 
 behold every part of which can be associated, 
 however remotely, with the poem of Tam 
 o' Shanler. The churchyard contains several 
 old monuments, of a very humble descrip- 
 tion, marking the resting-places of undistin- 
 guished persons. Among those persons rest 
 William Burness, father of the poet, over 
 whose grave the son had piously raised a 
 small stone, recording his name and the 
 date of his death, together with the short 
 poetical tribute to his memory, wiiich is 
 copied in the works of the bard. But, for 
 this monument, long ago destroyed and 
 carried away piecemeal, there is now sub- 
 stituted one of somewhat finer proportions; 
 and the churchyard of Alloway has now 
 become fashionable with the dead, as well as 
 the living. Its little area is absolutely 
 crowded with modern monuments, referring 
 to persons, many of whom have been brought 
 from considerable distances, to take the r 
 rest in this doubly consecrated ground. 
 Among these is one to the memory of a per- 
 son named Tyrie. who, visiting the spot 
 some years ago, h.ippened to express a wish 
 that he might be laid in All .way church- 
 yard, and, as fate wo.iid have a was interred 
 in the spot he had pointed out within a 
 fortnight. Nor is this all ; for even the 
 neighbouring gentry are now contending 
 for departments in this fold of the departed, 
 and it is probable that the elegant niausoled 
 of r?'ik and wealth will soon be justlia^ 
 
490 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 with the stunted obelisks of humble worth 
 and noteless poverty." — Chambers's Jour- 
 nal. 
 
 Page 148, Note 140. — It is well known 
 that witches, or any other evil spirits, have 
 no power to follow a poor wight any further 
 than the middle of the nearest running 
 stream. And, at the some time, it may not 
 be superfluous to hint to the beniijhted tra- 
 veller, that when he is unfortunate enough 
 to fall in with the wierd sisters, or with bogies 
 on his road, — whatever be the danger of 
 gouig forward, it is far less than that of 
 retreat. — Burns. 
 
 VkQv, 148, Note 141. — "In my early 
 years nothing less would serve me than 
 courting the tragic muse. I was, I think, 
 about eigiiteen or nineteen when I sketched 
 the outlines of a tragedy, forsooth : but the 
 bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, 
 which had for some time threatened us, 
 prevented my farther progress. In those 
 days I never wrote down any thing ; so, 
 e.tcept a speech or two, the whole has es- 
 caped ray memory. Thesj lines, which I 
 most distinctly remembsr, were the exclam- 
 ation from a great character — great in 
 occasional instances of generosity, and dar- 
 ing at times in villanies. He is supposed 
 to meet with a child of misery, and to burst 
 out into this rhapsody." — Burns. 
 
 Page 148, Note 142. — "There is scarcely 
 any earthly object gives me more — I do not 
 know if I should call it pleasure — but some- 
 tlnng which exalts me — something which en- 
 raptures me — than to walk on the sheltered 
 side of a wood or plantation, in a cloudy 
 wniter's day, and hear the stormy wind 
 howling amongst the trees, and raving over 
 the plam. It is my best season of devotion ; 
 my mind is rapt up in a kind of enthusiasm 
 to Him, who in the pompous language of 
 the Hebrew bard, " Walks on the wings of 
 the wind." In one of these seasons, just 
 after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
 Winter, a Dirge. — Burns. According to 
 Gilbert Burns, this is one of Burns's earliest 
 pieces, and he has assigned 1784 as its 
 date. 
 
 Page 148, Note 143. — A quotation from 
 Young. 
 
 Page 149, Note 144. — "There was a 
 period of my life that my spirit was well nigh 
 broken by repeated losses and disasters, 
 which threatened, and indeed effected, the 
 utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, 
 was attacked by that most dreadful dis- 
 temper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melan- 
 choly. In tliis wretched state, the recollection 
 of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my 
 
 harp on the willow trees, except in * ■■■m- 
 lucid intervals, in one of which I compose.) 
 these hues." — Burns. 
 
 Page 149, Note 145.— The "Prayer," 
 and the " Stanzas," were composed when 
 fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms 
 of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous dis- 
 order (which indeed still threatens me) first 
 put nature on the alarm." — Burns. 
 
 Page 149, Note 146. — Ruis.seau, is the 
 French, as Burn is the Scottisii, term for 
 stream. Ruisseaux is the plural of Riiissenu, 
 as Barns is of Burn; and hence the hu- 
 morous translation of his own name in the 
 l']le4'y of Robert Burns. 
 
 Page 150, Note 147. — The Rev. James 
 Steven, afterwards one of the Scotch clersry 
 in London, and ultimately minister of Kil- 
 winning, in Ayrshire, was the hero of this 
 piece of levity. 1 he tradition in the family 
 of Mr. Gavin Hamilton is, that the poet, in 
 passing to the church at Mauchline, called 
 at Mr. Hamilton's, who, biing coiiliiied with 
 the gout, could not accompany him, but 
 desired him, as parents do with cliildren, to 
 bring home a note of the text. At the con- 
 clusion of the service, Burns called again, 
 and, sitting down for a minute at JMr. 
 Hamilton's business table, scribbled these 
 verses, by way of a compliance with the 
 request. From a memorandum by Burns 
 himself, it would appi ar that there was a 
 wager with Mr. Hamilton as to his producing 
 a poem in a certain timf, and that he gamed 
 it by producing The Calf. 
 
 Page 15 J, Note 143. — ^"At the time 
 when Burns was be;;iniiing to exercise his 
 powers as a poet, theological contro\crsy 
 raged araongt the clergy and laity of his 
 native country. The prominent points re- 
 lated to the doctrines of original sin and the 
 Trinity ; a scarcely subordinate one referred 
 to the right of patrona'jre. Burns took the 
 moderate and liberal side, and seems to have 
 delighted in doing all he could to torment 
 the zealous party, who were designated as 
 the Aiild Lirj'its. The first of Ins poetic 
 offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque 
 lamentation on a quarrel between two 
 reverend Calvinists, which he circulated 
 anonymously, and which, " with a certain 
 description of the clergy, as well as laity, 
 met witli roars of applause." This was the 
 Twa Ht-nls. The heroes of the piece were 
 the llev. Alexander Moodie, minister of 
 Riccarton, and the Rev. John Russell, minis- 
 ter of a chapel of ease, at Kilmarnock, both 
 of tliem eminent as leiders of the Auld 
 Light party. In riding home together they 
 got into a warm dispute regarding some 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 m 
 
 point of doctrine, or of discipline, which led i glasses, wrote a neat small hand, and had 
 to a riiptnre that appeared nearly incurahle. | not a furrow in his cheek or a wrinkle on 
 Tliey appear to have afterwards quarrelled his hrow. He was Moderator of the General 
 about a question of parish boundaries; and Asseinbly in 1775. He had a fine old 
 when tlie point was debated in the Presby- I clergynianly-kind of wit. In the house of a 
 
 tery of Irvine, in presence of a great multi- 
 tude of the people (including 13urns), they 
 lost temper entirely, aud "abused each 
 other,' says Mr. Lockhart, "with a fiery 
 vehemence of personal invective such as has 
 been long banished from all popular assem- 
 blies, wherein the laws of courtesy are en- 
 forced by those of a certain unwritten code." 
 Allan Cunningham gives a popular story of 
 this f[uarrel having ultimately come to blows; 
 but if such had been the case, the poet 
 would certainly have adverted to it : — 
 
 CH.\MBERS. 
 
 Page 150, Note 149. — Russell is de- 
 scribed as a "large, robust, dark-com- 
 plexioned man, imperturbably grave, fierce 
 of temper, and of a stern expression of 
 countenance." He preached with much ve- 
 hemence, aud at the height of a tremendous 
 voice, which, iii certain states of the atmos- 
 phere, caught the ear at the distance of more 
 than a mile. He subsequently became minis- 
 ter at Stirling, where he died at an advanced 
 age. 
 
 Page 150, Note 150.— Dr. Robert Dun- 
 can, minister of Dundonald. Excepting in 
 his limbs, which were short, he bore a strong 
 (lersoiial resemblance to Charles James 
 Fox. 
 
 Page 150, Note 151.— Rev. William 
 Peebles, of Newton-upon-A.yr. See notes 
 to Holy Fair, and Kirk's Alarm. 
 
 Page 150, Note 152. — Rev. William 
 Auld, minister of Mauchline. 
 
 Page 150, Note 153.— Rev. Dr. Dal- 
 rymple, one of the ministers of Ayr. He died 
 in 1814, having enjoyed his charge for the 
 uncommon period of sixty-eight years. 
 
 Page 150, Note 154. — Rev. William 
 M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, colleague 
 of Dr. Ualrymple. See note to Kirlc's 
 Alarm. 
 
 Page 150, Note 155. — Minister of St. 
 Quivox, an eidightened man, and elegant 
 preacher. He has been succeeded in the 
 parish by his son. 
 
 Page 150, Note 156. — Dr. Andrew 
 Shaw, of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of 
 Croylton. Dr. Andrew was a man of ex- 
 cellent abilities, but extremely diffident — 
 a fine speaker and an accomplished scholar. 
 Dr. David, in personal respects, was a 
 piodigy. He was ninety-one years of age 
 before he required an assistant. At that 
 period of life lie read without the uae of 
 
 man of raidt, where he spent the night, an 
 alarm took place after midni','ht, wliich 
 brought all the members of the family from 
 their dormitories. The doctor encountered 
 a countess in her chemise, which occasioned 
 some mutual confusion. At breakfast next 
 morning, a lady asked him what he thought 
 when he met the countess in the lobby. 
 " Oh, my lady," said he, " I was in a trance." 
 Trance in Scotland signifies a passage or 
 vestibule, as well as a swoon. Tliis amiable 
 man died, April 26, 1810, in the ninety- 
 second year of his age, and sixty-first of 
 his ministry. 
 
 Page 150, Note 157. — There were three 
 brothers of this name, descended from the 
 church historian, and all ministers — one at 
 Eastwood, their ancestor's charge, the second 
 at Stevenston, and the third, Dr. Peter 
 ■\Voodrow, at Tarbolton. Dr. Peter is the 
 person named in the poem. The assistant 
 and successor, mentioned in the verse, was 
 M'Math, elsewhere alluded to. 
 
 Page 151, Note 158.— The Rev. Mr. 
 (afterwards Dr.) Smith, who figures in the 
 Holy Fair as one of the tent preachers. 
 
 Page 151, Note 159. — The hero of this 
 daring exposition of Calvanistic theology, 
 was William Fisher, a farmer in the neigh- 
 bourhood of iMauchline, and an elder in Air 
 Auld's session. He had signalised himself 
 in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, cUe- 
 where alluded to ; and Burns appears to 
 have written these verses in retribution of 
 the rancour he had displayed on that occasion. 
 Fisiier was, probably, a poor narrow-witted 
 creature, with just sufficient sense to make a 
 show of sanctity. When removed to another 
 parish, and there acting as an elder, he was 
 found guilty of some peculations in the funds 
 of the poor — to which Burns alludes in the 
 Kirlc's Alarm. Ultimately, coming home 
 one night from market in a cart, in a state 
 of intoxication, he fell from the vehicle, and 
 was found lifeless in a ditch next morning. 
 
 Page 151, Note 160. — These essays 
 were published in exposition of the doctrines 
 of Dr. Mc Gill, so violently persecuted by 
 the heroes of orthodoxy. 
 
 Page 152, Note 161.— Dr. Taylor of 
 Norwich, whose doctrines were advocated by 
 Gondie and McGill. 
 
 Page 152, Note 162. — A hearty partisan 
 of the heterodox theological school, remark- 
 able amongst his fellow-farmers of the 
 
 43 
 
492 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 neiglibourhood, as a jolly companion and 
 liumorous, though somewhat coarse satirist 
 of the orthodox heroes. He occupied a farm 
 called Adam hill, near Tarbolton. 
 
 Page 152, Note 163. — "A certain humo- 
 rous dream of his was then making some 
 noise in the country-side." — Burns. Mr. 
 Cunningham gives the followuig account of 
 the dream — "Lord K., it is said, was in the 
 practice of calling all his familiar acquaint- 
 ances brutes. ' Well, ye brute, how are ye 
 . to-day ? ' was his usual mode of salutation. 
 Once in company, his lordship, having 
 indulged in this rudeness more than his 
 wont, turned to Kankine and exclaimed, 
 •Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer 
 sly story to tell us ? ' 'I have nae story,' 
 baid Rankine; 'but last night I had an odd 
 dream.' 'Out with it, by all means,' said 
 the other. 'Aweel, ye see,' said Rankine, 'I 
 dreamed I was dead, and that for keeping 
 other than gude company on earth, I was 
 sent down stairs. When I knocked at the 
 low door, wha should open it but the deil ; 
 he was iu a rough humour, and said, ' ^^^la 
 may ye be, and what's your name ? ' ' jMy 
 name,' quoth I, 'is John Rankine, and my 
 dwelling-place was Adam-hill.' ' Gae wa' 
 wi' ye,' quoth Satan, ' ye canna be here ; 
 ye're ane o' Lord K.'s brutes — hell's fou o' 
 them already.' " This sharp rebuke, it is said, 
 polished for the future his lordship's speech. 
 
 Page 152, Note 164. — Some occurrence 
 is evidently here alluded to. We have 
 heard the following account of it, but cannot 
 vouch for its correctness : — A noted zealot 
 of the opposite party (the name of Holy 
 Willie has been mentioned, but more 
 probably, from the context, the individual 
 must have been a clergyman), calling on Mr. 
 Rankine on business, the latter invited him 
 to take a glass. With much entreaty, the 
 visitor was prevailed on to make a very 
 small modicum of toddy. The stranger 
 remarking that the liquor proved very strong, 
 Mr. Rankine pointed out, as any other land- 
 lord would have done, that a little more hot 
 water might improve it. The kettle was 
 accordingly resorted to, but still the liquor 
 appeared over-potent. Again he filled up. 
 Still no diinnaition of strength. All this 
 time he was sipping and sipping. By and 
 bye, the liquor began to appear only too 
 weak. To cut short a tale, the reluctant 
 guest ended by tumbling dead-drunk on the 
 floor. The trick played upon him, requires, 
 of course, no explanation.— Chambers. 
 
 Page 15:2, Note 165. — An allusion to 
 some song which had been promised by John 
 Rankine to Burns. 
 
 Page 152, Note 166. — This epistle was 
 first published by Lapraik himself amongst 
 his own works. 
 
 Page 153, Note 167.— At that timn 
 enjoying the appointment of assistant and 
 successor to the Rev. Peter Woodrow, minister 
 of Tarbolton. He was an excellent preaclier, 
 and a decided moderate. He enjoyed the 
 friendship of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, 
 and of Burns ; but unhappily fell into low 
 spirits, in consequence of his dependent 
 situation, and became dissipated. After 
 being for some time tutor to a family in the 
 Western Isles, it is said that this unfortunate 
 man ultimately enlisted as a common soldier. 
 
 Page 153, Note 163.— Gawn, Gawm, 
 Gavin. Alluding to Gavin Hamilton. 
 
 Page 154, Note 109. — All the allusions 
 contained in this poem are of such a nature 
 and refer to such public events as will be 
 readily understood : and there is something 
 exceedingly humorous in the exposition of 
 the views and remarks of the peasantry 
 respecting the great leaders, or great events, 
 which happen to become matters of noto- 
 riety. 
 
 Page 154, Note 170. — An allusion to 
 the unanticipated return of a considerable 
 majority of Scottish members in support of 
 William Pitt, upon the election incidental to 
 the opening of his administration. 
 
 Page 156, Note 171. — An incident 
 which actually occurred, and which was 
 witnessed by Burns, at Mauchline, in Decem- 
 ber 1785. 
 
 Page 156, Note 172. — Lunardi Bonnet. 
 The fashions in those days, as in these, were 
 apt to receive denominations from persons 
 or events which hau created general sen- 
 sation. In our time we have our Kossuth, 
 or Klapka hats and the like. l,unardi had 
 made several balloon ascents during the 
 summer of 1785, in Scotland, and as these 
 excited much interest at the time, Lunar- 
 di's name was suivant les regies, appended to 
 various articles of dress, and to bonnets 
 amongst others. 
 
 Page 156, Note 173.— In May 1785, 
 Mr. Pitt made a considerable addition to the 
 number of taxed articles, amongst which 
 were female servants, in order to liquidate 
 ten millions of unfunded debt. The poem 
 seems to have been called forth by the 
 receipt of the next annual mandate from 
 Mr. Aiken, of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for 
 the district. 
 
 Page 156, Note 174.— The off foru 
 horse, or leader, in the plough. 
 
 Page 156, Note 175. — The off draught 
 horse iu the plough. 
 
I 
 
 POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 49. 
 
 Page I5fl, Note 17G.- -The familiar ex- 
 pression for Kilmarnock, arwngat the pea- 
 santry. 
 
 Page 15G, Note 177. — The near wheel 
 horse in the plough. 
 
 Page 1^7 Note 178. — An allusion to 
 one of the questions (namely " What is 
 effectual calling?") in the Catechism pro- 
 pounded by the Westminster Assembly of 
 Divines, and which continues to preserve its 
 currency throughout Scotland. 
 
 Page 157, Note 179. — A child born to 
 the poet by a servant girl of the name of 
 Elizabeth Paton. She grew up exceedingly 
 like her father, and became the wife of Mr. 
 John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet in Lin- 
 hthgowshire, and died there, Dec. 8, 1817. 
 
 Page 157, Note 180. — Tooiie lived in 
 Mauchline, and dealt in cows. The age of 
 these animals is marked by rings on their 
 liorns, which may of course be cut and 
 polished off, so as to cause the cow to 
 appear younger than it is. This villainy is 
 called snech-drawing, and he who perpetrates 
 it is a sneck-drawer. 
 
 Page 157. Note 181. — The airlesa — 
 earnest money. (See also Glossary.) 
 
 Page 157, Note 182. — A writer in Ayr, 
 and particular friend of the poet, Mr. Chal- 
 mers, asked Burns to write a poetic epistle in 
 his behalf to a young lady whom he ad- 
 mired. Burns, who had seen the lady, but 
 was scarcely acquainted witli her, complied 
 by penning the above. — Chambers. 
 
 Page 185, Note 183. — "These verses, in 
 the handwriting of Burns, are copied from 
 a bank note, in the possession of Mr. James 
 F. Gracie, of Dumfries. The note is of the 
 Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back 
 as 1st ]\Iarch 1780. The lines exhibit the 
 strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, 
 and are evidently an extempore effusion 
 ~>i his characteristic feelings. They bear 
 internal proof of their having been written 
 ■\t that interesting period of his life, when 
 »-.e was on the point of leaving the country 
 on account of tiie unfavourable manner in 
 which his proposals for marrying his ' bonny 
 Jean ' (his future wife) were at first received 
 by her parents." — Motherwell. 
 
 Page 138, Note 184. — There is some 
 doubt as to the authenticity of these pretty 
 lines. It has been averred upon very good 
 authority that the manuscript in the liand 
 writing of Robert Burns, is yet extant, and 
 
 in the possession of Mr. A . At any 
 
 rate, as the verses are not unworthy of the 
 bard of Ayr, they may be accepted. They 
 were first published at Liverpool, in a peri- 
 odical called the Kaleidoscope. 
 
 Page 158, Notr 185. — ^Tliese verses 
 appear to have been written in the ili^tress- 
 ing summer of 178(3, when the poet's pros- 
 pects were at the dreariest, and the very 
 wife of his fondest affections had forsaken 
 liiin. From tiie tiniL", and other circiiia- 
 stauces, we may conjecture that the 
 present alluded to was a copy of the Kil- 
 marnock edition of poems, then newly pub- 
 lished. The verses appeared in the 
 Sun newspaper, April 18.23. — Cham- 
 bers. 
 
 Page 153. Note 186.— "The first time 
 Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was 
 at the house of Dr. Laurie, minister of Lou- 
 d ui (about October 1786). Dr. L. had 
 several dau'^'hters — one of them played ; the 
 father and the mother led down the dance ; 
 the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, 
 and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a 
 delightful family scene for our poet, then 
 lately introduced to the world. His mind 
 was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the 
 stanzas were left in the room where he 
 slept." — Gilbert Burn.''. Dr. Laurie was 
 the medium through which Dr. Blacklock 
 transmitted the letter, by which Burns was 
 arrested on his fligiit to the West Indies, 
 and induced to go to Edinburgh. This 
 letter has since been in the possession of the 
 Rev. Mr. Balfour Graham, minister of North 
 Berwick, who is connected with the family 
 by marriage. Dr. Laurie, and his son, who 
 was his successor in the pastoral charge of 
 the parish, are both deceased. 
 Page 159, Note 1 87-— Diogenes. 
 Page 159, Note 188. — This meeting 
 took place, October 23, 1786, at Catriiie, the 
 seat of Professor Stewart, to which Burns 
 was now taken for the first time by .Air. 
 Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauchline. Lord Daer, 
 who was eldest son to Dunbar, fourth Earl 
 of Selkirk, and had been a pupil of Mr. 
 Stewart, was a young nobleman of the 
 greatest promise. . He had just returned 
 from France, where he cultivated the society 
 of some of those men who afterwards figured 
 in the Revolution, and had contracted their 
 sentiments. He was cut off in November, 
 1794, leaving the succession open to his 
 younger brother, the late Thomas, Earl ot 
 Selkirk, distinguished by his exertions in 
 the cause of emigration. — Cii.vmbers. 
 
 Page 159, Note 189 — Major Logan, 8 
 retired military officer, still remembered in 
 Ayrshire for his wit and humour — of which 
 two specimens may be given. Asked by au 
 Ayr hostess if he would have water to the 
 glass of s))irits slie was bringing to him on 
 his order, he said, with a grin, "No, » woidd 
 
491 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 rather you took the water out o't." Visited 
 oil his (leatlibed by Mr. Cuthill, one of the 
 ministers of Ayr, who remarked that it 
 would take fortitude to support such suffer- 
 ings as he was visited with ; " Ay." said the 
 poor wit, "it would take fiftitmle." At the 
 time when the above letter was addressed to 
 him, Major Logan lived at Parkhouse, in 
 Ayrshire, with his mother and sister, the 
 Jiiss Logan to whom Burns presented a copy 
 of Beattie's Poems, with verses. The major 
 Mas a capital violinist. 
 
 Page 160, Note 190.— With the cha- 
 racteristic humour with which he WTOte the 
 elegy and epitaph of Thomas Samson and 
 his own elegy. Burns wTote this address to 
 himself, when he anticipated his departure 
 for the West Indies, and before the brilliant 
 career of his reception at Edinburgh had 
 fixed his views as to life. 
 
 Page 161, Note 191.— Tlie haggis is a 
 dish peculiar to Scotland, though supposed to 
 be of French extraction. It is composed of 
 minced offal of mutton, mixed with oatmeal 
 and suet, and boiled in a sheep's stomach. 
 When made in EUpa's way, with " a cum 
 o' spice " (see the Gentle Shepherd}, it is an 
 agreeable, albeit a somewhat heavy dish, 
 always providing that no horror be felt at 
 the idea of its preparation. Tlie Ediiibitrgh 
 Literary Journal of "Noxemhcr 7, 1829, makes 
 the following statement : — " About sixteen 
 years ago, there resided at Mauchliue a Mr. 
 Kobert Morrison, cabinet-maker. He was a 
 great crony of Burns, and it was in Mr 
 Morrison's house that the poet usually spent 
 the ' mids o' the day ' on Sunday. It was in 
 this house that he wrote his celebrated Ad- 
 dress to a Hagi/is, after partaking liberally of 
 that dish, as prepared by Mrs. Morrison." 
 The Ettrick Shepherd has, on the contrary, 
 averred that the poem was written in the 
 house of Mr. Andrew Bruce, Castle Hill, 
 Edinburgh, after in like manner partaking of 
 the dish. It was first published in the Scots 
 M(i;iii:iiie for January 1787. 
 
 Pa(je 162, Note 192. — Miss Logan, 
 sister of JMajor Logan, to whom also Burns 
 had previously addressed a poetical epistle. 
 (Sie antca, page 159.) 
 
 Pa(;e 162, Note 193.— Mr. Hay Camp- 
 bell, of wh<im we have had several occasions 
 to speak as the subject of complimentary 
 allusions. He was subsequently president 
 of the Court of Cession, and died in 1823. 
 
 Page 162, Note 194.— The Honourable 
 Henry Erskine, whose talents as an advocate 
 had secured him a distinguished reputation. 
 He died in 1817. 
 
 Page 162, Note 195.— Mrs. Scott of 
 
 Wauchope, in Roxburgshire — a lady of taste 
 and talent, and fitted to use the pencil as 
 well as the pen — had addressed (February 
 1787) the lines, printed in small type, to 
 Burns, which called forth the ensuing verses, 
 as a reply or acknowledgment. 
 
 Page 163, Note 196 —Mr. Woods had 
 been the friend of Fergusson. He was long 
 a favourite actor in Edinburgh, and was him 
 self a man of some poetical talent. He died, 
 at his house on the Terrace, Edinburgh, 
 December 14, 1802. 
 
 Page 164, Note 197.— The hero of Mac- 
 kenzie's Man of FeeUng, of which Burns 
 always spoke in such warm terms of admira- 
 tion. 
 
 Page 164, Note 198.— Written at Sel- 
 kirk, !May 1787, in the course of the poet's 
 southern tour. Mr, Creecli was the poet's 
 Edinburgh publisher, and seems at this time 
 to have been in high favour with him. Burns 
 afterwards found reason considerably to 
 change his feelings towards Creech, who 
 appears to have given him much uneasiness 
 by protracting the settlement of their ac- 
 counts. The truth is, that Mr. Creech, 
 though a man of literary talent, great plea- 
 santr}' as a companion, and the first publisher 
 of his day, had a weakness about money 
 matters, and could scarcely draw upon his 
 ample funds for the liquidation of an ordi- 
 nary debt, without something more than all- 
 common persuasives. He enjoyed high re- 
 putation as a teller of quaint stories, and 
 lived on familiar terms with many of the 
 literary men of his day. His house, in one 
 of the elevated floors of a tenement in the 
 High Street, accessible from a wretched 
 alley called Craig's Close, was frequented in 
 the mornings by company of that kind, to 
 such an extent that the meeting used to be 
 called Creech's Levee. Burns here enume- 
 rates as attending it, Dr. James Gregory, 
 author of the Conspectus Medicina; ; Tytler, 
 of Woodhouselee, author of the Defence of 
 of !Mary Q,neen of Scots ; Dr. William 
 Greenfield, professor of rhetoric in the Edin- 
 burgh University ; Henry Mackenzie, author 
 of The Man of Feeling; and Dugald Stewart, 
 professor of moral philosophy. Mr. Creech 
 more than once filled the chair of Lord Pro- 
 vost of Edinburgh, and is noted as the only 
 person who ever saved money off the salary 
 then attached to the oHice. With reference 
 to his penurious bachelorly habits, a native 
 caricaturist once set the town in a roar by 
 depicting, in connection, the respective 
 kitchens of the chief magistrates of London 
 and Edinburgh, the former exhibiting every 
 appearance of plenty that could be expectef' 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 49.: 
 
 in a Jar^e and miinifirent establislimetit, and 
 the latter ilisplayiii^ a poor old pinched 
 housekeeper spitiiuiijf beside a narrow fire- 
 place, where tiie cat was perched for warmth 
 upon a r/atla'riii(/ coal. Mr. Creech died iu 
 1815, aned 70 years. — Chambers. 
 
 Page 164, Note 199.— Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 164, Note 200.— The Chamber of 
 Commerce of Edinburgh, of which Mr. 
 Creech was secretary. 
 
 Page 165, Note 201. — James Hunter 
 Blair was born at Ayr, in 1741. He pur- 
 sued a successful commercial career, and be- 
 came a member of the banking firm of Sir 
 M'illiam P^orbes and Co., and died on the 
 first of Julv, 1787, universallv esteemed. 
 
 Page 165, Note 202.— The Royal Park 
 of Ilolvrood. 
 
 Page 165, Note 203.— St. Anthony's 
 AVell. 
 
 Page 165, Note 204.— St. Anthony's 
 Chapel. 
 
 Page 166, Note 205.— "The first object 
 of interest that occurs upon the public road 
 after leaving Blair, is a cha-m in the hill on 
 the right hand, through which the little river 
 Bruar falls in a series of beautiful cascades. 
 Formerly, the falls of the Bruar were un- 
 adorned by wood ; but the poet Burns, being 
 conducted to see them (September 1787), 
 after visiting the Duke of Athole, recom- 
 mended that they should be invested with 
 that necessary decoration. Accordingly, trees 
 have been thickly planted along the chasm, 
 and are now far advanced to maturity. 
 Throughout this young forest, a walk has 
 been cut, and a number of fantastic little 
 grottoes erected for the conveniency of those 
 who visit the spot. The river not oidy makes 
 several distinct falls, but rushes on through 
 a channel, whose roughness and rugged 
 sublimity adds greatly to the merits of the 
 scene, as an object of interest among tourists." 
 — Picture of ticolland. 
 
 Page 167, Note 206.— Robert Dundas 
 of Arniston, elder brother of Viscount Mel- 
 ville; born 1713, appointed president iu 1760, 
 and died December 13, 1787, after a short 
 illness. Burns sent a copy of the poem to 
 Dutidas's son, afterwards Lord Advocate and 
 Lord Ciiief Baron, but received no answer to 
 it, which he greatly resented. 
 
 Page 168, Note 207.— Printer, Edin- 
 burgh — author of the Philosophy of Natural 
 History, and member of the Scottish Antiqua- 
 rian Society. He died in 1795, iu the fifty- 
 fifth year of his age. 
 
 Page 168, Note 208.— A club to which 
 Burns and Smellie belonged, and which met 
 ia Douglas's tavern iu the Anchor Close. 
 
 43 
 
 Edinburgh. It took its name of Crnchallnn 
 Fencihles from a beiutiful plaintive IliglilauJ 
 air, Cro CAo/ciH^literally Coliu's Cattle — ■ 
 which Douglas occasionally sang with much 
 effect to his guests. 
 
 Page 168, Note 209.— William Tytlrr, 
 Esq. of Woodhouselee (born 17 1 1, died 179.;i), 
 a member of the Society of Writers to the 
 Signet, had published in 1759 " An Enquiry, 
 Historical and Critical, into the Evidence 
 against iMary tiueen of Scots," in which the 
 favourable side of her case is adopted. 
 
 Page 169, Note 210. — One of a series 
 intended for a projected work, under the title 
 of The Poet's Prorjress. These lines were 
 sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter, 
 to Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is 
 thus noticed: — "The fragment begiunmg, a 
 little, upright, pert, tart, Szc, 1 have nut 
 shown to any man living, till I now send it 
 to you. It forms the post\ilata, the axiom.s, 
 the definition of a character, which, if it 
 appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of 
 lights. This particular part I send you, 
 merely as a sample of my hand at portrait 
 sketching. 
 
 Page 169, Note 211.— For more ex- 
 plicit particulars in respect of Jliss Cruick- 
 shank, to whom these lines are addressed, 
 the reader is referred to the notes on the 
 song entitled the Rosebud. 
 
 Page 169, Note 212. — It is somewhat 
 remarkable how comparatively few of the 
 pieces written by Burns from this time for- 
 ward have been addressed directly to " Cla- 
 rinda," whose influence over him is so 
 powerfully evinced in the letters (already 
 mentioned in that portion of this volume 
 which is devoted to the poet's correspon- 
 dence), which passed between him and this 
 fair object of admiration. In the foregoing 
 notes to the life we have already had occasion 
 to enter into some particulars respecting the 
 career of Mrs. McLeliose (Clarinda), and we 
 shall have further occasion to allude to her 
 hereafter, on which account great detail in 
 this place would be superfluous. It should, 
 however, be remarked that the beautiful song 
 Ml/ Nannie's awa, and some others of the 
 most exquisite productions of Burns, were 
 dedicated to his passion for Clarinda,althoiigh 
 she be not directly invoked. 
 
 Page 170, Note 213. — An early friend 
 of Burns at Kilmafuock. These lines were 
 written in the year 1788, at the period when 
 Burns was commencing his household and 
 farming career at Ellisland. 
 
 Page 170, Note 214.— The first of these 
 sets of verses was written in Jtnie, and thi< 
 second in December. 1788, with reference to 
 
 k 
 
490 
 
 NOri'.S TO THE 
 
 a hermitage in the grounds of Friars' Carse, 
 near Elhslaiid, the seat of the poet's friend. 
 Captain Riddel of Glenriddel. 
 
 Page 171, Notis 215. — Captain Riddel 
 had. in the course of poring over a news- 
 paper, fallen upon some critical remarks 
 respecting some production of Burns, and 
 had accordingly despatched the paper to the 
 poet, that he might have an opportunity of 
 observing what was said of him. And it was 
 in returning this paper that Burns accompa- 
 nied it with the comical note in verse, 
 entitled an "Extempore to Captain Riddel." 
 
 Page 171, Note 216.— "The Mother's 
 Lament was composed partly with a view to 
 Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to 
 the worthy patroness of my early unknown 
 muse, Mrs. Stewart of Afton." — Burns. 
 
 Page 172, Note 217. — "In January 
 last (1789), on my road to Ayrshire, I had to 
 put up at Bailie Wighara's in Sanquhar, the 
 only tolerable inn in the place. The frost 
 was keen, and the grim evening and howling 
 wind were ushering in a night of snow and 
 drift. My horse and I were both much 
 fatigued with the labours of the day ; and, 
 just as my friend the badie and I were bidding 
 defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, 
 in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late 
 Mrs. Oswald ; and poor I am forced to brave 
 all the terrors of the tempestuous night, and 
 jade my horse — my young favourite horse, 
 whom I had just christened Pegasus — farther 
 on thro\igh the wildest hills and moors of 
 Ayrshire to the next inn ! The powers of 
 poetry and prose sank under me when I 
 would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, 
 tiiat when a good fire at New Cumnock had 
 so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat 
 down and wrote the enclosed ode." — Burns. 
 
 Page 172, Note 218. — Mr. James Ten- 
 nant had been an early and constant friend 
 of Robert Burns and his family, and had 
 taken an active part in the selection of the 
 farm of EUisland for the poet. 
 
 Page 173, Note 219.— Mr. Cunningham 
 mentions that the poor animal whose suffer- 
 ings excited this burst of indignation on the 
 part of the poet, was shot by a lad named 
 James Thomson, son of a farmer near Ellis- 
 land. Burns, who was walking beside the 
 Kith at the moment, execrated the young 
 man, and spoke of throwing him into the 
 water. 
 
 Page 174, Note 220— At the period at 
 which this biting and well-directed rebuke 
 from the pen of Burns appeared, the neigh- 
 bourhood, and, in fact, the whole Scottish 
 Kirk was agitated by the most violent con- 
 troversy, and the Ecclesiastical Courts were 
 
 engrossed with the persecution vindictit : ) 
 instituted against Dr. William McGfiil. 
 This was about the month of August, 1739. 
 The original ground of this controversy, in 
 which Dr. McGill was now figuring, was 
 this: — In 1786 he had published a treatisj, 
 entitled, A Practical Essay on the Death of 
 Jesus Christ, in two Parts — I. Containing the 
 History — 2. T/ie Doctrine of his Death. Dr, 
 McGill was at that time one of the ministers 
 of the parochial church of Ayr, and his 
 treatise was alleged to be fraught with Arian 
 and Socinian doctrine.s, which were deemed 
 injurious to the interests of the clergy. Dr. 
 McGill thus became the butt of many at- 
 tacks levelled, partly at his person and 
 character, and partly at his work ; hut he 
 took little or no notice of any of these sal- 
 lies, until a minister, who had hitherto 
 been a warm and personal friend, became 
 his most bitter assailant. This was Dr. 
 William Peebles, of Newton-upon-Ayr, who 
 in his centenary sermon, preached on tiieSth 
 of November, 1783, gratuitously denounced 
 the treatise as heretical, and Dr. McGill as 
 a person " who with one hand received the 
 privileges of the church, while with the other 
 he was endeavouring to plunge the keenest 
 poignard into her heart." McGill pui)lislied 
 a defence, which led, in April, 17S9, to the 
 introduction of the case into the prcsbyterial 
 court of Ayr, and subsequently into that of 
 the Synod of Glasgow and Ayr. Meanwhile, 
 the public out of doors was agitating the 
 question with the keenest interest, and the 
 strife of the liberal and zealous parties in 
 the church had reached a painful extreme. 
 It was now that Burns took up the pen in 
 behalf of McGill, whom, it is probable, he 
 sincerely looked on as a worthy and enlight- 
 ened person suffering an unworthy persecu- 
 tion. The war raged, till, in April 1790, the 
 case came on for trial before the Synod, when 
 McGill stopped further procedure, by giving 
 in a document, expressive of his deep regret 
 for the disquiet he had occasioned, ex|)laining 
 the challenged passages of his book, and 
 declaring his adherence to the standards of 
 the church on the points of doctrine in 
 question. Dr. McGill died March 30tl^ 
 1807, at the age of seventy-six, and in the 
 forty-sixth year of his ministry. — Abridged 
 from Murray's Literary History of GnJ.'a- 
 wai/. 
 
 Page 174, Note 221.— Dr. McGill. 
 
 Page 174, Note 222. — Upon the com- 
 mencement of the proceedings against Di. 
 McGill before the Synod, the municipal 
 authorities of Ayr published a testimonial iu 
 the newspapers, averring their high esteem 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 497 
 
 for the defendant, both as a man and u 
 minister. 
 
 Page 174, Note 223.— Mr. John Ballan- 
 tine, the Provost of the town of Ayr, -wLo 
 had taken an active jiart in the demonstra- 
 tion in favour of Dr. McGill. 
 
 P.\GE 174, Note 224. — It was by Mr. 
 Robert Aiken (the lawyer, the friend of 
 15urns, and he to whom the " Cotters' Sa- 
 turday Nijclit" IS dedicated) that Dr. Me 
 Gill was defended before the Synod. jNIr. 
 Aiken, as we have before had occasion to 
 remark, was not a little distinguished for his 
 eloquence as an advocate. 
 
 Page 174, Note 225.— Dr. William Dal- 
 ryniple, as remarkable for his humble, modest 
 demeanour, as for his superior talents and 
 worth. He was senior minister to the col- 
 legiate church of Ayr. 
 
 "^Page 174, Note' 226.— John Russell, the 
 preacher, who also figures in the Holy Fair. 
 
 Page 174, Note 227. — The Rev. James 
 McKiu, who figures as the hero of the 
 Ordiiialioti. 
 
 Page 174,Note 228. — Alexander Moodie, 
 the minister of Riccarton, who figures also in 
 the Twn Herds. 
 
 Page 174. Note 229.— The Rer. Jlr. 
 Aiild, of jMauchline. 
 
 Page 174, Note 230. — The clerk was 
 Mr. Gavin Hamilton, whose defence against 
 the charges preferred by Mr. Auld, had 
 occasioned much trouble to this clergyman. 
 
 Page 174, Note 231. — Mr. Grant, of 
 Ochiltree. 
 
 Page 174, Note 232.— Mr. Young, of 
 Cumnock. 
 
 Page 174, Note 233.— The Rev. Dr. 
 Peebles. He had e.xcited some ridicule by 
 a line in a poem on the Centenary of the 
 Revolution : 
 
 ' And bound in Liberty's endearing chain." 
 
 The poetry of this gentleman is said to have 
 been indifferent. He translated the DavuUes 
 of Cowley, which some of his brethren, 
 not exactly understanding what was meant, 
 took the liberty of calling Dr. Peebles' " Daft 
 Ideas." — Chambers. 
 
 Page 174, Note 234. — "Dr. Andrew 
 Mitchell, !Monkton. He was so rich as to 
 be able to keep his carriage. Extreme love 
 of money, and a strange confusion of ideas, 
 characterised this presbyter. In his prayer 
 for the royal family, he would express 
 himself thus : — " Bless the King — his 
 Majesty the Queen — her JIajestythe Prince 
 of V\'ales." The word chemistry he pro- 
 nounced in three different ways — hemistry, 
 sliemistry, and tchemistry — Hut never, by 
 
 K K. 
 
 any chance, in the right way. Notwithstand- 
 ing the antipathy he could scarcely help 
 feehng towards Burns, one of the poets' 
 comic verses would make him laugh heartily, 
 and confess that, "after all, he was a druU 
 fellow." — Chambers. ' 
 
 Page 174, Note 235.— Rev. Mr. Stephen 
 Young, of Barr. 
 
 Page 174, Note 236.— Rev. Mr. George 
 Smith, of Galston. This gentleman is praised 
 as friendly to common sense in the Holy 
 Fair. The offence which was taken at that 
 praise probably embittered the poet against 
 hiin. 
 
 Page 174, Note 237.— Mr. John Shep- 
 herd, of Jluirkirk. The statistical account of 
 Muirkirk contributed by this gentleman to 
 Sir John Sniclair's work, is above the average 
 in intelligence, and very agreeably written. 
 He had, however, an unfortunate habit of 
 saying rude things, which he mistook for wit, 
 and thus laid himself open to Burns's satire. 
 
 Page 174, Note 238. — The poor elder, 
 William Fisher, whom Burns has so oftea 
 scourged. 
 
 Page 175, Notb 239. — Robert Heron, 
 who afterwards became a well-known author 
 by profession, and died in misery, in London, 
 in 1807. 
 
 Page 175, Note 240.— Waited for. 
 
 Page 175, Note 241. — This small piece, 
 which was an imitation, was forwarded to 
 the Star Newspaper for publication in the 
 ' month of May, 1789 ; and it was in recom- 
 pense for this contribution, that Burns was 
 I put on the free list, and supplied with the 
 I paper gratuitously, which, however, he re- 
 ceived very irregularly. In allusion to the 
 very uncertain manner in which the paper 
 was delivered to him, he addressed the sub- 
 joined hues, ou one occasion, to the pub- 
 lisher : — 
 
 Dear Peter, dear Peter, 
 
 We poor sons of metre 
 Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 
 
 For iiistanre, your sheet, man. 
 
 Though glad I'm to see't man, 
 I get it no aiie day in ten. 
 
 Page 175, Note 242.— "Mrs. Dunlop, 
 daughter and heiress of Sir Thomas AVallace, 
 of Craigie, and at this time widow of John 
 Dunlop, of Uunlop, in Ayrshire, and resident 
 at the last mentioned place, became ac- 
 quaiutel with Burns on the publication of 
 his poems at Kilmarnock, and was ever after 
 his steady friend. She was a woman of ex- 
 cellent understanding and heart, with a con- 
 siderable taste for elegant literature. She 
 died iu 1815, at the age of eighty-four. 
 
49« 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 Page 176, I>jote 243. — Subsequently 
 Major General Duiilop, of Dunlop. 
 
 Page 176, Note 244. — Rachel, daugliter 
 of Mrs. Dunlop, was engaged upon an 
 imaginative sketch of Burns's Muse, Coila. 
 
 Page 177, Note 245. — A mare, the 
 property of Mr. William Nicol, and lent by 
 that gentleman to Burns, in whose keeping 
 it became ill, aad died at his farm, of Ellis- 
 land. 
 
 Page 178, Note 246. — This piece was 
 published in a newspaper, and from that 
 time forward remained uinioticed until it 
 was reproduced iu Chambers's Edition of 
 Burns's Works. 
 
 Page 178, Note 247 —The parallel be- 
 tween these lilies and those of Johnson, as 
 follow, cannot escape the reader : — 
 
 In bed we laugh, iu bed we cry. 
 And born in bed, in bed we die ; 
 The near approach a bed may show. 
 Of human bliss and human woe. 
 
 Page 179, Note 248.— At the general 
 election, 1790, the representation of the live 
 boroughs of Dumfries, Annan, Kirkcud- 
 bright, Sanquhnr, and Lochmaben, forming 
 one electoral district, was contested by Sir 
 James Johnstone, of Westerhall, in the 
 ministerial or Tory, and Captain Patrick 
 Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, in the 
 Whig or opposition interest. Burns, who was 
 friendly to the latter party, here allegorises 
 the contest ; characterising Dumfries as 
 Maggy on the banks of Nith ; Annan, as 
 Bess of Annandale ; Kirkcudbright, as 
 Whisky Jean of Galloway; Sanquhar, as Black 
 Joan frae Chrichton Peel; and Lochmaben 
 as Marjory of the many lochs — appellations, 
 all of which have some appropriateness from 
 local circumstances. The contest was de- 
 cided in favour of Captain Miller. 
 
 Page 179, Note 249.— Sir J. John- 
 stone. 
 
 Page 179, Note 2.^0.— Captain Miller. 
 
 Page 179, Note 251. — King George the 
 Third. 
 
 Page 179, Note 252. — George, Prince 
 of Wales, afterwards Regent, and King 
 George the Fourth. 
 
 Page 180, Note 253.— This is a de- 
 scription of the contest alluded to in the 
 preceding poem. " Drumlanrig," is the in- 
 famous fourth Duke of Queeiisberry. "Wes- 
 terha," is Sir James Johnstone, the Tory 
 candidate. M'Murdo, was the Duke of 
 Q,ueensberry's chamberlain at Drnmhmrig — 
 a friend of the poet. " Craigdarroch ," is 
 Fergusson, of Craigdarroch. " Glenriddel," 
 is Captain Biddel, of Glenriddel, another 
 
 friend of the poet. " Staig," was the provost 
 of Dumfries; "Welsh," the sheriff of the 
 county. 
 
