-'.A.v.--- .' 
 1n;'.-lv. .; ', 
 
 
 
 n'\:r' 
 
 
 §m 
 
 
 
 .■;■?: V !■:•:;.: 
 
Bnnic -PA 
 
 COBfRIGUr Duosm 
 
fiMjci-t'rr ^^, 
 
 u/^y^^ 
 

 4L 
 
 f(^~ 
 
 ^ t-^ 
 
 ^" "r 
 
 # 
 
 A SOUVEN IR 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Fragments culled :imiJ the 
 scenes of his chequered life 
 
 George W. Pettit 
 
 Artist 
 
 Read before tlie 
 
 Calhdon IAN Club 
 
 OF PHILADELPHIA 
 
 1^^ Illustrated l->y P. Moran and E. F. Fabhr. 
 
 Published by 
 ISAIAH PRICE, D. D. S. 
 Philadelphia, 1895. 
 
 > ' > , 
 
 r&^^y 
 
 H'ipl 
 
 OAj 
 

COPYRIOHTKD 
 BY 
 
 Isaiah Prick, 
 1895. 
 
 ARTIST PROOF EDITION LIMITED TO 100 COPIES. 
 
 JVo. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Great geniuses belong to certain epochs of the world's 
 history, and not to any particular nation or century. They 
 are the result of the accumulated knowledge, the senti- 
 ments, and the aspirations of preceeding generations. They 
 are claimed by and justly belong to the world at large, and 
 not exclusively to the country which gave them birth. 
 
 By the expression of universal sentiments, they give 
 that touch of nature which makes the whole world akin, and 
 which not only serves to unite more closely the inhabitants 
 of their own country, but nations which differ widely on 
 almost every vital principle. 
 
 Among such we have Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, 
 and Leonardo, in art. Shakspeare, Goethe, Chateaubriand, 
 Scott, and Burns, in literature. 
 
 The heart of every German thrills with pride when 
 Goethe, or Schiller are mentioned, and Scotchmen severed 
 from their bonnie highlands by many a league of trackless sea. 
 
lovingly clasps the hand of a brother Scot when memories 
 of "auld lang syne" are recalled by the familiar songs 
 of Robert Burns. 
 
 To record the many phases of character belonging to a 
 genius such as Burns possessed would be far be}-ond the 
 scope of this brief essay ; which, is intended solely, to convey 
 a faithful transcript of the impressions recei\'ed from scenes 
 amid which the greater part of his melancholy career was 
 passed. 
 
 G. W. P. 
 
, ,1 hour ha . . 
 
 77//' another may forget th- 
 Thai s)>n'!rs sar suretlv on licr kncr : 
 
 A>ni 
 
BIRTH-PLACE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 
" The bridegroom may forget the bride 
 
 Was made his ivedded wife yestreen ; 
 The monarch may forget the erozni 
 
 That 071 his head an hour has been, 
 The mother may forget the child 
 
 That smiles sae szveetly on her knee : 
 But Til remember thee, Gle^icairn, 
 
 And «' that thou hast done for me /" 
 
LLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 BIRTH-PLACE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 TWA BRIGS OF AYR. 
 
 AELOWAY KIRK. 
 
 BURNS MONUMENT, AYR. 
 
 AULD BRIG OF BOON. 
 
 BANKS OF BOON. 
 
 FROM THE BROWN HILES OF CARRICK. 
 
 MOSSGIEE. 
 
 AIESA CRAIG. 
 
mid- winter, a terrible storm passed o\ er 
 
 itish Isl 1 and sleet, that 
 
 •|*" swept the barren moors and whistled through the soli- 
 
 < :x o-len? or-SXl^n?Pla.§f?JJ^ffie4i?ffX. of old ocean 
 
 ^t her rocky headlands. 
 
 H as wild> ' , 
 
 itipne, at intervals, mitil 
 
 ,, then that this one stom; 
 
 inhered, whilst others are so soon foi^ . .. 
 v.^ii LiiuL i>ctrticular night, amid the moaning and sigh- 
 '" ^' wind, and the beating of hail and sleet, within a 
 
 iiggin erected by the hornv ^ ^ *" •• 
 
 ' luan, was heard the first-waiim^^ 
 
 ^^ he was ushered into a world as storm > 
 
TWA BRIGS OF AYR. 
 
ORE than a century and a quarter ago, on a dark 
 night of mid-winter, a terrible storm passed over 
 ^wv\ ^\-^Q British Isles ; a tempest of wind and sleet, that 
 i'^ swept the barren moors and whistled through the soli- 
 tary glens of Scotland ; lashing the billows of old ocean 
 with fury against her rocky headlands. 
 
 Other storms as wild, have before and since swept over 
 those sea-girt shores, and will so continue, at intervals, until 
 the end of time. Why is it then that this one storm should 
 be forever remembered, whilst others are so soon forgotten? 
 On that particular night, amid the moaning and sigh- 
 ing of the wind, and the beating of hail and sleet, within a 
 frail clay biggin erected by the horny hands of an over- 
 worked Scotchman, was heard the first- wailing cry of a cer- 
 tain peasant boy, as he was ushered into a world as stormy 
 
as the elements around ; a boy wlio was destined by tlie 
 force of his native crenius to write the son^-s of his coiintrv ; 
 songs that have been heard from "Indus to the Pole," and 
 which have served more than anything else to unite his 
 countr\-men in one great bond of brotherhood. That boy 
 was Robert Burns. 
 
 Had a belated traveler chanced to pass that way, he 
 would have beheld a light glimmering from that one cot- 
 tage window long after the other firesides were wTapped in 
 darkness. That light which then shone so lonely is em- 
 blematic of his solitary- genius, which has illumined all 
 parts of the world where the English language is spoken ; 
 and that spot from which that light emanated, marks an 
 humble centre within a circuit of many miles which will be 
 forever known as the Land of Robert Bums. It is these 
 scenes and places made immortal by the magic of his genius, 
 encompassed within this space, that I have chosen for the 
 subject of this essay. '' Auld Ayr" which Bums tells us, 
 
 "Xe'er a town surpasses. 
 For honest men an bonnie lasses," 
 
 is situated at the mouth of the river of the same name, on 
 
an eminence that slopes gently to the sea, and in the vicinity 
 of scenery unsurpassed for its beauty. Here the river, 
 (spanned by the "Twa Brigs," celebrated because Burns 
 chose to write about them) flows murmuring to the sea, 
 loath to part from the flowery meads and fragrant dells 
 through which it has gone singing, lending a pastoral 
 beauty to the landscape by its winding and picturesque 
 course. 
 
 Ayr presents a very different appearance now, from 
 what it did in the days of the poet. The rural life and 
 labors of a hundred years ago have given way before the 
 more certain sources of wealth demanded by the luxurious 
 ideas of later generations. The old bridge still stands after 
 being a silent witness of the destruction of the new, as the 
 poet predicted in his dialogue of "The Brigs of Ayr." 
 
 "I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn!" 
 
 Another and more substantial structure has been erected 
 in its place. 
 
 The town is now more famous on account of its asso- 
 ciation with the writings of Burns, than for anything it 
 contains. The old tavern, celebrated the world over as the 
 
place where Tain O'Slianter and Souter Johnny held their 
 fanions orgies, still stands and is in excellent preservation ; 
 though of course much altered. No one who \isits it 
 should fail to refresh himself with the foaming ale, or to sit 
 in Tarn's favorite chair, 
 
 "Fast by an ingle bleezing fineh", 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divineh- ;" 
 
 There is a painting now, over the doorway of the inn, 
 entitled the "Stirrup Cup." Tani, mounted on his old grey 
 jVIeg, clasps the hand of Souter Jolinu)- who staggers by the 
 side of his horse. The landlord holds a lantern over his 
 head, whilst the landlady stands in the door with a candle, 
 her apron and the mane of the mare tossing wildly in the 
 wind. 
 
 " Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
 The hour approaches. Tarn maun ride ; 
 That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane. 
 That drear\- hour he mounts his beast in ; 
 And sic a night he taks the road in. 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in." 
 
, past "Aulci 
 
 It is the 
 iriat Tarn took on that eventtul night, and, as we are about 
 to follow with clearer heads and a beautiful sun to illumine 
 our pathway, we descend towards a narrow valley evident!} 
 scooped out by tlie brook, tributary to the Doon, where 
 Tarn rode 
 
 "cross the foorcJ 
 \\ m smoored, 
 
 . ■>l^IXai¥t^W10aau^-bane ; 
 whins, and by the cairn, 
 c murder'd bairn; 
 the well, 
 ither hang'dhersel!" 
 
 ions of Tarn's ride from Ayr, are 
 
 <n^' .. ...J distance from the highway. 
 
 ^v/iii..v.. .v^i by the fact, that the old road by which 
 
 and Bur- '-■"■ elf had to travel, was considerably 
 
 • I) ' ;eans so straight as that by which 
 
 the traveler is uuw coiiaucted. 
 