 Page 180, Note 254. — A piece of ord- 
 nance, of extraordinary structure and mag- 
 nitude, founded in the reign of James IV. of 
 Scotland, about the end of the fifteenth 
 century, and which is still exhibited, though 
 in an infirm state, in Edinburgh castle. 
 The diameter of the mouth is twenty inches. 
 
 Page 180, Note 255.— The "Bullers of 
 Buchan " is an appellation given to a tre- 
 mendous rocky recess on the Aberdeenshire 
 coast, near Peterliead— having an opening 
 to the sea while the top is open. The sea, 
 constantly raging in it, gives it the appear- 
 ance of a pot or boiler, and hence the 
 name. 
 
 Page 181, Note 256. — The executioner 
 of Charles I. of Uugland, who, as was the 
 custom, was masked. 
 
 Page 181, Note 257.— John, Earl of 
 Dundee. 
 
 Page 181, Note 258.— The illustrious 
 Graham, Earl, and afterwards Marquis, of 
 Montrose. 
 
 Page 181, Note 259. — Francis Grose, 
 author of the Anticjuities of England, Ire- 
 land, and Scotland, and of several other pub- 
 lications, some of which display considerable 
 knowledge of mankind, wit, and humour, 
 became acquainted with Burns at Captain 
 Riddel's mansion at Friar's Carse, while 
 making the necessary inquiries for his 
 work on Scottish antiquities, lie was a 
 bon-vivant, and had acquired enormous 
 personal bulk. Captain Grose died at 
 Dublin, of an apopletic fit, Jlay 12, 1791, 
 in the fifty-second year of his age. 
 
 Page 181, Note 260. — The extreme 
 parish on the southern frontier of Scotland 
 is called Kirkmaiden, of which this word 
 Maidenkirk is a mere transposition. Kirk- 
 maiden parish is in Wigtonsliire. 
 
 Page 182, Note 261. — One of the old 
 traditional Scottish ballads entitled ■.Sir John 
 Malcolm, furnished Burns with the rhyth- 
 mical model of this piece. 
 
 Page 182, Note 202. — This poem came 
 through the hands of Rankine of .Adarahill 
 to those of a gentleman of Ayr, who gave it 
 to the world in the Edinbun/h Marjazine for 
 February 1818, with the following original 
 superscription : — "To the Right Honourable 
 the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the 
 Right Honourable and Honourable the 
 Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of 
 May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Garden, 
 to concert ways and means to frustrate the 
 designs of live hundred Uiglilauders, who. 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 49y 
 
 :is the sciciety were informed by Mr. M , 
 
 uf A s, were so audacious as to attempt 
 
 !iu escape from their lawful lords and 
 masters, whose property they were, by 
 emigrating from the lands of Mr. jM'Donald, 
 of Glengar-y, to the wilds of Canada, in 
 search of tnat fantastic thing — Liberty." 
 
 Page 183, Note 263— "As the authen- 
 tic prose history of the IV/dstle is curious, I 
 shall here give it. In the train of Anne of 
 Den iTark, when she came to Scotland with 
 our James VI., tliere came over also a 
 Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and 
 great prowess, and a matchless champion of 
 Hacchus. lie had a little ebony whistle, 
 whicli, at the commencement of the orgies, 
 he laid on the table, and whoever was the 
 last able to blow it, every body else being 
 disabled by the potency of the bottle, was 
 to carry oif the whistle as a trophy of 
 victory. The Dane produced credentials of 
 his victories, without a single defeat, at the 
 courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
 Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
 Germany ; and challenged the Scots Bac- 
 chanalians to the alternative of trying his 
 prowess, or else of acknowledging their in- 
 feriority. After many overthrows on the 
 part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered 
 by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, an- 
 cestor of the present worthy baronet of that 
 name ; who, after three days' and three 
 nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
 under the table, 
 
 'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' 
 
 Sir Walter, son of Sir Robert before men- 
 tioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter 
 Ruhlel, of Gleiu-iddel, who had married a 
 sister of Sir \Valtcr's. On Friday the 16th 
 of October 17 'JO, at Friar's-Carse, the 
 whistle was once more contended for, as 
 related in the ballad, by the present Sir 
 Kiibert, of jMaxwelton : Robert Riddel, Esq., 
 of (jleuriddel, lineal descendant, and repre- 
 sentative of Walter Riddel, who won the 
 winstle, and in whose family it had con- 
 tinued ; and Alexander Fergussou, Esq., of 
 Craigdarroch, likewise descended from the 
 great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman 
 carried off the hard-won honours of the field." 
 — Burns. [The whistle is kept at this 
 ila> by the Right Honourable R. C. Fergus- 
 son, of Craigdarroch, M.P. for the Stewartry 
 of Kirkcudbright — son of the victor.] 
 
 Tie Itheuish I^egends supply us with 
 tw.p (.r three analogous stories, iu which 
 ce. u.ui cups or tankards figure, and of which 
 they commemorate the facts iu their pre- 
 Mrvatiuu. 
 
 Page 183, Note 204.— Vide the Carlo 
 thura of Ossian. 
 
 Page 183, Note 2G5. — Johnson's Tour 
 to the Hebrides. 
 
 Page 184, Note 266.— James, four- 
 teenth Earl of Glencairn, and in whose 
 younger brother this ancient title became 
 extinct in 1796, was a Whig nobleman of 
 great generosity of disposition. He died 
 unmarried at Falmouth, January 30th, 1791, 
 in the forty-second year of his age. Burns, 
 who considered liimself greatly indebted to 
 Glencairn, put on mourning for his death, 
 wrote this beautiful poem to his memory, 
 and called a son after him, now Major 
 James Glencairn Burns, of the East India 
 Company's service. 
 
 P.'VGE 186, Note 267. — Alexander Mon- 
 roe, Professor of Anatomy to the University 
 of Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 186, Note 263.— The favour 
 which formed the burthen of the foregoing 
 poetical epistle, was the translation of the 
 poet from the fatiguing Excise division of 
 EUislaud, to the less laborious one of 
 Dumfries, which favour is acknowledged as 
 having been obtained, in these lines. 
 
 Page 186, Note 269.— An allusion to 
 the decline of the fashion which was so 
 prevalent during the last century amongst 
 gentlemen, to drink to excess, swear, and 
 indulge in other equally delicate amuse- 
 ments, and in which the squirearchy so 
 eminently shone. It was this fashion which 
 had been so severely satirized by Fielding 
 in his novels. 
 
 Page 186, Note 270.— The ruins of 
 Lincluden church, near Dumfries. 
 
 Page 188, Note 271. — Though found 
 among the papers of Burns, in his own 
 hand-writing, and printed as his in some 
 former editions, the present editor has 
 scarcely a doubt that this poem is not by 
 the Ayrshire bard. It is much more like 
 the composition of Fergussou, or Beattie. 
 
 Page 188, Note 272. — This piece was 
 first published in the edition of Burns's 
 Works, produced by Messrs Chambers, and 
 was contributed by Jlr. James Duncan, of 
 Mosesfield, near Glasgow, in whose posses- 
 sion is the original manuscript. 
 
 Page 189, Note 273.— WTicn General 
 Dumourier, after unparalled victories, left 
 the army of the French Republic, April 
 1793, and took refuge from the infuriated 
 Convention, with the enemies he had lately 
 beaten, sonic one expressing joy in ihe 
 event where Burns was present, he chanted 
 almost extempore the sarcastic stauzos of 
 the text. 
 
/5on 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 P^GE 189, Note 274.— Captain Riddel, 
 of Glen riddel, or Mr. Riddel of Woodlee 
 park, which is rot very decidly ascer- 
 tained. In either case, we are informed that 
 the parties were reconciled. 
 
 Page 189, Note 275.— The Maria of 
 this lampoon, and that which follows, was 
 Mrs. Riddel, of Woodlee park, a lady of 
 poetical talent and taste, with whom the 
 poet was generally on the best terms, but 
 who had temporarily repudiated him from 
 lier society, in consequence of an act of 
 rudeness committed by him when elevated 
 with liquor. She is the lady alluded to by 
 Dr. Currie, of whom Burns, amongst his last 
 days at Brow, asked if she had any com- 
 mands for the other world, and who wrote 
 the beautiful paper on his death, which 
 first appeared in the Dunifries Journal, and 
 was afterwards transferred entire to Currie's 
 Memoir. 
 
 Page 190, Note 276. — By ^sopus, is 
 meant an actor of the name of William- 
 son. 
 
 Page 190, Note 277. — Gillespie. 
 
 Page 190, Note 278.— Colonel Mc 
 Dowal, of Logan. 
 
 Page 191, Note 279. — Burns also in- 
 scribed the following lines on the windows 
 of a grotto in Captain Riddel's grounds : — 
 
 To Riddel, much-lamented man. 
 
 This ivied cot was dear ; 
 Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 
 
 This ivied cot revere. 
 
 Page 191, Note 280.— Mrs. Riddel, of 
 Woodlee. 
 
 Page 191, Note 281.— These lines 
 were written in the fly leaf of a copy of 
 Thomson's Select Scottish Blelodies, pre- 
 sented to Miss Graham, by Robert Burns. 
 
 Page 192, Note 282.— On the night of 
 December the 4th, 1795. 
 
 Page 193, Note 283.— The heroine of 
 several of his songs. Her name was Jean 
 Lorimer, her father being a farmer at 
 Kemeyss-Hall, near Dumfries. Burns seems 
 to have formed an acquaintance with her 
 during his stay at EUisland, as there is 
 still a pane in the eastern room of that 
 house, bearing her name, and that of her 
 lover John Gillespie, inscribed by her own 
 hand, during a visit she paid there. She 
 afterwards formed an unfortunate alliance 
 with a Mr. Whelpdale, from whom she soon 
 separated. At the time when the following 
 stanzas were addressed to her, she was living 
 in retirement at Dumfries, under depression 
 of spirits, the consequence of her recent 
 domestic unhappiness. Further information 
 
 respecting this elegant, but unfortunate 
 woman, is given elsewhere. 
 
 Page 193, Note 284.— On the death of 
 General Stewart, representative of the Stew- 
 artry of Kirkcudbright, in January 1795, 
 Mr. Heron, of Kerroughtree, a zealous Whig, 
 and a friend of Burns, became candidate for 
 the vacant seat. He was opposed by Gor- 
 don of Balmaghie, but gained his election. 
 The third ballad relates to his contest at the 
 general election of 1796, with the Hon. 
 Montgomery Stewart. He was likewise 
 elected on that occasion, but unseated by a 
 committee. It is to be remarked, that the 
 satirical allusions in these ballads, are almost 
 all founded merely in party bitterness, not 
 in truth. 
 
 Page 194, Note 285.— John Busby, of 
 Tinwold Downs. 
 
 Page 194, Note 286.— Alluding to 
 Busby's brother, whose fortune, as it was 
 said, was founded before his emigration to 
 the East Indies, in some transactions ia 
 which the Ayr bank was concerned. 
 
 Page 194, Note 287.— Mr. Maxwell, of 
 Cardoness. 
 
 Page 194, Note 288.— Mr. Douglas, of 
 Carlingwark, gave the name of Castle 
 Douglas to a village which rose in his neigh- 
 bourhood, and which has since become a 
 considerable and thriving town. 
 
 Page 194, Note 289.- Alluding to Mr. 
 John Syme, an intimate friend of Robert 
 Burns. 
 
 Page 194, Note 290. — Troggin is a term 
 applied, in Scotland to the various wares 
 carried about by hawkers, who, in the same 
 provincialism, are called tror/gers. 
 
 Page 194, Note 291.— The Earl of 
 Galloway. 
 
 Page 194, Note 292.— Mr. Murray of 
 Broughton. 
 
 Page 195, Note 293. — One of the can- 
 didates in this election — Mr. Gordon of 
 Balmaghie. 
 
 P.\ge 194, Note 294. — Alluding somt- 
 what severely, to Busby, of Tinwold. 
 
 Page 195, Note 295. — Burns here 
 alludes to a brother wit, the Rev. Mr. Mun-- 
 head, minister of Urr, in Galloway. The 
 hit applied very well, for Muirhead was a 
 wind-dried, unhealthy looking little man, 
 very proud of his genealogy, and ambitious 
 of being acknowledged, on all occasions, as 
 the chief of the Muirheads! He was not 
 disposed, however, to sit down with the 
 affront : on the contrary, he replied to it in 
 a virulent diatribe, which may be presented 
 as a remarkable specimen of clerical and 
 poetical irritability ; and curious, moreover 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 501 
 
 as perhaps the only contemporary satire 
 upon Burns of which the world has ever 
 heard, except the immortal " trimming 
 letter " from a tailor. Dr. Muirhead's jeii 
 d'esprit is in the shape of a translation from 
 Martial's ode, Ad Vacerram, 
 
 " Vacerras, shahby sou of whore. 
 
 Why do thy patrons keep thee poor? 
 
 Thou art a sycophant and traitor, 
 
 A liar, and calumniator, 
 
 Who conscience (liadst thou that) wouldst 
 
 sell. 
 Nay lave the common sewers of hell 
 For whisky. Like most precious imp. 
 Thou art a r/mu/er, ihymsier, pimp. — 
 How comes it then, Vacerras, that 
 Thou still art poor as a church rat ?" — 
 
 Chambers. 
 
 Page 195, Note 296. — Burns was a pri- 
 vate in the volunteer yoeman corps of 
 Dumfries, of which Colonel De Peyster was 
 the commanding;' officer. 
 
 Page 195, Note 297. — A monument 
 about to be erected by Mr. Heron, of Ker- 
 roughtree, in his own grounds. 
 
 Page 195, Note 298. — Alluding to an 
 only daughter, who died in the autumn of 
 
 1795, and so far removed from his residence, 
 as to render it impossible for him to visit 
 her at the last. She died, moreover, very 
 suddenly. 
 
 Page 196, Note 299.— The Honourable 
 Henry Erskine was elected Dean of the 
 Faculty of Advocates in 1786, and unani- 
 mously re-elected every year till 1796, when 
 it was resolved by some members of the 
 Tory party at the Scottish bar to oppose his 
 re-election, in consideration of his having 
 aided in getting up a petition against the 
 passing of the well-known sedition bills, 
 Mr. Erskine's appearance at the Circus 
 (now the Adelphi Theatre) on that occasion 
 was designated by those gentlemen (among 
 whom were Charles Hope and David Boyle, 
 now respectively Lord President and Lord 
 Justice-Clarke) as "agitating the giddy and 
 ignorant multitude, and cherishing such 
 humours and dispositions as directly tend 
 to overturn the laws." They brought for- 
 ward Jlr. Kobert Dundas, of Arniston, 
 Lord Advocate, in opposition to Mr. 
 Ersklne ; and at the election, January 12th, 
 
 1796, the former gained the day by 123 
 against 38 votes. The following verses by 
 Burns describe the keenness of the contest. 
 The mortitication of the displaced dean was 
 BO extreme, that he that evening, with a 
 coal-axe, hewed off from his door in Prince's 
 Street, a brass-plate on which his designa- 
 
 tion as Dean of Faculty was inscribed. It 
 is not impossible, that, in characterising 
 Mr. Dundas so opprobriously, and we may 
 add unjustly, Burns might recollect tiie 
 slight -with which his elegiac verses on the 
 father of that gentleman had been treated 
 eisi'ht years before. 
 
 >age 197, Note 300.— The Duke of 
 Queensberry stripped his domains of Drura- 
 lanrig, in Dumfries-shire, and Neidpath in 
 Peebles-shire, of all the wood fit for being 
 cut, in order to enrich the Countess of 
 Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his 
 daughter. 
 
 Page 197, Note 301. — Burns was one 
 day being rallied by a friend for wasting his 
 satirical shafts on persons unworthy of his 
 notice, and was reminded that there were 
 such persons (distinguished by rank and 
 circumstance) as the Duke of Q,ueensberry, 
 on whom his biting rhapsodies might more 
 advantageously be expended. He immedi- 
 ately improvised these lines. 
 
 Page 197, Note 302.— Mr. M'JIurdo 
 resided at Drumlanrig, as chamberlain to the 
 Duke of Queensberry. He and his wife and 
 daughters are alluded to in the election piece, 
 entitled Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of 
 Fintry. They were kind and hospitable 
 friends of Burns, who celebrated several of 
 the young ladies in his songs. 
 
 Page 198, Note 303.— "Sir Walter Scott 
 possessed a tumbler, on which these lines 
 written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, 
 Mr. W. Stewart, factor to a gentleman of 
 Nithsdale. The landlady being very wrath 
 at wiiat she considered the disfigurement of 
 her glass, a gentleman present appeased her 
 by paying down a shilling, and carried off the 
 relic." — LocKHART. 
 
 Page 198, Note 304. — According to 
 Burns himself, this song was written when 
 he was about seventeen years old, in honour 
 of a damsel named Isabella Steven, who 
 lived in the neighbourhood of Locnlee. 
 
 Page 198, Note 305.— The old ballad, 
 McMillan's Pe;i<pj, was the model of this 
 song. The heroine of the piece was a young 
 lady educated in a manner somewhat supe- 
 rior to the peasantry in general, and on 
 whom Burns practised to display his tact in 
 captivating, until, by degrees, he fell in love 
 in earnest, and then discovered that the object 
 of this first sport, then earnest, was previ- 
 ously engaged. " It cost me," says he, 
 " some heartaches to get rid of the affair." 
 
 Page 198, Note 306.— According to 
 Jlr. Cunningham, this was the same person 
 as Montgomery's Peyjy. But more accurate 
 information identifies the heroine of the piece 
 
602 
 
 NOTKS TO THE 
 
 us Margaret Alison, of Lochlee, who was 
 not engaged, and wlio actually mourned the 
 inconstancy of Burns. 
 
 Pace 199, Note 307. — This was the 
 same Peggy Alison mentioned in the fore- 
 going note. 
 
 Page 199, Note 308.— An adaptation of 
 the Old English Ballad, which was rescued 
 from oblivion, obscurity, and black letter (in 
 the Pepys Library, Cambridge), by ]\Ir. 
 Jamieson, who published it in his collection. 
 
 Page 200, Note 309.— Anne Blair, and 
 Anne Ronald, daughters of farmers in Tar- 
 bolton parish, and the latter of whom became 
 Mrs. Paterson, of Aikenbrae, have each been 
 spoken of in their native district as the 
 heroine of this song. The poet's family 
 was intimate with Mr. Ronald's, when resi- 
 ding at Loclilee, and even after they had re- 
 moved to Mossgiel. ]Mr. Gilbert Burns was 
 at one time considered as a wooer of one of 
 the Miss Ronald's. We learn from Mr. 
 Cunnnigham that Mr. Ronald liked the con- 
 versation of the poet very much, and would 
 sometimes sit late with him; on which one 
 of the girls — probably not Anne — remarked 
 that " she could na see ought about Robert 
 Burns that would tempt her to sit up wi' 
 him till twal o'clock at night." 
 
 Page 200, Note 310. — This song was 
 composed in honour of JMargavet Thomson, 
 who lived in a cottage adjoining the Village 
 School of Kirkoswald, where Burns was 
 completing his education, when nineieeu 
 years old. Burns himself gives the follow- 
 ing account of the matter: — This ^Iiss 
 Thomson afterwards married a Mr. Nielson, 
 and settled with him in the town of Ayr. 
 " A charming fillette," says Burns in speaking 
 of her, " who lived next door to the school, 
 overset my trigonometry, and sent me otf at 
 a tangent from the sphere of my studies. 
 I, however, struggled on with my sines and 
 cosines for a few days more ; but stepping 
 into the garden one charming noon to take 
 the sun's altitude, there 1 met my angel, 
 
 • Like Proserpine gathering flowers. 
 
 Herself a fairer flower. 
 
 It was in vain to think of doing any more 
 good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
 1 did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
 soul about her, or steal out to meet her." 
 
 Page 201, Note 311.— "This tune is by 
 C) wald; and the words relate to some part 
 of my private history, which it is of no con- 
 sequence to the world to know." — Burns. 
 
 Page 201, Note 312. — In a memoir of 
 Ramsay, in a publication entitled " Lives of 
 Kminent Scotsmen" (3 vols. Boys, Loudon), 
 
 there is presented a very early song to the 
 tune of My Nannie, O, beginning— 
 
 "As I came in by Enbro' town. 
 By the side o' the bonny city, O, 
 
 I heard a young man mak his moan. 
 And O! it was a pity, O. 
 
 For aye he cried his Nannie, O! 
 His handsome, charming Nannie, O! 
 Nor friend nor foe can tell, O — ho. 
 How dearly I love Nannie, O ! " 
 An improved song to the same air was written 
 by Ramsay; and finally. Burns wedded the 
 music to the following beautiful effusion of 
 natural sentiment, the heroine of which is 
 believed to have been a certain Agnes Flem- 
 ing, servant at Calcothill, near Lochlee. 
 
 Page 202, Note 313. — "An improve- 
 ment upon an ancient homely ditty to the 
 same air. It has been pointed out that the 
 last admirable verse is formed upon a conceit, 
 which was put into print long before the 
 days of Burns, and in a place where it is not 
 at all probable that he could ever have seen 
 it — a comedy entitled Cupid's JV/drligig, pub- 
 lished in 1G07. The passage in the comedy 
 is an apostrophe to the female sex, as fol- 
 lows : — " Since we were made before you, 
 should we not admire you as the last, and 
 therefore, perfect work of nature. Man was 
 made when nature was but an apprentice, 
 but woman when she was a skilful mistress 
 of her art." — Ciiambeks. 
 
 Page 202, Note 314. — A quotation from 
 Young's " Night Thoughts." 
 
 Page 203, Note 313.— The " Highland 
 Lassie," celebrated in this song, was the 
 Mary Campbell, to v.hom Burns was at one 
 time engaged, and devotedly attached, and 
 whose premature death, in fact, prevented her 
 becoming Mrs. Burns. 
 
 Page 204, Note 316. — "Composed on 
 the amiable and excellent family of White- 
 foord's leading Ballochmyle, « hen Sir John's 
 misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate." — ■ 
 Burns. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, after- 
 wards Mrs. Cranstone The purchaser of the 
 property was Claud Alexander, Esq., whose 
 sister Burns has celebrated as the Bonnie 
 Lass of Ballochmyle. 
 
 Page 205, Note 317.— The origin of this 
 beautiful song was the accidental meeting of 
 Miss VVilhelmina Alexander, in the grounds 
 attached to the mansion of Ballochmyle, the 
 property of her brother Mr. Claude Alexan- 
 der. The song was written in 17S6, and 
 immediately forwarded by Burns to Miss 
 Alexander, whose delicacy kept it unknown 
 for the time. 
 
 Page 205, Note 318. — I composed this 
 
rOE^rS OF T^FRNS. 
 
 003 
 
 song as I conveyed my chest so far on the 
 road to Greenock, where I was to embark in 
 a few days for Jamaica (November, 17^36). 
 [ meant it as a farewell dirge to my native 
 land." — Burns. 
 
 Professor Walker gives the foUowinoj ac- 
 count relating to tills song. " I requested 
 liim (B'lrns) to communicate some of his 
 unpubl.iiied poems, and he recited his fare- 
 well 3/:ig; to the Banks of Ayr, introducing 
 it with a description of the circumstances 
 under which it was composed, more striking 
 than the poem itself. He had left Ur. Lau- 
 rie's family, after a visit which he expected 
 to be the last, and on his way home, had to 
 cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His 
 mind was strongly affected by partnig for 
 ever with a scene where he had tasted so 
 much elegant and social pleasure ; and de- 
 pressed by the contrasted gloom of his 
 prospects, the aspect of nature harmonised 
 with his feelings ; it was a lowering and 
 heavy evening in the end of autumn. The 
 wind was up, and whistled through the 
 rushes and long spear grass which bent be- 
 fore it. The clouds were driving across the 
 sky ; and cold pelting showers at intervals 
 added discomfort of body to cheerlessness of 
 mind. Under these circumstances, and in 
 this traine, Burns composed this poem. 
 
 Pagh 205, Note 319. — This song relates 
 to ail incident in real life. The unfortunate 
 heroine was a beautiful woman, daughter to 
 a landed gentleman of Carrick, and niece to 
 a baronet. Her lover was a landed gentle- 
 tuan of \\'igtonshire. A mother without the 
 sanction of matrimony, and deserted by her 
 lover, she died of a broken heart. On the 
 subsequent death of her brother, her yonngfr 
 sister inherited the family property, but not 
 without opposition from an unexpected 
 quarter. Tlie seducer and deserter of the 
 deceasc-l lady now appeared in a court of 
 law, to endeavour > establish the fact of a 
 secret marriage with her, so as to entitle him 
 to succeed to her brother's esta*?, as the 
 father and heir of her deceased child, whose 
 claim, of course, would have been preferable 
 to that of the younger sister, if his legitimacy 
 could have been proved. In this attempt, 
 the sp<lucer, it is gratifying to add, was not 
 successful. 
 
 The following was the original version of 
 the song, written soon after the poet's de- 
 parture from Ayrshire, and afterwards altered 
 to suit an air composed by a Mr. ililler, 
 writer m Kdiubiirgh : — 
 
 Ye flowery banks o' bonuie Uooo, 
 IIow can ye L'oom sue fair I 
 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
 
 And I sae fu' o' care ! 
 Tlioii'U break my heart, thou bonnie bird. 
 
 That sings upon the bough; 
 Thou minds me o' the happy days 
 
 When my fause luve was true. 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonuie bird. 
 
 That siug5 beside thy mate; 
 For sae I sat, and sae 1 sang. 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the woodbine twine, 
 And ilka bird sang o' its love; 
 
 And sae did i o' mine. 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Frae aff its thorny tree : 
 And my fause liiver staw the rose, 
 
 But left the thoiu wi' me. 
 
 Page 205, Note 330. — "I composed thesj 
 stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfelily, 
 at or near Moness, in Perthshire" — Bukns. 
 This was in the course of his Highland Ex- 
 cursion, in the month of September, 17S7. 
 
 Page 205, Note 321. — James .Mac- 
 pherson was a noted Highland freebooter, 
 of uncommon personal strength, and an ex- 
 cellent performer on the violin. After 
 holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, 
 and Aioray in fear for syme years, he was 
 seized by Dutf, of Braco, ancestor of the 
 Earl of Fife, and tried before the sheriff of 
 Banffshire (November 7, 1700), along with 
 certain gipsies who had been taken in his 
 company. In the prison, while he lay under 
 sentence of death, he composed a song, and 
 an appropriate air, the former comraeucing 
 thus :— 
 
 " I've spent my time in rioting. 
 
 Debauched my health and strength ; 
 I squandered fast as pillage came. 
 And fell to shame at length. 
 
 But dantonly and wantonly. 
 
 And rantoiily I'll gae ; 
 I'll play a tune, and dance it roun'. 
 Beneath ilie gallows tree." 
 
 When brought to the place of execution, on 
 the Gallow-hill of Banff (Nov. 1(5), he played 
 the tune on his violin, and then asked if any 
 friend was present who would accept the 
 instrument as a gift at his hands. No one 
 coming forward, he indignantly broke the 
 viohn on his knee, and threw away the frag- 
 ments ; after which he submitted to hid 
 fate. The traditionary accounts of ISIac- 
 pherson's iminciise prowess are justified by 
 his sword, which is still preserved in Duff 
 House, at Banff, and is an imiileiuent ol 
 
 44 
 
B01 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 great leriicth and weight — as well as by his 
 boacs, wliicli were found a few years ago, 
 ami were allowed by all who saw thefti to be 
 much stronger than the bonesof ordinarynien. 
 
 Tlie verses of Burns — justly called by 
 Jlr. Lockhart, "a grand lyric," — were de- 
 signed as an improvement on those of the 
 freebooter, preserving the same air. la the 
 edition of the poet's works, superintended 
 by Messrs. Hogg and Jlotherwell (Glasgow, 
 1834), the reader will find ampler information 
 on the subject of Macpherson and his " Rant." 
 
 Page 207, Note 322. — The individual 
 here meant is William, fourth Viscount of 
 Strathttllan, who fell on the insurgent side at 
 the battle of Culloden, April, 1746. Burns, 
 probably ignorant of this his real fate, de- 
 scribes him as having survived the action, 
 and taken refuge from the fury of the govern- 
 ment forces in a Highland fastness. 
 
 Page 207, Note 323. — These verses 
 were composed on a charming girl, a Miss 
 Charlotte Hamilton, who was since married to 
 James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., physician. 
 She is sister of my worthy friend, Gavin 
 Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on 
 the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I 
 wrote these lines, residing at Ilarvieston, in 
 Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of 
 the little river Devon." — Burns. It was in 
 the course of a short tour in company with Dr. 
 Adair, August 1787, that the poet saw 
 Miss Hamilton, at Ilarvieston. Introducing 
 his fellow-traveller to the family, he was the 
 means of bringing about an union, from 
 which, says Adair, in 1800, " I have derived, 
 and expect further to derive, much happiness." 
 
 Page 207, Note 324— " This song," 
 says Burns, " I composed on one of the most 
 accomplished of women, ;\Iiss Peggy Chal- 
 mers (that was), now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of 
 Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh." — 
 Burns. Miss Chalmers was first met by 
 Burns in a trip through Clackmannanshire, 
 in 1787. It was then that he visited Har- 
 viestoii in the month of August. 
 
 Page 208, Note 325. — "I composed 
 these verses," says Burns, " on Miss Isabella 
 McLeoil, of Ramsay, alluding to her feelings 
 on the death of her sister, and the still 
 more melancholy death (178(5) of her sister's 
 husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who shot 
 himself out of shee,- heartbreak at some 
 mortitications he suffered, owing to the de- 
 ranged state of his finances." 
 
 Page 208, Note 326. — "The chorus I 
 picked up from an old woman in Dumblane; 
 the rest of tlie song is mine." — Burns. It 
 is evident that the poet has understood the 
 chorus in a Jacobite sense, and written his 
 
 own verses in that strain accordingly. Mr. 
 Peter Buchau, has, nevertheless, ascertained 
 that the original song related to a love 
 attachment between Harry Lumsdale, the 
 second son of a Highland gentleman, and 
 Miss Jeanie Gordon, daughter to the Laird 
 of Knockhespock in Aberdeenshire. The 
 lady was married to her cousin, Ilabicliie 
 Gordon, a son of the laird of Rhymie ; and 
 some time after, her former lover having met 
 her, and shaken her hand, her husband drew 
 his sword in anger, and lopped off several of 
 Lumsdale's fingers — which Highland Harry 
 took so much to heart, that he soon after 
 died.— See Hogg and Motherwell's edition of 
 Burns, II.. 197. 
 
 Page 208, Note 327.— "I composed 
 these verses," says Burns, "out of compli- 
 ment to a Mrs. Mcliachlan, whose husband 
 was an officer in the East Indies." 
 
 P.WE 208, Note 328.— " I composed 
 these verses while I staid at Ochtertyre with 
 Sir William Murray (father of Sir George 
 jMurray, late Secretary for the colonies). The 
 I lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the 
 i same time, was the well-known toast, Miss 
 I Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was 
 called, and very justly, the Flower of 
 Stratkmore." — BuBiNS. This visit to Ochter- 
 tyre took place in the month of Juue, 
 1787. 
 
 Page 209, Note 329.— "This song," 
 says Burns, "I composed on IMiss Jenny 
 Cruicksliank, only child of my worthy friend 
 Mr. William Cruickshank, of the High 
 School, Edinburgh." To the same person 
 were also addressed the charming lines 
 which begin ; — • 
 
 " Beauteous rosebud young and gay," 
 
 and which were written by Burns in the 
 fly-leaf of a book presented by him to her. 
 This young lady, who was then only twelve 
 years old, afterwards became the wife of Mr. 
 Henderson, a writer or legal practitioner at 
 Jedburgh. Mr. Cruickshank's house was a 
 floor at the top of a common stair now 
 marked, No. 30, in James's Square, Edin- 
 burgh ; the poet for some time lived with 
 him, his room being one which has a window 
 looking out from the gable of the house 
 upon the green behind the General Register 
 House. Here Burns lay while confined with 
 a bruised limb in the winter of 1787-8. Mr. 
 Cruickshank died, March 8, 1795. 
 
 Page 209, Note 330. — In imitation of a. 
 song of which that consummate libertine, 
 Charles II., was the hero. 
 
 Page 210, Note 331. — "I composed this 
 song out of compliment to Miss Ann Master- 
 
rOENS OF RURNS. 
 
 60.5 
 
 ton, the dauiihter of my ''rienil Allan Master- 
 ton, the author of ihj air StratlialUiu's 
 r.ament, and two or three others in tliis 
 work (Jolinson'sScots Musical IMuseum)." — 
 P. u isNS. ]\Iiss JIastcrton afterwards hecame 
 Mrs. Derbishire. 
 
 Page 211, Note 332.— "The first half 
 stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." — 
 Burns. That lialf stanza was probably the 
 same with the following, which occurs near 
 tlie close of a homely ballad, printed in Hogg 
 and Jlotherwell's edition of Burns, as pre- 
 served by Mr. Peter Btichan, who further 
 comnnniicates that the ballad was composed 
 in 1G36, by Alexander Lesley, of Edinburgh, 
 on Doveran side, grandfather to the cele- 
 brated Archbishop Sharpe : — 
 
 " Ye'll bring me here a pint of wine, 
 
 A salver and a silver tassie, 
 That I may drink, before I gang, 
 
 A health to my ain bonnie lassie." 
 
 The fact of Burns pitching upon this one 
 fine stanza of an old ballad, as a foundation 
 for a new song, shows expressively the apt 
 sense he had of all that was beautiful in 
 poetry, and how ready his imagination was 
 to take wing npon the slightest command. 
 
 Page 21 1, Note 333. — These lines, which 
 were found amongst the papers of Mrs. 
 McLehose, were evidently addressed to her, 
 and allude to the parting scene between the 
 p<iet and his Clarinda. " These exquisitely 
 artecting stanzas contain the essence of a 
 thousand love tales." — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Page 211, Note 334.— The tune of this 
 song was composed by ]Marshall, who for 
 many years served in the capacity of butler 
 to the Duke of Gordon, and to whose genius 
 we are indebted for some of the most exqui- 
 site of Scottish airs. Of the words Burns 
 gives the following brief account. "This song 
 1 composed out of compliment to iMrs. 
 Burns. N.B. — It was the honey-moon." 
 
 Page 212, Note 335. — "This air is 
 Oswald's; the song I made out of compliment 
 to .Mrs. Burns."— Burns. 
 
 Page 212, Note 33G.— "I composed 
 this song," says Burns, " in the course of a 
 most cheerless ride through the wild muirs 
 which extend between Galloway and Ayr- 
 shire." 
 
 Page 213, Note 337. — "This celebrated 
 poem was composed by Burns,' in September 
 1789, on the anniverssry of the day on which 
 he heard of the death of his early love, Mary 
 Campbell. According to Mrs. Burns, he 
 spent that day, though labouring under cold, 
 in the usual work of the harvest, and appa- 
 "■ntly in excelleut spirits. But, as the twi- 
 
 light deepened, he appeared to grow 'very 
 sad about something,' ami at length wan- 
 dered out into the barn-yard, to which his 
 wife, in her anxiety, followed hira, entreating 
 him in vain to observe that frost had set in, 
 and to return to the firesiile. On being agaiu 
 ami again requeste<l to do so, he promised 
 compliance — but still rem lined where he was, 
 striding up and down slonly, and contem- 
 plating the sky, which was singularly clear 
 and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him 
 stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes 
 fixed on a beautiful planet, 'that shone like 
 another moon,' and prevailed on liiui to come 
 in. lie 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, these sublime and pathetic 
 verses." 
 
 Page 213, Note 33S. — "I composed this 
 song out of Compliment to one of the happiest 
 and worthiest married couples in the world, 
 Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his 
 lady. At their fireside I have enjoyed more 
 pleasant evenings than at all the houses of 
 fashionable people in this country put toge- 
 ther." — Burns. Friars' Carse, closely adja- 
 cent to Ellisland, on the bank of the Nith, 
 was the residence of this couple. Mr. Riddel 
 died April, 179 1. 
 
 Page 213, Note 339.— "This air is 
 IMasterton'.s ; the song mine. The occasion 
 of it was this : — ;\Ir. William Nicol, of the 
 High School, Edinburtfh, during tlie autumn 
 vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, wha 
 was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton 
 and I, went to pay Nicol a visit. We had 
 such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Mastertou 
 and I .igreed, each in our own way, that we 
 should celebrate the business." — Burns 
 " This meeting," says Currie, writing in 
 1799, "took place at Laggan, a farm pur- 
 chased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the 
 recommendation of Burns. These three 
 honest fellows — all men of uncommon talents 
 — are now all under the turf." Masterton 
 has elsewhere been described by Burns as 
 "one of the worthiest men in the world, and 
 a man of real genius." Nicol, who died April 
 21, 1797, was a man of coarse nature and 
 violent passions. 
 
 Page 214, Note 340. — Composed on 
 Miss Jean Jeffrey, daughter of the minister 
 of Lochmaben. Burns, spending an evening 
 with this gentleman at his manse, was much 
 pleased with the young liidy, who did the 
 honours of the table ; next morning, at 
 breakfast, he presented her with the song. 
 She is now Mrs. Renwick, and resides in New 
 
 York. CHAMBElis. 
 
606 
 
 NOTFS TO THE 
 
 I'.VGK ;ilo, NoTK 341. — This is an adap- 
 tation of the English ballad of Sir Robert 
 Ay ton, who was secretary to the Queen 
 Consort of James I. (of England). The old 
 ballad runs thus : — 
 "I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find 
 
 Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets. 
 Thy favours are but like the wnid, 
 
 That kisseth every thing it meets ; 
 And since thou canst with more than one, 
 Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
 The morning rose that untouched stands, 
 
 Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells ! 
 But plucked and strained through ruder 
 hands, 
 
 Ilcr scent no longer with her dwells, 
 But scent and beauty both are gone, 
 And leaves fall from her one by one. 
 Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, 
 
 When thou hast handled been awhile; 
 Like sun-flowers to be thrown aside. 
 
 And I shall sigh while some will smile : 
 So see thy love for more than one 
 Ha»; brought thee to be loved by none." 
 
 Page 217, Note 343 — This song is sup- 
 posed to be one of those which Burns only 
 improved from old versions. William Gor- 
 don, sixth Viscount Kenmure, raised a 
 body of troops for the Pretender in 1713, 
 and had the chief command of the insurgent 
 forces, in the south of Scotland. Taken at 
 Preston, he was tried, and condemned to be 
 beheaded, which sentence was executed on 
 the 24th February, 1716. His forfeited 
 estate was bonght hack by his widow, and 
 transmitted to their son. By the son of 
 that son — now Viscount Kenmure, in 
 consequence of the restoration of the title — 
 Burns was, on one occasion, entertained at 
 his romantic seat of Kenmure Castle, near 
 New Galloway. 
 
 Page 218, Note 343.— "The original 
 title of this song was ' Fair Rabina : ' the 
 heroine was a young lady to whom one of 
 the poet's friends was attached, and Burns 
 wrote it in compliment to his passion. 
 Johnson, the proprietor of the Aluseum, 
 disliked the name, and desiring to have one 
 more suitable for singing, the poet, unwill- 
 ingly, changed it to Eliza." — C u n n i n g h a m. 
 
 Page 218, Note 344. — Mr. Cunningham 
 states that the heroine of this song was 
 the wife of a farmer near Ellislaud, and 
 gives the following amusing account of 
 her: — "She was a very singular woman: 
 tea, she said, would be the rnin of the nation ; 
 sugar was a sore evil ; wheaten bread was 
 only fit for babes ; earthenware was a pick- 
 pocket ; wooden floors were but tit for 
 
 thrashing upon; slated roofs, cold ; feathery 
 good enough for fowls ; in short, she ab- 
 horred change ; and w henever anything 
 new appeared, such as harrows with iron 
 teeth, ' Ay, ay,' she would exclaim, ' ye'U see 
 the upshot ! ' 
 
 Of all modern things, she disliked china 
 the most ; she called it ' burnt clay,' and 
 said it was only fit for ' handing the broo o' 
 stinking weeds,' as she called tea. On one 
 occasion, a southern dealer in cups and 
 saucers, asked so much for his ware, that he 
 exasperated a peasant, who said, ' I canna 
 purchase, but I ken ane that will : gang 
 there,' said he, pointing to the house of 
 Willie's wife ; dinna be blate or burd- 
 mouthed ; ask a guJe penny — she has the 
 siller.' Away went the poor dealer, spread 
 out his wares before her, and summed up all 
 by asking a double price. A blow from her 
 crummock was his instant reward, which 
 not only fell on his person, but damaged his 
 china. 'I'll learn ye,' quoth she, as she 
 heard the saucers Jingle, ' to come with yere 
 brazent English face and yere bits o' burnt 
 clay to me ! ' She was an unlovely dame — 
 her daughters, however, were beautiful." 
 
 Page 219, Note 345. — "Looking over, 
 with a musical friend, M'Donald's Collection 
 of Highland Airs, I was struck with one, an 
 Isle of Skye tune, entitled Uraii an Aoirj, or 
 the Song of Death, to the measure of which 
 I have adapted my stanzas" — Burns to 
 Mrs. Dunlop, December 17, 1791, at which 
 time the song had just been finished. 
 
 Page 219, Note 346. — Composed in 
 honour of Mrs Stewart of Stair, whose pa- 
 ternal property was situated on the banks uf 
 the Afton, an Ayrshire tributary of the Nith, 
 near New Cuiuiioclc Mrs. Stewart was one 
 of the first persons of rank vvho knew or ex- 
 tended any friendship to Burns. 
 
 Page 220, Note 347.— In the edition of 
 the Poems of Burns published by Hogg and 
 Motherwell, there is a curious note attached 
 to this song, in which all the parallel songs, 
 ballads, or sketches of otlier authors areciteil, 
 as, in fact, they had, many of them, occurred 
 to Burns. 
 
 Page 220, Note 34S. — This song was 
 handed up to the chairman, extemporised on 
 the back of a letter, by Burns, at a meeting 
 of Excise officers, at Dumfries, when the 
 poet was called upon for a song. 
 
 Page 221, Note 319. — According tc 
 jMr. Cunuinghara, the heroine of this song, 
 was Jliss Jannetle Miller, daughter of Mr. 
 Miller, of Dalswinton, a young lady of very 
 extraordinary beauty, who, subsequently, 
 married (in 1795) Mr. John Thomas Erskiiu 
 
POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 fio: 
 
 the younger, of Marr (since 13th Earl of 
 Marr). 
 
 Page 221, Note 350. — This song is sup- 
 posed to express the love and admiration of 
 Mr Oswald, of Auchiiicriiive, for Miss Lucy 
 Jolmstone — afterwards Mrs. Oswald, and who 
 died of decline, at Lisbon, in 179S. 
 
 Page222, Notb 351. — This song, whether 
 sbsolutely original, or remodelled from 
 some ancient ballad, was contributed by 
 Burns to Johnson's Musical Museum. Mr. 
 Cunningham pronounces it not original. I 
 cannot, however, trace any ballad, either 
 amongst the early English, or early Scottish 
 Poesy, which will sustain Mr. Cunningham's 
 judgment; and, moreover, there are sufficient 
 grounds for identifying its absolute origi- 
 nality, the rhythm only being adopted. 
 
 Page 224, Note 352. — "The occasion of 
 this ballad was as follows : — When Mr. 
 Cunuinghame, of Enterkin, came to his 
 e.-^tate, two mansion-bouses on it, Enterkin 
 and Anbank, were both in a ruinous state. 
 Wishing to introduce himself with some 
 iclat to the county, he got temporary erec- 
 tions made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully 
 decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a sup- 
 per and ball, to which, most of the respectable 
 families in the county were invited. It was 
 a novelty, and attracted much notice. A 
 dissolution of parliament was soon expected, 
 and this festivity was thought to be an 
 introduction to a canvass for representing 
 the county. Several other candidates were 
 spoken of, particularly Sir John Whitefoord, 
 then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pro- 
 nounced Glencaird, and IMr. Boswell, the 
 well-kunwn biographer of Dr. Johnson. 
 The political views of this festive assemblage, 
 which are alluded to in the ballad, if they 
 ever existed, were, however, laid aside, as 
 Mr. Cunuinghame did not canvass the 
 county." — Gilbert Burns. 
 
 Page 225, Note 353. — There is an old 
 superstition, that, out of the slough of 
 adders, are formed the pretty annular peb- 
 bles, which have, of late years, become so 
 popular, when polished, for mounting as 
 jewels. 
 
 Page 225, Note 354. — .\ccording to 
 the family tradition, this song was composed 
 in hono\ir of Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee Park. 
 