ALLOW AY KIRK. 
 
This road leads from the old town of Ayr, past the cot- 
 tage in which Bnrns was born, past "Anld Alloway's 
 hannted kirk," and over the bridge of Doon. It is the same 
 that Tam took on that eventful night, and, as we are about 
 to follow with clearer heads and a beautiful sun to illumine 
 our pathwa}', we descend towards a narrow valley evidently 
 scooped out b}' the brook, tributary to the Doon, where 
 
 Tam rode 
 
 '"cross the foord 
 
 Where in the snaw the chapman smoored. 
 And past the birks and meikle stane. 
 Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
 Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
 Where Mungo's niither liang'd hersel!" 
 
 All these local indications of Tam's ride from Ayr, are 
 still to be seen, but at some distance from the highway. 
 This is accounted for by the fact, that the old road by which 
 the hero, and Burns himself had to travel, was considerably 
 to the west, and by no means so straight as that by which 
 the traveler is now conducted. 
 
About two miles from Ayr, on a slight bend in the 
 road, stands an 'humble thatch-roofed cottage; bearing be- 
 side the doorway a signboard. We pause, and reverently 
 and instinctively uncover our heads as we read the simple 
 inscription. 
 
 "Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet, was born 
 under this roof, on the 25th of Jan. A. D. 1759, 
 died 2ist of July A. D. 1796, aged ^ilV^. years." 
 
 This then is the cottage we had come so far to see. 
 We enter, but I cannot attempt to describe our feelings as 
 we stood before the little recess in the kitchen, just large 
 enough to hold a bed, where the poet was born. There still 
 stands the old dresser, bent and deformed by age, made by 
 his father ; and we have already seen that a portion of these 
 walls was the work of his hands. 
 
 I recalled the time, when I, a mere child, first saw a 
 wood cut representing this quiet wayside cottage; not 
 dreaming then that I should one day do myself the honor 
 of beholding this spot, visited by persons from every quar- 
 ter of the civilized globe ; and one which no doubt, unborn 
 
generations will come thousands of miles, across stormy 
 seas and vast continents, to pay homage to this shrine of 
 genius, the birth place of Robert Burns. 
 
 The biographers of the poet with one accord, point out 
 this cottage as the one he had in mind when he wrote that 
 immortal poem "The Cotter's Saturday Night." This 
 poem, Lockhart justly remarks, "is of all Burns's pieces the 
 one whose exclusion from the collection would be most in- 
 jurious, if not to the genius of the poet, at least to the 
 character of the man." In writing this poem Burns has 
 given us not only a vivid and faithful picture of his father's 
 fireside, but of thousands of others throughout the length 
 and breadth of the land — for — 
 
 "From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur 
 springs, 
 That makes her lov'd at home rever'd 
 abroad. 
 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 'An honest man's the noblest work of 
 God.' " 
 
 Our next place of destination near the cottage is 
 "AUoway's auld haunted kirk," with nothing but its two 
 gables and the side walls remaining ; one of the gables. 
 
(that next the road,) is surmounted by a small stone arch, 
 in which the bell still hangs. The wood-work, such as door 
 and window frames, roof and rafters, are all gone. This 
 can scarcely be wondered at, when we take into considera- 
 tion the vast number of snuff-boxes, and other articles of 
 similar character which have been sold as portions of the 
 old kirk. 
 
 Between the gate of the church-yard and the ruin, is 
 the mossy marble which marks the grave of Burns's father, 
 erected by the poet, and inscribed with a touching epitaph 
 from his pen, sincerely expressing his filial affection and re- 
 gard ; it is as follows : — 
 
 "O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
 
 Draw near with pious reverence and attend ; 
 Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
 The tender father, and the generous 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 e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 
 
 I have understood that it was at one time the desire of 
 Burns to be buried here, and what more fitting monument 
 
^* *. 
 
coiild iie have had than "Auld AIL 
 
 The intt 
 txi as a pla 
 tallied his remains alone. Chisteriug vines, vines he loved 
 so dearly would have grown gracefully over this ruin. 
 There, with the winds of Doon ^' tlie grass above 
 
 him, and amid the singi; should rest in 
 
 peace f" 
 
 we have so fondly 
 
 is situated 
 
 ^m Lhc banks ^-t" the Doon, surrounded bv an enclosed plot 
 
 of mmuni-MA^ufmy^mm mm^ now.ri,„. 
 
 •1 rivriilar tempi* of; l.wsic beauty, 
 ...chian col ^. >...., emblematic 
 ol Lin. uuiv iiii; "pon a triangular base, the 
 
 sides of which aie luwa; hief divisions of Ayr- 
 
 shire, Kile, Carrick, and Lunmngnar; 
 
 T^e graceful entablature sapportea U} iiicsc columns, 
 lar roof, over which i 
 1 the trian; m 
 
 (iUlued light falls through stained glass 
 
BURNS MONUMENT, AYR. 
 
could he have had than " Auld Alloway's haunted kirk," 
 made immortal by his genius ? The interior of this church, 
 since occupied as a place of sepulchre, should have con- 
 tained his remains alone. Clustering vines, vines he loved 
 so dearly would have grown gracefully over this ruin. 
 There, with the winds of Doon to wave the grass above 
 him, and amid the singing of birds, his body should rest in 
 peace forever. 
 
 Reluctantly leaving this spot, where we have so fondly 
 lingered, we pass on to the Burns monument. It is situated 
 on the banks of the Doon, surrounded by an enclosed plot 
 of ground, laid out with peaceful walks and flowering 
 shrubs. 
 
 It consists of an open circular temple of classic beauty, 
 encircled by nine graceful Corinthian columns, emblematic 
 of the nine muses, and rests upon a triangular base, the 
 sides of which are toward the three chief divisions of Ayr- 
 shire, Kile, Carrick, and Cunningham. 
 
 The graceful entablature supported by these columns, 
 is surmounted by a circular roof, over which is appropriately 
 placed a tripod. Within the triangular base is a round 
 chamber where the subdued light falls through stained glass 
 
placed in the cupola. This chamber contains many relics 
 connected with the personal histor}' of the poet. Beside a 
 complete edition of his published works, is his portrait, a 
 copy after Nasmyth, by Stevens, and a marble bust from 
 the chisel of Patrick Park, spirited sketch of scenes from 
 his poems, and the marriage ring of Bonnie Jean : but the 
 objects over which one is ever wont to linger the longest is 
 the bible which he presented to Highland ^lary on the oc- 
 casion of their final meeting, and a lock of her hair. This 
 is very light, almost colorless, no doubt much faded ; but 
 who can look upon it without having vividly before him 
 the angelic image of that pure and delicate creature Marx- 
 Campbell, the Highland Mar\- of Burns. 
 
 The bible is in two volumes ; on the first of which is 
 inscribed in Burns's hand "And ye shall not swear by my 
 name falseh', I am the Lord ;" and on the second volume, 
 " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shall perform unto 
 the Lord thine oath.'' The names of Robert Burns and 
 Mar}- Campbell, which were originally inscribed on the 
 volumes, are nearly effaced. 
 
 There is a sentiment as pure as it is touching in the 
 manner in which Burns was betrothed to this dear o^irl. 
 
Some allusion is made to it, I believe, in every one of the 
 many lives published of the poet. 
 
 " They plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render 
 them more sacred ; they made them by a burn where they 
 had courted, that open nature might be a witness ; they 
 made them over an open Bible, to show that they thought 
 of God in this mutual act ; and when they had done, they 
 both took water in their hands and scattered it in the air, to 
 intimate that as the stream was pure so were their inten- 
 tions. On that day they parted never to meet again ! She 
 died in a burning fever, within six months, and all that he 
 had of her was a lock of her long bright hair, and her Bible 
 which she exchanged for his." 
 
 This is the oft repeated story, but who would wish it 
 forgotten ? It is the remembrance of the past, the recalling 
 of the days that are gone which gives to the old songs their 
 sentiment, and to the friendships of youth a purity and 
 freshness of feeling we can never experience again. 
 
 To the untimely death of Highland Mary, we owe one 
 of the sweetest poems ever written in any language ; that 
 to " Mary in Heaven." What can be more beautiful or 
 pathetic than the first stanza ? 
 
"Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
 Again' thou usherest in the day 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?" 
 
 I am well aware that more recent investigations of Mr. 
 Scott Douglass and of Dr. Chambers, prove too clearh' that 
 at the very time he was writing his broken-hearted 
 "Lament" over Jean Armour's desertion of him at the com- 
 mand of her father, occurred this sad episode of Marv 
 Campbell. 
 