 Page 22(3, Note 355. — Miss Lesley Hail- 
 lie was certainly worthy of the delicate and 
 naif eulogy of this poem. She was the 
 daughter of a landed proprietor in Ayrshire, 
 and, subsequently, married J\lr. Gumming, of 
 Logie. The occasion of the meeting, which 
 furnished the impulse to this composition, 
 was that ou which, iu 1792, Mr. and Miss 
 
 44* 
 
 Baillie were passing thro'.igh Dumfries in 
 their progress to England : — Burns accom- 
 panied them for some distance on their 
 jinirney, and was thus evidently charmed 
 with the worth as well as the beauty of his 
 fair fellow-traveller. 
 
 Page 226, Note 356. — "In my very 
 early years," says Burns, "when I was 
 thinking of going to the West Indies, I took 
 this farewell of a dear girl (.Mary Campbell), 
 whom, although 1 did not leave the country, 
 I never saw aLCain." 
 
 Page 227, Note 357. — The castle here 
 alluded to was that of Coilsfield, near Tar- 
 bolton, the seat of Colonel Hush Mont- 
 gomery, who was ultimately twelfth Earl of 
 Eglinton. The heroine of the verses was 
 jNlary Campbell, who lived in that house as 
 a dairy-woman, but now resides with poetical 
 immortality. Burns, after a long court- 
 ship, and having agreed that they should be 
 married, met her on the banks of the Ayr, 
 to live one day of parting love, in anticipa- 
 tion of a visit she was to pay to her re- 
 lations at Campbeltown in Argyleshire. 
 Mary died at Greenock on her return, and 
 thus left a blank in the poet's affections 
 which nothing thereafter tilled up. 
 
 Page 223, Note 358. — This song, which 
 is the version contributed to Thomson's 
 Selection, and which elicited such merited 
 admiration from that elegant compiler, was 
 a rescript of a former song contributed by 
 Burns to Johnson's Musical Museum. The 
 latter, however, was not absolutely original, 
 being founded on an old ballad, whereas 
 this version is entirely original. The ver- 
 sion furnished to the Musical .Museum rung 
 as follows : — 
 
 Braw, braw lads of Gala Water ; 
 
 Oh, braw lads of Gala Water; 
 I'll kilt my coats aboou my knee. 
 
 And follow my love thro' the water. 
 
 Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
 Sae bounie blue her een, my dearie; 
 
 Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou*; 
 The mair I kiss sh'es aye my dearie. 
 
 O'er yon bank, and e'er yon brae, 
 O'er yon moss amang the heather; 
 
 I'll ki'f my coats aboon my knee. 
 And follow my love thro' the water. 
 
 Down amang the broiin, the broom, 
 Down amang the broom, my dearie. 
 
 The lassie lost her silken snood. 
 
 That cost her raony a blirt and blearia 
 
 Page 2-'8,Note359.— "This,"says Burns, 
 " was one of my juvenile works." These 
 
608 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 lilies were composed in honour of one of the 
 fair daughters of a neighbour's house at 
 Mauchline. " Of all the productions of 
 llurns, the pathetic and serious love sonjfs 
 which he has left behind liiin in the niaiiner 
 of old ballads, are perhaps those which take 
 deepest and most lastins: hold of the mind. 
 Such are the lines to JIary Morison, &c." 
 — IIazlitt. 
 
 Page 229, Note 360.— "Burns, I have 
 been informed, was one summer eveninif at 
 the inn at Brownliill with a couple of 
 friends, w hen a poor wayworn soldier passed 
 tlie window ; of a sudden, it struck the 
 poet to call him in, and get the story of his 
 adventures ; after listening to wliich, he all 
 at once fell into one of those fits of abstrac- 
 tion not unusual with him. He was lifted to 
 the region where he had his 'garland and 
 singing robes about him,' and the result 
 was the admirable song which he sent j'ou 
 for 'the Mill, IMill O.' " — Coukespond- 
 EMCE OP Mr. George Thomson. IMill- 
 Mannoch, a sweet pastoral scene on the 
 Coyl, near Coyltou Kirk, is presumed to 
 have been the spot w'liere the poet imagined 
 the rencontre of the soldier and his mistress 
 to have taken place. 
 
 Page 230, Note 361.— "The air of Logan 
 Braes is old, and there are several old songs 
 to it. Immediately before the rise of Barns, 
 Mr. John Mayne, who afterwards became 
 known for a poem entitled the Siller Gun, 
 wrote a very agreeable song to the air, 
 beginning, 
 
 'By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep.' 
 
 It was published in the Star newspaper. 
 May 23rd, 1780. Burns, having heard that 
 song, and supposing it to be an old com- 
 position, adopted into the above a couplet 
 from it, winch he admired :— 
 
 'While my dear lad inauu face his faes. 
 Far, far frae me and liOgan braes.' 
 
 Mr. Mayne lived to a good old age, and 
 died, March 14th, 1836, at lisson Grove, 
 near London." — Thom.son. 
 
 Page 230, Note 362. — ^This song was 
 written expressly for Mr. Thomson's Collec- 
 tion, that is, the two last stanzas, for the 
 two first were the original words of an old 
 ballad. Burns was struck with the wild 
 beauty of the air, and with the imperfection 
 of the closing part of the verses, and sup- 
 plied a remodelled version, such as it is in 
 the text. 
 
 Page 230, Note 363.— This song has 
 been erroneously supposed to celelrate 
 Burns's own " Jeau." .It was really written 
 
 in honour of the eldest daughter of Mr, 
 John McMurdo, of Drumlanrig — Miss Jean 
 McMurdo, whose exquisite beauty of face 
 and symmetry of figure, were remarkable 
 even in a family uniformly handsome. 
 
 Page 232, Note 36 L — " You will re- 
 member an unfortunate part of our worthy 
 fiieiid Cuuningham's story, which happened 
 about three years ago. That struck my 
 fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea 
 justice as follows." — BuitNS TO G. Thom- 
 son, Au(/ust, 1793. j\Ir. Alexander Cun- 
 ningham was a jeweller in Edinburgh, a 
 man of polished and agreeable manners, and 
 admitted into a class of society considerably 
 above his own. The story of his unfaithful 
 mistress, wdiich is here alluded to, made a 
 great noise at the time, and has been kept 
 in remembrance by Burns's song. 
 
 Page 232, Note 365.— Phillis the Fair 
 — ]Miss Phillis McMurdo, daughter of Mr. 
 John Mc^Iurdo, of Drumlanrig, more 
 delicately lovely, though not so command- 
 ingly beautiful as her elder sister Jean. 
 She was subsequently married to Mr. 
 Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath. The 
 occasion of this song was the fancied passion 
 of her music master (Burns's friend) Stephen 
 Clarke, who requested the poet to supply 
 him with an adequate copy of verses to 
 celebrate her. 
 
 Page 232, Note 366.— Benleddi is a 
 mountain which rises to an elevation of 
 upwards of 3000 feet, and which is situated 
 to the westward of Strathallan. 
 
 Page 233, Note 367.— An improve- 
 ment upon an old song, the hero of which is 
 said to have been the Rev. David William- 
 son, Minister of St. Cuthbert's, Edinburgh, 
 famous for having had seven wives, the first 
 being the Laird of Cherrytree's daughter, 
 with whom he became acquainted in a 
 rather unceremonious manner when skulking 
 during the days of " the Persecution." This 
 remarkable patriarch, though first inducted 
 into liis charge in the time of the Common- 
 wealth, was a vigorous preacher down to tha 
 davs of Queen Anne. 
 
 Page 233, Note 363— "The old air, 
 'Hey, tuttie taitie,' with Eraser's hautboy, 
 has often filled my eyes with tears. There 
 is a tradition, which I have met with in 
 many places of Scotland, that it was Robert 
 i Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. 
 This thought in my solitary wanderings, 
 warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
 theme of liberty and independence, which I 
 threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to 
 the air, that one might suppose to be the 
 gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic 
 
POEilS OF BURNS. 
 
 509 
 
 followers on that eventful morninj;." — 
 Burns to G. Thomson, September 1792. 
 
 Page 233, Note 309.— According to 
 some of Biirns's coraineutators, this sonjf 
 was written in 1793, ou the occasion of Cla- 
 rinda's purposed departure to join her hus- 
 band in the West Indies. Tiiis is a mistake. 
 The words might, very possibly, liave been 
 suffr/esled by such a circumstance ; but the 
 song was written in 1794 for Thomson's 
 collection. Burns having previously sug- 
 gested the air of Oran Gaoil to his cur- 
 respondent, and expressed his admiration 
 of it. 
 
 Page 236, Note 370. — '"How long and 
 dreary is the night ! ' I met with some 
 such words in a collection of songs some- 
 where, which I altered and enlarged : and to 
 please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
 have taken a stride or two across my room, 
 and have arranged it anew, as you will tind 
 on the other page." — Burns to G. Thom- 
 son, October, 1794. 
 
 Page 237, Note 371.— This song was 
 composed in honour of the beautiful Miss 
 Jean Loriraer, afterwards !Mrs. Whelpdale. 
 The occasion of the composition was imme- 
 diately on reaching home, after having met 
 Miss Loriraer at a party • the date 1794. 
 
 Page 237, Note 372. — The title of this 
 song is of remote date in the English version, 
 and even the opening hues have been re- 
 tained. The air, liowever, had never before 
 been coupled with it, and the length of the 
 stanzas was cut down, and the song otlier- 
 wise remodelled by Burns for Thomson's 
 collection, in which it was coupled with 
 Burns's favourite tune of Dainty Daoie. 
 
 Page 239, Note 273. — The supposition 
 that this song was elicited as a kind of peni- 
 tential address to Mrs. Riddel, of AVoodlee 
 park, ill consequence of an affront offered to 
 her by the poet when into.xicated, is by no 
 means well founded. The purport of the 
 song in no way concerned Burns personally, 
 it was written for a friend as an apostrophe 
 to an offended mistress, and the reply was 
 also by the hand of Burns, who was thus 
 employed on both sides in the dispute. The 
 reply runs thus :— 
 
 " Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 
 Stay, my AVillie — yet believe me. 
 For, ah ! thou know'st na' every pang. 
 Wad wring my bosom shouldsc thou 
 leave me. 
 Tell me that thou yet art true. 
 
 And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven. 
 And when this heart proves fause to thee. 
 Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
 
 But to think I was betrayed, [sunder ! 
 
 That falsehood e'er our loves should 
 To take the flow'ret to my breast. 
 
 And find the guilefu' serpent under. 
 
 Conlil I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive. 
 
 Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 
 I'd slight, nor sec-k in other spheres 
 That lieaven I'd find within my bosom. 
 Stay my Willie — yet believe me. 
 Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 
 For, ah I thou knows't na' every pang 
 Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou 
 leave me." 
 
 Page 239. Note 374.— The following 
 passage, which conveys a very analogous 
 iik'rt, occurs in Wycherley's Comedy of The 
 Plain Dealer : — 
 
 " I weigh the man, not his title : 'tis not 
 the king's stamp can make the metal better 
 or heavier. Your lord is a leaden shilling, 
 which you bend every way, and who debases 
 the stamp he bears." 
 
 Page 240, Note 375. — "Composed on a 
 passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular 
 friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, 
 afterwards Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady 
 was born at Cragieburn AVood " (near 
 Moffat). — Burns. Mrs. Whelpdale at a 
 future date became the heroine Chloris, 
 under which appellation she is the subject of 
 many songs by Burns. It is painful to add, 
 that this beautiful woman eventually sank 
 into the lowest state of female degradation, 
 and died in misery at Mauchline a few years 
 ago. — Chambers. 
 
 Page 240, Note 37G. — "Craigieburn 
 AVood is situated on the banks of the river 
 Moffat, and about three miles distant from 
 the village of that name, celebrated for its 
 medicinal waters. The woods of Cragieburn 
 and of Dumcrieff, were at one time favourite 
 haunts of our poet. It was there he met 
 the ' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,' and that 
 he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics." 
 
 — CURRIE. 
 
 Page 241, Note 377. — This song was 
 composed on the same occasion, and sug- 
 gested by the same incident, as that to which 
 the song. Had I a Cave, is also attribu- 
 table, namely, a disappointment in lo>e 
 which befel Mr. Alexander Cunningham, the 
 mutual friend of Burns and Thomson. The 
 date of this song is 1795. 
 
 Page 242, Note 378. — In the original 
 manuscript this line runs, " He up the 
 Gnleslack to my black cousin Bess." Mr. 
 Thomson objected to this word, as well as to 
 the word Daljurnack, in the next verae, 
 Robert Burns replied as follows ; — 
 
510 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 " Gatcilnck is the name of a particular 
 place, a kind of passaffe up among the 
 I,a\vther hills, on the confines of this county. 
 Dalicarnock is also the name of a romantic 
 spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined 
 church and a burial-ground. However, let 
 the first run He up the king loan, &c." 
 
 " It is always a pity to throw out anything 
 that gives locality to our poet's verses." — 
 
 CUIIRIE. 
 
 Pare 243, Note 379.— The heroine of 
 this song was Mrs. Burus's endeared young 
 friend. Miss Jessy Lewars, sister to one of 
 Burns's associates in oftice — since wile of 
 Mr. James Thomson, writer, Dumfries. 
 
 Pack 241, Note 380.— This was the first 
 attempt of Burns in verse. It was com- 
 posed, according to his own account, in his 
 sixteci.ili year, on a " bonnie sweet sonsie 
 lass," who was his companion on the harvest 
 field. See his letter to Dr. Moore. lie 
 says elsewhere — " For my own part, I never 
 had the least inclination of turning poet, till 
 I once got heartily iu love, and then rhyme 
 and song were in a manner the spontaneous 
 language of my heart. This composition 
 was the first of my performances, and done 
 ac an early period of life, when my heart 
 glowed with honest warm simplicity, un- 
 acquainted and uncorrupted with the ways 
 of a wicked world. The performance is, 
 indeed, Tery puerile and silly ; but I am 
 always pleased with it, as it recalls to my 
 mind those happy days when my heart was 
 yet honest, and my tongue was sincere." 
 
 Page 244, Note 381.— This autobio- 
 graphical song, as it may be called, is under- 
 stood to have been composed during the 
 most depressed period of the poet's early 
 fortunes, when struggling with family dis- 
 tresses at Lochlee. " It is a wild rhapsody," 
 he says, " miserably deficient in versification ; 
 but as tlw sentiments are the genuine 
 feelings of my heart, I have a particular 
 pleasure in conning it over." — Chambers. 
 
 Page 245, Note 382. — It has been said 
 that there was some foundation in fact for 
 this tale of a gossip — a wayfaring woman, 
 who chanced to be present at tlie poet's 
 birth, having actually announced some such 
 prophecies respecting the infant placed in 
 her arms. Some similar circumstances at- 
 tended the birth of IMirabeau. 
 
 Page 245, Note 383. — It may be grati- 
 fying to curiosity to know the fates of the 
 six belles of Mauchline. Miss Helen Miller, 
 the first mentioned, became the wife of 
 Burns's friend. Dr. Mackenzie. The divine 
 Miss Markland was married to a Mr. Finlay, 
 an officer of Excise at Greenock. Jliss Jean 
 
 Smith was afterwards Mrs. Candlisli. Miss 
 Betty (Miller) became Mr.s. Terapleton, and 
 Miss Morton married a Mr. Paterson. Of 
 Armour's history immortality has taken 
 charge. 
 
 The Glasrjow Herald of Saturday, Septem- 
 ber 6th, 1851, has the following notice of the 
 death of the last of the Mauchline Belles, 
 " Died on Saturday, the 30th ult. (August 
 1851), Mrs.Findlay, relict of Robert Findlay, 
 Esq., of the Excise. In ord nary circum- 
 stances, the departure from this life of a 
 respectable lady, ripe in years, would not 
 have afforded matter of general interest ; but 
 it happens that the deceased was one of the 
 very few persons surviving to our own times, 
 who intimately knew the peasant bard in the 
 first flush of his genius and manhood, and by 
 whom her name and charms have been wedded 
 to immortal verse. She was the "divine" 
 Miss Markland, noticed in the " Belles of 
 Mauchline." Miss Markland became the 
 wife of Mr. Findlay, officer of Excise, of Tar- 
 bolton, a gentlemen who was appointed to 
 instruct the bard in the mysteries of gauging. 
 The connection thus formed between Burns 
 and Findlay, led to the introduction of the 
 latter to Miss Markland, and his subsequent 
 marriage to her in September of the same 
 year (1788). Mrs. Findlay was in her 23rd 
 year at the time of her marriage, and in her 
 86 th at the time of her death." 
 
 Page 245, Note 384. — Jean Armour, 
 afterwards ]Mrs. Robert Burns who, as is 
 well known, survived the poet. 
 
 Page 245, Note 385.— This little frag- 
 ment was composed in consequence of a mo- 
 mentary glimpse which the poet one day 
 obtained of a beautiful young female, who 
 rode up to an inn at Ayr, as the poet was 
 mounting his horse to leave it. 
 
 Page 216, Note 333.— A7«i>, a familiar 
 appellation amongst the country people for 
 Kilmarnock. This song was composed in 
 allusion to a meeting of the Kilmarnock 
 Mason Lodge, which took place iu 1786, and 
 at which William Parker, one of the poet's 
 oldest friends presided, and which liurns 
 himself attended. The song was an im- 
 promptu, and was sung, as it is believed, at 
 this very meeting. 
 
 Page 246, Note 387 {misprinted 386).— 
 The air of Bonnie Dundee appears in the 
 Skene MS., of date circa 1620. The tune 
 seems to have existed at even an earlier 
 period, as there is a song to it amongst those 
 which were written by the English, to dis- 
 parage the Scottish followers by whom 
 James VI. was attended on his arrival in the 
 south. Tlie first of the following verses ii 
 
l'nE\rS OF BURNS. 
 
 511 
 
 rrnm hti old homely ditty, the second only 
 being the composition of Burns. 
 
 Page 249, Note 388.— "This song is 
 said to be a homely version of a Highland 
 lament for tlie ruin which followed the re- 
 belliou of the "forty-five." Burns heard it 
 sung in one of his northern excursions, and 
 begged a transcription." — Cunningham. 
 ' Page 251, Note 389.— Written at the 
 commencement of his residence at Eliisland, 
 to express the buoyant feelings which ani- 
 mated him on that occasion, when, as he 
 himself informs us, he enjoyed a few days, 
 the most tranquil, if not the happiest, he h.id 
 ever experienced. 
 
 ■ Page 255, Note 390. — This ballad is, as 
 
 ,., well as some of those which have preceded it, 
 dedicated to the turmoil of the parliamentary 
 election at Dumfries, iu wliich Burns took as 
 active a part as he well could on the tory side: 
 — to wit, in the election of 1790. In the "Five, 
 Carlines," as well as in the " Second Epistle 
 to Mr. Graham of Fintry ; " the poet appeared 
 to reserve a neutral position, merely sketch- 
 ing the wents as they occurred ; and, in fact, 
 it was obvious, seeing his dependency upon a 
 government situation, that he should observe 
 some measure in his political writings. Burns's 
 genius had moreover acquired for him friends 
 amongst men of all parties, many of whom in 
 the heat of a political contest, might have 
 felt aggrieved at any uncalled for violence on 
 his part. The secret Jacobitish yearnings of 
 Burns natcirally impelled him to the side of 
 Sir James Johnstone, thetory and Pittitecandi- 
 date, whilst being the tenant of Mr. Miller, 
 father of the whig or opposition candidate, to 
 whom he was indebted for much personal 
 kindness, he could not well signalise himself 
 by any very decided exertion against Mr. 
 Miller the younger. In this ballad " the 
 Laddies of the Banks of Nith," he does not 
 retain such very decided neutrality, and 
 pretty clearly allows his tory preddections to 
 oose out. It must be noticed, however, that 
 the toryism of Burns was merely a tradition- 
 ary love for the native Scotch race of princes, 
 and a detestation for the usurping dynasty 
 (as he thought) of Brunswick ; for in abstract 
 political principles, it may easily be gathered 
 from his writings that he had a far greater 
 leaning towards Jacobinism, than towards the 
 expliidod principle of the divine right of kings. 
 Sir Waiter Scott, writing to Mr. Lockhart, 
 with an enclosure of a whole parcel of letters 
 of Burns says: — "In one of them to that 
 singular old curmudgeon, Ijady Winifred 
 Constable, you will see he plays high Jaco- 
 bite, and on that account it is curious ; though 
 t- fancy his Jacobitism. like mine, belonged to 
 
 the fancy, rather than to the reason, lie 
 was, however, a great Pittite down to a cer- 
 tain period, that is, until the influx of Jatvjfti- 
 iiism from the outbreak of 1789, when lie 
 certainly became more decidedly Jacoiiii than 
 Jarabite. There were some passing stupid 
 verses in the papers, attacking and defending 
 his satire on a certain preagjier whom he 
 termed an unco calf. In one of them occurred 
 these lines in vituperation of the adversary •— 
 
 A whig I guess ; but Rab's a tory. 
 And gies us mony a funny story. 
 
 This was in 1787." 
 
 In the "Jjaddies of the banks of Nith,* 
 Burns first alludes to the great influence o/ 
 the Duke of Queensberry, owing to his 
 extensive landed possessions in the neigh- 
 bourhood. —The Duke of Queensberry tiguies 
 in no enviable light, either politically or 
 privately. — A life spent in mere selfish grati- 
 fication and profligacy, and a political career 
 stamped with his protest of December 26th, 
 1788, on the Regency question, are very 
 concisely lashed. 
 
 Page 256, Note 391.— Captain Grose 
 himself, was the first and most earnest to 
 relish the point of this epigram It was an 
 impromptu of one of the drinking parties or 
 nightly carousals of these "guid fellows." 
 
 Page 256, Note 392.— An allusion to 
 the excessive corpulency of Captain Grose, 
 which was a commoa subject of joke with 
 himself. 
 
 Page 256, Note 393.—" Stopping at a 
 merchant's shop, a friend of mine, in Kiliu- 
 burgh, one day put Elphinstone's translation 
 of Martial into my hand, and desired my 
 opinion of it. I asked permission to write 
 my opinion in a blank leaf of the biok, 
 which, being granted, I wrote this epigram." 
 — Burns. A similar idea occurs in a mock- 
 heroic poem, entitled the Knight, by 
 William Meston, who, in allusion to Dr. J. 
 Trapp's translation of the Georgics of Virgil, 
 says : — 
 
 " Read the commandment, Trapp, projced 
 
 no further ; 
 For there 'tis written, thou shalt do no 
 
 murder." 
 
 Page 256, Note 394.— The Miss Burns 
 who was the subject of these lines, was a 
 young English woman, settled in Edinburgh 
 — as remarkable for the laxity of her de- 
 meanour, as for the exquisite beauty of her 
 person. She figured in the less rigid society 
 of some of our wits, and her portrait waa 
 engraved and published by Mr. John Kay. 
 It was on one of these engravings that 
 
'512 
 
 NOTES TO THE POEMS OF BURNS. 
 
 Burns wrote the lines which it sug- 
 gested. 
 
 Page 257, Note 395.— These lines were 
 in reply to a question put to the poet : 
 " Wherefore Miss Davies (a particular fa- 
 vourite of Burns's) should have been made 
 so duninutive, and another lady named, so 
 larg'e in proportion ? " 
 
 Page 257, Note 396. — The occasion 
 which suggested these lines, was the receipt 
 of intelligence that the Austrians had been 
 totally routed at Gemappes, by General 
 Duniourier (1792.) 
 
 Page 257, Note 397. — Burns, accompa- 
 nied by a friend, having gone to Inverary at 
 a time when some company were there on a 
 visit to his Grace the Duke of Argyle, finding 
 himself and his companion entirely neglected 
 by the innkeeper, whose whole attention 
 seemed to be occupied with the visitors of 
 his grace, expressed his disapprobation of 
 the incivility with which he was treated, in 
 the above lines. 
 
 Page 257, Note 393. — Composed and 
 repeated by Burns, to the master of the 
 house, on taking leave at a place in the 
 Highlands, where he had been hospitably 
 entertained. 
 
 Page 257, Note 399.— Spoken, in reply 
 to a gentleman, who sneered at the sufferings 
 of Scotland for conscience-saKC, and called 
 the Solemn League and Covenant ridiculous 
 and fanatical. 
 
 Page 258, Note 400. — These were a 
 society of friends of the government, who 
 assumed an exclusive loyalty during the 
 fervours of the French Revolution. The 
 above lines were written in consequence of 
 the receipt, at a convivial meeting, of the 
 following senseless quatrain from one of the 
 Loyal Natives — 
 
 " Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 
 Let Syrae, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade 
 
 every throng, 
 With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the 
 
 quack. 
 Send Willie the monger to hell with a 
 
 smack." 
 
 Page 258, Note 401. — 'Wlien the Board 
 of Excise informed Burns that his business 
 was to act, and not to think and speak, he 
 read the order to a friend, turned the paper, 
 and wrote what he called The Creed of 
 Pcoerty — Cunningham. 
 
 I Page 258, Note 402. — " These lines are 
 addressed to John Taylor, blacksmith, at 
 Wanlockhead, on being indebted to him, 
 one winter's day between Dumfries-shire and 
 Ayrshire, for a small cast of his office."^ 
 Burns. 
 
 Page 259, Note 403. — Burns was called 
 upon for a song at a dinner of the Dumfries 
 Volunteers, in honour of Rodney's victory 
 of the 12th of April, 1782. He replied to 
 the call by pronouncing the following. 
 
 Page 259, Note 404. — This was at the 
 King's Arms Inn, Dumfries, and was sugges- 
 ted by hearing some person speak in terms 
 of reproach of the officers of his Majesty's 
 Excise. 
 
 Page 259, Note 405.— This lady, in her 
 early days, was an intimate friend of Mrs. 
 Burns, and also a great favourite with the 
 poet, who esteemed her sprightly and aft'ec- 
 tiouate character. During his last illness, 
 his surgeon, Mr. Brown, brought in a long 
 sheet, containing the particulars of a me- 
 nagerie of wild beasts wiiich he had just been 
 visiting. As Mr Brown was handing the 
 sheet to Miss Lewars, Burns seized ii, and 
 wrote upon it these verses with red chalk; 
 after which he handed it to JMiss Lewars, 
 saying that it was now lit to be jiresented 
 to a lady. Miss Le.vars afterwards married 
 Mr. James Thomson, of Dumfries. 
 
 Page 259, Note 406.— While Miss 
 Lewars was waiting upon him in his sick 
 chamber, the poet took up a crystal goblet 
 containing wine and water, and after writing 
 upon it these verses, in the character of a 
 Toast, presented it to her. 
 
 Page 259, Note 407. — At this time of 
 trouble, on Miss Lewars complaining of 
 indisposition, he said, to provide for the 
 worst, he would write her epitaph. He 
 accordingly inscribed these lines on another 
 goblet, saying, " That will be a companion 
 to the Toast." 
 
 Page 260, Note 408. — Quotation from 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 Page 260, Note 409. — James Humphry. 
 
 Page 260, Note 410.— Mr. John Wilson, 
 printer, of Kilmarnock, by whom the first 
 edition of Burns's Poems was produced. 
 
 Page 261, Note ill.— {Misprinted 409). 
 The father of Dr. Richardson, who accom- 
 panied Franklin's expedition. — Cham 
 BE as. 
 
Mnlm tn tjje Cnrrespntenre af 3^mm. 
 
 Page 268, Note 1. — ]\Ir. James Burness, of 
 Montrose, stood iu the relationslnp of first 
 cousia to Robert Burns. The father of 
 James was, like his brother William, in 
 humble circumstances, but had pursued a 
 more prosperous career. We have already 
 had occasion to remark that the poet was 
 the first of his famil}' to abbreviate the 
 name of Burness to Burns. The grandson 
 of James Burness, of Montrose, was the 
 Lieutenant Burness of our own time, the 
 author of Traoeh in Bokhara. 
 
 Page 270, Note 2. — JNIr. John Rich- 
 mond was one of the earhest friends of 
 Burns at Mauchliue. He had since em- 
 barlied in the study of the law, and was 
 preparing for that profession at Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 271, Note 3. — Mauchhne Corse is 
 the name of the Market Cross, in the centre 
 of the village or town. 
 
 Page 272, Note 4. According to 
 Motherwell, the piece to which Burns alludes 
 iu this letter was that entitled the Mountain 
 Dasiii, or as it was called in the original 
 luaiHiscript, The Goavan. 
 
 Page 272, Note 5. — Mr. David Brice 
 was a shoemaker at Glasgow, and an early 
 associate of the poet. 
 
 Page 272, Note 6. — Alluding to Miss 
 Jean Armour's return from Paisley, to which 
 she had been sent by her parents, to be out 
 of the reach of her too ardent lover. Burns 
 writes iu this spirit under the impression 
 that her own feehugs towards hira had 
 actually been distorted by the influence of 
 her friends. This was, to a certain extent, 
 the case, as we have had occasion to notice 
 
 in the foregoing portion of this volume, in 
 the dissertation on the Life of Robert 
 Burns. 
 
 Page 275, Note 7. — The e.Kpvessions 
 contained in this letter strongly betray the 
 extreme distress from which Burns was 
 suft'ering, owing to the forced separation 
 between himself and Jean Armour. 
 
 Page 275, Note 8. — An allusion to the 
 efforts which were being made at this time 
 by Mr. Aiken, and the other friends of the 
 poet, to procure for him an appointment to 
 office in the Excise. 
 
 Page 276, Note 9. — Miss Alexander, 
 the sister of !Mr. Claude Alexander, wlio had 
 recently purchased the estate of Ballocb- 
 myle. 
 
 Page 27G, Note 10.— The 25th of 
 January, 1759, was the day on which Burns 
 was born. 
 
 P.\ge 277, Note 11. — The designation 
 applied to old bachelors. 
 
 P.\GE 277, Note 12. — Without a proper 
 covering or cloak to protect you from its 
 rigour. 
 
 Page 277, Note 13.— Lady Betty Cun- 
 ningham. 
 
 Page 278, Note 14. — This paper was 
 written by the author of The Man of 
 Feeling, ilr. Mackenzie. 
 
 Page 279, Note 15. — One of those 
 traditionary examples with which the lively 
 memory of Burns was so teeming. He 
 appears to have retained and culled these 
 recollections of his early years with peculiar 
 veneration. 
 
 Page 280, Note Iti. — Br. Moore's letter. 
 
514 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 to which this letter was a reply, rau as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Clifford Street, Januarg 2?,rd, 1787. 
 
 " Sir — I have just received your letter, by 
 which I find I have reason to complain of 
 my friend Mrs. Dunlop, for transmitting to 
 you extracts from ray letters to her, by much 
 too freely, and too carelessly written for 
 your perusal. I must forgive her, however, 
 in consideration of her good intention, as 
 you will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom 
 I use with certain expressions, in con- 
 sideration of my admiration of the poems in 
 general. If I may judge of the author's 
 disposition from his works, with all the 
 other good qualities of a poet, he has not 
 the irritable temper ascribed to that race of 
 men by one of their own number, whom you 
 have the happiness to resemble in ease and 
 curious felicity of expression. Indeed, the 
 poetical beauties, however original and 
 brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I 
 admire in your works ; the love of your 
 native country, that feeling sensibility to all 
 the objects of humanity, and the inde- 
 pendent spirit which breathes through the 
 whole, give me a most favourable impression 
 of the poet, and have made me often regret 
 that I did not see the poems, the certain 
 effect of which would have been my seeing 
 the author, last summer, when I was longer 
 in Scotland than I have been for many years. 
 
 " I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- 
 ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think 
 you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
 Dr. Blair, who, I am informed, interests 
 himself very much for you. I beg to be re- 
 membered to him ; nobody can have a 
 warmer regard for that gentleman than I 
 have, which, independent of the worth of 
 his character, would be kept alive by the 
 memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
 George B e. 
 
 " Before I received your letter, I sent, en- 
 closed in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss 
 
 Williams, a young poetical lady, which she 
 WTote on reading your Mountain Daisy ; 
 perhaps it may not displease you : — 
 
 •While soon " the garden's flaunting flowers" 
 decay 
 
 And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie. 
 The ' Mountain-Daisy,' cherish'd by the ray 
 
 A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
 Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 
 
 'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; 
 He felt each storm that on the mountain 
 blows. 
 
 Nor ever knew the ahelter of the vale. 
 
 By genius in her native vigour iiurst, 
 
 On nature with impassion'd look he gazed; 
 Then through the cloud of adverse fortune 
 burst 
 
 Indignant, and in light unborrowed blazed. 
 Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard ; 
 His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself 
 will guard.' 
 
 " I have been trying to add to the number 
 of your subscribers, but find many of my 
 acquaintance are already among them. I 
 have only to add, that, with every sentiment 
 of esteem, and the most cordial good wishes, 
 I am, your obedient humble servant, 
 
 J. Moore." 
 
 Page 282, Note 17.— Subjoined is Dr. 
 Moore's reply to this letter, which is added 
 to throw additional light on the subject : — 
 " Clifford Street, Feb. 2Stk, 1787. 
 
 "Dear Sir — Your letter of the 15th gave 
 me a great deal of pleasure. It is not sur- 
 prising that you improve in correctness and 
 taste, considering where you have been for 
 some time past. And I dare swear there is 
 no danger of your admitting any polish 
 which might weaken the vigour of your 
 native powers. 
 
 " I am glad to perceive that you disdain 
 the nauseous affectation of decrying your 
 own merit as as a poet, an affectation which 
 is displayed with most ostentation by those 
 who have the greatest share of self-conceit, 
 aud which only adds undeceiving falsehood 
 to disgusting vanity. For you to deny the 
 merit of your poems, would be arraigning the 
 fiiced opinion of the public. 
 
 "As the new edition of my T^ieio of 
 Society is not yet ready, I have sent you 
 the former edition, which I beg you will 
 accept as a small m;irk of my esteem. It is 
 sent by sea to the care of Mr. Creech; and 
 along with these four volumes for yourself^ 
 I have also sent my Medical Sketches in, 
 one volume, for my friend iMrs. Dunlop, of 
 Dunlop ; this you will be so obliging as to 
 transmit, or, if you chance to pass soou by 
 Dunlop, to give to her. 
 
 " I am happy to hear that your subscrip- 
 tion is so ample, and shall rejoice at every 
 piece of good fortune that befalls you. For 
 you are a very great favourite in my family ; 
 and this is a higher compliment than perhaps 
 you are aware of. It includes almost all the 
 professions, and, of course, is a proof that 
 your writings are adapted to various tastes 
 and situations. My yoiuigest son, who is at 
 AVinchester school, writes to me, that he is 
 translating some stanzas of your ' Hallowe'en' 
 iiiio Latin verse, for the benefit of his com 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 
 
 615 
 
 rades. This unison of taste partly proceeds, 
 no doubt, from the cement of Scottish par- 
 tiality, with which they are all somewhat 
 tinctured. Even your translator, who left 
 Scotland too early in hfe for recollection, is 
 not without it. I remain, with great since- 
 rity, your obedient servant, J. Moore." 
 
 Page 282, Note 18.— Mr. William 
 Dunbar was writer to the Signet, in Edin- 
 burgh, and was the person celebrated ia the 
 song. Rattling Roaring Willie. 
 
 Page 280, Note 19. — Dr. Smith was 
 author of the well-known work, entitled 
 The Wealth of Nations, and of some admirable 
 translations of the best Greek authors. 
 
 Page 286, Note 20.— Subjoined is Dr. 
 Moore's reply to this letter : — 
 
 "Clifford Street, May 23rd, 1787. 
 
 "Dear Sir — I had the pleasure of your 
 letter by Mr. Creech, and soou after he sent 
 me the new edition of your poems. You 
 seem to think it incumbent on you to send 
 to each subscriber a number of copies pro- 
 portionate to his subscription money, but 
 you may depend upon it, few subscribers 
 expect more than one copy, whatever they 
 subscribed ; I must inform you, however, 
 that I took twelve copies for those sub- 
 scribers, for whose money you were so 
 accurate as to send me a receipt, and Lord 
 Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies 
 for himself, as he wished to give five of them 
 as presents. 
 
 " Some of the poems you have added in 
 this last edition are very beautiful, particu- 
 larly the ' Winter Night,' the ' Address to 
 Edinburgh,' 'Green grow the rashes,' and 
 the two songs immediately foUowing^the 
 latter of which is exquisite. By the way, 
 I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such 
 compositions which you ought to indulge. 
 No kind of poetry demands more delicacy 
 or higher polishing. Horace is more ad- 
 mired on account of his Odes than all his 
 other writings. But nothing now added is 
 equal to your 'Vision' and ' Cotter's Satur- 
 day Night.' In these are united fine ima- 
 gery, natural and pathetic description, with 
 sublimity of language and thought. It is 
 evident that you already possess a great 
 variety of expression and command of the 
 English language ; you ought therefore to 
 deal more sparingly for the future in the 
 provincial dialect. — Why should you, by using 
 that, limit the number of your admirers to 
 those who understand the Scottish, when 
 you can extend it to all persons of taste who 
 understand the English language? In my 
 opiidon, you should plan some larger work 
 
 than any you have as yet attempted. I mean, 
 reflect upon some proper subject, and ar- 
 range the plan in your mind, without begin- 
 ning to execute any part of it till you have 
 studied most of the best English poets, and 
 read a little more of history. The Greek 
 and Roman stories you can read in some 
 abridgment, and soon become master of 
 some of the most brilliant facts, which must 
 highly delight a poetical mind. You should 
 also, and very soon may, become master of 
 the heathen mythology, to which there are 
 everlasting allusions in all the poets, and 
 which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What 
 will require to be studied with more atten- 
 tion, is modern history ; that is, the history 
 of France and Great Britain, from the begin- 
 ning' of Henry VII.'s reign. I know very 
 well you have a mind capable of attaining 
 knowledge by a shorter process than is 
 commonly used, and I am certain you are 
 capable of making a better use of it, when 
 attained, than is generally done. 
 
 " I beg you will not give yourself the 
 trouble of writing to me when it is incon- 
 venient, and make no apology when you 
 do write for having postponed it, — be assured 
 of this, however, that I shall always be 
 happy to hear from you. I think ray friend 
 Mr. Creech told me that you had some poems 
 in manuscript by you, of a satirical and 
 humorous nature (iu which, by the way, I 
 think you very strong), which your prudent 
 friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
 larly one called ' Somebody's Confession ; ' 
 if you will entrust me with a sight of any 
 one of these, I will pawn ray word to give 
 no copies, and will be obliged to you for a 
 perusal of them. 
 
 "I understand you intend to take a farm, 
 and make the useful and respectable busi- 
 ness of husbandry your chief occupation : 
 this, I hope, will not prevent your making 
 occasional addresses to the nine ladies who 
 have shown you such favour, one of whom 
 visited you in the ' auld clay biggin.' 
 Virgil, before you, proved to the world that 
 there is nothing iu the business of husban- 
 dry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope 
 that you may afford an example of a good 
 poet being a successful farmer. I fear it 
 will not be in my power to visit Scotland 
 this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to 
 find you out, for I heartily wish to see and 
 converse with you. If ever your occasions 
 call you to this place, I make no doubt of 
 your paying me a visit, and you may depend 
 on a very cordial welcome from this family. 
 I am, dear Sir, your friend and obedient 
 servant, "J Moore." 
 
 45 
 
610 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 Page 28i3, Note 21. — Throng, a very 
 familiar Scottish term for busy — " having 
 one's liands full." 
 
 Page 286, Note 22. — Burns here alludes 
 to his excursion to the south, to visit 
 places of interest, and full of the traditions 
 of the Border contests of early Scottish 
 history. 
 
 Page 287, Note 23. — An engraving 
 executed by Beugo, from Nasmyth's por- 
 trait of Robert Burns, and which all persons 
 admitted to be even a more faithful likeness 
 than the picture, although that possessed 
 much merit. 
 
 Page 287, Note 24. — Subjoined is Dr. 
 Blair's reply to this letter : — 
 
 " Anjijle Square, Edinburgh, May ith, >787. 
 
 " Dear Sir — I was favoured this fore- 
 noon with your very obliging lettter, to- 
 gether with an impression of your portrait, 
 for which I return you my best thanks. 
 Tlie success you have met with I do not 
 think was beyond your merits ; and if I 
 have had any small hand in contributing to 
 it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no 
 way in which literary persons who are ad- 
 vanced in years can do more service to the 
 world, than in forwarding the efforts of 
 rising genius, or bringing forth unknown 
 merit from obscurity. I was the first person 
 who brought out to the knowledge of the 
 world the poems of Ossian ; first, by the 
 ' Fragments of ancient Poetry,' which I 
 published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
 foot the undertaking for collecting and 
 publishing the ' Works of Ossian ; ' and I 
 have always considered this as a meritorious 
 action of my life. 
 
 " Your situation, as you say, was indeed 
 singular ; and in being brought, all at once, 
 from the shades of deepest privacy to so 
 great a share of public notice and observa- 
 tion, you had to stand a severe trial. I am 
 happy that you have stood is so well ; and, 
 as far as I have, known or heard, though in 
 the midst of many temptations, without 
 reproach to your character and behaviour. 
 
 " You are now, I presume, to retire to a 
 more private walk of life; and I trust will 
 conduct yourself there with industry, pru- 
 dence, and honour. You have laid the 
 foundation for just public esteem. In the 
 midst of those employments which your 
 situation will render proper, you will not, I 
 hope, neglect to promote that esteem, by 
 cultivating your genius, and attending to 
 such productions of it as may raise your 
 character still higher. At the same time, 
 be not in too great a haste to come forward. 
 
 Take time and leisure to improve and mature 
 your talents ; for, on any second production 
 you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will 
 very much depend. There is no doubt a 
 gloss of novelty, which time wears off. As 
 you very properly hint yourself, you are not 
 to be surprised, if in your rural retreat you 
 do not find yourself surrounded with that 
 glare of notice and applause which here 
 shone i;poii you. No man can be a good 
 poet without being somewhat of a philoso- 
 pher. He must lay his account, that any 
 one, who exposes him to public observation, 
 will occasionally meet with the attacks of 
 illiberal censure, which it is always best to 
 overlook and despise. He will be inclined 
 sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear 
 from public view. He will not affect to 
 shine always, that he may at proper seasons 
 come forth with more advantaye and energy. 
 He will not think himself neglected if he be 
 not always praised. I have taken the 
 liberty, you see, of an old man to give ad- 
 vice and make reflections, which your own 
 good sense will, I dare say, render un- 
 necessary. 
 
 "As you mention your being just about to 
 leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
 to Dumfries-shire, to look at some of Mr. 
 Miller's farms. I heartily wish the offers to 
 be made you there may answer, as I am per- 
 suaded you will not easily find a more 
 generous and better-hearted proprietor to 
 live under than Mr. Miller. When you 
 return, if you come this way, I will be happy 
 to see you, and to know concerning your 
 future plans of life. You will find me by 
 the 22nd of this month, not in my house in 
 Argyle square, but at a country house in Res- 
 talrig, about a mile east of Edinburgh, near 
 the Musselburg road. Wishing you, with 
 the wannest interest, all success and pros- 
 perity, I am, with true regard and esteem, 
 dear Sir, yours sincerely, liuGii Blair." 
 
 Page 287, Note 25.— Burns here alludes 
 to an extempore address, which he wrote off- 
 hand to Mr. Creech, of which the opening 
 words are Auld Chuckie Jleekie's sair 
 cJistrest,-AnA which will be found amongst the 
 poems in the foregoing part of this volume. 
 
 Page 287, Note 26. — This patron was 
 James, Earl of Glcncairn, whose countenance 
 had also reared IMr. Creech to eminence ; — 
 that celebrated bibliopole having formerly 
 travelled with the earl (then a very young 
 man), in the capacity of tutor and companion 
 to his lordship. It was by Lord Glencairn, 
 as we have already observed, that Burns 
 was introduced to Creech. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 •517 
 
 Page 287, Note 27. — Burns here alludes 
 1o his friend and correspondent, for whom 
 he penned some of his best songs, namely, 
 Mr. Johnson, the compiler and publisher of 
 the Scots' Musical Museum. 
 
 Page 288, Note 28.— Mr. Peter Hill, 
 afterwards in business for himself as a book- 
 seller, and honoured by the poet's corres- 
 pondence. Beared with Mr. Creech, he was 
 im his turn, master to Mr. Constable. He 
 ilied at an advanced age in 1836. 
 
 Page 288, Note 29. — This wonderful 
 beast had been named Jenny Geddes by the 
 poet, in honour of the old woman to whom 
 tradition assigns the credit of having cast 
 the first stool at the dean's head in St. 
 Giles's church, July 23, 1637, when the 
 liturgy imposed ou Scotland by Charles I. 
 was first read. 
 
 Page 288, Note 30. — Auchtertyre was 
 the seat of Sir William Murray, Bart., situ- 
 ated in a picturesque and romantic district, 
 a few miles from Crieff. The son and suc- 
 cessor of the then proprietor, namely. Sir 
 George JIurray, was subsequently a mem- 
 ber of Pitt's administration, as Secretary for 
 the Colonies. 
 
 Page 288, Note 31.— This was Auch- 
 tertyre, near Stirling, ou the banks of the 
 Teitli. Mr. Ramsay was not only an accom- 
 plished scholar, and remarkable for his 
 distinguished classical attainments and re- 
 fined taste ; but was possessed with a warm 
 national enthusiasm, in favour of the simple 
 and truthful imagery and diction of the less 
 polished literature of his own country. 
 
 Page 289, Note 32.— Mr. Cruikshank, 
 of the High School, Edinburgh, and the 
 father of the fair Miss Cruikshank whom 
 Burns has so delicately celebrated in his 
 song of the Rosebud. 
 
 Page 290, Note 33. — Mr. Ainslie was 
 educated to the profession of the law, and 
 subsequently became a writer to the Signet, 
 in Edinburgh. He survived the poet nearly 
 half a century, and died at Edinburgh, on 
 the 11th of April 1838, at the advanced age 
 of seventy-two years. At the time in 
 question, lie was barely over twenty. He 
 had accompanied Burns on his poetical ex- 
 cursion through the southern or border 
 districts. 
 
 Page 291, Note 34. — ^Ir. Andrew 
 Bruce, of the North Bridge, Edinburgh. 
 
 Page 291, Note 33. — Hugh, the neigh- 
 bour's herdsman, who cuts such a quaint 
 figure in the poem of Poor Mailie, Burus'a 
 pet ewe. 
 
 Page 291, Note 36.— Miss Charlotte 
 Hamilton subsequently married Dr. Adah-, 
 
 a physician, at Harrowgate, and survived tlu; 
 poet nearly forty years. She was celebrated 
 by the poet in the song entitled the Banks 
 of the Devon. 
 
 Page 291, Note 37.— Mr. Hamilton's 
 son, who figures in the poem entitled The 
 Dedication, by the designation of Jfee cudie 
 Johnnie. 
 
 Page 292, Note 38.— Mr. Walker was 
 employed by the Duke of Athole, at his 
 seat of Blair Athole, in the capacity of tutor 
 to his grace's children. It was at Blair 
 Athole that Burns had first met him, and 
 become acquainted with him, only a few 
 days before the date of this letter, that is, in 
 the mouth of September, 1787, in the course 
 of one of his Highland excursions. 
 
 Page 292, Note 39.— The poet here 
 alludes to the lines entitled the Address of 
 Bruar Water to the Duke of Athole. It will 
 be remembered that in a previous allusion to 
 this subject, we stated that the spot was 
 originally bare an4 unadorned by plantations, 
 for which the capahdities of the landscape so 
 especially fitted this beautiful spot. Burns 
 was the first who suggested to the Duke 
 the bestowal of a little art in laying out this 
 portion of his estate in ornamental grounds 
 — a suggestion which the Duke quickly 
 adopted. 
 
 Page 292, Note 40.— The Duchess of 
 Athole of the time being, was the daughter 
 of Charles, Lord Cathcait (the ninth of the 
 title), and the "little angel hand," of which 
 Burns speaks with such fervour, were 
 severally, the Lady Charlotte jNIurray, then 
 only twelve years of age, and subsequently 
 married to Sir John Menzies, of Castle 
 Menzies ; Lady Amelia Murray, then seven 
 years of age, and subsequently married to 
 the Lord Viscount Strathallan; and lastly. 
 Lady Elizabeth Murray, then only five 
 months old (an infant in arms), and since 
 married to Macgregor Murray, of Lanrick. 
 
 Page 292, Note 41.— The valley of 
 Strathspey has given its name to the dancing 
 tunes in quick time, so popular in Scotland, 
 and especially in the Highlands, and which 
 derived their origin remotely from this 
 district. 
 
 Page 292, Note 42. — Stonehaven, some- 
 times also called Stonehive, by the people of 
 the country. 
 
 Page 2'92, Note 43.— The youngest 
 daughter of the late James Chalmers, Esq., 
 of Finglaud. She married, December 9, 
 1788, Lewis Hay, Esq., of the banking tirni 
 of Sir William Forbes, James Hunter, and 
 Company, Edinburgh. Mrs. Hay has since 
 resided at Pau, in the south of France. 
 
ei8 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 Paoe 293, Note 44. — The second num- 
 ber of the Scots Musical Museum, edited 
 and pubhshed by Johnson. 
 
 Page 293, Note 45. — These son^s, which 
 Burns enthusiastically admired, were the 
 works of the Rev. John Skinner, the epis- 
 copalian officiating minister at Longside, 
 near Peterhead. 
 
 Page 291, Note 46. — Hoy was librarian 
 to the Duke of Gordon for forty-six years 
 antecedent to his death hi 182S. He was a 
 simple, pure-hearted man, of the Dominie 
 Sampson genus, and had attracted the regard 
 of Burns during the short stay of the poet 
 at Gordon Castle. 
 
 Page 29-1, Note 47. — Alexander, fourth 
 Duke of Gordon, who entertained Burns at 
 Gordon Castle, possessed considerable abili- 
 ties for song writing, though few of his 
 verses have been made public. The song 
 alluded to by Burns seems to have been ob- 
 tained from Mr. Hoy, as it appears in 
 Johnson's second volume. 
 
 Page 296, Note 48. Mr. Charles Hay, 
 afterwards Lord Newton. He was a man of 
 much wit, and not by any means deficient of 
 learning in the abstruser questions of his 
 profession. That his qualifications as a 
 lawyer were by uo means contemptible, his 
 subsequent attainment of a judgeship suffi- 
 ciently testifies. In his earlier days, and at 
 the period of his correspondence with the 
 poet, however, he was probably more strongly 
 given to the bottle, the song and the 
 repartee, than to very deep questions of 
 jurisprudence. 
 
 Page 296. Note 49.— The Charlotte 
 here meant was Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
 sister of Mr. Gavin Hamilton, the poet's firm 
 friend. 
 
 Page 297, Note 50.— Alluding to the 
 song dedicated to jNIiss Chalmers, and of 
 which the initiatory line runs thus : — 
 
 " Where braving angry winter's storms." 
 
 Page 298, Note 51. — It is not impro- 
 bable that the locality illustrated in these 
 lines, to wit, Glenap, had some considerable 
 share in the deep interest which they excited 
 in the mind of Burns. Glenap is a small 
 place iu the southern part of Ayrshire, and 
 the local associations were no doubt powerful 
 to render any song which celebrated them 
 interesting in the eyes of Burns. 
 
 Page 293, Note 52. — After a long and 
 honourable practice as a surgeon at Irvine, 
 Mr. Mackenzie, who had there occupied every 
 honourable post in the township, finally (in 
 1827) retired to the metropolis, where he 
 continued to reside until his death, on the 
 
 11th of January, 1837. In the course of his 
 medical career, he sought and attained a 
 physician's diploma, and it was by him (as 
 Dr. Mackenzie) that Burns was presented to 
 Professor Dugald Stewart, also a warm 
 friend, and great admirer of the genius oi 
 the Scottish Bard. Furljier details on the 
 subject of Burns's intimacy with these two 
 worthy and distinguished contemporaries, 
 may be gathered from the particulars afforded 
 in the memoir which forms the first part of 
 this volume. 
 
 Page 299, Note 53.— Miss Williams 
 had, in the previous month of June, addressed 
 a letter of compliment to Burns, which may 
 be found in the Edinburgh Mcif/azine for Sep- 
 tember, 1817, where the letter iu the text also 
 appeared for the first time, along with the foU 
 lowing note bytheeditor,Mr.Thomas I'ringle: 
 — "The critique, though not without some 
 traits of his usual sound judgment and dis- 
 crimination, appears on the whole to be much 
 in the strain of those gallant and flattering 
 responses which men of genius usually find 
 it incumbent to issue, when consulted upon 
 the productions of their female admirers." 
 
 Page 300, Note 54. — This was the per- 
 son whom Burns, in his autobiographical 
 letter to Dr. Moore, describes as his com- 
 panion at Irvine — whose mind was fraught 
 with every manly virtue, and who, neverthe- 
 less, was tlie means of making him regard 
 illicit love with levity. 
 
 Page 301, Note 55.— Mrs. McLehose, 
 so well known to those who are conversant 
 with the life and works of Burns, under the 
 fictitious name of Clarinda. 
 
 Page 301, Note 56. — This, according 
 to the arrangement of Motherwell, is the first 
 of the letters extant, and addressed by Robert 
 Burns to Mrs. McLehose, although it had 
 previously been published as the second. 
 The date, according to the same authority, 
 must have been December Gth, 1787, to 
 which it is added, that the poet " was to have 
 drunk tea with her on that day, but was dis- 
 appointed by the lady, who afterwards 
 repeated her invitation for Saturday (the next 
 day but one), when he was once more disap- 
 pointed, in consequence of the accident 
 which confined him to his room for several 
 weeks, and by which his leg was seriously 
 injured. 
 
 Page 302, Note 57. — If our conjecture 
 as to the date of the foregoing letter be cor- 
 rect, as stated in the Note, number 56, it is 
 obvious that this note must have been written 
 and despatched on Saturday, the 8th of De- 
 cember, 1787. We are confirmed as to the 
 date of these letters, by those addressed to 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 519 
 
 others of his correspondents, and to Miss I 
 Cliuhners in particular.towhichBurnshadpre- 
 fix(!d dates, and which liave deliiiitely pointed | 
 to Saturday, December the 8th, 1787, as the 
 day npon which the accident occurred, by 
 wliich his lesr was injured. We have already 
 stated that Jlrs. Mclvchose had deferred re- 
 ceiving Burns on the Thursday previous, and 
 had named tliis day (Saturday) to receive him 
 instead. 
 
 Page 302, Note 58.— The letter of the 
 21st of December, to which Burns here 
 alludes, has been lost, and we can only infer 
 the contents from the context of the present 
 letter, and from the reply in verse which he 
 received from j\lrs. McLehose in the lines 
 beginning — 
 
 "Talk not of love, it gives me pain," &c. 
 
 Tliis letter was the first of that series which 
 was signed with the Arcadian name of 
 " Clarinda," and which Burns here repeats 
 ■with marked emphasis. , 
 
 Page 303, Note 59. — Judging from the 
 facts communicated, or alluded to, or from 
 the contents of other letters, evidently of the 
 same period, this letter must have been 
 written between the 3Ist of December 1787, 
 and the ord of January 1788. It would 
 almost seem as if we had lost some of the 
 intermediary notes; but it is also evident 
 that there could not have been a very volu- 
 minous series of letters intervening between 
 that of December 21st and this one. 
 
 Page 306, Note 60.— The date of this 
 letter was probably before the 20th of 
 January, and it might possibly have been as 
 early as the eighth of the same month ; we 
 can only infer ambiguously from the context, 
 and the circumstances which transpire in 
 other letters of the same period. A contem- 
 porary of both Burns and Clarinda, has 
 definitely fixed this letter for the 12th of 
 January 1788, but upon what grounds I do 
 not precisely know ; possibly, however, from 
 some occurrence of circumstances which 
 miglit have rendered the date conclusive. 
 
 Page 308, Note G1. — An allusion to 
 the novel of Fielding, entitled Amelia, to 
 which Clarinda had drawn his attention 
 especially. 
 
 Page 310, Note 02. — Burns here alludes 
 to the song of which the opening line is 
 
 " Clarinda, mistress of my soul." 
 Page 314, Note 63.— This letter was a 
 reply to the subjoined letter, received by 
 Burns from Mr. Skinner, in which he alludes 
 to a project for the publication of a complete 
 collection of Scottish songs :— 
 
 45 
 
 "Linsheart, \4lh November, 1737. 
 
 "Sir — Your kind return without date, but 
 of post-mark October 25th, came to my hand 
 only this day; and, to testify ray punctuahty 
 to my poetic engagement, I sit down imiiie- 
 diately to answer it in kind. Your acknow- 
 ledgment of my poor but just encomiums on 
 your surprising genius, and your opinion of 
 my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by 
 far too high. The difference between our two 
 tracks of education and ways of life is entirely 
 in your favour, and gives you the preference 
 in every manner of way. I know a classical 
 education will not create a versifying taste, 
 but it mightily improves and assists it ; and 
 though, where both these meet, there may 
 sometimes be ground for approbation, yet 
 where taste appears single, as it were, and 
 neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
 I will always sustain the justice of its prior 
 claim to applause. A small portion of taste, 
 this way, 1 have had almost from childhood, 
 especially in the old Scottish dialect : and it 
 is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness 
 for ' Christ-kirk o' the Green,' which I had 
 by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and 
 which, some years ago, I attempted to turn 
 into Latin verse. AVhile I was young, T 
 dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, 
 on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty 
 much over, till my daughters grew up, who, 
 being all good singers, plagued me for words 
 to some of their favourite tunes, and so ex- 
 torted these eliusions, which have made a 
 public appearance beyond my expectations, 
 and contrary to my intentions, at the same 
 tim'j that 1 hope there is nothing to be found 
 in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the 
 cloth, which I would always wish to see 
 respected. 
 
 " As to the assistance you propose from me 
 in the undertaking you are engaged in, I am 
 sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, 
 and you perhaps expect. My daughters, 
 who were my only intelligencers, are all 
 forli-familiate, and the ohl woman their 
 mother has lost that taste. There are two 
 from my own pen, which I might give you, 
 if worth the while. One to the old Scotch 
 tune of ' Dumbarton's Drums.' 
 
 '■ The other, perhaps, you have met with, as 
 your noble friend, the duchess, has, 1 am 
 told, heard of it. It was squeezed out of 
 me by a brother parson in her neighbour- 
 hourhood, to accommodate a new Highland 
 reel for the Marquis's birth-day to the 
 stanza of 
 
 'Tune your fiddles, tune them sweeiiy,'&c. 
 
 "If this last answer your purpose, you 
 
520 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 may luive it from a brother o. mine, Mr. 
 James Skinner, writer, in Edinburgh, who, 
 I believe, can give the music too. 
 
 " There is anotlier humorous thing, I have 
 heard said to be done by the Cathohc priest 
 Geddes, and which hit my taste much : — 
 
 'Tliere flas a wee wifeikie, was coming frae 
 
 the fair, 
 Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred 
 
 her meikle care. 
 It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she 
 
 began to spew. 
 And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I biuna 
 
 fou. 
 
 I wish,' &c., &c. 
 "I have heard of another new composition, 
 by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, 
 that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune 
 of ' The humours of Glen,' which I fear 
 won't do, as the music, I am told, is of Irish 
 original. I have mentioned these, such as 
 they arc, to show my readiness to oblige 
 you, aud to contribute my mite, if I could, 
 to the patriotic work you have in baud, and 
 which I wish all success to. You have only 
 to notify your mind, and what you want of 
 the aliove, shall be scut you. 
 
 " Jleantiiue, while you are thus publicly, I 
 may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
 proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
 have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
 hope for much good. One lesson of virtue 
 and morality, delivered in your amusing 
 style, and from such as you, will operate 
 more than dozens would do from such as 
 me, who shall be told it is our employment, 
 and be never more minded : whereas, from 
 It pen like yours, as being one of the many, 
 what comes will be admired. Admiration 
 will produce regard, and regard will leave an 
 impression, especially when example goes 
 along with it. 
 
 Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
 Else, by my troth, I'll no be glad ; 
 For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 
 
 And sic like fry. 
 Maun aye be harland in their trade. 
 
 And sae maun I. 
 
 "Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all 
 success, and, in my other character, all 
 happiness and heavenly direction, I remain, 
 wiih esteem, your sincere friend, 
 
 "John Skinner." 
 Page 314, Note 64. — Dr. Webster was 
 the orticiating minister of the Scottish Epis- 
 copalian Church, at Edinburgh. 
 
 " P.\GE 315, Note 65. — The "Two fair 
 spirits of the Hill" alluded to, were Miss 
 
 Sophia Brodie, and Jliss Rose, of Kilva- 
 rock. 
 
 Page 316, Note 66.— "The letters to 
 Richard Brown, written at a period when 
 the poet was in the full blaze of reputation, 
 showed that he was at no time so dazzled 
 with success, as to forget the friends who 
 had anticipated the public by discovering his 
 merit." — Walker. 
 
 P.VGE 316, Note 67. — An intervening 
 letter, which probably bore date about the 
 2ord of February, has not transpired. AVe 
 are led to the conviction that such a letter, 
 did exist, from the context and the allusions 
 contained in this letter. 
 
 Page 317, Note 68. — Burns here alludes 
 to Mr. James Tennant, of Glenconner, ia 
 Ayrshire, to whom he addressed a brief 
 poem (which will be found in its proper 
 place in this volume). It was the same Mr. 
 James Tennant, who had previously in- 
 spected other farms which Burns contem- 
 plated hiring. 
 
 Page 320, Note 69. — ^It is probable from 
 the allusions contained in this letter that it 
 was written after the brief visit of the poet 
 to Edinburgh, in which he finally concluded 
 the bargain with Mr. Miller, to take the farm 
 of Ellisland. It was on the 13th of ilarch, 
 that this contract was closed ; and judging 
 from circumstances, the date of this letter 
 would have been about the ISth of Jlarch, 
 1783. Burns did not see Mrs. McLcliose 
 in this instance, and appears even to have 
 avoided an interview, for private reasons. 
 
 Page 322, Note 70. — The words in 
 question, are those which bear the title of 
 the Chevallicr's Lament. 
 
 Page 322, Note 71. — The allusion here 
 made is to his marriage with Jean Armour. 
 
 Page 326, Note 72. — Burns, of course, 
 again alludes to his marriage with Jean 
 Armour. 
 
 Page 326, Note 73. — Alluding to the 
 death of Mr. Samuel Mitchelson. \niier to 
 the Signet in Edinburgh, who had been the 
 friend and master of Mr. Ainslie, and which 
 occurred on the 21st of June, 1788. 
 
 Page 327, Note 74. — Burns alludes to 
 a parcel of books, which his friend, Mr. Hill, 
 ha<l sent to him as a present. 
 
 Page 328, Note 75.— Mr. David 
 Ramsay, the printer, and publisher, of 
 the Edinburyh Eveninrj Cotirant. 
 
 Page 328, Note 76. — The Crochallan 
 Fcncibles, a select club of wits and conge- 
 nial spirits, to which Burns belonged, and to 
 which he very frequently alludes. 
 
 Page 328, Note 77. — Mr. Alexander 
 Cunningham, jeweller, of Edinburgh, a 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 m 
 
 mutual friend of Robert Burns and George 
 Thomson. 
 
 Page 333, Note 78— ]Mr. Morrison 
 was a cabinet maker and upholsterer at 
 Manchline, who had undertaken to furnish 
 Buriis's new house at EUisland, as soon as 
 it should be completed. 
 
 Page 33G, Note 79. — A quey — a heifer. 
 
 Page 339, Note 80.— This letter was a 
 reply to one received by Burns from Mr. 
 Carfrae, of which the subjoined is a copy : — 
 
 "January 2nd, 1780. 
 
 "Sir — If you have lately seen Mrs. 
 Dunlop, of Dunlop, you have certandy heard 
 of the author of the verses which accompany 
 this letter. He was a man higlily respected 
 for every accomplishment and virtue which 
 adorns the character of a man or a Cliris- 
 tian. To a great degree of literature, of 
 taste and poetic genius, was added an in- 
 vincible modesty of temper, which prevented, 
 in a great degree, his figuring in life, and 
 con lined the perfect knowledge of his 
 character and talents to the small circle of 
 his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
 from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
 fever, in the prime of life ; beloved by all 
 who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented 
 by all who have any regard for virtue or 
 genius. There is a woe pronounced in Scrip- 
 ture against the person whom all men speak 
 well of ; if ever that woe fell upon the head 
 of mortal man, it fell upon him. He has left 
 behind him a considerable number of com- 
 positions, chiefly poetical, sutticient, I ima- 
 gine, to make a large octavo volume. In 
 particular, two complete and regular trage- 
 dies, a farce of three acts, and some smaller 
 poems on difterent subjects. It falls to my 
 share, who have lived in the most intimate 
 and uninterrupted friendship with him from 
 my youth upwards, to submit to you the 
 verses he wrote on the publication of your 
 incomparable poems. It is probable they 
 were his last, as they were found in his 
 escritoire, folded up with the form of a letter 
 addressed to you, and, I imagine, were only 
 prevented from being sent by himself, by 
 that melancholy dispensation which we still 
 bemoan. The verses themselves I will not 
 pretend to criticise, when writing to a gen- 
 tlemen whom I consider as entirely qualilied 
 to judge of their merit. They are the only 
 verses he seems to have attempted iu the 
 Scottish style ; and I hesitate not to say, iu 
 general, that they will bring no dishonour 
 on the Scottish muse ; and allow me to add, 
 that if it is your opinion they are not un- 
 worthy of the author, and wUl be no dis- I 
 
 credit to you, it is the inclination of Mr. 
 Myliies' friends that they should immediately 
 be published in some periodical work, to 
 give the world a specimen of what may be 
 expected from his performances iu the 
 poetic line, which perhaps will afterwards be 
 published for the advantage of bis family. 
 
 "I must beg the favour of a letter from 
 you acknowledging the receipt of this, and 
 to be allowed to subscribe myself, with 
 great regard. Sir, your most obedient 
 servant. P. Carfrae." 
 
 Page 340, Note 81. — The piety of this 
 letter receives a hannouious response from 
 the following, addressed on the same day 
 by Gilbert Burns to his poetical brother : — 
 
 " Mossgiel, January Ist, 1789. 
 
 "Dear Brother — I have just flnished 
 my ne«v-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 lower over the portion 
 of time before us, we have great reason to 
 hope that all will turn out well. 
 
 " Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
 second, join me in the compliments of the 
 season to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you 
 will remember us in the same manner to 
 "William, the first time you see him. I am, 
 dear brother, yours, Gilbert Burns." 
 
 Page 342, Note 82. — Alexander Geddes, 
 born at Arradowl, in Banffshire, in 1737, 
 was reared as a Catholic clergyman, and long 
 orticiated in that capacity in his native 
 country, and elsewhere. As humbly born 
 as Burns, he possessed much of his strong 
 and eccentric genius, and it is not surpris- 
 ing that he and the Ayrshire bard should 
 have become friends. After 1780, his life 
 was spent in Ijondon, chiefly under the 
 fostering patronage of a generous Catholic 
 nobleman. Lord Petre. The heterodox 
 opinions of Dr. Geddes, his extraordinary 
 attempts to translate the Bible, and his 
 numerous fugitne publications on contro- 
 versial divinity, made much noise at the 
 time ; but he is now only remembered for 
 some successful Scotch verses. This singular 
 man died in Ijondon, February 20th, 1802. 
 in the sixty-fifth year of his age. 
 
 Page 342, Note 83. — A copy of Burns's 
 Poems, belonging to Dr. Geddes, into which 
 the poet had transferred some of his more 
 
622 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 recent verses. The volume has since been 
 in the possession of Mrs. Hislop, Finsbury 
 Square, London. 
 
 Page 343, Note 84.— Burns here alludes 
 to his wife's sister-in-law, namely, the wife 
 of Mr. Adam Armour, a mason, at Mauch- 
 Iine (and brother to Mrs. Burns). Mrs. 
 Adam Armour survived the poet nearly half 
 a century. 
 
 Page 344, Note 85.— The following is 
 the letter to which the above was an answer. 
 Dr. Currie has unfortunately suppressed 
 the name of this correspondent of our 
 poet : — 
 
 "London, Aurjust 5(h, 1789. 
 "My Dear Sir— Excuse me when I say, 
 that the uncommon abilities wliich you 
 possess must render your correspondence 
 very acceptable to any one. I can assure 
 you I am particularly proud of your partiality, 
 and shall endeavour, by every method in my 
 power, to merit a continuance of vour 
 politeness. 
 
 Page 345, Note 87.-Subjoined is Dx 
 Moore's reply to this letter :— 
 
 ^^ hen you can spare a few moments, I 
 should be proud of a letter from you, directed 
 for me, Gerard Street, Soho. 
 
 * * * * « 
 
 " I cannot express my happiness suffi- 
 ciently at the instance of your attachment 
 to my late inestimable friend. Bob Fergus- 
 son, who was particularly intimate with 
 myself and relations. While I recollect 
 with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and 
 many amiable qualities, it affords me the 
 greatest consolation that I am honoured 
 with the correspondence of his succpssor in 
 national simplicity and genius. That Mr. 
 Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must 
 readily be admitted ; but, notwithstanding 
 many favourable representations, I am yet 
 to leara that he inherits his convivial 
 powers. 
 
 "There was sucii a richness of conver- 
 sation, such a plentitude of fancy and 
 attraction in him, that when I call the happy 
 period of our intercourse to my memory, I 
 feel myself in a state of delirium. I was 
 then younger than him by eight or ten 
 years, but his manner was so felicitious, that 
 he enraptured every person around him, 
 and infused into the hearts of the young' 
 and old, the spirit and animation which 
 operated on his own mind. I am, dear Sir 
 your's, &c. ' 
 
 Page 344, Note 86.— Mr. Edward 
 Neilson, officiating Presbyterian 'Minister of 
 the church of Kirkbean, in the Stewartry of 
 Kirkcudbright. 
 
 "Clifford Street, June lOtk, 1789. 
 "Dear Sir— I thank you for the differ- 
 ent communications you have made me of 
 your occasional productions in manuscript 
 all of which have merit, and some of them 
 merit of a different kind from what appears 
 in the poems you have pubhshed. You 
 ought carefully to preserve all your occasional 
 productions, to correct and improve them at 
 your leisure; and when you can select as 
 many of these as will make a volume pub- 
 lish It either at Edinburgh or Loudon by 
 subscription : on such an occasion. It may 
 be in my power, as it is very much in my 
 inclination, to be of service to you. 
 
 " If I were to offer an opinion, it would be 
 that, in your future productions, you should 
 abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and 
 adopt the measure and language of modern 
 Liiglish poetry. 
 
 'I The stanza which you use in imitation 
 ot Christ's Kirk on the green ' with the 
 tiresome repetition of ' that day,' is fati"-uing 
 to English ears, and I should think not'' very 
 agreeable to Scottish. 
 
 " All the fine satire and humour of your 
 ' Holy Fair,' is lost on the English ; yet with- 
 out more trouble to yourself, you could have 
 conveyed the whole to them. The same is 
 true of some of your other poems. In your 
 epistle to J. Smith, the stanzas of that be- 
 ginning with this line 'This life so far's I 
 understand,' to that which ends with 'short 
 w'hile It grieves,' are easy flowin" gaily 
 philosophical and of Horaciaa elegance :— the 
 language is English, with a few Scottish 
 words, and some of those so harmonious as 
 to add to the beauty : for what poet would 
 not prefer fjloaming to twilir/ht ? 
 
 "1 imagine by carefully keeping, and 
 occasionally polishing and corrcctiii"- those 
 verses which the muse dictates, you will, 
 within a year or two, have another volume 
 as large as the first ready for the press ; and 
 this, without diverting you from every 
 proper attention to the study and practice of 
 husbandry, in which I understand you are 
 very learned, and which I fancy you will 
 choose to adhere to as a wife, whilst poetry 
 amuses you from time to time like a mistress. 
 " The former, like a prudent wife, must 
 not show ill-humour, although you retain a 
 sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, 
 and pay her occasional visits, which in nr| 
 manner alienates your heart from your 
 lawful spouse, but tends, on the contrary, t(? 
 promote her interest. 
 

 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 523 
 
 "I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. 
 Creech to send you a copy of Zeluco. This 
 performance has had great success here ; 
 but I shall be f^lad to have your opinion of 
 it, because I value your opinion, and because 
 I know you are above saying what you do 
 not tliink. 
 
 " I beg you will offer my best wishes to 
 my very good friend Mrs. llamilton, who, I 
 understand, is your neighbour. If she is as 
 happy as I wish her, she is happy enough. 
 !Make ray compliii.euts also to Mrs. Burns ; 
 and believe )ne to be, with sincere esteem, 
 dear Sir, your's," &c. &c. 
 
 Page 346. Note 88.— The husband of 
 this lady was chamberlain to the Duke of 
 Queensberry, at whose house of Drumlanrig 
 the family consequently lived. The beauti- 
 fid daughters of Mr. and Mrs. M'Murdo are 
 the heroines of several of Burns's songs. 
 
 Page 347, Note 89. — Burns had also 
 sent a copy of the lines transcribed in this 
 letter to Dr. Gregory, for his opinion of 
 their merit or demerit, to which Dr. Gregory 
 replied as follows : — 
 
 "Edinburgh, June 2nd, 1789. 
 
 "Dear Sir — I take the first leisure 
 hour I could commana, to thank you for 
 your letter, and the copy of verses enclosed 
 in it. As there is real poetic merit, I mean 
 both fancy and tenderness, and some happy 
 expressions in them, I think they will 
 deserve that you should revise them care- 
 fully, and polish them to the utmost. This 
 1 am sure you can do if you please, for you 
 have great command both of expression and 
 of rhymes : and you may judge, from the two 
 last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's poetry that I 
 gave you, how much correctness and high 
 polish enhance the value of such compo- 
 sitions. As you desire it, I shall, with 
 great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
 criticism on your verses. I wish you would 
 give me another edition of them, much 
 amended, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, 
 wlio, I am sure, will have much pleasure in 
 reading it. Pray give me likewise for my- 
 self, and her too, a copy (as much amended 
 as you please) of the ' \Vater Fowl ou Loch 
 Turit.' 
 
 " ' The "Wounded Hare ' is a pretty good 
 subject ; but the measure or stanza you 
 have chosen for it is not a good one ; it does 
 not flow well ; and the rhyme of the fourth 
 li;ie is almost lost by its distance from the 
 first, and the two interposed close rhymes. 
 If I were you, I would put it into a different 
 itanza yet. 
 
 "Stanza 1. The execrations in the first 
 
 too lines are two strong or coarse; but thc\ 
 may pass. ' IMurder-aiming' is a bad com- 
 pound epithet, and not very intelligible. 
 ' Blood-stained in stanza iii. line 4, has the 
 same fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely 
 better. You have accustomed yourself to 
 such epithets, and have no notion how stiff 
 and quaint they appear to others, and how 
 incongruous with poetic fancy and tender 
 sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, 
 ' Why that blood-stained bosom gored,' how 
 would you have liked it ? Form is neither 
 a poetic, nor a dignified, nor a plain common 
 word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; un- 
 suitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 
 
 "'Mangled' is a coarse word. 'Innocent,' 
 in this sense, is a nursery word, but both 
 may pass. 
 
 " Stanza 4. 'Who will now provide that 
 life a mother only can bestow?' will not do 
 at all : it is not grammar — it is not intelli- 
 gible. Do you mean, ' provide for that life 
 which the mother had bestowed and used to 
 provide for ? ' 
 
 " There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
 ' Feeling ' (I suppose) for ' Fellow,' in the 
 title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
 would be wrong; it is but a colloquial and 
 vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. 
 ' Shot ' is improper too. On seeing a person 
 (or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it is need- 
 less to add with what weapon ; hut if you 
 think otherwise, you should say, with a 
 fowling-piece. 
 
 " Let me see you when you come to town, 
 and I will show you some more of Mrs' 
 Hunter's poems." 
 
 " It must be admitted, that this criticism is 
 not more distinguished by its good sense, 
 than by its freedom from ceremony. It is 
 impossible not to smile at the manner in 
 which the poet may be supposed to have 
 received it. In fact, it appears, as the sailors 
 say, to have thrown him quite aback. In a 
 letter which he wrote soon after, he says, ' Dr. 
 Gregory is a good man, but he cruelties me.' 
 And again, ' I believe in the iron justice of 
 Dr. Gregory ; but, like the devils, I believe 
 and tremble. ' However, he profited by 
 these criticisms, as the reader will find by 
 comparing this first edition of the poem with 
 that elsewhere published." — Currie. 
 
 Page 3.')0, Note 90.— This lady had 
 been introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore. 
 It was Miss Helen Maria Williams. 
 
 Page 351 Note 91. — Subjoined is Misa 
 Williams reply to this letter : — 
 
 August 7lh, 1780. 
 
 "Dear Sir — I do not lose a moment in 
 
6'J4 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 returning' yon my sincere acknowledgments 
 for your letter, and your criticism on my 
 poem, which is a very flattering proof that 
 you have read it with attention. I think 
 your objections are perfectly just, except in 
 one instance. 
 
 " You have indeed been very profuse of 
 panegyric on my little performance. A 
 much less portion of applause from you 
 would have been gratifying to me ; since I 
 think its value depends entirely upon the 
 source from whence it proceeds — the in- 
 cense of praise, like other incense, is more 
 grateful from the quality than the quantity 
 of the odour. 
 
 " I hope you still cultivate the pleasures 
 of poetry, which are precious, even indepen- 
 dent of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the 
 most valuable property of poetry, is its 
 power of disengaging the mind from worldly 
 cares, and leaduig the imagination to the 
 richest springs of intellectual enjoyment; 
 since, however frequently life may be 
 chequered with gloomy scenes, those who 
 truUy love the muse can always find one 
 little path adorned with flowers and cheered 
 by sunshine." 
 
 Page 351, Note 92. — ^Mr. John Logan, 
 of Knockshinnock, Glen Afton, in the 
 county of Ayr. 
 
 Page 354, Note 93.— Burns had in 
 this place alluded, with extreme acrimony, 
 to the Duke of Queensberry, whom he has 
 elsewhere also dealt with, with exemplary 
 severity. Dr. Currie, however, prudently 
 erased the passage. 
 
 Page 355, Note 94.— Lady M'inifred 
 Constable was at this time the lineal 
 representative of the House of Constable, of 
 Nithsiiale, and was an uncompromising 
 Jacobite ni political opinions. Sir Walter 
 Scott, in alluding to this letter, which he 
 sent to Mr. Lockhart, rallies the opinions of 
 Burns as expressed to that " quaint old 
 curmudgeon. Lady W. Constable." 
 
 Page 356, Note 95. — Burns here alludes 
 to the lines addressed to Mr. William 
 Tytler. 
 
 Page 356, Note 96. — An allusion to 
 the ex officio leadership of the provost in the 
 Marjorie of the Many Locks, and to the 
 recent political excitement of the district. 
 
 Page 356, Note 97. — In the song "I 
 gaed a waefu' gate yestreen," Burns has 
 celebrated one of the daughters of this 
 gentleman. He was the minister of the 
 church of Lochmaben. 
 
 Page 357, Note 98.— "This letter is 
 extracted from the third volume of Sir 
 John Siuclair's Statistical Account of 
 
 Scotland, p. 598. — It was enclosed to Sir 
 John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the following 
 letter, also printed there : — 
 
 'Sir John — I enclose you a letter, 
 written by Mr. Burns, as an additicm to the 
 account of Dunscore parish. Tt contains an 
 account of a small library which he was so 
 good (at my desire) as to set on foot, in the 
 barony of Monkland, or Friars Carse, in this 
 parish. As its utility has been felt, par- 
 ticularly among the younger class of people, 
 I think that if a similar plan were established 
 in the dift'erent parishes of Scotland, it would 
 tend greatly to the speedy improvement 
 of tiie tenantry, tradespeople, and work- 
 people. Mr. Burns was so good as to take 
 the whole charge of this small concern. He 
 was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this 
 little society, who will long have a grateful 
 sense of his public spirit and exertions for 
 their improvement and information. I have 
 the honour to be. Sir John, your's most 
 sincerely, Robert Riddel." 
 
 — CuRRiE. ISIr. Cunningham adds, that 
 the minister of Dunscore probably omitted 
 to notice the Monkland library scheme, 
 from dislike to the kind of literature patro- 
 nised by it. 
 
 Page 358, Note 99.— It was Mr. 
 William Dunljar, who had presented a copy 
 of Spenser's Poems to Burns. 
 
 Page 359, Note 100. — An allusion to a 
 ballad, in which one of the ladies in waiting 
 to Mary Ciueen of Scots, is described as 
 having murdered her illegitimate child, and 
 as having undergone capital punishment 
 in consequence. The stanza here quoted 
 are the supposed last expressions which 
 escaped her at the moment of execution. 
 Mary Queen of Scots had, however, curious 
 enough, four attendants of the same Christian 
 name as her own. 
 
 Page 359, Note 101. — Francis, the 
 second son of the poet, to whom Mrs. 
 Duiilop had stood as godmother. 
 
 Page 359, Note 102. — Burns here 
 alludes to an unfortunate woman, whose 
 laxity had exposed her to some excess of 
 severity from the Magistrates of Edinburgh, 
 in which Creech had been one of the most 
 active persons. The treatment to which she 
 had been subjected had been so severe, indeed, 
 as to awaken general sympathy in her behalf. 
 
 Page 360, Note 103. — Perhaps no set 
 of men more effectually avail themselves of 
 the easy credulity of the public, than a 
 certain .iescription of Paternoster Row 
 booksellers. Three hundred and odd 
 engravings! — and by the first artists in 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 525 
 
 London, too! — ^No wonder that Burns was 
 dazzled by the splendour of the promise. It 
 is no unusual thing for this class of im- 
 postors to illustrate the Holy Scriptures by 
 plates originally engraved for the History of 
 England, and I have actually seen subjects 
 designed by our celebiated artist Stotliard, 
 from Clarissa Harlowe and the Novelist's 
 Magazine, converted, with incredible dex- 
 terity, by these bookselling Breslaws, into 
 Scriptural embelhshments ! One of these 
 venders of ' Family Bibles ' lately called on 
 me, to consult me professionally about a folio 
 engraving he brought with him. It repre- 
 sented Mons. BufTon, seated, contemplating 
 various groups of animals that surrounded 
 him : he merely wished, he said, to be 
 informed whether, by unclothing the natu- 
 ralist, and giving hiin a rather more resolute 
 look, the plate could not, at a trifling expense, 
 be made to pass for ' Daniel in the Lions' 
 Den ! ' " — C ro ii ek. 
 
 P.\GE 3G1, Note 104.— This letter will 
 be the better understood, when it is added 
 that Burns had a very short time before 
 received the subjoined letter from Mr. Cun- 
 ningham : — • 
 
 " 2Qth January, 1700. 
 
 " In some instances it is reckoned unjiar- 
 dunable to quote any one's own words ; but 
 the value I have for your friendship, nothnig 
 can more truly or more elegantly express than 
 
 • Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 As streams their channels deeper wear.' 
 
 Having written to you twice without having 
 heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
 have miscarried. My conjecture is only 
 framed upon the chapter of accidents turning 
 up against me, as it too often does, in the 
 trivial, and I may with truth add, the more 
 important affairs of life ; but I shall continue 
 occasionally to inform you what is going on 
 among the circle of your friends in these 
 parts. In these days of merriment, I have 
 frequently heard your name proclaimed at 
 the jovial board, under the roof of our 
 hospitable friend at Steiihouse-mills ; there 
 were no 
 ' Lingering moments number'd with care.' 
 
 I saw your ' Address to the New-year,' in 
 the Dumfries Journal. Of your productions 
 I shall say nothing ; but my acquaintances 
 allege that when your name is mentioned, 
 which every man of celebrity must know 
 often happens, I am the champion, the 
 Mendoza, against all snarling critics and 
 narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a few on 
 this planet do crawl. 
 
 "With best compliments to your wife, and 
 her black-eyed sister, 1 remain yours, &c." 
 
 Page 3G2, Note 105.— A letter to Lady 
 Harriet Don, quoted by Mr. Cunningham 
 in his edition of Burns, shows that the poet 
 was now contemplating dramatic compo- 
 sition ; and, with that view, was anxious to 
 study the best dramatic authors, English 
 and French being the only languages with 
 which he was acquainted. 
 
 Page 3G.3, Note IOC— The subject of 
 this paper being the existence of peculiar 
 attachments between master and servants, 
 and the anecdote of Albert Blane being 
 aptly introduced at the close, as an illustra- 
 tion of the writer's views. 
 
 Page3G4, Note 107. — The sonnets of 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 Page 36.j, Note 108. — This letter was 
 communicated to me, says Cromek, by a 
 gentleman, to whose liberal advice and 
 information I am much indebted, Mr. John 
 Murdoch, the tutor of the poet, accompanied 
 'l by the following interesting note : — 
 
 "London, Hart-Street, Bloomsbury, 
 December 28t/i, 1807. 
 " Deah Sin, — The following letter, which 
 I lately found among my papers, I copy for 
 your perusal, partly because it is Burns's, 
 partly because it makes honourable mention 
 of my rational Christian friend, his father ; 
 and likewise, because it is rather flattering 
 to myself I glory in no one thing so much 
 as an intimacy with good men : — the friend- 
 ship of others reflects no honour. When 1 
 recollect the pleasure (and I hope benefit) I 
 received from the conversation of ^Villiam 
 Burns, especially when on the Ijord's day we 
 walked together for about two miles to the 
 house of prayer, there publicly to adore and 
 praise the Giver of all Good, 1 entertain an 
 ardent hope that together we shall ' renew 
 the glorious theme in distant worlds,' with 
 powers more adequate to the mighty sub- 
 ject — the exuberant beneficence of the great 
 Creator. But to the letter : — 
 [Here follows the letter relative to youn^ 
 William Burns.] 
 "I promised myself a deal of happiness in 
 the conversation of my dear young friend ; 
 but my promises of this nature generally 
 prove fallacious. Two visits were the utmost 
 that I received. At one of them, however, 
 he repeated a lesson which I had given him 
 about twenty years before, when he was a 
 mere child, concerning the pity and tender- 
 ness due to animals. To that lesson (which 
 it seems was brought to the level of his 
 capacity), he declared himself indebted for 
 
62i} 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 almost all the pliilanlhrop) and general sym- 
 pathy he possessed. 
 
 "Let not parents and teachers imagine that 
 it is needless to talk seriously to children. 
 They are sooner fit to be reasoned with than 
 is j;cnerally thought. Strong and indelible 
 impressions are to be made before the mind 
 be agitated and ruffled by the numerous 
 train of distracting cares and unruly passions, 
 whereby it is frequently rendered almost 
 unsusceptible of the principles and precepts 
 of rational religion and sound morality. 
 
 " But I find myself digressing again. Poor 
 William ! then in the bloom and vigour of 
 youth, caught a putrid fever, and in a few days, 
 as real chief mourner, I followed his remains 
 to the land of forgetfuhiess. 
 Cromek. "John Murdoch." 
 
 Page 365, Note 109. — " The preceding 
 letter to Mrs. Diuilop, explains the feelings 
 under which tliis was written. The strain 
 of indignant invective goes on some time 
 longer m the style which our bard was too 
 apt to indulge, and of which the reader has 
 already seen so much." — Currie. 
 
 Page 366, Note 110. — This fragment, 
 first published by Cromek, is placed by him, 
 and subsequent editors, under 1794, and by 
 Mr. Cunningham is supposed to be addressed 
 to Dr. Robert Anderson, the editor of the 
 British Poets. We have little doubt that 
 the gentleman addressed was Dr. James 
 Anderson, a well-known agricultural and mis- 
 cellaneous writer, and the editor of a 
 weekly miscellany entitled "The Bee." This 
 publication was commenced in Edinburgh, 
 December, 1790, and concluded in January 
 1794, when it formed eighteen volumes. 
 Tlie above letter by Burns, from the allu- 
 siou it makes to his extreme occupation by 
 business, as well as from the bitterness 
 of its tone, seems to have been written in 
 the latter part of ] 790, immediately after the 
 poet had commenced Exciseman ; it was an 
 answer, probably, to an application for aid 
 in the conduct of "The Bee," then about to 
 be started. For these reasons, the present 
 editor has shifted its place in the poet's 
 correspondence. 
 
 Page 367, Note 111. — Susan, one of 
 Mrs. Dunlop's daughters, had married a 
 French gentleman of rank and fortune, of 
 the name of Henri, and this letter of the 
 poet's was written to J\Irs. Dunlop, upon the 
 receipt of intelligence that Madame Henri 
 had given birth to a child some months after 
 the death of the father, who liatj died in 
 consequence of an inflammatory disease en- 
 gendered by es[)osure to wet. M. Henri 
 died on the 22nd of June, 1790, and liis 
 
 Posthumous Child was born on the 4th of 
 November in the same year. Both Mrs. 
 Dunlop's daughter and her son-in-law were 
 residing at Loudon Castle, in Ayrshire. 
 The letter of Burns, enclosed also the lines 
 entitled, " Stanzas on the Birthday of a 
 Posthumus Child." In one of the following 
 letters of Burns to IMrs. Dunlop, he alludes 
 to the perilous situation of Madame Henri, 
 who had been compelled to proceed to France, 
 for the purpose of disposing of some family 
 affairs of her deceased husband, just at the 
 time when the most frightful excesses of the 
 Revolution were being perpetrated. Madame 
 Henri never returned to England, as she 
 died not many months after her arrival in 
 France. To this melancholy occurrence 
 Burns again alludes in another letter to Mrs. 
 Dunlop. Madame Henri had left her orphan 
 child under the care of her deceased husband's 
 father, M. Henri the elder ; but he being 
 shortly afterwards compelled to take refuse 
 in Switzerland, had been obliged to leave his 
 grandchild behind him ; and no tidings were 
 heard of this child until some years after- 
 wards, when the grandfather was enabled to 
 return to the enjoyment of his property. In 
 the interim of time which had elapsed, the 
 child had been reared by a person of the 
 name of Susette, previously a female servant 
 of the household of M. Henri the elder ; and 
 she, though compelled to provide for her 
 orphan charge at the cost of her own toil, 
 had constantly observed all the delicate 
 attentions which could possibly have been 
 enjoyed, had his family been in the full 
 enjoyment of their rank and possessions. 
 This grandson of Mrs. Dunlop subsequently 
 returned to Scotland for a short time, but 
 continued to reside permanently at the 
 chateau which he had inherited from his 
 paternal grandfather ; and his faithful pre- 
 server long survived to enjoy the grateful 
 recompense of her fidelity. 
 