 M>- object is neither to excuse nor to condemn ; I am 
 not writing his biography, but simply describing objects 
 and places I have seen connected with the poet, and the im- 
 pressions they made on me. But where, let me ask, in the 
 annals of literary history, is there the man for' whose suffer- 
 ings we have so much sympathy, and for whose genius a 
 
greater regard than we have for the genius and the suffer- 
 ings of Robert Burns ? 
 
 We now stroll beneath the cooling shade that skirts the 
 bonnie Doon, spanned by the " Auld Brig," over which Tarn 
 rode on that eventful night, with the hellish legion after 
 him. 
 
 "Now, do thy speedy iitniost, IMeg, 
 And win the key-stane of the brig." 
 
 Of these two rivers, the Doon and Ayr, Burns was ever 
 wont to sing. His genius has given them an importance 
 they could not otherwise have obtained. Our own sweet 
 poet Whittier, has in consequence mentioned them with the 
 classic rivers of the world. 
 
 "We know^ the world is rich with streams 
 
 Renowned in song and story, 
 Whose music murmurs through our dreams 
 
 Of human love and glory. 
 We know that Arno's banks are fair, 
 
 And Rhine has castled shadows. 
 And poet- tuned, the Doon and Ayr 
 
 Go singing down their meadows." 
 
In sending that most beantiful and popnlar song "The 
 Banks O' Doon" to a friend, Bnrns says, March 1791; 
 "While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a 
 little conntrv inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a 
 poor fellow of a sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. 
 By heavens I say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits, 
 which the magic of that sound "Auld Toon O' Ayr" con- 
 jured up, I will send my last song to ]\Ir. Ballantine. Then 
 he gives the song beginning thus, 
 
 "Ye flowery banks O' bonnie Doon, 
 How can ye blume sae fair? 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 And I sae fii' O' care!" 
 
 Robert was in his seventh year when the family moved 
 from the cottage in which he was born to ]\Iount Oliphant, 
 about two miles distant from the bridge of Doon. Here he 
 resided until the lease expired, in his eighteenth year. 
 
 Owing to the impoverished condition of the land and 
 bad seasons, the family experienced that terrible struggle 
 
.■ wnici 
 ii.y iite tliat p.' vibmmg '* 11; 
 
 1 . was in his fifteenth summer, whilst toiling on this 
 farm, that he first experienced that sentiment which after- 
 wards led to ig^, and which inspir^^d his 
 
 ;ilminatj 
 :1c ha? t ihed this incident, 
 
 that T itrefL 
 
 .VLOoa ^o oma ajUA 
 
 a man ana woman 'together as partners in the labors of the 
 harvest. In ray fifteen'' 'ner was a be- 
 
 of i-. 'lat 
 
 • /uage, b 
 bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In s' it- 
 
 jiy to herself, initiated u, 
 
 ite of acid disaDDointmcnt. oin-b.orsc nrndence, 
 ;.., .Lnnc: imman 
 
AULD BRIG OF BOON. 
 
with poverty which ended in defeat. This was the period 
 of his life that Burns described as combining "the cheerless 
 gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing toil of a galley- 
 slave." 
 
 It was in his fifteenth summer, whilst toiling on this 
 farm, that he first experienced that sentiment which after- 
 wards led to so much love making, and which inspired his 
 harp with those melodious strains culminating in many a 
 beautiful song. He has so faithfully described this incident, 
 that I prefer giving it in his own words. 
 
 "You know" he says, "our country custom of coupling 
 a man and woman together as partners in the labors of the 
 harvest. In my fifteenth summer my partner was a be- 
 witching creature, a year younger than myself My scarcity 
 of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
 language, but you know the Scottish idiom. She was a 
 bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwit- 
 tingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, 
 which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, 
 and book worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
 joys here below. 
 
" How she caught the contagion I cannot telL In- 
 deed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
 behind with he'r, when returning in the evening from our 
 labors ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings 
 thrill like an Aeolian harp : and especially why my pulse 
 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 love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly; 
 and it was her favorite reel to which I attempted giving an 
 embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptions as 
 to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, com- 
 posed by men who read Greek and Latin ; but my girl sang 
 a song which was said to be composed by a country 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 shear sheep and cast peats, his 
 father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft 
 than myself 
 
 "Thus with me began love and poetry. I composed a 
 song to her in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this 
 
:c it iiiL 
 
 ni, ine .' 
 ' ., '.; "f-Te tiic clouds ol udvcr.siv.'. 
 
 a: pa:-'. 11 '. ; > r; i- tant at first, gradually dark- 
 
 eiK'd around thein, almosl completely obliterating all hope 
 for the future. 
 