 PAGii 368, Note 112.— One of the Super- 
 visors-General of Excise. 
 
 Page 368, Note 113.— :\Ir. Charles 
 Sharpe, to whom this letter was addressed 
 by Burns, was the father of the Charles 
 Kirkpatrick Sharpe, the intimate friend of 
 Sir Walter Scott, and the contributor of 
 several very beautiful original ballads to the 
 Border Minstrelsy. 
 
 Page 369, Note 114. — Burns here 
 alludes to a box or casket presented to him 
 by Lady W. Constable, in the lid of which 
 was a portrait of Mary Queen of Scots, 
 supposed to have been original. Some years 
 ago, according to Chambers, one of the sons 
 of the poet, in leaping on board a vessel in 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 j-^' 
 
 India, had the misfortune to break this box, 
 and irreparably damage the portrait. 
 
 Page 369, Note 115. — The President of 
 the Convivial Club, called the Crochallan 
 Fencibles, was otticially known by the desig- 
 nation of -Colonel. 
 
 Page 370, Note 116.— This letter was 
 a reply to the subjoined letter from Mr. 
 Tytler":— 
 
 "Dear Sir — ^Ir. Hill yesterday put into 
 my hands a sheet of 'Grose's Antiquities,' 
 containing a poem of yours, entitled ' Tarn 
 o' Shanter, a Tale.' The very high pleasure 
 I have received from the perusal of this 
 admirable piece, I feel, demands the warmest 
 acknowledgments. Hill tells me he is to 
 send off a packet for you this day ; I cannot 
 resist, therefore, putting on paper what I 
 must have told you in person, had I met 
 with you after the recent perusal of your 
 tale, which is, that 1 feel I owe you a debt, 
 which, if undischarged, would reproach me 
 with ingratitude. I have seldom in my life 
 tasted of higher enjoyment from any work 
 of genius, than I have received from this 
 composition ; and I am much mistaken, if 
 this poem alone, had yon never written 
 another syllable, would not have been suffi- 
 cient to have transmitted your name down 
 to posterity with high reputation. In the 
 introductory part, where you paint the 
 character of your hero, and exhibit him at 
 the alehouse ingle, with his tippling cronies, 
 you have delineated nature with a humour 
 and vdiveti that would do honour to 
 Matthew Prior ; but when you describe the 
 infernal orgies of the witches' Sabbath, and 
 the hellish scenery iu which they are ex- 
 hibited, you display a power of imagination 
 that Shakespeare himself could not have 
 exceeded. 1 know not that I have ever met 
 with a picture of more horrible fancy than 
 the fullowing : — 
 
 ' Coffins stood round like open presses, 
 Tliat shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
 And, by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
 Each in his cauld hand held a light.' 
 
 But when I came to the succeeding lines, 
 ny blood ran cold within me : — 
 
 ' A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
 Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
 The (jrcij hairs yet slack to the heft.' 
 
 "And here, after the two following lines, 
 ' Vi'V mair o' horrible and an-fu',' &c., the 
 descriptive part might, perhaps, have been 
 better closed, than the four lines which 
 succeed, which, though good in themselves. 
 
 yet, as they derive all their merit from the 
 satire they contain, are here rather misplaced 
 among the circumstances of pure horror. 
 [The four lines were as follow : — 
 ' Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
 \Vi' lies seemed like a beggar's clout. 
 And priests' hearts rotten, black as muck, 
 Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.' 
 
 The poet expunged them, in obedience to 
 the recommendation of ]Mr. Tytler.] 
 
 "The initiation of the young witch is 
 most happily described — the effect of her 
 charms exhibited in the dance of Satan him- 
 self — the apostrophe, 'Ah, little thought thy 
 reverend grannie!' — the transport of Tarn, 
 who forgets his situation, and enters com- 
 pletely into the spirit of the scene — are all 
 features of high merit in this excellent 
 composition. 'Ihe only fault it possesses, 
 is, that the winding up, or conclusion of the 
 story, is not commensurate to the interest 
 which is excited by the descriptive and 
 characteristic painting of the preceding 
 parts. The preparation is fine, but the 
 result is not adequate. But for this, per- 
 haps, you have a good apology — you stick to 
 the popular tale. 
 
 " And now that I have got out my mind, 
 and feel a little relieved of the weiglit of 
 that debt I owed you, let nie end this 
 desultory scroll by an advice : — You have 
 proved your talent for a species of composi- 
 tion in which but a very few of our own 
 poets have succeeded. Go on — write more 
 tales in the same style — you will eclipse 
 Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal wit, 
 equal power of numbers, and equal na'iuete 
 of expression, you have a bolder and more 
 vigorous imagination." 
 
 Page 370, Note 117. — This respectable 
 and benevolent person, since Principal of 
 the University of Edinburgh, had written to 
 Burns, requesting his aid in revising Bruce's 
 poems, and a contribution to swell the 
 volume. It does not appear that the 
 edition which subsequently appeared, con- 
 tained any poem by Burns. 
 
 Page 372, Note US.— This is the letter 
 which Mr. Dngald Stewart, in his commu- 
 nication to Dr. Currie respecting Burns 
 (printed in the Memoir written by that 
 gentleman), says he read with surprise, as 
 evincing that the unlettered .\yrshire bard 
 had formed "a distinct conception of the 
 general principles of the doctrine of asso- 
 cir#ion." (See the foregoing resume ol 
 Dr. Currie's Memoir of Burns. The doe- 
 trine here alluded to, is one peculiar, 
 we believe, to the Scotch school of mela])hy 
 
 46 
 
628 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 sicians, and mainly consists in an assertion 
 that our ideas of beauty in objects, of all 
 kinds, arise from our associating with them 
 some other ideas of an agreeable kind. For 
 instance, our notion of beauty in the cheek 
 of a pretty maiden arises from our notions 
 of her health, innocence, and so forth ; our 
 notion of the beauty of a Highland prospect, 
 sucli as the Trosachs, from our notions of 
 the romantic kind of life formerly led in it ; 
 as if there were no female beauty inde- 
 pendent of both health and innocence, or 
 tine scenery where men had not formerly 
 worn tartans and claymores. The whole of 
 the above letter of Burns is, in reality 
 {though, perhaps, unmeant by hitit), a satire 
 on this doctrine, which, notwithstanding the 
 eloquence of an Alison, a Stewart and a 
 Jeffrey, must now be considered as amongst 
 the dreams of philosophy. 
 
 Page 374, Note 119. — "This gentleman, 
 the factor, or steward of Buriis's noble 
 friend. Lord Glencairn, with a view to en- 
 courage a second edition of the poems, laid 
 the volume before his lordship, with such an 
 account of the rustic bard's situation and 
 prospects, as from his slender acquaintance 
 with him he could furnish. The result, as 
 communicated to Burns by Mr. Dalzel, is 
 highly creditable to the character of Lord 
 Glencairn. After reading the book, his 
 lordship declared that its merits greatly 
 exceeded his expectation, and he took it with 
 him, as a literary curiosity, to Edinburgh. 
 He repeated his wishes to be of service to 
 Burns, and desired Mr. Dalzel to inform 
 him, that in patronising the book, ushering 
 it with effect into the world, or treating with 
 the booksellers, he would most willingly give 
 every aid in his power ; adding his request, 
 that Burns would take the earliest oppor- 
 tunity of letting him know in what way or 
 manner he could best further his interests." 
 — Cromek. 
 
 Page 374, Note 120.— The gist of this 
 passage will be the better understood, when 
 it is explained that Mrs. Burns's accouche- 
 ment had occurred only two days before the 
 date of this letter, that is, on the 9th of 
 April. It was the birth of William Nicol 
 Burns, to which this letter refers. This 
 child was christened after Mr. W. N., the 
 teacher in the High School, Edinburgh, and 
 the warm friend of Burns. 
 
 Page 374, Note 121. — An allusion to 
 the grandson of Mrs. Dunlop, and son of M. 
 and Madame Henri. For additional par- 
 ticulars the reader is referred to the foregoing 
 Note, number 111. 
 
 Page 375, Note 122.— Dr. Robinion, 
 
 who stood in the relationship of maternal 
 uncle to Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 Page 376, Note 123.— Lady E. Cun- 
 ningham was the sister of Burns's best 
 patron, the deceased Earl of Glencairn, as 
 also of the existing nobleman (who had 
 succeeded to his brother). Lady E. C. 
 died in the mouth of August, 1604, un- 
 married. 
 
 Page 376, Note 124. — The accompanying 
 poem enclosed in this letter, and to which 
 Burns here alludes, was the "Lament; for 
 James, Earl of Glencairn." 
 
 Page 376, Note 125.— Colonel Fullarton 
 is mentioned with praise and respect by 
 Burns, in his poem of T/te Vision. This 
 letter was first published in the year 1828, 
 in the Paisley Magazine. 
 
 Page 376, Note 120. — An allusion to 
 eight-page song books, produced in the 
 coarsest manner,andcontaiiiingequally coarse 
 matter, usually heralded with tlie title of 
 Six Excellent Songs for One Halfpenny, 
 the price at which they were sold; and, 
 secondly, to the Penny Almanacks published 
 at Aberdeen. 
 
 Page 377,Note 127.— Colonel FuUarton 
 was a native of Ayrshire. 
 
 Page 377, Note 128. — Mr. Cunningham, 
 in his edition of Burns, gives a very interest- 
 ing note respecting the " charming lovely 
 Davies ;" from which we learn, that she was 
 the youngest daughter of Dr. Davies, of 
 Tenby, in Pembrokeshire, and a relative of 
 the Riddels of Friars' Carse. She died 
 young, under the distress of mind consequent 
 on the neglect of a lover. 
 
 Page 379, Note 129. — Grose, in the 
 introduction to his " Antiquities of Scotland," 
 acknowledges his obligations to Burns ia 
 the following paragraph, some of the terms 
 of which will scarcely fail to amuse the 
 modern reader : — 
 
 " To my ingenious friend, Mr. Robert 
 Burns, I have been seriously obligated : he 
 was not only at the pains of making out 
 what was most worthy of notice in Ayrshire, 
 the country honoured by his birth, but he 
 also wrote, expressly for this work, the 
 pretty tale annexed to AUoway Church : — " 
 
 This " pretty tale " being " Tarn o' 
 Slianter." 
 
 Page 379, Note 130.— ^Mrs. Riddel, of 
 Woodlee Park, near Dumfries. Her maiden 
 name was Maria Woodlee, or Woodleigh, 
 of V\'oodlee. Another Blrs. Riddel (she of 
 Friars' Carse) was also a friend of Burns's. 
 
 Page 379, Note 131.— The Philosophy 
 of Natural History. 
 
 Page 380, Note 132. — An allusion to an 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURXS. 
 
 529 
 
 admonitory letter received from W. Nicol, 
 by Burns. 
 
 Pagk 380, Note 133.— Mr. Nicol had 
 purchased a small piece of ground, called 
 Lagfran, on the Nith. There took place the 
 bacchanalian scene which called forth "Willie 
 Brewed a Peck o' Maut." 
 
 Page 3S1, Note 134. — Tliis letter was 
 communicated by j\Ir. Gilchrist, of Stamford, 
 to Sir Eijerton Brydges, by whom it was 
 published iu tlie Censura Literaria, in the 
 year 17 96. 
 
 Page 3S1, Note 135. — The lengthy cor- 
 respondence which ensued between Mr. G. 
 Thomson and Robert Burns, originated iu 
 the circumstances referred to in the lirst and 
 second letters. Mr. George Thomson, of 
 Edinburgh, having designed a more than 
 usually elegant collection of the national 
 music of Scotland, applied to the poet for 
 his aid in improving the songs, many of 
 which were unworthy of publication. Burns, 
 with that enthusiasm which he entertained 
 on the subject of Scottish music, entered 
 heartily into Mr. Thomson's views, and 
 contributed about sixty songs to the work. 
 The letters which passed between the poet 
 and Jlr. Thomson are here given, as pre- 
 pared for publication by the latter, and 
 presented to the public in the volumes of 
 Dr. Currie, wno prefaced them with the 
 following note : — " The undertaking of Mr. 
 Thomson is one on which the public may be 
 congratulated in various points of view, not 
 merely as having coUecteil the finest of the 
 Scottish songs and airs of past times, but as 
 having given occasion to a number of original 
 songs of our bard, which equal or surpass 
 the former efforts of the pastoral muses of 
 Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may 
 be safely compared with the lyric poetry of 
 any age or country. The letters of Mr. 
 Burns to ilr. Thomson include the songs he 
 presented to him, some of which appear in 
 different stages of their progress; and these 
 letters wdl be found to exhibit occasionally 
 his notions of song-writing, and his opinions 
 on various subjects of taste and criticism. 
 Tbese opinions, it will be observed, were 
 called forth by the observations of his 
 c;)rrespoi'.;lent, Mr. Thomson ; and without 
 the Utters of this gentlemen, those of Burns 
 would have been often unintelligible. He 
 has, therefore, yielded to the earnest request 
 of the trustees of the family of the poet, to 
 iulfer tliem to appear in their natural order; 
 and, independently of the illustration they 
 give to the letters of our bard, it is not to be 
 doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure 
 tlieni a reception from the public, far beyoud 
 
 M M 
 
 what jNIr. Thomson's modesty would peiui«( 
 him to suppose." 
 
 i\lr. George Thomson was born at Lime- 
 kilns, in Fife, about the year 1759, and 
 educated at Banff, his father being a 
 schoolmaster successively at these two 
 places. Through the recommendation of 
 Jlr. Home, the author of " Douglas," he was 
 admitted, in 1780, to the office of the Board 
 of Trustees for the Encouragement of M.inu- 
 factures in Scotland, as their junior clerk : 
 and he is now (1838), after a service of 
 fifty-eight years, principal clerk to the Board. 
 His natural taste for music was cultivated, 
 in his early years, at the meetings of the St. 
 Cecilia Society in Edinburgh — an amateur 
 body, whose performances used to attract no 
 inconsiderable share of notice in those days. 
 Mr. 'i'hoinson's Collection of Scottish Airs, 
 first designed about 1792, was not completed 
 for many years : it has been, in fact, tlie 
 employment of the leisure hours of the 
 better part of his life. 
 
 Mr. Thomson's work is entitled, "A 
 Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs 
 for the Voice : to which are added. Intro- 
 ductory and Concluding Symphonies and 
 Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and 
 Violin, by Pleyel and Kozeluch ; with Select 
 and characteristic Verses, by the most 
 admired Scottish Poets," &c. London: 
 Printed and sold by Preston, No. 97, Strand. 
 It has been completed in five volumes — one 
 edition being in folio, and another in Svo. 
 
 Page 385, Note 136. — We have been 
 informed that Burns marked his loathing of 
 remuneration, by the use of even a stronger 
 term than this, which was substituted by 
 the original editor. 
 
 Page 390, Note 137. — The Commis- 
 sioncrs of the Scottish Board of Excise 
 were, at this time, George Brown, Thomas 
 Wharton, James Stodart, Robert Graham 
 (of Fintry), and John Grieve, Esqrs. 
 
 Page 391, Note 133. — "The following 
 extract from a letter addressed by Mr. 
 Bloomfield to the Earl of Buchan, contains 
 so interesting an exhibition of the modesty 
 inherent in real worth, and so philosophical, 
 and at the same time, so poetical an esti- 
 mate of the different characters and destinies 
 of Burns and its author, that I should 
 esteem myself culpable were I to withhold 
 it from the public view. 
 
 "' The illustrious soul that hasleft amongst 
 U3 the name of Burns, has often been 
 lowered down to a comparison with me ; 
 but the comparison exists more in cir- 
 cumstances than in essentials. That man 
 stood up with the stamp of superior intellect 
 
630 
 
 KOTES TO THE 
 
 on his brow ; a visible ^eatness : and g:reat 
 and patriotic subjects would only have called 
 into action the powers of his mind, which 
 lay inactive while he played calmly and ex- 
 quisitely the pastoral pipe. 
 
 " ' The letters to which I hnve alluded in 
 my Preface to the " Rural Tales," were 
 friendly warnings, pointed with immediate 
 reference to the fate of that extraordinary 
 man. " Remember Burns " has been the 
 watchword of ray friends. I do remember 
 Burns ; but I am not Burns ! neither have 
 I his fire to fan or to quench, nor passions 
 to control 1 Where, then, is my merit, if I 
 make a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, 
 and with no mutiny on board? To a lady 
 (I have it from herself) who remonstrated 
 with him on his danger from drink, and the 
 pursuits of some of his associates, he 
 replied : — " Madam, they would not thank 
 me for my company, if I did not drink with 
 them. I 7mist give them a slice of my con- 
 stitution." How much is it not to be regretted 
 that he did not give them thinner slices of 
 his constitution, that it might have lasted 
 longer.' " — Cromek. 
 
 Page 391, Note 139.— This letter is 
 correctly dated, according to Chambers's 
 arrangement, m the year 1793. The allusions 
 to the untoward influence of his political 
 opirdons on his Excise promotion, which it 
 contains, sufficiently identify it as having 
 been written in this year. And in that 
 respect I fully agree with Mr. Chambers, in 
 opposition to Dr. Currie, who has attributed 
 it to the year 1792 in his own arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 Page 391, Note 140.— At the head of 
 this letter was a transcribed copy of the two 
 songs, " Puirtith Cauld " and " Gala Water," 
 which will respectively be found in the 
 foregoing part of this volume, amongst the 
 poems. 
 
 P.VGE 392, Note 141.— Third son of 
 Alexander, fifth Earl of Kellie, by Janet, 
 daughter of the celebrated physician and 
 wit, Dr. Pitcairn. Mr. Erskine was a wit 
 and a poet, and the author, in part of a 
 curious and rare volume, entitled "Letters 
 between the Hon. Andrew Erskine and 
 James Boswell, Esq., London, 17(53" — an 
 amusing specimen of youthful frolic and 
 vivacity. Mr. E. died in 1793. 
 
 Page 393, Note 142. — The song of 
 Dr. Walcot (Peter Pindar), ou the same 
 subject, is as follows : — 
 "Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door! 
 
 A midnight wanderer sighs ; 
 Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 
 
 And lightnings cleave the skies." 
 
 " Who comes with woe at this drear night— 
 
 A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
 If she whose love did once delight. 
 
 My cot shall yield her room." 
 
 " Alas I thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 
 
 That once was prized by thee ; 
 Think of the ring by yonder burn, 
 
 Thou gav'st to love and me." 
 
 "But should'st thou not poor Marion know, 
 
 I'll turn my feet and part ; 
 And think the storms that round me blov. 
 
 Far kinder than thy heart." 
 
 "It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcot to 
 mention that his song is purely originil. 
 Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately 
 wrote the other on the same subject, which 
 is derived from an old Scottish ballad ot 
 uncertain origin." — Currie. 
 
 Page 393, Note 143. — In closing this 
 letter. Burns here transcribed and appended 
 his own ballad of " Lord Gregory," as it 
 stands in the text, now amongst the poems, 
 and as it was published in Mr. Thomson' a 
 collection. 
 
 Page 393, Note 144.— This letfer bears 
 date subsequently to the marriage of Robert 
 Burns. 
 
 Page 394, Note 145.— The following 
 recent account of Clarinda, written in Feb. 
 1837, appears in a note, to the Memoir of 
 Lord Craig, in "Kay's Eilinburgii Portraits," 
 and will be read with interest by all admirers 
 of the poet : — " It may, perhaps, be worthy 
 of notice that Lord Craig was cousin-germaii 
 of Mrs. M'Lehose, the celebrated Clarinda 
 of Burns, who is still living in Edinburgh, and 
 was left an annuity by his lordship. She is now 
 nearly eighty years of age, but enjoys ex- 
 cellent health. We found her sitting in the 
 parlour, with some papers on the table. Her 
 appearance, at first, betrayed a little of that 
 langour and apathy which attend age and 
 solitude ; but the moment she comprehended 
 the object of our visit, her countenance, 
 which even yet retains the lineaments of 
 what Clarinda may be supposed to have 
 bee;i, became animated and intelligent. 
 ' That,' said she, rising up and pointing to 
 an engraving over the mantel-piece, ' is a 
 likeness of my relative (Lord Craig), about 
 whom you have been inquiring. He was 
 the best friend I ever had! After a little 
 conversation about his Lordship, she directed 
 our attention to a picture of Burns, by 
 Ilorsburgh, after Taylor, on the opposite wall 
 of the apartment. ' You well know who 
 thit is — it was presented to me by Constable 
 and Co., for having simply declared what I 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 631 
 
 \ 
 
 knew to be trap, that the likeness was good.' 
 AVe spoke of the correspondence betwixt the 
 poet and Clariuda, at which she smiled, and 
 pleasantly remarked on the great change 
 which the lapse of so many years had pro- 
 duced on her personal appearance. Indeed, 
 atiy observation respecting Burns seemed to 
 afford her pleasure ; and she laughed at a 
 little anecdote we told of him, which she had 
 never before heard. 
 
 " Having prolonged our intrusion to the 
 limits of courtesy, and conversed on various 
 topics, we took leave of the venerable lady, 
 highly gratitied by the interview." 
 
 Page 394, Note 14G. — A seal with these 
 fanciful bearings was actually cut for the 
 poet, and used by him for the remainder of 
 his life. Its impression is represented under 
 a profile of the poet, in Mr. Cunnhigham's 
 edition of Burns, vol. vui., p. 168. 
 
 Page 394, Note 147. — The poet here 
 alludes to David Allan, painter, usually 
 called the Scottish Hogarth. He was born 
 at Alloa, in 1744, and educated through the 
 kindness of some generous ladies. His 
 serious paintings are not much admired; but 
 he had a happy knack at hitting off Scottish 
 rustic figures. At his death in 1796, he left 
 a series of drawings illustrative of Burns'a 
 works. 
 
 Page 395, Note 148. — An old song, 
 comnieticing with the two following stanzas : 
 "Here awa, there awa, here awa Willie, 
 
 Here awa, there awa, here awa hame ; 
 Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought 
 
 thee. 
 Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 
 
 Throuirh the lang muir I have followed my 
 AVillie, 
 
 Through the lang muir I have followed 
 him liauie, 
 \A"liatever betide us, nought shall divide us. 
 
 Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain." 
 
 Page 393, Note 149.— In Dr. Currie's 
 edition of Burns's works, there precede two 
 additional letters before this one ; but as 
 tlieje consist absolutely and entirely of 
 transcripts of the two songs " Oh open the 
 Door to Me, O ! " and " Jessie," respectively, 
 it will sufHce simply to refer the reader to 
 those songs, as they will be found amongst 
 the poems; and to add, that they were 
 written for, and first published, iu Mr. 
 Thomson's collection. 
 
 Page 396, Note 150.— " Wandering 
 Willie," as altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. 
 Thomson. 
 " Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
 
 Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 
 
 Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 
 Tell me thou bring'st my Willie the same. 
 
 Winter winds blew loud and caul' at ouf 
 parting. 
 Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee. 
 Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 
 Willie, 
 As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 
 
 Rest ye wild storms in the cave o' your 
 
 slumbers. 
 How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
 Blow soft ye breezes ! roll gently ye bill nvs ! 
 And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
 arms." 
 
 Page 396, Note 151.— The next com- 
 munication of Burns to Mr. Thoinson, 
 (namely, that which intervenes between let- 
 ters No. 202 and 263,) marked No. XVIIL 
 in Currie's publication of their correspond- 
 ence, consisted merely of the songs, " The 
 Soldier's Return," and " Meg o' the Mill," 
 respectively, to be found in the accompanying 
 edition of Burns's Poetical Works. 
 
 Page 396, Note 152. — " Burns here calls 
 himself the 'Voice of Coila,' in imitation 
 of Ossian, who denominates himself the 
 ' Voice of Cona.' ' Sae merry as we a' hae 
 been ! ' and " Good night, and joy be wi' 
 you a' ! ' are the names of two Scottish 
 tunes." — CuRRiE. 
 
 Page 396, Note 153.— " Several of the 
 alterations seem to be of little importance in 
 themselves, and were adopted, it may be 
 presumed, for the sake of suiting the words 
 better to the music. The Homeric epithet 
 for the sea, darlc-heaviwj, suggested by Mr. 
 Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well, 
 perhaps, as more sublime, than, wide-roaring, 
 which he has retained ; but, as it is only 
 applicable to a placid state of the sea, or. at 
 most, to the swell left on its surface after 
 the storm is over, it gives a picture of that 
 element not so well adapted to the ideas of 
 eternal separation, which the fair mourner is 
 supposed to deprecate. From the original 
 song of ' Here awa, Willie,' Burns has bor- 
 rowed nothiii? but the second line and part 
 of the first. The superior excellence of this 
 beautiful poem will, it is hoped, justify 
 the different editions of it which we hav# 
 given." — CURRIE. 
 
 Page 397, Note 154. — This was subse- 
 quently effected to the mutual satisfaction 
 both of Burns and of Mr. Thomson, and 
 will be gathered from the poems in question, 
 as printed in the foregoing part of this 
 volume. 
 
 Page 397, Note 155. — " Mr. Thomson, it 
 
 40^ 
 
632 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 appears, Jid not approve of this song, even 
 in ics altered state. It does not appear in 
 the correspondence ; but it is probably one 
 to be found in his manuscripts, beginning 
 
 Yestreen I got a pint of wine 
 A place where body saw na, 
 
 Yestreen lay on tliis breast of mine. 
 The gowden locks of Anna. 
 
 It is highly characteristic of our bard, but 
 the sirani of sentiment does not correspond 
 with the air to which he proposes it should 
 be allied." — Currie. 
 
 P.\GE 397, Note 156. — Alluding to the 
 time when he held the farm of EUisland, as 
 tenant to Jlr. Miller. 
 
 Page 397, Note 157. — This gentleman 
 most obligingly favoured the editor with a 
 perfect copy of the original letter, and 
 alioued hun to lay it before the public. It 
 is partly printed in Dr. Carrie's edition. — 
 Chambers. 
 
 " it will be necessary to state, that in con- 
 seq\ipiice of the poet's freedom of remark on 
 public measures, maliciously misrenresented 
 to tlie lioard of Excise, he was lepresented 
 as actually dismissed from his oihce. This 
 re])ort induced Mr. Erskine to propose a 
 subscription in his favour, which was refused 
 by the poet with that elevation of sentiment 
 that pectdiarly characterised his mind, and 
 which is so happily displayed in this letter. 
 See letter to R. Graham of Fiutry, December 
 1792, written by Burns, with even more 
 tlian his accustomed pathos and eloquence, 
 in further explanation." — Cromek. Mr. 
 Erskiiie, of JMar, at all times of his life a 
 uoted Whig, became Earl of Mar, in 1824, 
 in consequence of the reversal of his grand- 
 father's attainder. He died August 20, 
 1825, aged eighty-four. 
 
 Page 399, Note 158.— "The original 
 letter from ilr. Thomson contains many 
 observations on the Scottish songs, and on 
 the manner of adapting the words to the 
 music, which, at his desire, are suppressed. 
 The subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to 
 several of these observations." — Currie. 
 
 Page 399, Note 159. — "The reader has 
 already seen that Burns did not finally adopt 
 all of Mr. Erskine's alterations." — Currie. 
 
 Pag 400, Note IGO.— " The song to the 
 tune of • Bonnie Dundee ' is that named 
 •Jessie.' The ballad of the 'Mill, Mill O !' 
 is that beginning, ' When wild war's deadly 
 blasts are blawn.'" — Currie. 
 
 Page 400, Note 161. — Lugs, a Scottish 
 popular terra for ears. i 
 
 Page 400, Note 162.— The song here 
 meutioucd, is that published in Number xviii ! 
 
 of the ScoVs Musical Museum and of which 
 the first line runs thus : — 
 
 Oh ken ye what Meg 0' the Mill hai 
 gotten. 
 
 "This song," says Mr. Thomson, in an 
 original note, " is surely Mr. Burns's own 
 writing, though he does not generally praise 
 his own songs so much." 
 
 Page 400, Note 163.— The air here 
 mentioned, is that for which he wrote the 
 ballad of Bonnie Jean. 
 
 Page 400, Note 164.— The original 
 version of the song enclosed with this letter, 
 ditfered somewhat materially from the 
 present version in the text. 
 
 Page 402, Note 105. — " The lines were 
 the third and fourth : — 
 
 W'l' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 
 And mony a widow mourning. 
 
 As our poet had maintained a long silence, 
 and the first number of Mr. Thomson's 
 musical work was in the press, this gentleman 
 ventured, by Mr. Erskine's advice, to sub- 
 stitute for them in that publication, 
 
 'And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
 That had been bleared with mourning.' 
 
 Though better suited to the music, these 
 lines are inferior to the original. This is 
 the only alteration adopted by Mr. Thomson, 
 which Burns did not approve, or at least 
 assent to." — Currie. 
 
 Page 403, Note 166. — A remittance of 
 five pounds. 
 
 Page404, Note 167. — Katherine Ruther- 
 ford, of Fernilee, in the county of Selkirk, 
 who married Mr. Patrick Cockburn. — She 
 died full of years in 1794. 
 
 Page 406, Note 163.— "Gloamin'— twi- 
 light, probably from glooming. A beautiful 
 poetic word, which ought to be adopted in 
 England. A gloamin'-shot, a twilight inter- 
 view." — Currie. 
 
 Page 406, Note 169. — The poet inserts 
 the song of " Dainty Davie," which it seems 
 to have been the purpose of this letter to 
 communicate. Burns had previously com- 
 municated, for Johnson's Museum, a song 
 nearly the same, the stanzas of which conclude 
 with the awkward expression, "The gardener 
 wi' his paiJle," and to which he makes 
 allusion in the brief prose text of this epistle. 
 
 Page 406, Note 170.— This Miss Craik 
 was the daughter of Mr. Craik of Arbiglaud, 
 in the Stewartry of Kircudbright. 
 
 Page 407, Note 171. — The dowager 
 Lady Glencairn, widow of William, thirteenth 
 Earl of Glencairn, and, consequently, nother 
 
CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 6S3 
 
 of James, the fourteenth Earl, and Burns's 
 best patron. 
 
 Page 407, Note 172. — Lady Harriet 
 Don was the daiifrhter of the Dowaijer 
 Countess of Glencairn, and sister to James, 
 fourteenth Earl of Glencairn. The little 
 aiir/el to whom Burns alhules, was the 
 L)()\vaser Countess's grandson, then a chikl, 
 and afterwards better known for his urbanity 
 and accomplishments, as Sir Alexander Don, 
 of Newton Don. 
 
 Page 410, Note 173. — "Mr. Thomson's 
 list of songs for his publication. In his 
 remarks the bard proceeds in order, and 
 goes tliroujch the w hole ; but on many of 
 them he merely signitics his approl)ation. 
 All his remarks of any importance are pre- 
 sented to tiie reader." — Currie. 
 
 Page 410, Note 174 — "This alteration 
 Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at least 
 intended to adopt), instead of the last stanza 
 of the original song, which is objectionable 
 in point of delicacy." — Currie. 
 
 ]?age 411, Note 175. — It is very sur- 
 prising that Burns should have thought it 
 necessary to substitute new verses for the 
 oUl song to this air, which is one of the 
 most exquisite effusions of genuine natural 
 sentiment in the whole range of Scottish 
 lyrical poetry. Its merit is now fully appre- 
 ciated, while Burns's substituted song is never 
 sung. 
 
 Page 411, Note 176.— The song to 
 which Burns here alludes, is one of wliieh he 
 afterwards sent a perfected copy, and wliich 
 was published in Mr. Thomson's collection. 
 The first line runs thus : — 
 
 ^Miere are the joys I hae met in the 
 morning ? 
 
 This song, however, was by no means so 
 successful as the majority of his compositions, 
 and the original words, to the same tune for 
 which he had intended to adapt them, have 
 outlived his newer version, and still continue 
 to retain their former popularity and prefer- 
 ence. Indeed, they are actually more spirited, 
 and possess more essentially poetical spirit, 
 than the lines supplied by Burns. 
 
 Page 412, Note 177. — "Mr. Thomson 
 has very properly adopted this song (if it 
 may be so called) as the bard presented it to 
 him. He has attached it to the air of 
 ' Lewie Gordon,' and, perhaps, among the 
 existing airs he could not find a better ; but 
 the poetry is suited to a much higher strain 
 of music, and may employ the genius of some 
 Scottish Handel, if any such should in future 
 arise. The reader will have observed, that 
 Burus adopted the alterations proposed by 
 
 his friend and correspondent m former in- 
 stances, with great readiness ; perhaps, 
 indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the 
 present instance, however, he rejected them, 
 thon;,'h repeatedly urged, with determined 
 resolution. With every respect for the 
 judgment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, 
 we may be satisfied that he did so. He, 
 who in preparing for an engagement, at- 
 tempts to withdraw his imagination from 
 images of death, will probably have but 
 imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand 
 in the ranks of batfle, where the liberties of 
 a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the 
 conquerors of Bannockburn were not com- 
 posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, 
 and familiar with all its sufferings ami 
 dangers. On the eve of that memorable 
 day, their spirits were, without doubt, wound 
 up to a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the 
 occasion : a pitch of enthusiasm, at which 
 danger becomes attractive, and the m.ist 
 terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. 
 Such a strain of sentiment this heroic ' wel- 
 come ' may be supposed well calculated to 
 elevate — to raise their hearts high above 
 fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost 
 pitch of mortal exertion. These observations 
 might be illustrated and supported by a 
 reference to the martial poetry of all na- 
 tions, from the spirit-stirring strains of 
 Tyrtreus, to the war-song of General Wolfe, 
 Sir. Thomson's observation, that ' Welcome 
 to your gory bed,' is a discouraging address, 
 seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, 
 indeed, it may be aamitted, that the term 
 gory is somewhat objectionable, not on ac- 
 count of its presenting a frightful, but a dis- 
 agreeable image to the mind. But a great 
 poet, uttering his conceptions on an interest- 
 ing occasion, seeks always to present a 
 picture that is vivid, and is iiniforinly disposed 
 to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar 
 of the imagination. And it is the privilege 
 of superior genius, by producing a new 
 association, to elevate expressicms that were 
 originally low, and thus to triumph over the 
 deficiencies of language. In how many 
 instances might this be exemplified from the 
 works of our immortal Shakespeare : — 
 
 'Who would /nrrfe/s bear. 
 To groan and sweat under a weary life — ■ 
 Whfu he himself might his quietus make 
 With a bare bodkin f 
 
 It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such 
 reflections is probably sutlicient.'' — Currie. 
 Page 413, Note 17S. — Burns here 
 alludes to the melancholy death of the 
 Honourable A. Erskine, respecting which 
 
534 
 
 NOTES TO THE 
 
 Thomson had written the poet a most fechng 
 letter. Thomson, from a mistaken sense of 
 dehcacy, withheld this letter, when it subse- 
 quently fell into his hands. 
 
 Page 413, Note 179.— This Mr. Gavin 
 Turnbull had, in 1788, published a volume 
 of poems, entitled Poetical Essays. The 
 work was published at Glasn;ow, and enjoyed 
 even very little of its ephemeral admiration. 
 It soon sunk into oblivion. The pieces which 
 Burns himself quotes at full length in this 
 letter, are really very inadequate to the bril- 
 liant eulogy with which he accompanies 
 them. And it would seem as if his prejudice 
 in favour of an old acquaintance had blinded 
 his better judgment and taste ; for he was 
 very rarely guilty of such misprisions. 
 
 Page 414, Note 180. — In Dr. Currie's 
 edition is inserted a letter from Burns to 
 Thimison immediately following this, and 
 before the next which I have adopted of the 
 letters of Mr. Thomson. As the letter, No. 
 49, in Dr. Currie's edition, however, con- 
 sisted merely of transcripts of the songs 
 "Wilt thou be my Dearie, 01" and "Husband, 
 husband, cease your strife," both of which 
 are inserted amongst the poems, I did not 
 think it necessary to re-insert them in the 
 form of a letter. The two songs in question, 
 however, are thus identified as having been 
 written especially for Mr. Thomson's col- 
 lection. 
 
 Page 415, Note 181. — Burns here 
 alludes to the well-worn Scottish bank notes. 
 
 Page 415, Note 182. — A present, con- 
 sisting of the edition of his own poems, as 
 published ill 1793, which were despatched 
 by Burns with this letter. 
 
 Page 415, Note 183. — It has been sup- 
 posed that this letter was addressed to 
 Captain Robertson, of Lude. 
 
 Page 415, Note 184. — Bruce's address 
 to his tfoops before the Battle of Ban- 
 nockbnrn : — 
 
 Scot's wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 
 
 Page 416, Note 185,— "The lady to 
 whom the bard has so happily and justly 
 applied the quotation in this letter, paid the 
 debt of nature a few months ago. The 
 graces of her person were only equalled by 
 tlie singular endowments of her mind ; and 
 her poetical talents rendered her an interesting 
 friend to Burns, in a part of the world where 
 he was, in a great measure, excluded from 
 tlie sweet intercourse of literary society." — 
 Gilbert Burns, 1820. 
 
 Page 416, Note 186. — Bruce's address 
 to his troops before the Battle of Ban- 
 uockburn : — 
 
 Scot's wha hae w? Wallace bled. 
 
 Page 416, Note 187. — The same as 
 stated in the foregoing Note, number 186. 
 
 Page 418, Note 188.— This gentleman 
 held the office of Distributor of Stamps at 
 Dumfries. Burns, who at first lived in the 
 floor above his office, formed an intimacy 
 with him, which lasted till the death of the 
 poet. Mr. Syme was an agreeable table 
 companion, and possessed considerable wit, 
 the effusions of which were sometimes mis- 
 taken for Buriis's. He died at his house of 
 Ryedale, near Dumfries, November 24, 1831, 
 iu his seventy-seventh year. 
 
 Page 418, Note 189. — Burns here 
 alludes to the song, of which the first line 
 runs thus : — ■ 
 
 Oh wat ye what's in yon town. 
 
 And which was composed in honour of Mrs. 
 Oswald, of Auchincruive. 
 
 Page 421, Note 190.— Mr. David Mac- 
 culloch is no longer living. One of his 
 sisters, subsequently to the date of this 
 letter, married IMr. Thomas Scott, brother 
 to Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Page 422, Note 191. — Dr. Currie objects 
 to the expression " ruffian feeling." He sug- 
 gests that the word "ruder" would have 
 possessed more euphony, and been more in 
 keeping with the tenderness of the piece. 
 I do not exactly agree in his criticism, nor 
 do I think that the expression in the text is 
 too " rugged an epithet " for the sense which 
 Burns evidently intended to convey. It is 
 one of the essential beauties of the poetry of 
 Burns, that he seems almost invariably to 
 have hit, as if by intuition, upon the most 
 apt, appropriate, and positive expression 
 whereby to convey the particular sentiment 
 which he sought to communicate. He rarely 
 says too much, and as rarely too little : a 
 merit which has not been attributable to 
 many of our most polished poets, and of 
 which Shakepeare is the only pure example 
 in English literature. 
 
 Page 423, Note 192.— "This Virgilian 
 order of the poet should, I think, be dis- 
 obeyed with respect to the song in question, 
 the second stanza excepted." — Note by 
 Mr. Thomson. 
 
 " Doctors differ. The objection to the second 
 stanza does not strike the editor." — Currie. 
 
 Page 425, Note 193.;— Our bard had 
 before received the same advice, and so far 
 took it into consideration, as to have cast 
 about for a subject. 
 
 Page 426, Note 194. — This, as well aa 
 other poems to which he alludes iu this 
 
f 
 
 COURESPOXUEXCE OF BUllXS. 
 
 £35 
 
 fetter, had previously been published l)y Mr. 
 Joluisnn ill the Scots' Musical Mii eiin, and 
 Mr. Thomson, suspecting the authorship, 
 had uiquired of Burns if they were his cora- 
 positioti. 
 
 Page 426, Note 193. — The name of a 
 mountain in the north. 
 
 Page 42(i, Note 196. — "The reader will 
 be curious to sec this poem, so highly praised 
 by Burus. He it is : — 
 
 ' Keen blaws the wind o'er Doiniocht-Head, 
 
 The snaw drives snelly througli the dale. 
 The gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 
 
 And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. 
 "Cauld is the night, oh, let me in. 
 
 And dinna let your minstrel fa'. 
 And dinna let his winding-sheet 
 
 Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 
 
 " Full ninety winters hae I seen. 
 
 And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew. 
 And mony a day I've dauc'd, I ween. 
 
 To lilts which from my drone I blew." 
 My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, 
 
 '■' Get up guidman, and let him in ; 
 For weel ye ken the winter night 
 
 Was short when he began his din." 
 My Eppie's voice, oh wow it's sweet. 
 
 Even though she bans and scaulds a wee; 
 But when it's tuu'd to sorrow's tale. 
 
 Oh, haith, it's doubly dear to me ! 
 " Come in, auld carl, I'll steer ray fire, 
 
 I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame ; 
 Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate. 
 
 Ye should na stray sae far frae hame." 
 
 "Nae hame have I," the minstrel said. 
 Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha' ; 
 
 And, weeping at the eve of life, 
 
 I wander through a wreath o' snaw." ' 
 
 " This afTecting poem is apparently incom- 
 plete. The autlior need not be ashamed to 
 own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of 
 Macneill." — CuRiiiE. [It was written by a 
 gentleman of Newcastle, named Pickering.] 
 
 Page 426, Note 197. — Jlr. Ritson, who 
 had published a collection of Scottish songs 
 iu London. 
 
 Page 427, Note 193.— "Variation :— 
 
 Now to the streaming fountain. 
 
 Or up tlie heathy mountain, [stray; 
 The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton 
 
 In twilling hazel bowers 
 
 Ills lay the linnet pours; 
 
 The lav'rock to the sky 
 
 Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, [day. 
 
 While the sun and thou arise to bless the 
 
 '\\Tien frae my Chloris parted. 
 Sad, cheerless, brokeuheartedi. 
 
 The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, 
 o'ercast ray sky. 
 
 But when she charms my sight. 
 
 In pride of beauty's light; 
 
 When throUi;li my very heart 
 
 Her beaming glories dart ; 
 'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy !" 
 
 — CURRIE. 
 
 Page 428, Note 199.— Burns here alludes 
 to Mrs. \Vhelpdale, whose maiden name, Jean 
 Lorimer, is more familiar to our readi-rs. 
 
 Page 428, Note 200.— Mr. Thomson 
 must have completely misunderstood tiie 
 character of this old song. It is a most 
 romantic one, clothed in the mo^t poeticid 
 language. 
 
 Page 428, Note 201.— "See the song, 
 in its first and best dress. Our bard 
 remarks upon it: — 'I could easily throw 
 this into an English mould; but, to my 
 taste, in the simple and the tender of the 
 pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottisii 
 has an inimitable effect.' " — Currie. 
 
 Page 43I,Note 202. — "In a conversation 
 with his friend JMr. Perry (the proprietor ot 
 The Morning Chronicle), Mr. Miller re- 
 presented to that gentleman the insufficiency 
 of Burns's salary to answer the imperious 
 demands of a numerous family. In their 
 sympathy for his misfortunes, and in their 
 regret that his talents were nearly lost to 
 the world of letters, these gentlemen agreed 
 on the plan of settling him in London. To 
 accomplish this most desirable object, JMr. 
 I'erry, very spiritedly, made the poet a hand- 
 some otfer of an annual stipend for the 
 exercise of his talents in his newspaper. 
 Burns's reasons for refusing this otter are 
 stated in the present letter." — Cromek. 
 
 Page 432, Note 203. — In Burns's next 
 communication to Mr. Thomson, marked 
 No. LXIX, in Currie's series of their cor- 
 respondence, he merely transcribes the 
 compound song, inserted in his Poetical 
 Works, under the title of " Oh lassie, 
 art thou sleeping yet?" and adds, "1 do 
 not kno-.v whether it will do." 
 
 Page 433, Note 204. — Dr. Currie waa 
 horn in t.hf neighbourhood of Ecclefechaii, 
 ana with tne characteristic prejudice in 
 favour of his native village, he states, that 
 Burns must have been exceedingly tipsy to 
 have so maligned the place. 
 
 Page 433, Note 203. — At the head of 
 this letter. Burns had inserted a copy of the 
 song, entitled an "Address to the Wood- 
 lark," to which he alludes in the first two 
 lines. 
 
 Page 434, Note 206. — Two verses of 
 tliis song have been given to the public : — 
 
636 
 
 ^'UTES TO THE 
 
 And now your banks and bonnie braes 
 
 But waken sad remembrance smart; 
 Tlie very shades I held most dear 
 
 Now strike fresh anguish to my heart ; 
 Deserted bower ! where are they "now — 
 
 Ah ! wliere the garlands that' I wove 
 ^Vith faithful care, each morn to deck 
 
 The altars of ungrateful love ? 
 