 The farm ;; :e one they 
 
 ha' i not prove prosperous. Some i; ite mis- 
 
 understanding about the meaning of the lease, led to a law- 
 sui; the result of which would 
 
 have landed BuiMQOQ' TOni8:aWAaT in jail, had not 
 death kindly come to his relief. " His all went " says 
 I'uns, "among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennels 
 of justice." 
 
 In recallii: cautiful surroundings of this farm, 
 
 situated among imdulating fields, on the North bank of the 
 Ayr, one cannot but feel how happy they might ilur^ 1i.i\ , 
 been, with only a little, a ver\' little more meaub. 
 
 The view southward is ovqt the hills of Carrick ; and 
 westward toward th'^ '''■•'^ ■ of Arran, Ailsa Craig, arc' 
 the Firth of Clyde towara the Western sea. Tlif uric 
 
BANKS OF DOOX. 
 
hour I never recollect it, but my heart melts, my blood sal- 
 lies at the remembrance." 
 
 Leaving Mount Oliphant, the family removed to Loch- 
 lea, distant about ten miles. Here the clouds of adversity 
 apparentlv brighter and more distant at first, gradually dark- 
 ened around them, almost completely obliterating all hope 
 for the future. 
 
 The farm although larger and better than the one they 
 had left, did not prove prosperous. Some unfortunate mis- 
 understanding about the meaning of the lease, led to a law- 
 suit, which lasted three years ; the result of which would 
 have landed Burns's good, pious old father in jail, had not 
 death kindly come to his relief. " His all went " says 
 Burns, " among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennels 
 of justice." 
 
 In recalling the beautiful surroundings of this farm, 
 situated among undulating fields, on the North bank of the 
 Ayr, one cannot but feel how happy they might there have 
 been, with only a little, a very little more means. 
 
 The view southward is over the hills of Carrick ; and 
 westward toward the Isle of Arran, Ailsa Craig, and down 
 the Firth of Clvde toward the Western sea. The mere 
 
mention of these names vividh- recalls the impression they 
 made on me when I first beheld them, on my way by sea 
 from Liverpool' to Glasgow. 
 
 The first I saw of Scotland was the ]\Inll of Galloway, 
 and soon after, the storm-beaten Ailsa Craig, a huge pyram- 
 idal rock, rising abruptly from the sea to the height of over 
 a thousand feet, the home of multitudes of sea birds. Later 
 we were abreast of the beautiful Isle of Arran, with the 
 Goatfell mountain towering three thousand feet above the 
 level of old ocean, a jeweled gateway- it seemed to the far- 
 famed Highlands. 
 
 The morning sun was shining brightly upon its bold 
 furrowed brow, giving it the effect of burnished silver in an 
 emerald setting, as it towered above the greener hills. 
 
 It was amid these surroundings, that the spirit of the 
 father of Robert Burns took its flight to heights far above 
 the troubles and anxieties of this world. His loss was felt 
 keenly by his gifted son, who grieved long and sincerely for 
 that dear parent, who was only loath to part from this world, 
 on account of the anxiet>' he felt for his son's waywardness. 
 
 His genius he had always respected, but his stormy 
 passions he felt, would, sooner or later, bring sorrow and 
 
trouble in the train of present difificulties, long after his own 
 body would be peacefully at rest beneath the shadow of 
 Auld Alloway's haunted kirk. 
 
 Preparations had been made some months before for the 
 removal of the family to Mossgiel, where Robert and Gil- 
 bert had hoped to shelter their parents from the storm that 
 encompassed them. 
 
 Hither they moved on their father's death. "Every 
 member of the family," says Gilbert, " contributed their 
 savings towards stocking the place, and each was allowed 
 ordinary wages for the labor he performed on the farm. My 
 brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum 
 each, and during the whole time this family concern lasted, 
 Robert's expenses never in any one year exceeded his slen- 
 der income." 
 
 The following anecdote, related b)- Gilbert, serves to 
 show how unfit Robert was for the occupation fate seemed 
 ever to have in store for him, "At this time he procured a 
 little book of blank paper, with the purpose, expressed on 
 the first page of making farming memoranda; these are 
 curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, and he gives the follow- 
 ing specimen. 
 
"O why the diice should I repine 
 
 And be an ill forboder? 
 - I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine, 
 I'll go and be a sodger." 
 