 The flowers of spring, how gay they bloomed 
 
 When last with hun I wandered here! 
 The flowers of spring are passed away 
 
 For wintry horrors dark and drear. 
 Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks 
 
 My songs have lulled him oft to rest. 
 Is now in icy fetters locked — 
 
 Cold as my false love's frozen breast. 
 
 Page 434, Note 207.— Mr. Heron is 
 sometimes, indeed frequently, spoken of as 
 Mr. Heron of Kerrourjhtiee. His proper 
 designation, however, was Heron of Heron 
 
 Page 434, Note 208.— These ballads, 
 which related to Mr. Heron's contest for the 
 representation of the Stewartry of Kirkcud- 
 bright, will be found amongst the poems in 
 the former portion of this work. 
 
 Page 435, Note 209.— Burns here 
 alludes to the liues which open as follow : — 
 
 Still anxious to secure your partial favour. 
 
 And which had been composed especially for 
 Miss Fontenelle. The lines will be found at 
 length amongst the poems. 
 
 Page 435, Note 210.— The pieces to 
 which this letter referred, formed the intro- 
 duction to the letter itself. Burns having 
 transcribed them at length. They were 
 those which respectively begin " How cruel 
 are the parents," and " Mark yonder pomp 
 of costly fashion." 
 
 Page 437, Note 211.— The song to 
 which Burns here alludes, and a copy of 
 which headed the letter, was that of which 
 the initiatory line runs thus : — 
 
 Forlorn my love, no comfort near. 
 
 Page 437, Note 212.— The lines to which 
 Burns here refers, and which be had tran- 
 scribed at the head of his letter, are those 
 which commence respectively as follows : 
 
 Last ]\Iay, a braw woer. 
 And, 
 
 Why, why tell thy lover. 
 
 Page 438, Note 213.— This gentleman 
 has since resided at Glasgow in retirement • 
 1833. 
 
 Page 439, Note 214.—" This letter owes 
 Hs origin to the following circumstance : — A 
 
 neighbour of the poet's at Dumfries called 
 on hiin, and comi)laiued that he had been 
 greatly disappointed in the irregular delivery 
 of the paper, of The Monuu^j Chronicle 
 Burns asked, ' W by do not you write to the 
 editors of the paper ? ' ' Good God, Sir, can 
 / presume to write to the learned editors of 
 a newspaper ? ■ ' \Vell, if you are afraid of 
 writing to the editors of a newspaper, / am 
 not; and, if you think proper, I'll draw up a 
 sketch of a letter which you may copy.' 
 
 Burns tore a leaf from his Excise bink, 
 and instantly produced the sketch which 1 
 have transcribed, and which is here printed. 
 The poor man thanked him, and took the 
 letter home. However, thai caution which 
 the watchfulness of his enemies had taught 
 him to exercise, prompted him to the pru- 
 dence of begging a friend to wait on the 
 person for whom it was written, and request 
 the favour to have it returned. This request 
 was complied with, and the paper never ap- 
 peareil in print."— Cromek. 
 
 Page 440, Note 215.— The novel en- 
 titled " Edward." 
 
 Page 441, Note 216.— The request 
 conveyed ui this letter was immediately com- 
 piled with. 
 
 Page 442, Note 217.— The child died 
 suddenly at Mauchline, and Burns was 
 unable to see her at the last. 
 
 Page 442, Note 218.— No subsequent 
 explanation was received by Mr. Thomson, 
 of the name which should be substituted for 
 Chloris in these poems, and in the midst of 
 this work which created such general inte- 
 rest, it was arrested by the last and fatal 
 illness of the poet. 
 
 Page 443, Note 219.— His proposed re- 
 visal was prevented by the untimely death 
 of the poet. 
 
 Page 444, Note 220.— "In this humble 
 and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for 
 a copy of a work, of whicli he was princi- 
 pally the founder, and to which he had con- 
 tributed, rjratailoudii, not less than 184 
 original, altered, and collected soin/.s ! The 
 editor has seen ISO transcribed by his owu 
 hand for the Museum." — Cromek. 
 
 Page 445, Note 221.— It is truly pcin- 
 fill to mention, that the request was not 
 granted. — Chambers. 
 
 Page 44o, Note 222.— Just before his 
 death, however. Burns had the satisfaction 
 of receiving a most satisfactory explanation 
 of Mrs. Dunlop's silence, and the warmest 
 assurances, that if any thing untoward should 
 occur to him, her friendship should unre- 
 mittiugly be extended to his widuw and 
 children. The subsequent history of hii 
 
COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 
 
 537 
 
 family sufficiently proves how nobly, gene- 
 rously, aiul devotedly Mrs. Duulop kept her 
 promise to the poor dying poet. 
 
 Page 440, NoTii 223. — Mr. James Bur- 
 ness immediately complied witli the request. 
 
 Page 440, Note 224.— The sons,' of 
 which Burns here alludes, is that of which 
 the initiatory line runs thus : — 
 
 Fairest maid on Devon's banks. 
 
 Dr. Currie adds the following note: — 
 " These verses, and the letter enclosing 
 them, are written in a character that m:irks 
 the very feeble state of Burns's bodily 
 strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he 
 could not have been in any danger of a jail 
 at Dumfries, where certainly he had many 
 firm friends, nor under any such necessity of 
 imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about 
 this time his reason began to be at times 
 unsettled, and the horrors of a jail per- 
 petually haunted his imagination, lie died 
 on the 21st of this month." 
 
 Page 446, Note 22.5. — The pecuniary 
 circumstances attending ]Mr. Thomson's con- 
 nection with Burns, appear liable, at the 
 present day, to much misapprehension. This 
 gentleman, whose work has ultimately met 
 with a good sale, seems to be regarded by 
 some, as an enriched man who measured a 
 stinted reward to a poor one, looking for a 
 greater recompense : and several writers 
 have, on this ground, spoken of him in an 
 ungracious manner. 
 
 A\heu we go back to the time of the cor- 
 respondence between the two men, and con- 
 sider their respective circumstances, and the 
 relation in which they came to stand towards 
 each other, the conduct of Mr. Thomson 
 assumes quite a different aspect, lie and 
 Burns were enthusiasts, the one in music, 
 the other in poetry ; they were both of them 
 servants of the government, on limited 
 salaries, with rising families. Mr. Thomson, 
 with little prospect of profit, engaged in the 
 preparation of a work which was designed to 
 set forth the music of his native land to 
 every possible advantage, and of which the 
 paper and print alone were likely to exhaust 
 his very moderate resources. For literary 
 aid in tliis labour of love, he applied to the 
 great Scottish poet, Mho had already gra- 
 tuitously assisted Johnson in his Scottish 
 Musical Museum. ^Ir. Thomson offered 
 reasonable remuneration, but the poet 
 scorned the idea of recompense, and de- 
 clared he would write only because it gave 
 him pleasure. Nevertheless, ^Mr. Thomson, 
 in the course of their correspondence, ven- 
 tured to send a pecuniary presert, which. 
 
 although not forming an adequate recom- 
 pense for Burns's services, was still one 
 which such men might be apt, at that period, 
 to otl'er and accept from each other. Tliia 
 Burns, with hesitation, accepted, but sternly 
 forbade any further remittance, protesting, 
 that it would put a period to their correspond- 
 ence. Yet Mr. Thomson, from time to 
 time, expressed his sense of obligation, by 
 presents of a different nature, and these tiie 
 poet accepted. Burns uitim.ately, on an emer- 
 gency, requested a renewal of the former re- 
 mittance, using such terms on the occasion, as 
 showed that his former scorn of all pecuniary 
 remuneration was still a predominant feeling 
 in his mind. Mr. Thomson, therefore, sentthe 
 very sum asked, believing, if he presumed to 
 send more, that he would run a greater risk 
 of offending than of gratifying the poet, in the 
 then irritable state of his feelings. In all 
 tills, we humbly conceive that no unpreju- 
 diced person at the time would have seea 
 grounds for any charge against ]Mr. Thomson. 
 
 It may further be remarked, that, at the 
 time of the poet's death, though many songs 
 had been written, only six had been pub- 
 lished, namely, those in the first half volume, 
 so that during the Ufe of the poet, the 
 publisher had realised nothing by the songs, 
 and must have still been greatly doubtful if 
 he should ever recover what he had already 
 expended on the work. Before many more 
 of the songs had appeared in connection 
 with his music, the friends of the poet's 
 family had resolved to collect his works for 
 publication ; upon which, iMr. Thomson 
 thought it a duty incumbent on him to give 
 up the manuscripts of the whole of the songs, 
 together with the poet's and his own letters, 
 to Dr. Currie, that they might form part of 
 the edition of Burns's works. The full 
 benefit of them, as literary compositions, was 
 thus realiseil for the poeVs family, Mr. 
 Thomson only retaining an exclusive right to 
 publish them afterwards in connection with 
 the music. And hence, after all, the debtor 
 side of his account with Burns is not so 
 great as it is apt to appear. No further 
 debate could arise on this subject, if it were 
 to be regarded in the light in which the 
 parties chiefly interested have regarded it. 
 We see that Burns himself manifests no 
 trace of a suspicion that his correspondent 
 was a selfish or niggardly man ; and it is 
 equally certain, that his surviving family 
 always looked on that gentleman as one of 
 the poet's and their own kindest friends. 
 Here, we trust, the matter will at length 
 rest. 
 
 It is a curious fact, not hitherto known to 
 
633 
 
 NOTES TO THE CORTlESPONDENCl!: OF EritNS. 
 
 the public, nor even to Mr. Thomson himself, 
 that the five pounds sent by him to Burns, 
 as well as the larsrer sum which the poet 
 burrowed about the same time from his 
 cousin, Mr. Burness of Montrose, was not 
 made use of on the occasion, but that the 
 bank orders for both sums remained in 
 Burns's house at the time of his death. This 
 is proved by the following document, for 
 which we are indebted to Mr. Alexander 
 INIacdonald, of the General Register House, 
 Edinburgh : — 
 
 " The Testament Dative, and Inventory of 
 the debts and sums of money which were 
 justly owing to umquhi'.e Robert Burns, 
 officer of excise in Dumfries, at the 
 tiaie of his decease, viz. the 21st day of 
 Jidy last, faithfully made out and given 
 up by Jean Armour, widow of the said 
 defunct, and executrix qua relict decerned 
 to h:_'ia by decreet dative of the Commis- 
 sary of Dumfries, dated 16th September 
 last." 
 
 There was justly owing to the said defunct, 
 at the time of his decease aforesaid, the 
 principal sum of five pounds sterling, con- 
 tained in a promissory note, dated the 14th 
 July last, granted by Sir William Forbes 
 and Co., bankers in Edinburgh, to George 
 Thomson, payable on demand ; which note 
 is by the said George Thomson indorsed, 
 payable to the defunct : Item, the principal 
 sum of ten pounds sterling, contained in a 
 draft dated the 15th July last, drawn by 
 Kobert Christie upon the manager for the 
 
 British Linen Co. in Edinburgh, in favour 
 of James Burness or order; which draft is 
 by the said James Burness indorsed payable 
 to the defr.nrt. 
 
 " Sum of tiie debts owing to the defunct, 
 £15 sterling. 
 
 "Thomas Goldieof Craigmuie, commissary 
 of the commissariat of Dumfries, specially 
 constituted for confirmation of testaments 
 within the bounds of the said coramio.=......c 
 
 of Dumfries, understanding that, atitr 
 due summoning and lawful warning, made 
 by public form of edict of the execu- 
 tors, testamentary spouse, bairns, if any 
 were, and introraitters with the goods and 
 gear of the said nmquhile Robert Burns, 
 and all others having or pretending to have 
 interest in the matter underwritten, &c. &c„ 
 1 decerned therein, &c,. and in his Majesty's 
 name, constitute, ordain, and confirm the 
 said Jean Armour, executrix qua relict to 
 the defunct, and in and to the debt and 
 sums of money above written. 
 
 " At Dumfries, 6th Oct. 1796." 
 — Chambers. 
 
 Page 447, Note 226.— Alluding to an 
 offer made by Mr. Gracie, a banker in Dum- 
 fries, to have Burns conveyed home in a 
 post-chaise. 
 
 Page 447, Note 227. — Burns's father- 
 in-law (the father of Mrs. Burns). 
 
 Page 447, Note 228. — This letter was 
 written only three days before the deatii of 
 Robert Burns, and is the last of the writteii 
 memorials which he has bequeathed to the 
 world. 
 
" The eh and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the Enslish diphthong oo, is commonly spelled ou. 
 The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scotch laiiiiuase, is marked oo, or ui. The n, in genuine 
 Scottish «ords. except when forming a diphthong, or f()llo\ved by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds 
 generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scotch diphthong ae, always, and ea, very often, sound like the 
 French « masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei."—l\.. B. 
 
 A. 
 
 A'. All. 
 
 Aback. Away, aloof. 
 Abcigh. At a shy distance. 
 Aboon. Above, up. 
 Abrc.id. Abroad, in fight. 
 Abreed. In breadth. 
 Ae. One. 
 Aflf. oir. 
 
 Afure. Before. 
 
 Aft. Oft. 
 
 Aftcn. Often. 
 
 Agley. Off the right line, 
 
 wrong. 
 AiWius. Perhaps. 
 Ain. Own. 
 Airn. Iron. 
 Aith. An Oath. 
 Aits. Oats. 
 Aiver. An old horse. 
 Aizle. A hot cinder. 
 Alake. Al;\s ! 
 Ahiiie. Alone. 
 Akwart. Awkward. 
 Amaist. Ahnost. 
 Aimmg. Among, 
 An'. And, if. 
 Ance. Once. 
 Ane. Olio, and. 
 Arent. Over against 
 Anithcr. Another. 
 Ase. Ashes. 
 
 Asteer. Abroad, stirring. 
 Aught. Possession ; as, in 
 
 a' my aught, iu all my 
 
 p:>ssession. 
 AuU. Old. 
 Auldfarran, or Auld-far- 
 
 i-ant. Sagacious,cunaiiig, 
 
 prudent 
 Ava. At all. 
 Awa". Away. 
 Awfu'. Awful. 
 Awn. The beard of barley, 
 
 OAtS,&C. 
 
 Awnie. Bearded. 
 Ayoat. licyoud. 
 
 B. 
 
 Ba'. EaU. 
 
 Backets. Ash boards. 
 
 Backlins. Comiu', coming 
 
 back, returning. 
 Bade. Did bid. 
 Baide. Krulurcd, did stay. 
 Baggie. The belly. 
 Bainic. Having large bones, 
 
 stout. 
 Bairn. A child. 
 Bainitinie. Time of having 
 
 a family. 
 Raitli. lioth. 
 Ban. To swear. 
 Bane. Bone. 
 Bang. To beat, to strive. 
 Bannock. A kind of thick 
 
 cake of bread, a small 
 
 ja-onack or loaf made of 
 
 oatmeal. 
 Bardie. DiminutiTe Of 
 
 bard* 
 
 Barefit. Barefooted 
 
 Barmie. Of, or like barm. 
 
 Hatch. A crew, a gang 
 
 Hatts. Botts. 
 
 Baudrons. A cat. 
 
 Bauld. Bold. 
 
 Baws'nt. Having a whlto 
 stripe doHTi the face. 
 
 Be. To let be, to give over, 
 to cease. 
 
 Bear. Barley. 
 
 Beastie. Diminutive of 
 beast. 
 
 Beet. To add fuel to fire. 
 
 Bclyve. By and bye 
 
 Ben. In, inner room. 
 
 Bethanlut. Grace after 
 meat. 
 
 Bcuk. A book. 
 
 Bicker. A kind of wooden 
 dish, a short race. 
 
 Bie,orBield. Shelter. 
 
 Bicn. 'Wealthy, plentiful. 
 
 Big. To build. 
 
 Biggin. Building, a 
 
 house. 
 
 Biggit. Built. 
 
 Bill. A bull. 
 
 Billie. A brother, a young 
 fellow. 
 
 Biiig. A heap of grain, po- 
 tatoes, &e. 
 
 Birk. Birch. 
 
 Birkie. A clever fellow. 
 
 Birring, The noise of par- 
 tridges, &c., when they 
 spring. 
 
 Bit. Crisis, nick of time. 
 
 Bizz A bustle, to buzz. 
 
 Blastie. A shrivell'd dwarf, 
 a term of contempt. 
 
 Blastit. Blasted. 
 
 Blate. Bashful, sheepish. 
 
 Blather. Bladder. 
 
 Blaud. A flat piece of any- 
 thing, to slap. 
 
 Blaw. To blow, to boast. 
 
 Blcczin', Blazing. 
 
 Blellum. Idle, talking fel- 
 low. 
 
 Bletlier. To talk Idly, 
 nonsense. 
 
 BIcth'rin. Talking idly. 
 
 Blink. A little wliilc, a 
 smiling look, to look 
 kindly, to shine by fits. 
 
 Blinker. A tenn of con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Blinliin'. Smirking. 
 
 Blue-gonn. One of those 
 beggars who get annually 
 on the king's birlh-day, 
 a blue cloak or gown, 
 with a badge. 
 
 Bluid. Blood. 
 
 Blype. A shred, a large 
 piece. 
 
 Bock. To vomit, to gush 
 intennittingly. 
 
 Bocked. Gushed, vomited. 
 
 Bodle, A smaU old coin. 
 
 Bonnie, or Bonny, Hand- 
 some, boautiiul. 
 
 Boord A board. 
 
 Bnre A hole in the wall. 
 
 Boi>rtrce. The shrub elder, 
 planted much of old in 
 hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
 
 Bood,orBuid. Behoved. 
 
 Botch, An angry tumour. 
 
 Housing. Drinking, 
 
 Bo^v-kail. Cabbage. 
 
 Bowt. Bended, crooked. 
 
 Brae. A declivity, a preci- 
 pice, the slope of a hill. 
 
 Braid. Broad. 
 
 liraik. A kind of harrow. 
 
 Brainge. To run raslily 
 forward. 
 
 Bra ng't. Reeled forward. 
 
 Brak. Broke, made insol- 
 vent. 
 
 Branks. A kind of wooden 
 curb for hoises. 
 
 Brash. A sudden illness. 
 
 Brats. Coai-sc clothes, rags, 
 &c. 
 
 Brattle. A short race, 
 hurry. 
 
 Braw. Fine, handsome, 
 
 Brawlyt, or Brawlie. Very 
 well, finely, heartily. 
 
 Braxie. A diseased sheep. 
 
 Brea.stie. Diminutive of 
 breast. 
 
 Ercastit. Did spring up or 
 forward. 
 
 Brcckens. Fern. 
 
 Brcef. An invulnerable or 
 irresistible spell. 
 
 Breeks. Breeches. 
 
 lirewin*. Brewin;^. 
 
 Brie. Juice, liquid. 
 
 Brig. A bridgi , 
 
 Brunstane, brimstone. 
 
 Brisket. The breast, the 
 bosom. 
 
 Brither. A brother. 
 
 Brock. A badger. 
 
 Brogue. A hum, a trick, 
 
 llroo. Broth, liquid, water. 
 
 Broose. A race at country 
 w eddings, who shall first 
 reach the bridegroom's 
 house on retmiiing from 
 church. 
 
 Brugh. A burgh. 
 
 Bruilzie. A broil, a com- 
 bustion. 
 
 Brunt. Did burn, burnt. 
 
 Brust. To buret, hurst. 
 
 Buchan-bullers. The boil- 
 ing of the sea among the 
 rocks on the coast of 
 Buchan, 
 
 Buirdly, Stout made, 
 broad built 
 
 Bum-clock. A humming 
 beetle tli.at flies in the 
 summer evenings. 
 
 Bummin'. Uumming as 
 bees. 
 
 Bnmmle. To blunder. 
 
 Bummler. A blunderer. 
 
 Bunker. A window-seat. 
 
 Burdies. Diminutive of 
 bii-ds. 
 
 Bure. Did bear. 
 
 Burn. "Water, a ri%Tilet. 
 
 Burnewin : i. e. bum W»» 
 wind. A blacksmith. 
 
 Burnie. Diminutive of bum 
 
 Buskit. Dressed 
 
 Busle A bustle, to bustle. 
 
 But. "Without 
 
 But an' ben. Outer and 
 inner apartment. 
 
 By him-elf. Lunatic dis- 
 tracted. 
 
 Byke. A bee-hive. 
 
 Byre. A cow-stable, a 
 shippen. 
 
 C. 
 
 Ca'. To call, to name, to 
 drive. 
 
 Ca'torca'd, Called, driven, 
 calved. 
 
 Cadger. A carrier. 
 
 Cadie or caudie. A person, 
 a young iellow,anerraua 
 boy. 
 
 Caff. Oiaff. 
 
 Caird. A tinker. 
 
 Cairn. A loose heap ot 
 stones. 
 
 Calf-ward. A small enclo- 
 sure for calves. 
 
 Callan. A boy. 
 
 Caller, Fresh , sound 
 
 Cannie. Gentle, mild, dex- 
 terous. 
 
 Camiilie. Dexterously, 
 gently. 
 
 Cantie or canty. Cheerful, 
 merry. 
 
 Cantrip. A charm, a speU. 
 
 Cap-stane, Cope-stonc,key- 
 stone 
 
 Careerin. Cheerfully, 
 
 Carl. An old man. 
 
 Carlin. A stout old woman. 
 
 Cartes. Cards 
 
 Castock. The stalk of a 
 cabbage. 
 
 Cauilron. A cauldron. 
 
 Cauk and keel. Chalk and 
 red clay. 
 
 Cauld, Cold. 
 
 Caup. A wooden drinking; 
 vessel. 
 
 Chanter, A part of a bag- 
 pipe. 
 
 Chap. A person, a fellow, 
 a blow. 
 
 Cliaup. A stroke, a blow, 
 
 Cheekit. Cheeked. 
 
 Cheep. A chirp, to chirp. 
 
 Chiel or Chcel. A young 
 fellow. 
 
 Chimla or Cliimlie. Afire- 
 rate, flre-place 
 
 Cliiuila-lug. The fire-side. 
 
 47 
 
640 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Chittcrin.!?. Shivering, 
 
 treriiWinpr. 
 
 Chokin'. Choking. 
 
 Chow. To clicw ; cheek for 
 cKoiVf side bv side. 
 
 Cliuffie. Fat-iaccd 
 
 Clachan. A small Tillage 
 about a church, a hamlet 
 
 Claisp, or claes. Clothes. 
 
 Claith. Cloth. 
 
 Claithing. Clothing 
 
 Claivers. Nonsense, not 
 speaking sense. 
 
 Clap. Clapper of a mill. 
 
 Clarkit. AVrote. 
 
 Clash. An idle tale, the 
 story of the dav. 
 
 Clatter. To toll little idle 
 stories, an idle storv. 
 
 ClauL'ht. Snatched a't, laid 
 hold of. 
 
 Claut. To clean, to scrape. 
 
 ClauteJ. Scraped. 
 
 Claw. To scratch. 
 
 Clced. To clothe. 
 
 Cleckit. Having caiieht. 
 
 Clinkin'. Jerking, clinking 
 
 Clinkumbell. Who rings 
 the church bell. 
 
 Clips. Shears. 
 
 Clishmaclaver. Idle con- 
 versation. 
 
 Cloi.It. To hatch , a beetle. 
 
 Cloakin'. Hatching. 
 
 Cloot. The hoof of a cow 
 sheep, iSc. 
 
 Clootie. An old name for 
 the devil. 
 
 Clour. A bump or swelling 
 after a blow. 
 
 Coaxin'. 'Wheodling. 
 
 Coble. A fishing boat. 
 
 Coft. Bought. 
 
 Cog. A wooden dish. 
 
 Coggie. Diminutive of cog. 
 
 CoiLA. From Kijle, a dis- 
 trict of Ayrshire, so called 
 saith tradition, from Coil, 
 or C'oUus, a Pictish mo- 
 narch. 
 
 Collie. A general and 
 sometimes a particular 
 name for country curs. 
 
 Commaun. Command. 
 
 Cood. The cud. 
 
 Coof. A blockhead, a ninny. 
 
 Cookit. Appeared and dis- 
 appcarcil bv fits. 
 
 Coost. Did cast. 
 
 Coot, or Kuit. The ancle. 
 
 Cootie. A wooden kitchen 
 dish; .also those fowls 
 whose legs arc clad with 
 feathers are said to be 
 cootie. 
 
 Corbies. A species of the 
 crow. 
 
 Core. Corps, pn rty, clan. 
 
 Corn't. Fed with oats. 
 
 Cotter. Tlie inhabitant of 
 a cot-house, or cottage. 
 
 Couthie Kind, loving. 
 
 Cowe. To terrify, to keep 
 under, to lop ; a fright, a 
 branch of furze, broom, 
 &c. 
 
 Cowp, To barter, to tumble 
 over, a gang. 
 
 Cowpit. Tumbled. 
 
 Cowrin'. Cowering. 
 
 Cowte. A colt. 
 
 Cozie. Snug. 
 
 Cozllv. Snugly. 
 
 Crubbit. Crabbed, fretful. 
 
 Crack. Conversation, to 
 converse. 
 
 Crackin'. Conversing. 
 
 Cratt, or Crott. A field 
 near a house, in old hus- 
 tiandiy. 
 
 Craiks. Cries or calls in- 1 Descrive. To describe. IFaut Fault, 
 cessantly, abird. JDtght. To wipe, to clean Fawsont. Decent, seemly, 
 
 Crambo-dink, or crambo-] corn fiom chaff. 
 
 jingle, llhymes, doggerel ' Dight. Cleaned from chaff. 
 
 verses. j Diuna. Do not. 
 
 Ci'ank. The noise of an un- , Ding. To worst, to push. 
 
 greased wheel. 1 Dirl. A slight tremulous 
 
 Crankous. Fretlul , captious, stroke or pa in . 
 Cranreuch. The hoar frost. Disiaskit. Jaded, worn out 
 Crap. A crop, to crop. with fatigue. 
 
 Craw. Acrow of acock, aiDizzen,or Diz'n. A dozen. 
 
 rook, 
 
 Creel. A basket. To have 
 one's wits in a creel, to 
 be crazed, to be fasci- 
 nated. 
 
 Crceshie. Greasy. 
 
 Crood, or croud. To coo as 
 a dove. 
 
 Doited. Slupificd, hebe- 
 tated. 
 
 Dolt. Stupified, crazed. 
 
 Dousio. Unlucky. 
 
 Dool. Sorrow; to sing 
 dool, to lament, to mourn. 
 
 Dorty. Saucy, nice. 
 I Douce, or Douse. Sober, 
 
 Croon. A hollow and' wise, prudent 
 
 continued moan ; to make Doucely . Soberly, pr u- 
 
 a noise like the continued | den fly. 
 
 roar of a bull ; to hum a Dought. 'Was or were able. 
 
 tune. IDoure. Stout, dm-able. 
 
 Crooning. Humming. I stubborn, sullen. 
 Crouchie. Crook-backed. |Dow. Am <«• are able, can. 
 Crouse. Cheerful, coura-jDowff. Pithless, wanting 
 
 geous. I force. 
 
 Crously. Cheerfully, cou-iDowie. AYorn with grief, 
 
 rageously. | fatigue, &c., h.alf asleep. 
 
 Crowdie. A composition of Downa. Am or are not 
 
 oatme.al and boiled water, ' able, cannot. 
 
 sometimesfrom the broth Drap. .\ drop, to drop. 
 
 of beef, mutton, &e. jDrapping. Dropping. 
 
 Crowdie-time. Breakfast- ; Drccp. To ouze, to drop. 
 
 time. Drcigh. Tedious, long 
 
 Crowlin. Crawling. I about it. 
 
 Crummock. A cow with; Dribble Drizzling. 
 
 crooked horns. j Drift. A drove. 
 
 Crump. Hard and brittle, iDroddum. The breech. 
 
 spoken of bread. i Droop. Humped, that 
 
 Crunt. .\ blow on the head j droops at the crupper. 
 
 ith a cudcrel. Drouth. Thirst, drought. 
 
 Cuif. A blockhead, aninny. [Drucken. Drunken. 
 Cummock. A short staff, Drumly. Muddy. 
 
 with a crooked head. .Drummock. Meal and 
 Curchie. A curtsey. water mixed, raw. | 
 
 Curler. A player at a gamelDruut. Pet, sour humour. Flethcr. To decoy by fair 
 
 on the ice, practised in! Dub. A small pond. words. 
 
 Scotland, called curling. |Duds. lla^s, clothes. Fley. Toscare, to frighten. 
 
 Curlie. Curled, whose hair iDuddie. Itagged. iFiit'chcr. To flutter, as 
 
 fallsnaturally in ringlets. ! Dung. Worsted, pushed, young ne.-ilings, when 
 Curling. A well-known ; driven. their dam approaches. 
 
 game on ice. IDush. To pushasaram,iSc. Flinders. Shreds, broken 
 
 Curmurring. Murmuring, jDusht. Pushed by a ram, I pieces, 
 
 a slight rumbling noise. I ox, ftc. FUngin-tree. A piece of 
 
 Feal. A field, smooth. 
 Fearfu'. Frightful. 
 Fear't. Frighted. 
 Feat. Neat, spruce. 
 Fecht. To fi'.'ht. 
 Fi'Clitin. Fi;;htins. 
 Feck. Many, plenty. 
 IVckfu". Large, brawcyj 
 
 stout. 
 Feckless. Puny, weak, 
 
 silly. 
 Feg. Fig. 
 
 Feid. Feud, enmity. 
 Fc 11. Keen, biting ; the 
 
 flesh immediately under 
 
 the skin, a field pretty 
 
 level, on the side oi top 
 
 of a hill. 
 Fend. To live comfortnb'y. 
 Ferlic, or Fcrley. Tc won- 
 der ; a wonder, a term of 
 
 contempt. 
 Fetch. To pull by fits. 
 Fetch't. Pulled 'intermit- 
 tently. 
 Fid-e. To fidget. 
 Fient. Fiend, apretty oath. 
 
 ier. Sound, healthy; a 
 
 brother, a friend. 
 
 it. A foot. 
 Fi>Ie. To make a rustling 
 
 noise, to fidget, tc bustle. 
 Fittie-lan. The nearer 
 
 horee of the hindmost 
 
 pair in the plough. 
 Fizz. To make a hissing 
 
 noise, like fermentation, 
 Flainen. Flannel. 
 Fleecli To supplicate in a 
 
 Hattcring manner. 
 Fleechin. Supplicating. 
 Flccsh. A fleece. 
 
 [eg. A kick, a random 
 
 blow. 
 Fletherin. Flattering. 
 
 Curjjin. The crupper. 
 
 Cushat. The dove, or wood- j E. 
 
 pigeon. 1 Ee. The eye. 
 
 Cutty. Short, a spoon 1 Ecu. The eyes. 
 
 broken in the middle, aJE'enin'. Evening. 
 
 short pipe. : Eerie. Frighted, drcadini 
 
 I spirits. 
 D. 'EiUl. Old age. 
 
 Daddie. A father. ! Elbuck. The elbow. 
 
 Datfln. Merriment, foolish- ; Eldritch. Ghastly, fright- 
 
 ness. I ful. 
 
 Daft. MeriT, giddy, foolish- i En'. End. 
 Daimen. Rare, now andiENURUou. Edineuuoh. 
 
 then; daimen icker, an'Eneugh. Enough, 
 of corn now aud then. Especial. Especially. 
 
 Dainty. Pleasant, good- 
 humoured, agreeable. 
 
 Dales. Plain"""— ifeys. 
 
 D.irklins. Darkling. 
 
 Daud. To thiash, to abuse. 
 
 Daur. To dare. 
 
 Daurt. Dared. 
 
 A large piece. 
 
 Daiu'ir, or Dam'k. A day's 
 labour. 
 
 Dautit, or Dautet. Fon- 
 dleil,care.«sed. 
 
 Dearies. Diminutive of 
 dears, 
 •earthfu". Dear. trouble, to care for 
 
 Dcave. To dealen. Fasht. Troubled. 
 
 Deil-ma-care. No matter! 'Fasfcn-e'en. Fasten'sEven. 
 for all that! Fauld. A fold, to fold. 
 
 Deleeril^ Dclirio«[«. I Paulding. Folding. 
 
 Ettle. To try, attempt. 
 Eydent. Diligent. 
 
 Fae. A foe. 
 
 Facm. Foam. 
 
 Faikct. Unknown. 
 
 Fairin. A fairing, a present. 
 
 Fallow. Fellow. 
 
 Fand. Did find. 
 
 Farl. A cake of bread. 
 
 Fash. Trouble, care, to 
 
 timber hung by way of 
 partition between "two 
 horses in a stable, a flail. 
 
 FUsk. To fret at the vokc. 
 
 Fiskit. Fretted. 
 
 Flitter. To vibrate like the 
 wings of small birds. 
 
 Flitteiing. Fluttering, vi- 
 brating. 
 
 I'lunky. A servant in livery. 
 
 Foord. A ford. 
 
 Forbears. Forefathers. 
 
 Forbye. Hesides. 
 
 Forfairn. Distressed, worn 
 out, jaded. 
 
 Forl'ouL'luen. Fatigued. 
 
 Forgail '. "To meet, to 
 
 cue 
 
 ith. 
 
 Forgie. 
 
 Foijavkit. Jiided, worn 
 
 oiit with fatigue. 
 Fou'. Full, drunk. 
 Foughlen. Troubled, har- 
 
 rassed. 
 Fouth. Plenty, enough, or 
 
 more than enough. 
 Fow. .-V bushel, &c., also a 
 
 pitch-fork. 
 Frae. From. 
 Fiaeth. Froth. 
 Frien'. Friend. 
 Fu'. Full. 
 Fud. The scat, or tail of 
 
 the hare, coney, &c. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 541 
 
 Fu/r. To blow intermit- 
 tently. 
 
 Fiitt^t. Did blow. 
 
 Funnie. ruU of merriment. 
 
 Fur. A funow. 
 
 Furra. A form, a licnch. 
 
 Fyke. Tritiint; earcs; to 
 "jiiildlc, to be in a fuss 
 about trouble. 
 
 Fvlc. To soil, to (iirty, 
 
 Fjrt. Soiled, dirtied. 
 
 G. 
 Gab. The mouth, to speak 
 
 boldly, or pertly. 
 Gae. To so; gaed, went; 
 
 paffn or gane, gone ; gaun 
 
 goiu?. 
 Gael, Gait, or Gate. AVay, 
 
 manner, read. 
 Gang. To go, to walk 
 Gar. To make, to force to. 
 Gar't. Forced to. 
 Garten. A garter. 
 Gash. AVise, sagacious, 
 
 talkative, to converse. 
 Gashin'. Conversing. 
 Gaucy. Jolly, large. 
 Gear. Riches, goods of any 
 
 kind. 
 Geek. To toss the head in 
 
 wantonness or scorn. 
 Ged. A pike. 
 Gentles. Great folks. 
 Geordie. A guinea. 
 Get. A child, a young one. 
 Ghaist. A ghost. 
 Gie. To give ; gicd, gaye ; 
 
 gien, given. 
 Giltie. Diminutive of gift. 
 Gillie. Diminutive of gill. 
 Gilpey. A half-grown, hali- 
 
 inlonned boy or girl, a 
 
 romping lad, a hoyden. 
 Gininier. An e ne fiom one 
 
 to two years old. 
 Gin. If, against. 
 Gipsey. A young girl. 
 Girn. To grin, to twist the 
 
 features in rage, agony, 
 
 C(mvulsion, i&c. 
 Giniing. Griiuiing. 
 Gizz. A periwig. 
 Glaikit. Inattentive, fool- 
 ish. 
 Glaive. A sword. 
 Uawky. Hall-witted,fool- 
 
 i>h, romping. 
 Clai/ie. Glittering, smooth 
 
 like a glass. 
 Gleg. Sliarp, ready. 
 Glcy. Asquint, to squint; 
 
 a-gley, off at a side, 
 
 wron^. 
 Glib-gabbet. That speaks 
 
 smoothly and readily. 
 Glint. To peep. 
 Glinted. I'ceped. 
 Glintiu'. I'eeping. 
 Gloamm'. The twilight. 
 Glo«r. To stare, to look; 
 
 a stare, a look. 
 Glowred. Looked, stared. 
 Goavan. Looking in a 
 
 stupid manner. 
 Gowan. The wild daisy. 
 Gowd. Gold. 
 Gowir. Tnc game of golf; 
 
 to strike as the bat docs 
 
 the ball at golf. 
 Go«rd. ijtruck. 
 Gowk. A cuekoo, a term 
 
 of contempt. 
 Gowl. To howl. 
 Granc, or Grain. A groan, 
 
 to groan 
 Oiaiu'd. Groaned. 
 Gaining. Groaning. 
 Graip. A proiiireil in*tni- 
 
 nicut lorcleaiiUiX stables. 
 
 [Graith. Actoutrements, 
 
 lurniture, drt>ss. 
 Grannie. Grandmother. 
 Grape. To grope. 
 Grapit. Groped. 
 Great. Intimate, familiar. 
 Gree. To agree, to bear 
 
 the grcc, to be decidedly 
 
 victor. 
 Grec't. Agreed. 
 Greet. To shed tears, to 
 
 weep. 
 Grcetin'. Crying, weeping 
 Greusome. Loatliesomcly, 
 
 grim. 
 Grippet. Caught, seized 
 Groat. To get the whistle 
 
 of one's groat, to play a 
 
 losing game. 
 Giozet. Gooseberry. 
 Grumph. A grunt, to grunt. 
 Grumphie. A sow. 
 Grun'. Ground 
 Grunstane A grindstone 
 Grimtle. The phiz, agrunt- 
 
 Grusbie. Thick, of thrivin; 
 
 growth. 
 
 GuDE. The Supreme Being; 
 good. 
 
 Guid-mornin'. Good-mor- 
 row. 
 
 Guid-e'en. Good-evening. 
 
 Gtiidman and Guidwile. 
 The master and mistress 
 of the house ; young guid- 
 nian, a man newly mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Gullv, or Gullie. A large 
 kiiiie. 
 
 Guidfathcr, Guidmother. 
 Father-in-law and mo- 
 ther-in-law. 
 
 Gusty. Tasteful. 
 
 H. 
 
 Hall. 
 Ha'-bihlc The great bible 
 
 that lies in the ball. 
 Hae. To have. 
 Haen. Had, participle of 
 
 have. 
 Ilaet, fient haet. A petty 
 
 oatliofneiration,nothini^. 
 Hatfct. The ten-.ple, the 
 
 side of the head 
 HafHins. Kearly half, 
 
 partly. 
 Hag. A scaur or gulf in 
 
 mosses and moors. 
 Haggis. A kind of minced 
 
 pudding boiled in the 
 
 stouiacii of a cow or 
 
 sheep. 
 Hain. To spare, to save. 
 Hain'd. Spared. 
 Haii>t. Harvest. 
 Haitb. A petty oath. 
 Haivers. Nonsense, -peak- 
 
 ithout thought 
 lIal',or Uald. An abiding 
 
 place. 
 Halo. ■Whole, tight, 
 
 healthy. 
 Ilame. Home. 
 Uallan. A partition wall 
 
 in a cottage near the 
 
 doorway. 
 Hallow-e'en. The eve of 
 
 All Saints Day, or All 
 
 Hallows. 
 Haniely. Homely, affable. 
 Han' or Hauu'. Hand. 
 Hap. An outer garment, 
 
 mantle, i)laid, iVe.; to 
 
 M'rap, to cover, to hap. 
 Happer. Hopper. 
 Happing. Hopping. 
 Hap, step, an' loop. I op, 
 
 skip, and jump. 
 
 Harkit. Hearkened. 
 Hani. Verv coarse linen. 
 Hash. A fellow that neither 
 knows how to dress nor 
 act with pioprieiy, 
 Hastit. Hastened. 
 Hand. To hold. 
 U,iiu,'bs. I.ow-lving rich 
 
 lands, valleys. " 
 Ham 1 To dfaur, to peel. 
 Haurlin'. reeling-. 
 Haverel. A half-witted 
 
 pci'son, half-witted. 
 Havins. Good manners, 
 
 decorum, good sense. 
 Haw kie. A cow, jiroperly 
 
 one with a white face. 
 Heapit. Heaped. 
 Healsorae. Healthful, 
 
 wholesome. 
 Heai-se. Hoarse. 
 Heai't. Hear it. 
 Heather. Heath. 
 Heeli ! Oh ! strange. 
 Hecht. I'rnmiscd to fore- 
 tell something that is to 
 
 be got or givi-ii ; foretold; 
 
 the thing forctnUl. 
 Hecze. To elevate, to raise. 
 Herd. To tend Hocks, one 
 
 who tends Hocks. 
 Herrin. A hciTing. 
 Heiry To plunder, most 
 
 pnipcily to plunder birds' 
 
 nests. 
 Henyment. Plundering, 
 
 devastation. 
 Hci'sel. Herself. 
 Het. Hot. 
 Heugh. A crag, a coal-pit. 
 Ilileli. A hobble, to halt 
 Hilchin'. Halting. 
 llimsel'. Himscli. 
 lUn;;. To hang, 
 liiiple. To walk lamely, 
 
 to iieep. 
 Hiisel. .\ herd of cattle, or 
 
 Hock of sheep. 
 Histie. Dry, chapt, barren, 
 Hitcht. A loop, a knot. 
 Hizzie. Hussy, a young 
 
 gill. 
 Hoddin. The motion of a 
 
 sage countryman, riding 
 
 on a carthorse. 
 Hog-score. A kind of dis 
 
 tance line, in curling, 
 
 draw n across the rinh 
 Hog-shouther. A kind of 
 
 horse-play, by jostling 
 
 with the shoulder i to 
 
 jostle. 
 Hool. Outer-skin or case, 
 
 a nut-shell, peas swade. 
 Hoolie. Slowly, leisurely ; 
 
 take leisure, stop. 
 HookI. Aboard; to hoard. 
 Hoordit. Hoarded. 
 Horn. A spoon made of 
 
 lioi'n. 
 Honiie. One of the many 
 
 names of the devil 
 Host, or boast. To cough. 
 Hostin'. Coughing. 
 Hotch'd. Turned topsy- 
 turvy, blended, mi.ved. 
 Houghniagandie. Some- 
 thing improper. 
 Hnulet. An owl. 
 Housie. Diminutive of 
 
 house. 
 Hove. To heave, to swell. 
 Hov'd. Heav'd, swelled. 
 Howdie. A midwife. 
 Howe. Hollow, a hollow 
 
 or dell. 
 Howebackit. Sunk in the 
 
 b.ack, spoken of a horse, 
 
 &c. 
 Uowk. To dig. 
 
 Howklt. Digged. 
 
 Howkin'. Digging. 
 
 Hoy. To urge. 
 
 Hoy't. Urged. 
 
 Hoyse. To piil! upwardi 
 
 Hoyte. To aiv.blc erazily. 
 
 Hughoc. Diminutive of 
 
 Hugh. 
 Hureheon. A hedgehog. 
 Hurdios. The loins, tbe 
 
 crupper. 
 
 r. In. 
 
 lekcr. Ar ear of com. 
 
 ler-oe. A great-gr and- 
 child. 
 
 Ilk, or Ilka. Each, every. 
 
 Ill-Willie. Ill-natured, ma- 
 licious , niggardly. 
 
 Inginc. Genius, iiigenuity. 
 
 Ingle. Fire, fire-place. 
 
 I'.se. I shall or mil. 
 
 Ither. Other, one another. 
 
 J. 
 
 Jad. Ja-de; also a familiar 
 
 term among country iiilka 
 
 for a giddy young girl. 
 Jauk. Todally,to tririe. 
 Jaukin'. TriHi'n£r, dallying. 
 Jaup. A jerk ot' water ; to 
 
 jerk as agitated water. 
 Jaupit. Soiled with spaika 
 
 of mud. 
 Jaw. Coai-se raillery, to 
 
 pour out, to shut, to jerk 
 
 as water. 
 Jaiet. A jilt, a giddy 
 
 girl. 
 Jimp. To jump, slender in 
 
 the waist, handsome. 
 Jink. To dodge, to turn a 
 
 corner, a sudden turning, 
 
 a corner. 
 Jinker. That turns quickly, 
 
 a gay sprightly giil, a 
 
 wag. 
 Jinkin'. Dodging. 
 Jirk. A jerk 
 Jocteleg. A kind of knife. 
 Jouk. I'o stoop, to bow the 
 
 head. 
 Jow. To jow ; a verb 
 
 which includes both the 
 
 swinging motion and 
 
 pealing sound of a large 
 
 bell. 
 Jumlie. Muddy. 
 Jundie. To jusUe. 
 
 K. 
 
 ICae. A daw. 
 
 Kail. Colewort, a kind ol 
 broth. 
 
 Kail-runt. The stem oi 
 colcH ort. 
 
 Kain. Fowls, &e., paid aa 
 rent by a farmer. 
 
 Kcbbuck. A cbeese. 
 
 Keek. A peep, to peep. 
 
 Kelpies. A sort of mis- 
 chievous spirits, said to 
 haunt fords and ferries at 
 night, especially in 
 storms. 
 
 Ken. To know; kend, or 
 ken't, knew. 
 
 Kennin. A small matter. 
 
 Ket. Matted, liuiry, a 
 ttcece of wool. 
 
 Kiaugh. Calking, anxiety. 
 
 K ilt. To truss up llie clotheSi 
 
 Kin. Kindred. 
 
 Kiminer. A young girl, a 
 gossip. 
 
 Km'. Kind. 
 
 King's-hood. A certain 
 part of the cnti-ails of an 
 auimul. 
 
542 
 
 Kintra. Country. 
 
 Kirn. The harvest supper, 
 a chum, 
 
 Kirscn. To christen or 
 baptise. 
 
 Kist. Chest. 
 
 Kitchen. Sauce ; anything 
 that cats with bread, to 
 serve for soup, gravy, &c. 
 
 Kittle. To tickle, ticklish. 
 
 Kittlin', A young cat. 
 
 Knasgie. Like knngs, or 
 points of rocks. 
 
 Knappin'-Ixammer'. A ham- 
 mer for breaking stones. 
 
 Knowe. A small round 
 hillock. 
 
 Kuittle. To cuddle. 
 
 Kuittlin'. Cuddling. 
 
 Kye Cows. 
 
 Ktle. a district in Ayr- 
 shire. 
 
 Kyte. The belly. 
 
 Kytlic. To become evident, 
 to show one's self. 
 
 G.LOSSATIY. 
 
 Laddie. Diminutive of lad 
 
 Laggen. The angle between 
 tiie side and bottom of a 
 wooden dish. 
 
 Laigh. Low. 
 
 Lairing. Wading, and sink- 
 ing in snow, mud, <S:c. 
 
 Laith. Loath. 
 
 Laithfu'. Bashful, sheepish 
 
 Lallans. Lowland dialect 
 
 Lambie. Diminutive ol 
 lamb. 
 
 Lampit. A kind of shell- 
 fish. 
 
 Lau". Land, estate. 
 
 Lane. Lone, my lane, thy 
 lane, &c., myself alone. 
 
 Lanely. Lonely. 
 
 Lang. Long; to" think Ian: 
 to ions, to weai'y. 
 
 Lap. Did leap. 
 
 Lave. The rest, the re- 
 mainder, the others. 
 
 Laverock. The lark. 
 
 Lawlan'. Lowland. 
 
 Lea'e. To leave. 
 
 Leal. Loyal, true, faithful. 
 
 Lear. Learning. 
 
 Lee-lang. Livelong. 
 
 Leeze me. A phrase of 
 congratulatory endear- 
 ment ; I am happy in 
 thee, or proud of thee 
 
 Leister. A three-pronged 
 dart for striking fish. 
 
 Lcuglx. Did laugh. 
 
 Leuk. A look, to look. 
 
 Lilt. 8ky. 
 
 Lightly. Sneeringly, to 
 sneer at. 
 
 Lilt. A ballad, a tunc, to 
 sing. 
 
 Limmer. A kept mistress, 
 a strumpet. 
 
 Lin>'t. Limped, hobbled. 
 
 Link. To trip along. 
 
 I.inkin'. Tripping. 
 
 Linn. A waterfall. 
 
 Lint, riax; lint i' the bell, 
 t!ax in the flower. 
 
 Cintwhite,Lintie. Alinnet. 
 
 Loan. The place of milk- 
 ing. 
 
 Loof. The palra of the 
 hand. 
 
 Loot. Did let. 
 
 I.1JOVCS. The plural of loof. 
 
 Louu. A fellow, a waggish 
 lad. 
 
 Lowe. Aflame. 
 
 Lowin'. Flaming, 
 
 Lowrie. Abievlation of 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Lowse. To loose. 
 Lows'd. Loosed. 
 Lug. The ear, a handle. 
 Lugget. Having a handle. 
 Luggie. A small wooden 
 
 dish with a handle. 
 Lum. The chimney. 
 Lunch. A large piece of 
 
 cheese, flesh, etc. 
 Lunt. A column of smoke ; 
 
 to smoke. 
 Luntin'. Sraokini. 
 Lyart. Of a mixed colour, 
 
 grey. 
 
 M. 
 
 Mae. More. 
 
 Mair. More. 
 
 Maist. Most, almost. 
 
 Maistly. Mostly. 
 
 Mak. To make. 
 
 Makiu'. Making. 
 
 Mallie. Molly. 
 
 Mang. Among. 
 
 Manse. The pai-sonage 
 
 house, where the minister 
 
 lives. 
 Jlanteele. A mantle. 
 Mark, marks. This, and 
 
 several other nouns,which 
 
 in English require an s to 
 
 form the plural, are in 
 
 Scotch like the words 
 
 sheep, deer, the same in 
 
 both numbers. 
 Mar's year. The year 1715, 
 
 in which the rebellion 
 
 broke out under the liarl 
 
 of Mar. 
 Maslilum, meslin. Mixed 
 
 corn. 
 Mask. To mash, to infuse 
 
 as tea. 
 Maskin'-pat. A tea-pot. 
 Maukin. A hare. 
 Maun. Must. 
 Mavis. The thrush. 
 Maw. To mow. 
 JIawin'. iMovving. 
 Meere. A mare. 
 Jlcldcr. Corn, or grain of 
 
 anv kind, sent to' the mill 
 
 to oe ground. 
 Mcll. To mingle; also a 
 
 mallet. 
 Jlclancholious. Jloumful. 
 Mclvie. To soil with meal. 
 Men'. To mend. 
 Mense. Good manners, 
 
 decorum ; something that 
 
 looks respectable. 
 Mcnseless. Ill-bred, rude, 
 
 impudent. 
 Merle. The blackbird. 
 Mcssin. A small dog. 
 iliddeu. A dunghill. 
 Midden-hole. A gutter at 
 
 the bottom of a dunghill. 
 Slim. Prim, affectedly 
 
 meek. 
 Min'. Mind, remembrance. 
 Mind't. Mind it, resolved, 
 
 intending. 
 Minnie. Mother, dam. 
 Misca'. To abuse, to call 
 
 names. 
 Misca'd. Abused. 
 Misleai'*d. Mischievous,uu 
 
 maimerly. 
 Misteuk. Mistook. 
 Mithcr. Mother. 
 Mixtie-maxtie. Confusedly 
 
 mixed. 
 Moistity. To moisten. 
 Mony, or Monie. Many. 
 Moop. To nibble as ashcep. 
 MoopandMell. Toeatand 
 
 consort together. 
 Moorlan'. Of or belonging 
 
 to moors< 
 
 Mom. The next day, to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Mou. The mouth. 
 
 Moudiwort. A mole. 
 
 Mousie. Diminutive of 
 mouse. 
 
 Muckle, or MIckle. Great, 
 big, much. 
 
 JIusie. Diminutive of 
 muse. 
 
 Muslin-kail. Broth com- 
 posed simply of water, 
 shelled barley and greens. 
 
 Mutchkin. Aa English 
 pint. 
 
 Mysel'. Myself. 
 
 N. 
 
 Na'. No, not, nor. 
 
 Nae. No, not any. 
 
 Naething, or Naithing. 
 Nothing. 
 
 Naig. Anag, a horse. 
 
 Nane. None. 
 
 Nappy. Brisk-ale, to be 
 ti|)sy. 
 
 Negleckit. Neglected, 
 ■bor. A neighbour. 
 
 Neuk. Nook. 
 
 Niest. Next. 
 
 Nieve. The flst. 
 
 Nievefu'. Handful. 
 
 Nilfer. An exchange ; to 
 rcliange ; to barter. 
 
 Nigger. A negro. 
 
 Nine-tailed-cat. A hang- 
 man's whip. 
 
 Nit. A nut. 
 
 Norland. Of or belonging 
 to the North. 
 
 Notic't. Noticed. 
 
 Nowte. Black cattle. 
 
 o: Of. 
 
 o. 
 
 Ony, or Onle. Any. 
 
 ' r. Is oiten used for ere, 
 before, 
 't Of it. 
 
 Ouric. Shivei-ing, drooping. 
 
 Oursel', or Oursels. Our- 
 selves. 
 
 Outlers. Cattlenot housed. 
 
 Owre. 0>Te, too. 
 
 O »re-hip. A way of fetch- 
 ing a blow with the 
 hammer over the arm. 
 
 rack. Intimate, faniilar. 
 
 Painch. Paunch. 
 
 Paitrick. A partridge. 
 
 Pang. To cram. 
 
 Parritch. Oatmeal pud- 
 ding, a well-known 
 Scotch dish. 
 
 Pat. Did put, a pot. 
 
 Battle, orPettle. Aplough- 
 staff. 
 
 Paughty. Proud, haughty. 
 
 Pauky. Cunning, sly 
 
 Pay'ti Paid, beat. 
 
 Pech. To fetch the breath 
 short, as in an asthma. 
 
 Pechan. The crop, the 
 stomach. 
 
 Peelin'. Peeling. 
 
 Pet. A domesticated lamb. 
 
 Pettle. To cherish; a 
 ploughstaff. 
 
 Phraise. Fair speeches, 
 flattery, to flatter. 
 
 Phraisin'. Flattery. 
 
 Pickle. A small quantity. 
 
 Pine. Pain, imeasiness. 
 
 Pit. To put. 
 
 Placad. A public proclama- 
 tion, to publish publicly. 
 
 Placklcss. Penniless, with- 
 out money. 
 
 Plack. An old Scotch coin, 
 the third part of a Scotch 
 penny, 12 of which make 
 an EnglLsh penny. 
 
 Plaitie. Diminutive oJ 
 plate. 
 
 Plew, orplcugh. A plough. 
 
 Pliskie. A trick. 
 
 Poind. To seize cattle or 
 take goods by legal exe- 
 cution. 
 
 Poortith. Poverty. 
 
 Pou. To pull. 
 
 Pouk. To pluck. 
 
 I'oussie. A hare, or cat ; o 
 demui-e old woman. 
 
 Pout. A poult, a chick. 
 
 Pou't. Did pull. 
 
 Pouthery. Like powder. 
 
 Pow. The head, the skull. 
 
 Pownie. A pony, a little 
 horse. 
 
 Powther,orpouther. Pow- 
 der. 
 
 Preen. A pin. 
 
 i Prent. Printing. 
 
 iPrie. To taste. 
 
 Prie'd. Tasted. 
 
 Prief. Proof. 
 
 Prig. To cheapen, to dis- 
 pute. 
 
 Priggin". Cheapening. 
 
 Primsie. Demure, precise. 
 
 Propone. To lay down, to 
 propose. 
 
 Provoscs. Provosts. 
 
 Fund. Pound , poxmds. 
 
 Pyle. A pyle o' caff, a 
 single gram of chaff. 
 
 a. 
 
 Quat. To quit. 
 Quak. To quake. 
 Uuey. A cow from one to 
 two years old ; a heifer. 
 
 R. 
 
 Ragweed. Herb ragwort. 
 
 Raible. To rattle nonsense. 
 
 Eair. To roar. 
 
 Raize. To madden, to in- 
 flame. 
 
 Eam-feezl'd. Fatigued, 
 overspread. 
 
 Ram-stani. Thoughtless, 
 forward. 
 
 Raploch. Properly a coarse 
 cloth , but used as an ad- 
 jective for coarse. 
 
 Rarely. Excellently, very 
 well. 
 
 Rash. A rush ; rash-buss, 
 a hush of rushes. 
 
 Ration. A rat. 
 
 Rauele. Rash, stout, fear- 
 less. 
 
 Raught. Reached. 
 
 Raw. A row. 
 
 Rax. To stretch. 
 
 Ream. Cream; to cream. 
 
 Reaming'. Brimful, froth- 
 Reave. Rove. 
 
 Reck. To heed. 
 
 Rede. Counsel ; to coimsel. 
 
 Red-wat-shod. Walking 
 in blood over the shoe- 
 tops. 
 
 Red-wud. Stark mad. 
 
 Rec. Half tipsy, in high 
 spirits. 
 
 Reck. Smoke. 
 
 Ri'ckin'. Smoking. 
 
 Roikit. Smoked, smoky. 
 
 Reisle. A rousing. 
 
 Rcmead. Remedy. 
 
 Roquilc. Requited. 
 
 Rest. To stand restive. 
 
 ResUt. Stood restive 
 blunted, withered 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 643 
 
 I 
 
 [ 
 
 Restrlfked. Restricted, 
 
 Uii f. Kiof, plenty. 
 
 Ki^. A riJfje. 
 
 Kin. To run, to melt ; riU' 
 nin', running. 
 
 Rink. The course of the 
 stones, a term in curling 
 on ice. 
 
 Rip A handful of un 
 thrashed corn . 
 
 Rislcit. Made a noise like 
 the tearing of roots. 
 
 Rockin". An evening 
 meetinir, one of the ob 
 jeets of which is spinninc 
 with the rock or distaff. 
 
 Rood. Stands likewise for 
 the plural roods. 
 
 Roon. A shred. 
 
 xloose. To praise, to com 
 mend. 
 
 Roopit. Hoarse, as with a 
 cold. 
 
 Roun". Round, in the cir- 
 cle of the neighbourhood. 
 
 Row. To roll, to wrap. 
 
 Uow't. Rolled, wrapped. 
 
 Itowtc. To low, to bellow. 
 
 Rowth. Plenty. 
 
 Howtin. Lowing. 
 
 Uozet. Rosin. 
 
 Run?. A cudgel. 
 
 Runt. The stem of a cole- 
 wort or cabbage. 
 
 Runkled. "Wrinkled. 
 
 Sae. So. 
 
 Saft. Soft 
 
 Sair To serve, a sore. 
 
 Sairly, or Sairlie. Sorely. 
 
 Sair't. Served. 
 
 Sark. A shirt. 
 
 Sarkit. Provided in shirts. 
 
 .Saugh. The willow. 
 
 Saul. Soul. 
 
 Saumont. Salmon. 
 
 Saunt. A saint. 
 
 Saut. Salt. 
 
 Saw. To sow. 
 
 Sawin". Sowing. 
 
 Sax. Six. 
 
 Scar. To scare, a scare. 
 
 Scaud. To Scald 
 
 Scauld. To scold. 
 
 Scaur. Apt to he scared. 
 
 Scawl. A scola. 
 
 Scone. Athincakeofbread. 
 
 Scraich. To scream, as a 
 
 hen,parlridge,&c. 
 Screed. To tear, a rent. 
 Scrieve. To glide swiftly 
 
 along. 
 Striven. Gleesomely, 
 
 swiftly. 
 Scrimp. To scant. 
 Scrimpet. Did scant, 
 
 scanty. 
 Scunner. A loatlilng, to 
 
 loathe. 
 .•Seizin'. Seizing. 
 Scl. Self; a body's self, 
 
 one's self alone. 
 Sell't. Did sell. 
 Sen". To send. 
 Scrvan." Servant. 
 Settlin'. Settling; to get a 
 
 settlin", to be frighted 
 
 into quietness. 
 Sliaird. A shred, a shaird. 
 Sh.iiigan. A stick cki'l at 
 
 (■lie end for putting the 
 
 tail of a dog, &c. into, by 
 
 way of mischief, or to 
 
 frighten him away. 
 Shaver. A humorous wag, 
 
 a barber. 
 Rhaw. To show, a small 
 
 wood in a hollow place, 
 tiheon. Ijright, shining. 
 
 Sheep-shank. To think 
 
 one's self nae sheep-shank 
 to be conceited. 
 
 Sherra-nuiir. The battle of 
 Sheritf-.Moor, foui;ht in 
 the Rebellion of 1715. 
 
 Sheugh. A ditch, a wench, 
 a >luice. 
 
 Shill. .Slirill. 
 
 Shog. A shock, a push off 
 at one side. 
 
 Shool. A shovel. 
 
 Shoon. Shoes. 
 
 Shore. To offer, to threaten. 
 
 Slior'd. Offered. 
 
 Shouther. The shoulder. 
 
 Sic. Such. 
 
 Sicker. Sure, steady. 
 
 Sidelins. Sidelong, slanting 
 
 Siller. Silver, money. 
 
 Simmer. Summer. 
 
 Sin'. Since. 
 
 Skaith. To damage, to in- 
 jure, injury. 
 
 Skellum. A worthless fel- 
 low. 
 
 Skelp. To strike, to slap; 
 to walk with a smart 
 tripping step; a smart 
 stroke. 
 
 Skelpi-limmer. A wild girl, 
 a term in female scolding 
 
 Skelpin'. Stepping, walk- 
 
 Skeigh. Proud, nice, high- 
 mettled. 
 
 Skirling. Slirieking, cry- 
 ing. 
 
 Skirl. To shriek, to cry 
 shrilly. 
 
 Skirl't. Shrieked. 
 
 Sklent. Slant, to run 
 aslant, to deviate from 
 truth. 
 
 Sklented. Ran, or hit, in 
 an oblique direction. 
 
 Skriegh. A scream, to 
 scream. 
 
 Sl.ie. Sloe. 
 
 Slade. Did slide. 
 
 Slap. A gate, a breach in 
 a fence. 
 
 Maw. Slow. 
 
 Slee. Sly; sloes t, slyest. 
 
 Sleekit. Sleek, sly. 
 
 sliddery Slippery. 
 
 Sl.vpe. To fall over, as a 
 wet fiurow from the 
 plough. 
 
 Slypes Fell. 
 
 Sma'. Small. 
 
 Smeddum. Dust, powder, 
 mettle, sense. 
 
 Smiddy. A smithy. 
 
 Smoor. To smother. 
 
 Smoor'd Smothered. 
 
 Smytrie. A numerous col- 
 lection of small indivi- 
 duals. 
 
 Snash. Abuse,RilIingsgate. 
 
 snaw. Snow, to snow. 
 
 Snaw-broo. Melted snow. 
 
 Snawie. snowy. 
 
 Sncd. To lop, to cut off. 
 
 Snecshin. Snuff. 
 
 Sneeshin-mill. .\ snuff-box. 
 
 Snell. Ititter, biting. 
 
 Sniek-drawing. Trick-con- 
 triving. 
 
 Snick. The latchet of a 
 door. 
 
 Snool. One whose spirit is 
 broken with oppressive 
 slavery ; to submit tamely; 
 to sneak. 
 
 Snoove. To go smoothly 
 and constantly, to sneak. 
 
 Snowk. To scent or snuff, 
 as a dog, horse, &c. 
 
 Snowkit. Scented, snuffed. 
 
 Sonsle Having «weet, en- 
 I ga;,'ing looks ; lucky, 
 I jolly. 
 
 Boom. To swim. 
 Sooth. Truth,aprettyoath. 
 Sowcns. A dish made of 
 
 oatmeal soured, &c. 
 
 boiled up till they make 
 
 an agreeable pudding. 
 Souple. I"le.\iblc, swift 
 Souter. A shoemaker. 
 Sowp. A spoonful, a small 
 
 quantity of auy thin 
 
 li>,uid. 
 Sowth. Totryoveratunc, 
 
 w itii a low whistle. 
 Sowther. Solder, to solder, 
 
 to cement. 
 Spae. To prophesy, to 
 
 divine 
 Spaul. The loin bone. 
 Spairge. To dash, to soil 
 
 as with mire. 
 Spaviet. Having the spa 
 
 vin. 
 Speat. A sweeping torrent, 
 
 after rain or thaw. 
 Sped. To climb. 
 Spence. The parlour in a 
 
 country house. 
 Spier. 'To ask , to inquire 
 Spier't. Inquired 
 Splatter. A splutter, to 
 
 splutter. 
 Spleughan. A tobacco- 
 pouch. 
 Splore. A frolic, a noise, 
 
 riot. 
 Sprattle. To scramble. 
 Spreckled. Spotted, speck- 
 led. 
 Sprin'j. A quick air in 
 
 music, a Scottish reel. 
 Sprit. A tough-rooted 
 
 plant, something like 
 
 rushes. 
 Sprittie. Full otsprits. 
 Spurtle. The stiik used in 
 
 making oatmeal porridge. 
 Spunk. Fire, mettle, ,vit. 
 Spunkie Mettlesome, fiery, 
 
 will-o'-wisp, or ignii- 
 
 fatuus. 
 Squad. A crew, a party. 
 Squatter. To llutter ir, 
 
 water, as a wild duck, 5;c 
 Squattle. To sprawl. 
 Squeel. Ascream, a screech, 
 
 to scream. 
 Stacher. To stagger. 
 Stack. A rick of com, hay, 
 
 &c. 
 Staffgie. Diminutive of 
 
 stag. 
 Stan'. To stand; stan't, 
 
 did stand. 
 Stane. A stone. 
 Stank. Did stink ; a poo! 
 
 of standing water. 
 Slap. Stop. 
 Stark. Stiff, stout. 
 Startle. To run as cattle, 
 
 stung by the g.adtly. 
 Stauinrcl. A blockhead, 
 
 half-witted. 
 Staw. Did steal, to surfeit. 
 Stecli. To cram the belly. 
 Stcchin' Cramming. 
 Steck. To shut, a stitch. 
 Steer. To molest, to stir. 
 Steeve. Firm, compacted. 
 Stell. A still. 
 Sten. To bound or rise 
 
 hurriedly. 
 Sten't. Reared. 
 Stents. Tribute, dues of 
 
 any kind. 
 Stibble. Stubble; stibble- 
 
 rlg. the reaper in harvest 
 
 who takes the lead. 
 
 Stey. Steep; steyest, steep 
 
 est. 
 
 S'ick an' stow. Totally, 
 altogether. 
 
 Stilt. A crutch; to limp; 
 to h.alt 
 
 Stinipart. The eiirhth pan 
 of a Winchester bushel. 
 
 Stirk. A cow or bullock a 
 year old. 
 
 Stock. A plant or root ot 
 colewort, cabbage, &c. 
 
 Stockin'. Stocking'; throw- 
 ini; the stockin', « hen the 
 bride and bridegioom are 
 put into bed, and the 
 candle out, the former 
 throws a SUM kini; at ran- 
 d<im among the company 
 and the pci-suu whom it 
 stiikes is tlic next tha 
 will be married. 
 
 Stook. A shock of corn. 
 
 Stooked. tiade up in 
 shocks. 
 
 Stoor. Soundini . hollow, 
 strong and hoaise. 
 
 Stot. An ox. 
 
 Stoup, or Stowp. A kind of 
 jug or di.'h with ahandle. 
 
 Stoure. Dust, more parti- 
 cularly dust in motion. 
 
 Stowlins. lly stealth. 
 
 Stowen. Stolen. 
 
 Strack. Did strike. 
 
 Strae. Straw; to die a fair 
 stiae death, to die in bed. 
 
 Straik. Did strike. 
 
 Straikit. Stroked. 
 
 Strappan. Tall and hand- 
 some. 
 
 Straught Straight. 
 
 Streek. Stretched, 
 
 to 
 
 stretch. 
 Striddel. To straddle, 
 stroan. To spout 
 Studdie. An anvil. 
 
 tunipie. Diminutive of 
 
 stump, 
 Struut. Spirituous liquor 
 
 of any kind ; to walk 
 
 sturdily. 
 Stnif. Com or pulse of any 
 
 kind. 
 
 turt. Trouble ; to molest. 
 
 turtin. Frighted. 
 
 inker. Su:,'ar. 
 Sud. Should. 
 Sugh. The continued rush- 
 ing noise of wind or 
 
 writer. 
 Suthron. Southron, anold 
 
 name for the l^ngli&h 
 
 nation. 
 Swaird. Sward 
 all'd. S Helled, 
 ank. Stately, jolly. 
 Swaukie, or Swanker. A 
 
 tight, strapping young 
 
 fellow or girl. 
 Swap. All exchange, to 
 
 barter. 
 
 ivat. Did sweat. 
 Swatch. A sample. 
 Swats. Drink, good ale. 
 eatin'. Sweating, 
 eer. Lazy, avei^e;dead- 
 weer, extremely averse. 
 Swoor. swore, did swear, 
 inge. To 11 at, to whip. 
 Swirlie. Knaggy, full of 
 
 knots. 
 Swirl. A curve, an eddying 
 
 blast, or pool; a knot ill 
 
 wood. 
 Swith. Get away. 
 
 wither. To hesitate In 
 
 choice, an irresolute 
 
 wavering in choice. 
 Syne. Since, ago, then. 
 
 41* 
 
Bii 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 T. 
 
 rackets. Hobnails for driv 
 ing into shoes. 
 
 T;ie. A toe ; tliree-tae'd, 
 havina tliroc prongs. 
 
 Tak. To talce; takin', 
 taking. 
 
 Tansle. A sea-weed. 
 
 rap. The top. 
 
 Tapctless. Heedless, foolish. 
 
 Tarrow. To murmur at 
 one's allowance. 
 
 Tarrow't. Murmured. 
 
 Tarrv-breeks. A sailor. 
 
 Taulil, or Tald. Told. 
 
 Taupic. A foolish, thought- 
 less girl. 
 
 Tauted.orTautie. Matted 
 togctlier, spoken of hair 
 or" wool. 
 
 Tawie. That allows itself 
 peaceably to be handled, 
 spoken olahorse, CO w,&c. 
 
 Teat. A small quantity, a 
 handful. 
 
 Ten-hours' -bite. A slight 
 feed to the horses wuile 
 in the yoke in the fore- 
 noon. 
 
 Tent. Afield pulpit, heed, 
 caution ; to take heed. 
 
 Ti ntie. Heedful, cautious. 
 
 Tentless. Heedless. 
 
 Tcugh. Tough. 
 
 ThacK. Thatch ; thack an' 
 rape, clothing, necess- 
 aries. 
 
 Thae. These. 
 
 Thairms. Small guts,fiddle- 
 struiL'S. 
 
 Thankit. Thanked. 
 
 Thcgiiher. Together. 
 
 Themsels. Themselves. 
 
 Thick. Intimate, lamiliar. 
 
 Thieveless. Cold, dry, 
 spited, spoken of a per- 
 son's demeanour. 
 
 Thir. These. 
 
 Thirl. To thrill. 
 
 Thirled. Thrilled, vibrated. 
 
 Thole. To suffer, to endure. 
 
 Thowe. A thaw, to thaw. 
 
 Thowless. A want of en- 
 ergy, fingerless. 
 
 Thrang. Busy, crowded. 
 
 Thrapple. Tiiroat, wind- 
 pipe. 
 
 Thraw. To sprain, to twist, 
 to contradict 
 
 Thrawin'. Twisting, iSre. 
 
 Thrawn. Sprained, twisted, 
 contradicted, contradic- 
 tion. 
 
 Threap To maintain by 
 dint of assertion. 
 
 Tlireshin". 'I'lirashing. 
 
 Threteen. Thirteen. 
 
 Thristle. Thistle. 
 
 Through. To go on with, 
 to make out. 
 
 Through-other. Pell-mell, 
 confusedly. 
 
 Thud. To make a loud 
 intermittent noise. 
 
 Thumpit. Thumped. 
 
 Thvsel'. Thyself. 
 
 Tili't. To it. 
 
 Tiinmer. Timber. 
 
 Tine. To lose; tint, lost. 
 
 linkler. A Tinker. 
 
 Tip. A ram. 
 Ti|>pence. Twopence. 
 Till. To make a slight 
 
 noise, to uncover. 
 Tirlin'. Uncovering. 
 Tither. The other. 
 Tittle. To whisper. 
 Tittlin'. Whispering. 
 Tocher. Marriage portion 
 Ted. A fox. 
 Toddle. To totter like the 
 
 walk of a child. 
 Toddlin". Tottering. 
 Toom. Empty. 
 Toop. A ram 
 Toun. A hamlet, a farm- 
 house. 
 Tout. The blast of a honi, 
 
 or trumpet, to blow a 
 
 horn, &c. 
 Tow. A rope. 
 Towmond A twelvemonth. 
 Towzie. Rough, shaggy. 
 Toy. Aeapof an old fashion 
 
 in female head-dress. 
 Toyte. To totter like o'.d 
 
 age. 
 Transmogrify'd. Transmi- 
 
 Jjrated .metamorphosed. 
 Trashtiie. Ti-ash. 
 Trickle. Full ot tricks. 
 Trig. Spruce, neat. 
 Trimly. Excellently. 
 Trow. To believe. 
 Trowth. Truth, a petty 
 
 oath. 
 Try't. Tried. 
 Tug. Raw hide, of which, 
 
 in old times, plough traces 
 
 were frequently made. 
 Tulzie. A quarrel; to 
 
 quan'el, to fight. 
 Twa. Two. 
 Twa-three. A few. 
 'Twad. It would. 
 T-.val. Twelve ; twal-penny 
 
 worth, a small quantity, 
 
 a pennyworth. 
 N.IS. One penny English 
 
 is 12d. Scots. 
 Twin. To part. 
 Tyke. A dog. 
 
 U. 
 Unco. Strange, uncouth, 
 
 ver J very great, prodijfi- 
 
 ous. 
 Uncos. News. 
 Unkcnn'd. Unkno-wn. 
 Unskaith'd. Undamaged, 
 
 unhurt. 
 Upo'. Upon. 
 
 Vap'rin. Vapouring. 
 A'era. Very. 
 Virl. A ferule. 
 
 W. 
 Wa'. "Wall ; wa's, walls. 
 Wahster. A weaver. 
 Wad. Would, to bet, a 
 
 bet, to pledge. 
 Wadna. Would not. 
 Wae. Woe, sorrowful. 
 Waesucks! or waes me! 
 
 Alas! Oh, the pity! 
 Watl. The cross thread 
 
 that goes from the shuttle 
 
 through the web. 
 
 Waifu". Wailing. 
 
 AVair. To lay out, to expend 
 
 Wale. Choice, to choose. 
 
 Wal'd. Chose, chosen. 
 
 Walie. Ample, large, jolly; 
 also an interjection of 
 distress. 
 
 Wame. The belly. 
 
 Wamefou'. A bellyful. 
 
 Wanchansie. Unlucky. 
 
 Wanrestfu'. Restless. 
 
 Wark. Work. 
 
 Wark-lume. A tool to 
 work with. 
 
 Waric, or Warld. AVorld. 
 
 Warlock. A wizard. 
 
 Warly. Worldly, eager on 
 amassing wealth. 
 
 Warran'. A warrant, to 
 Avanant. 
 
 Waist. Worst. 
 
 Warstl'd, or Warsl'd. 
 Wrestled. 
 
 Wastrie. rrodigixlitv. 
 
 AVat. Wet; I Wilt, I wot, 
 I Itnow. 
 
 Watcr-brose. lirose made 
 of meal and watersimply, 
 without the addition of 
 milk, butter, &c. 
 
 AVattle. A twig, a wand. 
 
 AVauble. To swin^, to reel. 
 
 Wankit. Thickened, as 
 fullers do cloth. 
 
 Waukrife. Not apt to sleep. 
 
 Waur. Worse, to worst. 
 
 M'aur't. 'Worsted. 
 
 Wean, or Weanie. A child. 
 
 Wearie, or Weary. Many 
 a weary body. Many a 
 different person. 
 
 Weason. Weasand. 
 
 Wee. Little; wee thing*, 
 little ones; wee bit, a 
 small matter. 
 
 Weel. Well; weelfare, wel- 
 fare. 
 
 Weet. Rain, wetness. 
 
 We'se. W' e sh.all. 
 
 Wha. Who. 
 
 Whaizle. To wheeze. 
 
 Whalpit. AVhelpcd. 
 
 AVhang. A leathern string, 
 a piece of ciieese, bread, 
 &c ; to give the strap- 
 pado. 
 
 AVhare. AVhcre; wharc'cr, 
 wherever. 
 
 Wheep. To fly nimbly, to 
 jerk; penny- wheep, small 
 beer. 
 
 Whaso. Wniose. 
 
 Whatreck. Nevertheless. 
 
 Whid. The motion of a 
 hare, running but not 
 friL-hted; a lie; 
 
 WhiJdin'. Running as a 
 hare or coney. 
 
 Whigmaleeries. Whims, 
 fancies, crochets. 
 
 Whingin'. Crying, com- 
 plaining, fretting. 
 
 Whirligigums. Useless or- 
 naments, tritlmg appen- 
 dages. 
 
 Whissle. A whistle, to 
 whistle. 
 
 Whisht. Silence; to hold 
 one's whisht, to be silent. 
 
 Whisk. To sweep, to lash. 
 
 Whiskit. Lashed. 
 
 AVhitter. A hearty dr.iught 
 of litjuor. 
 
 Whun-stane. A whinstone. 
 
 Whyles. Whiles, some- 
 times. 
 
 AVi'. With. 
 
 AA'ick . To strike a stone la 
 an oblique direction, a 
 term in curling. 
 
 AA'iel. A small « hirlpool. 
 
 AVifie. A diminutive or 
 endearing term for wife. 
 
 AVimpIe. To meander. 
 
 AVimpl't. Meandered. 
 
 AVimplin". AVaving, mean- 
 dei ing. 
 
 AVin'. To wind, to winnow. 
 
 AVin'. AVind; w'n's, winds 
 
 AVin't. AA'inded, as a bob- 
 bin of yarn. 
 
 AVinna. AVill not. 
 
 AViiinoek. A window. 
 
 AVinsome. Hearty, vauntie 
 gay. 
 
 AAintle. A staggering mo- 
 tion ; to stagirer, to reeL 
 
 AA'inze. An oath. 
 
 AViss. To wish. 
 
 A\itlioutten. AVithout. 
 
 AVizen'd. Hide-hound, 
 
 dried, shrunk. 
 
 AA'omicr. A wonder, a con- 
 tcniptcious appellation. 
 
 AVoo'. AVool. 
 
 AVoo. To court, to make 
 love to. 
 
 AA'oodie. A rope, more pro- 
 perly one made of with* 
 or willows. 
 
 AA'ooer-bab. The garter 
 knotted below the knee 
 with a couple of loops. 
 
 AVordy. AVorthy. 
 
 AVorset. AVorsted. 
 
 AVi ack. To teazc, to vex. 
 
 Wraith. An apparition 
 exactly like a living per- 
 son, whose appearance is 
 said to forbode the per- 
 son's approaching death. 
 
 AVrang. AVron?, to wrong. 
 
 Wreath. A drifted heap of 
 snow. 
 
 AVud. Mad, distracted. 
 
 V\uinble. A wimble. 
 
 AVyiiecoat. A tiaunel vest. 
 
 Wj te. IJlarae, to blame. 
 
 Ye. This pronoun is fre- 
 quently used for thou. 
 
 A'earns. Longs much. 
 
 A'earlings. Rom in the 
 same year, coevals. 
 
 Year. Is used both for 
 singular and plural years. 
 
 A'ell. BaiTen, that gives no 
 milk. 
 
 A"erk. To lash, to jerk. 
 
 Yerkit. Jerked, lashed. 
 
 Y'estreen. Yesternight. 
 
 Yill. Ale. 
 
 Vird. Earth. 
 
 Yokin. Y'okin, abouV 
 
 A"ont. Beyond. 
 
 Yoursel'. Yourself. 
 
 Y'owe. An ewe. 
 
 Y'owie. I)iminntiveofy»WB 
 
 Yule. Cbi'istmas. 
 
Sl|i)im&ir. 
 
ttMn nf.Clariniia tn %i\xm; 
 
 TCompare with Lilters Nos. 83 and 84. pp. 
 301 and 302.] 
 
 FOR MR. ROBERT BURNS, 
 
 CARE OF MK. CRUIKSHANK. 
 
 2, St. James's Square, 
 
 December Sth, 17S7. 
 This is truly a great source of vexation 
 and discouragement. It seems really as if 
 some malignant foredoom had determined 
 that we should not meet, and that none of 
 our little arrangements should be consum- 
 mated. But if 1 lament ths disappointment* 
 which once more prevents us from enjoying 
 that delicate "converse of soul," or "feast of 
 reason," which I have promised myself in 
 your society, how much more keenly do I 
 feel for its cause ! 
 
 AVhat a profusion of sentiments, and such 
 like, has this accident not marred ! perhaps 
 even choked in the earliest incipient develop- 
 ment ! 
 
 When you flatter me with the idea of being 
 a favourite of yours, you little know " how 
 subtle is the uuctiotf." I have longed and 
 longed that i\liss Nimmo, who was blessed 
 witli your acquaintance, would have imparted 
 
 • As will be noticed in the foregoing Notes 
 to the Correspondence, in respect of the first 
 two letters of Burns to Clariiula, the i)oct had 
 been eniratrcd to take tea with Jlrs. M'Lehose 
 on the Gth ('1 hursday). Slie had tlien deferred 
 the entertainment of the poet until this day, 
 Saturday the Sth, when an accident, causing 
 eevcrc injury to his leg. laid him up. 
 
 % small share of that blessing lo me, by 
 making us known to each othei. But when 
 you were informed that I was a poetess, you 
 were mislead by the pleasant irony of our 
 mutual and gentle friend. That I am 
 passionately fond, nay, even "abandoned" 
 (save the word !) to poetry, is true ; that I 
 have, from time to time, done something in 
 the way of rhyme is true enough; but that I 
 have ever written poetry, 1 fear, is no " true 
 bill." 
 
 How exquisite are the lines* which you 
 send me; not only for the delicate nature of 
 the flattery, to which every woman is a little 
 alive, but as poetry. Do not think that I am 
 weak enough to be spoiled by such adulaticm. 
 It is a poet's adulation, and, as you yourself 
 observe, "Fiction is the native region of 
 poetry." I doubt even, if ten years earlier in 
 life, I should have suffered myself to be 
 " befooled " by even such beautiful, simple, 
 and musical praise as yours. 
 
 But now for my own poetical aspirations, 
 or for my own claim to poetical f/ispiration. 
 Look over the following; I look to your 
 candour, not your compliments. You will 
 admit that they possess anything in verse 
 except the spirit of poetry. 
 [Here follow the "Lines to a Blackbird."^] 
 
 Do not forget to let me hear of you or 
 from you, or both, as often as couvcuient ; 
 
 * Alluding to some verses enclosed in Burns'n 
 note, to which this was a reply. 
 
 + These lines, modi lied by Burns, and with 
 the addition of four lines of his own, appeared 
 in the Scots Miuical Museum. 
 
64a 
 
 LETTEES OF CLARINDA 
 
 for you know the rigid forms of the world 
 now keep us apart, otherwise than by this 
 sort of converse. But we must and sliall 
 meet, and till then be of good cheer. I 
 console myself in my disappointment by the 
 thought of what gratification is in store for 
 me, and with the sensation, that this pleasure 
 is daily accumulating intensity. Adieu. 
 A. M. 
 
 NO. H. 
 
 FOR MR. ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 2 St. James Square, 
 
 Dec. Itjth, 1787. 
 
 I HAD no idea till last night that Miss 
 Nmimo was so nearly concerned in your 
 accident. She is now laying to her own 
 charge a share of the cause of it. 
 
 You are well attended. — I know of no 
 better surgeon and worthier man than ]\Ir. 
 Wood ; and the knowledge that you are 
 under his care, if you will but have patience, 
 and follow his directions, reassures me con- 
 siderably. 
 
 What letters you write ! Do you think 
 you are addressing a love-lorn foolish girl of 
 sixteen ? Have you any idea your corres- 
 pondent is a married woman, and a widow 
 only in temporary separation — a widow of 
 the heart rather than of the law ? 
 
 You are not likely to play Jacob over 
 again, and serve your seven years, and your 
 seven years again, in expectation of this 
 shadow of future happiness, nor do you 
 know yourself; at least, I think not. But 
 do let me entreat you not to fatigue yourself 
 with too much writing, or to work yourself 
 up with excitement. I can rely upon daily 
 intelligence of you through Miss Nimrao; 
 and I would not have you do anything to 
 retard your recovery. For heaven's sake, be 
 calm, and patient, and quiet, and we shall 
 soon have the pleasure of your society again. 
 A. M. 
 
 NO. III. 
 
 [Compare with Letter No. 85, p. 302.] 
 
 Dec. 20th, 1787. 
 
 I KNOW you too well ; at least I think so, 
 to. suspect you of really transgressing the 
 unvarying boundary of true decorum, much 
 
 more the limits of honour. I have, if I mi* 
 take not, thoroughly read your character in 
 your imperishable poems. I have perceived 
 an impetuous generosity and high-miiided- 
 ness, which are apt to overlook the ordinary 
 regulations, observed or feigned by sordid 
 souls, and in their own native purity 
 to be heedless of the interpretations of 
 the world. But those interpretations — those 
 constructions ! Do they not require some 
 more guarded consideration? Were I your 
 judge, alas ! I do not think even your 
 "handsome troop of follies" would meet 
 with much reproof; for " undisciplined" as 
 they be,- they are as much a part of what I 
 am obliged to admire in your character, as is 
 that indomitable independence which dis- 
 tinguishes you itself. 
 
 I am much joyed to hear that you are so 
 greatly improving with respect of your 
 wound— but as to calling you a " stupid 
 fellow," I do not think either you or I would 
 have much consciousness of attaching 
 meaning to the expression. I have proposed 
 to myself a more pastoral name for you, 
 although it be not much in keeping with 
 the shrillness of the Eltrick Pipe. What 
 say you to Syhander? I feel somewhat less 
 restraint when I subscribe myself 
 
 Claeinda.* 
 
 [Reply to Letter No. 85, pp. 302, 303.] 
 Dec. 2\st, 1787. 
 
 I HAVE just received your long and too 
 pleasing letter, and seize a few moments to 
 write some acknowledgments before I leave 
 town, which will be to-morrow morning. I 
 am at a loss where to begin ? Is it to you or 
 to Dr. Gregory, that I should first reply ? 
 What will become of the severer discipline 
 to which I must subject my natural foibles 
 and vanities ? 
 
 I should be devoid of that strong sense of 
 gratitude for good which characterises all 
 innocent hearts, did I acknowledge or feel 
 my sell unhappy. No, no! Sylvander, that 
 is not the word. 1 am not unhappy ! The 
 trials and misfortunes which I have under- 
 gone, and at which, I fain would shudder, 
 
 • This is the first letter which had been 
 si^ed in the assumed name of Clarinda, and 
 it has been omitted and described as wantini) 
 in all the previous editions of this Correspond- 
 ence. 
 
TO BURNS. 
 
 549 
 
 even now, in the retrospective glance at them, 
 are of the past. But I have done no wrong ; 
 I am conscious of no misdoing; I am innocent; 
 and therefore, I am not unhappy. I behevc 
 even those misfortunes to which you rccal 
 my memory with lamentation, have mucii 
 contributed to chasten those keen sensibili- 
 ties of which I am made up, and to make me 
 as capable of the real enjoyments of life as I 
 now am. I have sought Religion, nor have 
 I sought it in vain. And could you but 
 catch a glimpse of her in the benign, seemly 
 garb and aspect in which she has answered 
 to my appeals of sorrow, you would fain see 
 in her the real.ultimate, mid or.iy comforter! 
 On my return here, which I expect will 
 take place towards the middle of next week, 
 that is, after Christmas day, I will reply to 
 your letter more categorically ; but do not 
 speak of our correspondence, for innocent as 
 I am, and conscious as I am of that inno- 
 cence, you know how censorious are those 
 whose vulgar minds are incapable of a similar 
 communion. — Farewell ! may God bless you 
 and keep you. Ci^AiUNCA. 
 
 \^Compare with the last, i.e. Ko. 4.] 
 
 January 1st, 1798. 
 
 This shall be, at all events, a partial 
 fulfilment of the promise by which I bound 
 myself in my last, to treat of your letter a 
 little more at length, and more categorically. 
 In the first place, however, let me tell you 
 that 1 have been paying a visit to a country 
 friend of mine, who runs complete riot in her 
 praise and admiration of you, and whose 
 personal endowments and charms would 
 I. ike her a truly worthy Clurinda to such a 
 Hylvander. You have once met this fair 
 admirer of yours at the house of Mrs. Bruce, 
 and I must take some occasion, sooner 
 or later, of making you personally acquainted, 
 as I am sure the admiration will be reciprocal. 
 Before I proceed to your letter, let me wish 
 you all the kindest, best, and most humane 
 of wishes on this first day of a new year, in 
 which, with the help of hea\en, may you 
 number your days l>y enjoyment, and the 
 accession of a year by wisdom. Now for 
 your epistle, respecting which, let me first 
 thank you for the touching lines which you 
 enclose.* 
 
 • Lines addressed to Clarinda, as they ore 
 BOW inserted amongst the Poetical Works, in 
 the former part of this volume. 
 
 That Dr. Gregory should have found mine 
 wanting, in many respects, is not to be won- 
 dered at. The faults I had observed myself; 
 but they were part of the verses, and I, as 
 incapable of amending, as I had been 
 incapable of suppressing the expression of a 
 particular sentiment. All my grammatical 
 knowledge is merely that which is acquired 
 by the habits of conversation, writing, or 
 reading. I was never taught. 
 
 I think I may rightly interpret your senti- 
 ment that " there is no corresponding with 
 an agreeable woman without a mixture of 
 the tender passion." How little do the 
 I majority of the children of the world feel or 
 ajipreciate the sentiments of love and friend- 
 ship ! How coarsely and constantly do they 
 not misapply the one, and desecrate the 
 other ! 
 