 Is there not something inexpressively sad in this anec- 
 dote? Genius, taste, inclination, all his higher and nobler 
 aspirations leading him towards those heights where no 
 doubt he saw fame's proud temple, though afar, shining for 
 him, if he could but follow the dictates of his soul. On the 
 other hand, labor, duty to a widowed mother, and the neces- 
 sity of living ; of keeping soul and body together, over-weigh- 
 ing everything else, so that he could only follow his Muse 
 but irregularly at best, and only after his body was fatigued 
 by daily toil. Notwithstanding these difficulties, he worked 
 diligently and in secret, producing those works which laid 
 the foundation of his undying fame. 
 
 It was here, whilst holding the plough (a favorite situ- 
 ation with him for poetic composition) he wrote the verses 
 to the "Mouse" and to the "Mountain Daisy." 
 
 He used to remark to me, says his brother, that he 
 " could not conceive a more mortifying picture of human 
 
1 mail seekiuj; • U is to • 
 
 "Man was mud<: to Mourn 
 e venerable phrase, "Lt'l 
 :cll froiM 
 will be forever indebted lor that exquisite picture ot rural 
 ^ Saturday Night." 
 In " Man was ui 
 taken nianv hint 
 
 -Ah! 1 
 
 '' I had an old grand-uncle," says 
 (iters to Mrs. Dunlop, "with whom my mother lived in 
 
 1) \-(';^ir< ; the gC'il '>TiT ^li'ii fur siirli lit' ■u;is. \v;is 
 
 ,Tw.,t . ,1 , 
 
 .lie SIU4 
 
 IH.I cry, will 
 
 . .. 'r-K T :r 
 
FROM THE BROWN HILLS OF CARRICK. 
 
life, than a man seeking work." It is to this sentiment we 
 owe the elegy "Man was made to Monrn ;" and it is to his 
 appreciation of the venerable phrase, "Let us worship (rod," 
 as it fell from the lips of his honored lather, that the world 
 will be foi-ever indebted for that exquisite picture of rural 
 life, "The Cotter's Saturday Night." 
 
 In " Man was made to Mourn," IJurns is said to have 
 taken many hints from an ancient ballad, entitled, " The 
 Life and i\ge of Man ;" which begins thus : 
 
 "Upon the sixteenth 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 moan !" 
 
 " I had an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his 
 letters to Mrs. Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in 
 her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was 
 blind long ere he died ; during which time his highest en- 
 joyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing 
 the simple old song of " The Life and Age of Man." 
 
Burns had now remained long enough on this farm to 
 become convinced that it could do no more at best, than 
 support so large a family ; and he resolved to leave Scotland 
 for the West Indies. He was without sufficient means to 
 defray his expenses, and finally concluded that the small 
 amount necessary for this purpose, might be raised by pub- 
 lishing some of his poems. His friends aided him in ob- 
 taining subscribers, and while the printing was in progress, 
 he composed some of his best pieces. 
 
 From childhood he had been a great student of nature, 
 nothing escaped him. The wild-flowers his ploughshare 
 had buried, unconsciously appealed to him for an epitaph 
 that gave them immortality. 
 
 The sweet song of birds, and the music the winds made 
 sighing through the aeolian harp of winter woods, have 
 been not only recorded by him, but translated into language 
 so simple that we can all understand it. 
 
 Of the first edition of six hundred copies, three hun- 
 dred and fifty were already subscribed for. By this venture 
 the poet found himself in the possession of twenty pounds. 
 
 His passage was now engaged, his trunk packed, his 
 last farewell of his friends taken, his last song composed. 
 
He was about leaving Scotland, perhaps forever ; but fate, 
 let us hope, had something better in store for him. A letter 
 was received by a friend of his from Dr. Blacklock of Edin- 
 burgh, which again revived the dying spark of hope within 
 
 his bosom. 
 
 He remained, went to Edinburgh, was received, hon- 
 ored, and toasted, by the best society of the capital. His 
 manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, sim- 
 ple, manly, and independent. Ladies, noble by birth, but 
 far nobler in their attentions toward him were fascinated by 
 his conversation ; they hung upon his every word, as he 
 told them romantic stories of his rural life and many loves. 
 
 Notwithstanding he was surrounded by all these 
 gaities, he did not fail to seek out the house of Allan Ram- 
 sey, and on entering it to uncover his head. He did not 
 fail to go, pilgrim like, to pay homage at the grave of Rob- 
 ert Fergusson, his elder brother in the muses, and kneeling 
 down, he kissed the earth above him ; and had a fitting 
 monument erected to his memory at his own expense. 
 
 I have stood beside that grave, in the old Canon-gate 
 church-yard, and copied the inscription which Burns had 
 so kindly placed there. 
 