 That a gentle sentiment should be inevi- 
 tably commingled in the communion between 
 the sexes, \Nhcre delicacy of sentiment, 
 extreme, nay exquisite sensibility and lofty 
 consciousness of innocence preside, is natural 
 and intelligible. It is the more essentially 
 entitled, in this case, to the pure appellation 
 of love, that it is free from all the gross 
 pursuits of selfish gratification ; that it is 
 devoted solely to the elevated purpose of 
 conveying real happiness to its object ; in 
 fact, that it is honest and unpolluted. In 
 such a manner, why should not an intercourse 
 of sympathy and intelligence exist between 
 those of different sexes? I would frankly 
 avow that I think it might, and does in 
 perfect innocence ; and I do not feel that I 
 should be bound to discard even the term 
 which implies the utmost tenderness. 
 
 Nor should we reject the conditions sup- 
 plied by circumstance. It is from circum- 
 stance, really, that the purest philosophy 
 (I mean the wisdom of life) is to be acquired. 
 Had you reflected on this, — had you subjected 
 my career to the test of comparison with 
 circumstance, — hadyouforraedajustestimate 
 of my character, after this moralizing 
 fashion, you would not have deplored that 
 any " malignant demon should have been 
 permitted to dash my cup of life and sorrow." 
 On the contrary, the all-wise Disposer of the 
 world, estimating the peculiar bent of that 
 supremacy of passion (corrigible for good, or 
 capable of runnhig M'lld for evil), has sub- 
 jected it to the schooling, tempering, and 
 subduing which were requisite. Thus, by 
 calling religion to our aid in the considera- 
 tion of ourselves, our lives, our fortune, or 
 our misfortune, may we distinguish in each 
 sorrow a chastening and gentle provision for 
 more enduring happiness than is to be 
 
650 
 
 LETTERS OF CLARIXDA 
 
 gathered from the sunny field of a perishable 
 prosperity ! 
 
 ^Mierefore do T tenderly believe in the 
 " unknown state of being," in which, as you 
 say, we shall one day meet for endless com- 
 munion of unalloyed affection 1 Consider : 
 should we attain it, except it were through 
 the trials of which you complain? But to 
 what unlimited extent of gravity am I not 
 tending? Shall I not thus surfeit you of 
 my sentiments? Will you not condemn 
 our correspondence to an untimely and 
 abrupt cessation, on account of the tedium 
 with which I oppress you? But you should 
 not : I feel, and must express all I feel. 
 I know no reserve; and in that true and 
 heartfelt interest for your happiness, I cannot 
 help preaching a doctrine which, I believe, 
 may compass it, though it be tardily. It is 
 your fault to dash at the first impulse of 
 a generous, but tumultuous passion, " into 
 mid stream." You would forestall events, 
 or deprecate the turn of affairs, from which 
 you are to derive all the good which is in 
 store for you. 
 
 I am still engaged in reading those poems 
 in which your character is so indelibly writ, 
 and which will inevitably perpetuate the 
 record of your foibles, as well as of your 
 loftier qualities. Do favour me with any 
 scraps you can spare. Perhaps, also, from 
 time to time, you will allow me the freedom 
 of expressing the ideas which they suggest, 
 the merits which I observe, or even the faults 
 which I may distinguish. How much am I 
 not pleased, that Dr. Gregory, whose reputa- 
 tion for virtue, as well as fur genius, is so 
 generally acknowledged, should be numbered 
 amongst your trusty friends. If for this 
 alone, I should like to be acquainted with 
 hnu; for there must be a^'e ne seeds qiioi that 
 is kindred in us, for the acceptation and 
 discernment of your character, to have been 
 common to us both. 
 
 I look upon him as a warm friend of mine, 
 also, although we are not even acquainted. 
 There is some unseen link between us. But 
 I weiry you, and must wish you good bye. 
 Clauinda. 
 
 NO. VI. 
 
 [Rei)ly to a Letter from Burns, wJiich is 
 wantinr;.'] 
 Friday, January itJi, 1788. 
 
 Melancholy is really one of the first 
 of incentives to the record of our sentiments 
 
 in verse, and the universal gaiety of the 
 season recoils npon me with a sense of deso- 
 tion, and makes me insuparably melancholy. 
 It is the season of household enjoyments of 
 home happiness, and you knov/ I have none. 
 What, wonder, then, if, on receiving youif 
 lines, I should venture upon a reply " in 
 kind ? " I cannot resist the impulse, how- 
 ever inadequate be my capacity. Look to it. 
 Here are my lines. 
 
 [27;e lines opening, " Talk not of Love', it 
 gives me Pain," were here inserted.^ 
 
 I have not, for some time, heard how your 
 recovery proceeds. Miss Nimrao, even, has 
 not been my companion of late ; and, I 
 should, therefore, like to hear an account of 
 progress directly from yourself. Does it not 
 strike you as very quauit and droll, that we 
 two, who have only met once in person, 
 should be carrying on so persistent an inter- 
 course by means of pen and ink ? If you 
 could possibly venture as far as this, in some 
 conveyance, I should be happy to receive you 
 to-morrow evening, as I ought to have done 
 nearly a month ago. If you can come, do 
 not omit to take every care of yourself. 
 
 Clarinda. 
 
 {Reply to No. 86, pp. 303, 304.] 
 
 January Gth, 1788. 
 
 How was I not delighted, my dear friend, 
 with your letters of last night ! I do not 
 know why so lively an interest should he 
 excited in one's heart or recollection, by the 
 description of an early love-scene, if it be 
 not, that all of us have felt the rapture of 
 such meetings once, and only once, in our 
 lives. The indelible impression which such 
 an incident makes upon the mind, is, 1 appre- 
 hend, the result of the singularity of the 
 feelings which accompany it, and which 
 never recur. I do not know whether a 
 greater degree of interest is not created iu 
 me by the fact, that you instal me as your 
 confidant, and unreservedly lay bare your 
 foibles and follies to me. This complete 
 confidence adds much charm to your letters. 
 I cannot resist the fuhiess of feeling — of 
 sympathy — which it arouses. I can recal 
 similar recollections of my own. Nor do I 
 believe that, in all the lofty sentiment, re- 
 fined delicacy, and keener discernment of 
 maturer years, there is anything which can 
 
TO BURNS. 
 
 551 
 
 equal the rapture of an early — a first and 
 rural love-interview. 
 
 But to reason on other matters : — Why 
 are you so hitter an adversary of Calvinism? 
 Your avowal confirms the dread which had 
 been awakened by some of your satirical 
 poems, ^\'herefore, my dear Sylvander, will 
 you imputfn these doctrines which are so dear 
 to me ? You should not charge a creed with 
 the failings, nay, even the knaveries of its 
 professed ministers. Where will you find a 
 sect which numbers no hypocrites? Calvin- 
 ism is amongst my strongest and dearest 
 convictions, and stands confirmed in my con- 
 science by the best examples — that of an an- 
 gelic mother, whom I lost when quite young, 
 and that of the only true and devoted friend 
 whom I have since possessed. It was not the 
 creed which I was taught in infancy, and, 
 therefore, does not consist in the attachment 
 of prejudice. 
 
 Sly father was attached to Arminianism ; 
 and I myself continued in the profession in- 
 culcated by my education, until the friend to 
 whom I allude, forced conviction upon me ; 
 and if I may record a more peacefid and con- 
 fident state of mind and hope, since the 
 period of this conviction (wliich I certainly 
 can do), may I not infer, that the true 
 mission of religion, that of inspiring forti- 
 tude, long suffering, confidence, hope, resig- 
 nation, and complete peace of mind, has 
 been fulfilled by this means ? You little 
 think, Sylvander, how deeply, how seriously 
 our lives, our thoughts, our deeds — every- 
 thing — is affected by a thorough religious 
 conviction ! It is a sad reflection for me, 
 who hold your well-being so dear, to think 
 that the misdoing of men should have so 
 warped that brilliant luiderstandiug with 
 which God lias gifted you, as to have driven 
 you almost from the capability of patiently 
 entertaining thoughts of this kind. Would 
 to heaven, I could prevail with you in this ! 
 Would, tiiat you should seriously try the 
 merits of such objections as occur to you ! 
 Yet, may I not flatter myself, that my Syl- 
 vander is not without esteem for my ordi- 
 nary judgment. No event would exercise so 
 much influence for my gratification, as the 
 knowledge, the assurance, that you would 
 entertain the question. Do not be wearied 
 with my reflections ; do not allow yourself 
 to give way to the first impulse of ridicule. 
 And when you are seriously inclinctl, and 
 can reason with me calmly, and leisurely, 
 turn your attention to this letter. 
 
 square, or on the close? If on the square, 
 I shall have, at least, the small gratification 
 of exchanging glances of recognition with 
 you to-morrow afternoon, or the day after, 
 
 as I shall be in that neighbourhood. 
 
 Beware of wedlock, unless you can meet with 
 a mate equally ardent in love with yourself. 
 You say you fear the improbability of your 
 meeting with such a companion ; do not, 
 therefore, be precipitate, lest after "marriage 
 in haste, you repent at leisure." I have 
 many things to say, which I wouhl fain 
 write; but it is an endless affair to write llie 
 long stories which might be uttered in a 
 short half-hour of sweet companionship. So, 
 till we meet, let me defer some of these 
 burthens which I would gladly have lifted 
 from me. Adieu. Write soon. 
 
 Clarinda. 
 
 How is it with the aspect of your apart- 
 Gients ? Do your wiudows look out on the 
 
 48 
 
 January* 17S3. 
 
 I HAVE been equally disappointed with 
 yourself. I had, as you know, promised 
 myself " a glance of recognition," which 
 should be mutual from the window of your 
 prison. The weather has been very unfa- 
 vourable ; and I have been obliged to remain 
 in-doors ; in addition to which, my youngest 
 child is very ailing. So much so, that for the 
 last three or four nights, I have had little 
 time for rest. The " bottle " has evidently 
 not impaired your intellect, or your feelings, 
 but I should think your companions had not 
 been exactly to your taste ; and I take it as 
 a most unpremeditated compliment, that 
 you should turn from those ill assorted 
 beings, to our mutual intercourse, to pour 
 out the fulness of your heart. How often 
 do I not feel, that there are few of fellow- 
 feeling with my own intense sensibility, and 
 that the majority, consequently, misinterpret 
 the warmth and unrestrained overflowings of 
 my heart ! My poor child is fretful again, and 
 is evidently suffering, and I really do believe, 
 I cannot be anything else but a good and 
 tender mother. AVhat should you think of 
 a mean-spirited woman who should be sur- 
 prised at my attachment to children, whom 
 I owe to an unnatural husband ? Such wa<, 
 however, the actual exclamation of an ac- 
 quaintance yesterday. I could not restrain 
 the bitterness of my reply to a suggestion, 
 w liich was unfeeling as regards me, as it was 
 
 Probably about the 9lh, 1 0th, or 1 1th. 
 
652 
 
 lettl;:;s Ol' claeinda 
 
 unnatural towards the poor helpless innocent 
 children. Do I not feel that I owe them a 
 double share of parental love ? 
 
 Besides this, their father's misdoing is 
 their misfortune ; and this misfortune alone, 
 apart from the tender ties to which it relates, 
 would constitute a bond of attachment. 
 With what a keen relish and sense of grati- 
 fication do I not read Fielding's Amelia. 
 You have, doubtless, read it, and have, like 
 me, admired, nay, felt the domestic tender- 
 ness, which could only have been portrayed 
 by one who deeply felt it. Can you not ad- 
 mire a Booth in his ardent, but thoughtless 
 attachment, before a cold, calculating hus- 
 band, whose artificial virtues are as repulsive 
 as the reckless vices of the other. It is so 
 like you! I could love and forgive him, but 
 should shrink with abhorrence from the 
 other. 
 
 Of your religious reflections, anon. I am 
 not in a controversial mood at this moment, 
 and do not like to give away a vantage in a 
 matter of such consequence. I have been 
 rambling away on any subject which came 
 uppermost, for lack of intelligence to convey. 
 Who in the world is she of whom you rave 
 with such frenzied passion, and of whom you 
 would not have me " guess ? " Can it be 
 your Jean ? If so, the indelible nature of 
 an attachment which has so constantly 
 outlived the first gratification of mere desire, 
 is an undeniable evidence of real, pure devo- 
 tion. It does you honour, as it will con- 
 tribute, one day or other, to your happiness. 
 I receive your " good wishes," and you well 
 know, that mine as constantly attend you. 
 And if there be a guardianship whereby one 
 spirit is suffered to exercise its never-failing 
 agency in defence of another, Sylvander, my 
 soul is watching over you this night. 
 
 Clarinda. 
 
 January* 1783. 
 
 The morning opens auspiciously. This is 
 the first bright day which we have seen this 
 week ; and it is the first morning also, on 
 which my poor child awakes refreshed by 
 calm and uninterrupted sleep of some hours' 
 duration. I think, at last, I may promise 
 myself the fulfilment of the expectation 
 
 • This letter was evidently written on the 
 day (OUowing after that in which the forego- 
 insj (No. 8 1 was penned. Both of these letters 
 were probably sent by the ^5ame carrier. 
 
 which both of us have entertained for several 
 days, of a silent interview between your 
 window and the square. This is the third 
 time I announce the intended visit. Bruce 
 did not despair at the seventh. We seem to 
 be peculiarly unlucky in our appointments. 
 The first, second, and third, in which I pro- 
 mised myself the pleasure of your company, 
 were equally frustrated by trivial, or grave 
 circumstances. Perhaps, however, this was 
 a dispensation which should lead to a more 
 unreserved communion of our most secret 
 thoughts and feelings, than would have 
 resulted from the formalities of society. I 
 fancy we have become more thoroughly and 
 mutually acquainted, than we otherwise 
 should have done ; and, I trust, we have both 
 of us profited in consequence. Be of good 
 cheer, Sylvander ! Clarinda, will not ever 
 continue to be one of those will-o'-the- 
 wisps — those visionary beings which are 
 doomed to elude the realization ; and, if the 
 strange destiny which presides over our 
 meeting, be at last propitious, this afternoon, 
 at two, I will be revealed, as I am — your 
 own 
 
 Clarinda 
 
 How was it I could not discover you, even 
 in the loftiest regions of the square ? Twice 
 did I return, to make the search in vain, upon 
 some pretext which satisfied me sufficiently 
 to warrant the inquiring gaze. It was not 
 that I did not survey the topmost stories. 
 Can you not give me a more definite idea of 
 the whereabouts to search? Something 
 seemed to say to me, that you did not 
 descry me either. I am grateful for your 
 kind and tender inquiries respecting my boy, 
 No very decided change has taken place, nor 
 can we expect it yet. It will be a long affair, 
 even if he recover. And patience is a 
 virtue, which, in this case, must necessarily 
 be practised. 
 
 Of the conversion of which you speak, 
 Sylvander, I should like to hear more. How 
 has it been effected ? And how have I partici- 
 pated in its agency? If it be a real conver- 
 sion, or a conversion from some of those harum 
 scarum vagaries which render the unbridled 
 son of fancy the sport of his own whim ; — the 
 latter even were something ; but if it be 
 conversion on subjects of yet higher conse- 
 quence, how shall I glory to have effected it ! 
 
 But why the wild frenzy of passion with 
 which you assail me ? It boots little to level 
 
TO BURNS. 
 
 653 
 
 imprecations at tics, and laws, and fashions. 
 For what if they were not ? Think you 
 'twould be conducive to the substantial hap- 
 piness of Clarinda? I am at a loss to 
 understand you. But, perhaps, also, 'twere 
 better that you should preserve the veil of 
 mystery which it may not be fit to raise from 
 your rhapsody. Are you not satislied with 
 the unity, the integrity of a friendship, than 
 which, nothing can be more earnest, pure, 
 devoted, and immutable? 
 
 Dissolve the ties of which you complain, 
 and what do either of us gain ? Some ro- 
 mantic dream of Utopia ; but little or no 
 reality. What have either of us to depend 
 upon? 
 
 AVhy do you not number Miss Nimmo in 
 the same category as Miss Chalmers ? How 
 flattered ought I not to be, to be thus asso- 
 ciated and to be compared with that incom- 
 parably admirable woman ! I do not think, 
 iimvever, you have a more firm and true 
 well-wisher on earth than Miss Nimrao, who 
 seems to tremble for every mis-step which 
 your impetuous temperament urges you to 
 take. 1 wonder now if I could possibly 
 refrain from writing to you, and from laying 
 bare my actual sentiments; for I write some 
 records of feelings, prompted by the thought 
 of you, which never leave my hands. And, 
 even now, I would send you some hues which 
 were suggested by observing you mixed up 
 with society which was not hkely to con- 
 iribute any good impressions, had 1 but your 
 promise not to be annoyed for my freedom. 
 
 I sadly fear our correspondence will dwin- 
 dle away after you leave town, and when 
 new objects have distracted your attention ; 
 and therefore, in somewhat jealous enjoy- 
 ment of my present gratification, I write on 
 more profusely. Nevertheless, and although 
 I feel that your marriage would be fatal to 
 our intercourse, I really should be happy to 
 see you well matche;! ; for I am well assured 
 that you can never rest satisfied or happy, 
 without some permanent object of attach- 
 ment. I propose to abandon myself in my 
 next epistle to one of my rambling preachings, 
 and to discuss religion with you again, having 
 much to observe in relation to the sentiments 
 expressed iu your recent letter ; but I shall 
 try to keep myself from worrying you for 
 some days to come. I am off the day after 
 to-morrow, with my poor boy, to Lcith, and 
 should then have been overjoyed of your 
 company, had you been capable of joining us. 
 You lu-e a great glutton in reading ; does it 
 h;ippen that Sancho's Letters have fallen in 
 your way ? If not, by all means obtain a 
 copy. What a beautiful piece is the epitaph 
 
 which you enclose me ; but it suggests a 
 melancholy train of thoughts, and the fore- 
 dwelling on the loss of those to whom we 
 are best attached, only serves to shed a 
 gloom over our existence, without being pro- 
 ductive of an equivalent of good results upon 
 our character. Oh that I had only half your 
 power of expression, and a little of that 
 brilliancy and vividness which you possess t 
 What could I not express I Clarinda. 
 
 January I2th, 1788. 
 
 Ah ! Sylvander, at last have you seen me 
 divested of those imaginary perfections 
 wrought up in your own fancy, and in my 
 own fulness of failing. Doubtless, have you 
 "weighed, and found me wanting." And I 
 would fain confess that, notwithstanding the 
 very pressing desire which I had to enjoy 
 your society, I had, at the same time, a dread 
 lest it should destroy the spell which attached 
 you to me. As for myself, I do not ever 
 remember to have enjoyed such transcen- 
 dental gratification. Nor do I believe, 
 Sylvander, that such enjoyment is reserved 
 for many amongst human kind, nor for the 
 few who are capable of it, very frequently. 
 Why is it, then, that I have not slept ? I 
 inquire of my conscience, whether I have 
 done wrong, and that conscience acquits me. 
 No limit of propriety or virtue have I trans- 
 gressed. Still have I some indomitable 
 dread, lest iu the eye of the Deity, the fine 
 distinctions of my reasoning be susceptible 
 of revealing something whicli might lead to 
 displeasure. The idea that a friend, to whom 
 I am much indebted, should not be prepared 
 to concur in the propriety of my conduct, 
 and the dread that you yourself, Sylvander, 
 may have grown to think less well of me — 
 all these things continue to agitate my 
 thoughts. 
 
 Enough of myself. Can you tell on the 
 ground of what predestined privilege those 
 of birth and rank, that is of genealogical 
 distmction, who possess no other merit, 
 assume so much ? I cannot admit any 
 reverence for rank or lineage in itself. I can 
 even admire personal beauty, to the extent 
 of giving it some degree of precedence ; I 
 can yield admiration and superiority to 
 genius or to virtife ; but to mere high birth 
 — no ! And how is it tliat, amongst my 
 acquaintance, I ouly, with the exception of 
 
651 
 
 LETTERS OF CLARINDA 
 
 Mary,* entertain this seemingly heterodox 
 notion. I must relate you an anecdote, to 
 which all this is a-propos. On Sunday last, 
 between church liours, I spent my time with 
 an acquaintance, upon ■whom, also, a sister 
 of my Lord Napier happened to call at the 
 same time. I knew the lady well by sight, 
 but was so disgusted with her obtrusive 
 manner, her impertinent interruptions, and 
 her coarseness, and, at the same time, with 
 the despicable adulation wliich the lady of 
 the house offered her, that I was even more 
 reserved towards her than I otherwise should 
 have been. At all events, I should not have 
 been inclined to bestow any particular mark 
 of attention upon her ; and, as it was, she 
 repelled even the ordinary courtesy with 
 which, ivith others, I should naturally have 
 treated her. 
 
 By the way, I was just now mentioning 
 Mary ; I think of spending a day with her 
 soon, if I feel a little more fit for society ; 
 I daily grow to like her better, and the 
 undisguised admiration which she expresses 
 when your name is mentioned, is an addi- 
 tional link of attachment between us. 
 Wherefore do you vainly trust to pillar your 
 religion in a good life ? What you call 
 " reliffion of the bosom," is, in my estimation, 
 also the only religion. But pardon me, 
 Sylvander, if I intimate that yours, according 
 to your own showing, is more a religion of 
 the head than a "religion of the bosom." 
 What avails your imagined good life, unless 
 you place your full reliance for its acceptation 
 upon the redemption, effected at a terrible 
 sacrifice, by the Son of God. The best of 
 men commits innumerable sins ; the best of 
 lives, in the eyes of a Being all pure, all 
 innocent, must be polluted by countless 
 stains ; and do you vaiidy hope that you, 
 with an excess of passion and sensibility, 
 will be capable of effecting what the sternest 
 philosophers have failed to do ? I want to 
 impress upon you the religion of the Gospel, 
 which is the only real " religion of the 
 bosom." On all points of general morality 
 we are, doubtless, agreed. But how can we 
 be otherwise ? these will not bear two inter- 
 pretations. But look to it, search through 
 the philosophy of the ancients, with all its 
 classical beauty, with all its refinement, with 
 all its subtlety, and with as perfect a moral 
 code as any other extant, and tell me, if it be 
 not barren and unsatisfactory at best ? Do 
 you reallj% Sylvander, discern the celestial 
 consolation in the lives and deaths of Socrates 
 
 * Miss Peacock, who subsequently married 
 Mr. James Gray, of the lligli School, Edlu- 
 burgh. 
 
 or Cato ? No, no ! some important bond 
 was wanting, and that was only supplied in 
 the revelation of Christianity. But I must 
 leave the subject now ! I will take it up 
 again from time to time. But now I am 
 weary, and have wearied you. Farewell. 
 Clarinda. 
 
 [Reply to Letter No. 87, pp. 304, 305.j 
 Janiumj \1th, 1788. 
 
 I AM not a little surprised at your warm 
 defence of Miss Napier; and I understand 
 she has merits such as you describe. Most 
 persons are pleased with her, and, perhaps, 
 she was to be excused for not attributing as 
 much importance to Clarinda, as her own 
 friends would have done. Yet there is a 
 general evidence of good breeding which she 
 certainly failed to exhibit on this occasion. 
 Her face is not ill-looking, but her figure 
 and carriage are awkward. 
 
 As to your Epigram on Elphinstone, it is 
 exquisite and well merited ; — a more arrant 
 pedant one seldom meets with. Can I have 
 the pleasure of your company this evening, 
 or, if you like it better, to-morrow evening, 
 either at tea or about eight o'clock. I should 
 much like to see you ; but I should prefer 
 your coming on foot, even if you should be 
 obliged to order a chair to take you back, 
 for you well know what a quiet, humble set 
 of people we are about here, and how great 
 a disturbance is likely to be created, by the 
 appearance of equipages in a quarter such 
 as ours. 
 
 You have a magical influence over me ; 
 you seem to possess every secret clue to my 
 most secret inclinations, thoughts, or 
 impulses ; and if it be possible for letters to 
 utter all one's most tender and unspeakable 
 sentiments, they are yours. But whence, 
 then, can be the charm which you attach to 
 mine? Do you really, truly take pleasure 
 in these wretcVied scrawls, or is it merely 
 a self-deception, of some peculiar partiality, 
 which you do not attempt to control, which 
 deceives you into a belief of gratification ? 
 Wherefore do you doubt the " lasting im- 
 pression " which you have made ? You who 
 possess the unreserved access to my innermost 
 thoughts. 
 
 Do not forget to write me word when you 
 will come and spend the evening with me ; 
 and on that occasion, whenever it be, be 
 
TO T3URJfS. 
 
 555 
 
 careful how yoii tamper with the lock of 
 secrets which you have at your command, in 
 your ClakIiNDA. 
 
 IReply to Letters Kos. 89 and 90. pp, 303.* 
 
 30(i.] 
 
 Thursday, January, T7S3. 
 
 I CANNOT help shuddering', when I find 
 myself, for an instant, sutfering the least in- 
 fraction of the strictest rules of propriety. 
 I shrink from myself at the thought of pos- 
 sible transgressions. 
 
 For these reasons, I am depressed and 
 uneasy to-day; everything about me appears 
 gloomy, and sad, and reproachful. 1 feel a 
 sort of dark and ill-defined remorse for what 
 transpired last ni<;ht, and I would conjure 
 you not to suffer we in future — not to expose 
 me to the temptation of doing ought that 
 may not preserve the dignity and delicacy of 
 our intercourse. Otherwise, we shall destroy 
 the most irrefragable bond of union, which 
 should have perpetuated our intercourse. Yet 
 we shall have to part one of these days, and, 
 painful as that parting would be of itself, 
 liow much more so, would it not bo made, 
 did any intervening follies tend to depreciate 
 the mutual esteem, and thus to damp the 
 more distant colloquy which we should other- 
 wise maintain. How I dread, Sylvander, to 
 be lowered in your estimation! And how 
 my heart recoils from any act or thouijht 
 which I dare not entertain in the abstraction 
 of my daily devotion ! 
 
 I have told you how wretched love has 
 made nie, and is doomed to make me. Let 
 me then abstain from indulging in the 
 fatal passion to which the ardent tempera- 
 ment which I possess, so peculiarly exposes 
 me. 
 
 I can picture to myself the delight of 
 reading your letters, when the bitter parting 
 is once well over, and distance between lis 
 has mellowed down the excessive ardour of 
 passion, which now impels me at times to do, 
 or own that which may degrade me in your 
 estimation. 
 
 Oh, why do I not hear from you to-day ? 
 Why do 1 receive no more of those sponta- 
 neous outpourings of a soul which, in its 
 
 • Probably Thursday, January 24th. This 
 date has actually been assiifneil to a letter 
 written by Clarinda to I?uri;s, of which the 
 purport is very analogous. 
 
 48 
 
 elevation, seems to waft us nearer to the 
 sublime expanse of eternity and immortality? 
 I dare not trust myself to see you on Satur- 
 day, luiless the flutter of my feelings be 
 lowered to the compass of my own control ; 
 and then, I believe, an interview, maintained 
 with proper reserve, that is, in preserving 
 the strictest rules of conduct which I have 
 from the first prescribed for us, would much 
 conduce to restore my disturbed peace of 
 mind. Farewell. Clarinda. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, January 2dth, 17S3. 
 
 My very Dear Sylvander — If ray ap- 
 preciation of your sincerity of interest in the 
 real welfare of your Clarinda had needed any 
 confirmation from you, your noble conduct, 
 in our interview of Saturday night, would 
 have satisfied the most tender scruples. And 
 if we did allow ourselves to infringe some of 
 those stern barriers which retain the corres- 
 pondence between ardent persons of different 
 sexes within the sphere of arctic frigidity, 
 I do not feel myself conscious of wroi\g. 
 doing, and the retrospect calls no blush to 
 my cheek, nor disquiet to my heart. But we 
 must assert a redoubled caution and obser- 
 vation on our very thoughts, lest we admit 
 the least ascendancy of temptation over the 
 purest dictates of virtue. Oh, if there be 
 spirits — which we would fain believe in for 
 our consolation — whose kindly office is to 
 preserve us from the first insidious advent of 
 evil, may they guard, watch, and protect 
 each of us ! 
 
 Sylvander, I have no power to reserve my 
 feelings towards those whose sympathies are 
 so wound up with mine. Must I then con- 
 fess the love which I have so long struggled 
 to suppress ? Yes ! and shouhi not tiiis 
 awaken me more keenly to a sense of 
 danger ? Yet can you tell me, Sylviiuder, 
 why this confession should in my heart ba 
 associated with an idea of wrong ? 
 
 Is it not that I feel myself irrevocably 
 bound to another, who has forfeited all claim 
 to the love which is thus left desolate? 
 
 I will not complain of my doom. No • 
 nor will I pain my Sylvander, by dwelling 
 upon a condition which neither he nor I can 
 dissolve. 
 
 But I have unbosomed myself to my best 
 of advisers and pastors, Mr. Kemp * to 
 
 • The Minister of Tolbook Church, Edin- 
 bargh. 
 
6.56 
 
 LETTERS OF CLARINDA 
 
 wliom I am in the habit of conimunicatinff 
 my perplexities, and I feel as if a load had 
 been lifted from my oppressed and bursting 
 heart. 
 
 Ah ! Sylvander, if you and Mr. Kemp 
 were known to each other, would not a 
 rrciprocal esteem sprins^ up between you. 
 Yon could not help adinirin;^ his sterling 
 piety, his judgment, and his benevolence, as 
 well as his talents ; whilst he would be 
 enchanted with that fresh and glowing 
 imagination, that exquisite sensibility, and 
 that intuitive benevolence of character, 
 which distinguish you above all the weak- 
 nesses whieh sometimes betray themselves 
 in your conduct. 
 
 I do not know why it is so, but I cannot 
 help feelmg some secret satisfaction that 
 your Excise project has not succeeded. I do 
 not mean to intimate that I would rather 
 see you pursuing your present indefinite 
 career, than firmly settled in some desirable, 
 profitable, and competent occupation. But, 
 Sylvander, if you have a weakness above 
 any other, which is likely to lead you to 
 mischief, if not to ruin, it is a love of con- 
 viviality, which, in the capital, might seduce 
 you from the direct career of honour and 
 respectability, and I shudder at the thought 
 of your being despised by the worldlings of 
 a town, in which wits and scholars, noblemen, 
 and burgesses, have all bowed down and 
 worshipped you. I should burst with 
 anguish at the triumph of malicious envy 
 over your fall. If I have two things at 
 heart more earnestly than any others in this 
 ■world, they are to impress you with my own 
 ideas and fervour in religion, and to see you 
 provided with some calling which should 
 occupy your time and talents in such a 
 manner, as to maintain yoa honourably in the 
 highest social position which the sapremacy of 
 your f/enius has atchieved. 
 
 I fear that, in being revealed to those to 
 whom you have vaimted the "divinity "of 
 Clarinda," she falls sadly from the misty 
 elevation of her glory. You forget, ray dear 
 Sylvander, that all do not see with your 
 eyes, hear with your ears, or feel with your 
 sensibilities ; and, therefore, amongst others I 
 dread the judgment of Mr. Ainslie on my 
 account. I really fancy he must have smiled 
 in pity for what he may have looked upon as 
 your hallucination. 
 
 I dread the visit of Mr. to morrow. 
 
 He is evidently uneasy for me, and ventures 
 only upon those oblique inuendoes which are 
 intended to elicit an explanation from me. 
 I cannot conceal from you, nevertheless, that 
 your society is all in all to me ; but had we 
 
 not better — or rather had I not better — exer- 
 cise a little self-denial ? Do you think it 
 prudent, now the jealous vigilance of some 
 of these Argus-eyed, and suspicious people 
 of the world is awakened, to attract more 
 marked attention ? Will you, under these 
 circumstances come the day after to-raovrow, 
 or had we not better meet more rarely? 
 No ! I have not resolution to force the 
 separation. Come unless I warn you be- 
 tween this and then, and may the spirits 
 I have invoked preserve the innocence of 
 your Clarinda. 
 
 Fehrnary, 1788. 
 
 On ! were I free — free to dispose of those 
 fond ties which bind us in mysterious sym- 
 pathies, how should I not reply to your 
 charming letter! I only dread myself when 
 I think how nearly I may be prompted by 
 feelings, which, I believe, in themselves to be 
 innocent, to do, or eveu to think, that, which 
 the calmer reflections would pronounce as 
 verging on guilt. 
 
 What boots it that we have congenial 
 communion? fur all which should consecrate 
 that communion is due to another from me, 
 although his claim be founded rather upon 
 conventionality than upon merit. If I bring 
 myself to reflect more impartially on my re- 
 lations, I cannot conceal from myself the 
 serious consideration that, however he may 
 have forfeited, by wrong, all those tender 
 ties by which we are bound, although his 
 acts shall not have been in keeping with his 
 most sacred promises, such dereliction on 
 his part can never dissolve the bond by which 
 we are united, or exonerate me, should I be 
 tempted to return a wrong for wrong. No, 
 no ! The most elevated sentiments of regard, 
 sympathy, appreciation, nay, even attach- 
 ment, as far as they fail to infringe the 
 promises by which I am bound, are mine to 
 bestow, and you have possessed them, and do 
 possess them ; but so much as verges into 
 more tender and less qualitiable affection is 
 an unclaimed overflow of feeling— it is true 
 — but unclaimed as it is, it belongs to the 
 Giver of life, and to him it must be devoted 
 as a free-will offering. I give you my best 
 and indelible friendship; but, Sylvander, you 
 must not dare to ask for more, lest by 
 tempting me to entertain a thought which 
 conscience cannot calmly confirm, you sacri- 
 fice the substautial happiness of life to 
 
TO BURNS. 
 
 55? 
 
 li.e frantic dream of bliss which shall illu- 
 mine an instant alone. 
 
 Why are you not satisfied ? Why should 
 not the elicitation of such a declaration from 
 me, be sufficient to gratify your most ardent 
 wishes ? 
 
 I know, and feel too well, too keenly, that 
 the union which has fettered me, is one 
 which was as unworthy of my heart, as it 
 was incapable of satisfyino; the redundancy 
 of eager sensibilities of which I am made up ; 
 that your heart was capable of havinj; ful- 
 filled the most ample conceptions of mortal 
 happiness for me ; that no two souls were 
 ever so matched for the most complete 
 identity of thoughts, feelings, hopes, fears, 
 and atfections; and that as we are hopelessly 
 separated by a barrier wliich neitlier of us 
 should dare to transgress, I, at least, can 
 never be happy in tliis world, although by 
 subduing the swelling passions which some- 
 times threaten to rise in rebeUion against 
 my better feelings, I may retain a partial 
 peace of mind, which otherwise I should for 
 ever forfeit. 
 
 How strangely have onr sensibilities been 
 coincident ! I have been pondering over 
 your own account of yourself, that is, of 
 your early years, as you ingenuously revealed 
 It to Dr. Moore. Amongst all your early 
 predilections, whether in art, literature, or 
 tue admiration of nature, there is barely 
 one which was not also mine ! I have loved 
 the same poems ; I have culled the same 
 flowers ; and seen the same incomparable 
 symmetry in the landscape or the firmament. 
 
 Yet withal, you see, Sylvander, there is an 
 over-ruling doom, an everlasting predestina- 
 tion, which has forbidden more than the 
 recognition of these sympathies of soul — and 
 we must be separated. 
 
 You will leave the capital, and retire into 
 the homely retreat of a peasant once more, 
 whence I can only hear of you by letter, 
 vUiiher my heart will follow you, but where, 
 probably, new ties will encircle themselves 
 about you, and engross the little share which 
 I possessed in your recollection. Possibly I 
 shall not hear from you ; and the next time 
 we meet — the next time! — it will beforeternal 
 communion, where none can part us, and no 
 sinister power will be present to impede the 
 interchange of sympathies which must draw 
 us together. 
 
 How I dread the day of parting which is 
 drawing near ! I feel as if it would be the 
 last ou earth — as if we should uot meet again 
 in this world ; and I shudder at it. Could 
 you not creep stealthily away, and spare me 
 that moment of anguish? Yet no! I coidd 
 
 not bear to think that you had shunned me. 
 You will 7iot forget me. There will surely 
 be something in the daily aspect of every- 
 thing about you, which will remind you of 
 Clarinda! 
 
 Oh God! is to-morrow — to-morrow that 
 last day on which we shall meet. — You will 
 come — you will not desert me without one 
 last meeting. Early in the day I will do as 
 you wish, and will give Miers* a sitting. 
 Remember this shall be the bond of eternal 
 friendship between us — yes, friendship : — do 
 not think, breathe, or utter, a more tender 
 attachment. I do not feel that I should be 
 attended in sitting for the portrait. I should 
 have been glad of Mary's company, because 
 she understands me thoroughly ; but she is 
 in the country; and the only other person 
 whom I could ask to accompany me is Miss 
 Nimmo; and in this matter there is a je ne 
 s^ais quoi which forbids me. 
 
 How could you rend me with that parting 
 song ! It is too much. Even you could 
 scarcely have equalled the touching appeal 
 more than once. I burst into tears. Can 
 you doubt that I will be your friend to 
 eternity ? Ah ! that " / mn]) reca'." W^iuld 
 it were not so ! And yet why ? Should I 
 not have lived without having felt the 
 divinest sympathies of humanity, and would 
 not the deepest spring of feeling have beeo 
 unsounded. 
 
 Oh ! Sylvander, how deeply do I regret 
 that I had not known you, before you pro- 
 claimed yourself the adversary of our creed 
 in the biting satires with which you have 
 assailed it. If the lines ou Religion which 
 you now send me in that dear letter had 
 been of earlier production, I should have 
 been yet doubly happy in you. Would I not 
 have implored eternal silence and forgetful- 
 ness for the " Twa Herds," and the " Holy 
 Fair." I had rather admire you for goodness 
 than for wit ; and your genius might accom- 
 plish as much/or true religion as a thousand 
 preachers, even as it may deal a fatal blow if 
 levelled against it. 
 
 I wish you would come and hear Mr. 
 Kemp's preaching, ou Sunday next; and I 
 am convinced that with all the rhetorical 
 skill and flowery dictiou of Mr. Gould, whom 
 you so warmly admire, and whom I have 
 heard, you could not fail to admit that .Mr. 
 Kemp's elocution, tbou:;h more simple, is 
 more impressive ; that it carries with it a 
 stronger impression of earnest conviction ; 
 and that whereas Mr. Gould addresses hira- 
 
 • Mr. Miers was the miniature painter at 
 Ediubur^n, by whom Burns wished tc havp 
 Mrs. McLchose's portrait executed. 
 
5i^ 
 
 LEl'TKUS OF CLARINDA 
 
 self to the mind, Mr. Kemp speaks to the 
 heart, and in a lan<;ua^'e to: which the 
 heart can readily interpret. 
 
 You know how earnestly I have striven 
 for your conversion to more serious thoughts 
 on relig'ion ; you know how 1 have endea- 
 voured to wean you from the indefinite 
 reliance on a vague and unsatisfactory 
 philosophy, which coldly sneers atthemoie 
 earnest zeal of religious fervour. I have 
 done something ; but how feeble a preacher 
 am 1 1 And I feel that you could not hear 
 Mr. Kemp, without gaining in peace what 
 you would inevitably obtain in conviction. 
 Let me entreat you to hear him. 
 
 Sylvander, I do not know why it is I can 
 unburden myself to you with a degree of 
 freedom which my heart shrinks from ex- 
 tending to any other living. Let me ask 
 your advice. You well know who it is 
 alone who really possesses any community 
 of thought and sympathy with me. You 
 must have discovered that no degree of kind- 
 ness without this thorough interchange of 
 mysterious sympathy would win me beyond 
 a grateful — very grateful — but reserved 
 respect. Well, some time since, when, as 
 you have heard, I came to Edinburgh friend- 
 less and unknown, one warm, faithful, earnest 
 friend attached himself to my cause, aided 
 and defended me. I need not tell you who 
 this was : suffice it that such was the case. I 
 was not slow to observe, guarded and reserved 
 as was his respectful attention, that with him 
 a warmer, closer, and more secret attachment 
 was growing and being nourished within 
 him. I do not think he knew or was willing 
 to know this for some length of time ; but I 
 believe he is no longer a stranger to his own 
 feelings. At one time 1 do not hesitate to 
 own tUat the tender, delicate attentions 
 which I received at his hands, combined 
 with an overflow of grateful regard for his 
 generous and profitless aid, had, in some 
 degree, conveyed a degree of tenderness to 
 my own regard for him. But withal, there 
 was no deep interchange of sympathies, and 
 one (you well know who), meanwhile, had 
 quickly weaned me from this momentary 
 surrender, by enforcing an absolute and irre- 
 sistable surrender to his own mysterious 
 power and control over all my most secret 
 impulses. But with my sturdy friend it 
 was otherwise ; — his secret passion continued 
 to grow, and to this day feeds upon pros- 
 pective hopes, which cannot, alas ! ever now 
 be realised. 
 
 What can I do? How can I proceed, to 
 spare so generous a friend a pang, which, 
 oue day or other, I ihall be condemned to 
 
 inflict upon him? Shall I unreservedly own 
 my preference for Sylvander ? Yet there is, 
 perhaps, equal danger to our mutual peace 
 of mind in this. I cannot, nevertheless, bear 
 to practice a tacit deception; I cannot di.'- 
 semble an attachment which I do not feel, 
 and I shudder at the thought of allowing a 
 secret passion, so strong, so earnest, and so 
 apparently resistless, to bs fostered until 
 years shall have indomitably confirmed it. 
 
 The thought of that parting, wh.ich is so 
 soon to take place between \is ; of the 
 distance v.hich is to interpose itself, and of 
 the new associations which wiH gradually 
 wean away your heart from me — all this will 
 return to my mind. I have been endeavour- 
 ing to chase the reflection from me, but in 
 vain. A few brief hours hence ! I cannot 
 brar it ! May Heaven pour upon you, as 
 fully as it is implored, the blessing of 
 
 Clarinda. 
 
 Thursday, Feb. 2lst, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sylvander — Like yourself, 
 Clarinda feels with everyone, and for every- 
 one. Is it not a strange, yet glorious, 
 privilege which the heart possesses, to 
 expand beyond the narrow limits of our cell 
 of clay, to participate in the emotions of 
 other beings of kindred texture? It cannot 
 have escaped any one of enlarged capacities 
 for passion or intelligence, much less such 
 capacities as you possess for both, that the 
 vitality comprised within the compass of 
 one body is inadequate to its yearnings. 
 Hence, I imagine, solitude — that is, perfect 
 solitude, is impossible — and society, whether 
 actual or imaginary, must be created. 
 
 But there is a higher vocation for this 
 necessity of sympathies ; a gospel mission, 
 which is designed to contribute to the well- 
 being of mankind. Did not our Saviour 
 preach that doctrine of sympathies? 
 
 It is, perhaps, in this sacred acceptation, 
 that sorrow and joy are equally conducive to 
 the perfection of some Divine purpose, and 
 that there is a holy pleasure, which I can 
 barely express, but most intensely feel, "to 
 weep with those who weep, and be glad with 
 those who rejoice" But, wherefore the 
 seeiniiig contradiction which, whilst my 
 greatest desire is to distribute blessings to 
 mankind, seems to withhold the means o/ 
 couliibuting, eveu the smallest share, to 
 
TO BUIINS. 
 
 659 
 
 «nch blessings, even if it does not condemn 
 me unwittingly, and without design, to 
 •.nfli«".t suffering. "Why have I not means to 
 place yon above the reach of the contemptible 
 malice, which springs from the envy of those 
 who cannot match you, and glories in the 
 affected superiorities of rank and fortune. 
 
 If anything could have raaile me regard 
 the adventitious vantage of circumstances 
 with less esteem than I was naturally inclined 
 to do, it is the comparison which vulgar 
 minds would draw between the splendour of 
 wealth, and the glory of virtuous genius, to 
 the disparagement of the latter. It is this, 
 perhaps, which has more deeply impressed 
 Goldsmith's immortal lines upou my mind 
 of late : — 
 
 '' In nature's simplest habits clad. 
 Nor wealth nor power had he ; 
 Genius and worth were all he had. 
 But these were aU to me." 
 
 They are ceaselessly ringing in my ears. 
 
 I love Miss Chalmers for her attachment 
 to you. But here, again, the sad contradic- 
 tion, that those who most appreciate your 
 uoble character, and incomparable talent, 
 thould be least able to place you in a posi- 
 
 tion wliich should for ever free you from 
 dependence upou the mean-spirited world. 
 I never before sighed for the advantages of 
 circumstance. I do not ever recollect to 
 have wished for wealth or grandeur ; but at 
 this moment, what would I not give up for 
 the means of raising Sylvander to that lofty 
 position, to which his matchless worth 
 entitles him. 
 
 Yet I could almost quarrel with Mary, 
 for her ardent admiration of him, even 
 whilst I love her the better for it. Her 
 guileless and unreserved expression of almost 
 adoration, have recurred to me an luindred 
 times through a wakeful night ; and, although 
 I well know that she herself is not conscious 
 of transgressing the rights which have been 
 asserted by Clarinda, 1 cannot help dreading 
 such passionate admiration. She has been 
 gratified to-day with the appreciation of 
 Mrs. Cockburn's refined and acknowledged 
 taste, and the praise of her " Henry," by 
 the authoress of " I've seen the smiling of 
 fortune's beguiling," has made her as com- 
 pletely happy as she appeared to have been 
 last night, with the couverse of my Sylvander 
 — if such may be the assumed claim of yma 
 
 own CliA&ItiiDA. 
 
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 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
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 % ' * WOf-D LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724)779-2111 
 

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