"Here lies Robert Fergusson, poet. 
 Born Sep. 5tli, 1751. Died Oct i6th, 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 sorrow o'er her Poet's Dust." 
 
 After a short tour through the sa\'age glens of the High- 
 lands, and a visit to the country and grave of Ossian, as 
 well as places famous in history or some old Scottish bal- 
 lad, he again returns to his home to be gazed and wondered 
 at by his former associates. The plain fanner who had left 
 them but a few months before unknown, had now returned, 
 crowned by the INIuses as the greatest poet Scotland ever 
 produced. He had been honored by those who sat in high 
 places in the capital of his country. 
 
 The father of Jean Armour now begins to relent, and 
 to see the man in a more favorable light. He now weds his 
 bonnie Jean, the girl who had loved him so long and de- 
 votedly. 
 
X 
 
i'.lhsla, 
 
 aps the poc 
 for his romantic sui 
 Here '1 
 
 '■ri '• 'It his fane 
 
 >(> h) fl; 
 
 If WlUi.lS \: 
 
 ■vcre htap 
 
 moouliglil of memory; and iL > 
 row lor his lost Hifihlam' ^' ' '.<) m 
 Yet he di. ' 
 
 now pai 
 
 
 ilc 
 banks 
 
 of the K ..re he 1 . 
 
 ilen walked 
 
 ; com- 
 
 nninion with nature 
 
 
 
 Tin- rnmilu remov( 
 
 iifries, v'^'^ 
 
 
 ■ lie uar is uioiai c^jurbL wu:^ duwii- 
 
 iiis iicalth became much impaired. 
 
MOSSGIEL. 
 
Then came the removal to Ellisland, a bad move in 
 some respects, for, as Allan Cunningham's father told him, 
 " He had made a poet's not a farmer's choice." But, no 
 matter, perhaps the poems he now wrote were all the better 
 for his romantic surroundings. 
 
 Here Tam O'Shanter and his old grey Meg came stag- 
 gering through his fancy ; and he gave to the "airy nothing 
 a local habitation and a name." 
 
 Here the winds of bonnie Doon were heard in the 
 moonlight of memory ; and it was here he moaned his sor- 
 row for his lost Highland Mary in the parting recollections 
 of Auld Lang Syne. Yet he did not prosper. It was again 
 the same old struggle, ending in disappointment. 
 
 With a heavy heart he prepares to leave Ellisland. He 
 now parts with his stock, his plough, and the flowery banks 
 of the Nith, where he had so often walked in silent com- 
 munion with nature. 
 
 The family remove to Dumfries, where he for some 
 time entertained high hopes of promotion in the Excise. 
 
 Then came the dark days. His moral course was down- 
 wards, and his health became much impaired. 
 
The man who could so charm by his social nature as to 
 draw wearv travelers from their beds at midnight, and the 
 farmer from 'his reapers, could hardly resist the fascinating 
 bowl. 
 
 Finally his soul became embittered with his pecuniary 
 difficulties, and winter's icy blasts laid him low with rheu- 
 matic fever. 
 
 Spring came with her blossoms and the singing of 
 birds. He left his home to inhale the balmy air wafted from 
 afar across summer seas ; but it brought not back the tint of 
 health to his cheek, nor the elasticity to his step. 
 
 Once more he returned to his home. His good and 
 loving wife was too ill to do much for him, but Jessie Lew- 
 ars, the faithful beautiful Jessie watched over him with tear- 
 ful eves, and revived the last spark of sentiment that noble 
 breast was ever destined to feel. He rewarded her with 
 some of his sweetest songs. 
 
 "Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
 Altho' even hope is denied, 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
 Than ausfht in the world beside." 
 
i;i<i<)\v <'i II' 
 window 
 rhirtv vs< veil aiiii 
 uid cold 
 }>oet is p: 
 
 Ri-in 
 
 IS lieard m 
 countrymen who sigh, ; 
 rid re-echoe 
 .DIASIO A8JIA 
 
 
AILSA CRAIG. 
 
Again, a solitary light is seen shining from the window 
 of the room where Robert Burns is lying ; casting the flit- 
 ting shadow of the sorrowing Jessie Lewars across the cur- 
 tained window. 
 
 Thirty-seven and a half years of toil, disappointment, 
 and cold neglect, have done their cruel work. The great 
 poet is passing away. 
 
 Again a terrible storm sweeps over the land, from the 
 depth of a nation's heart it comes ; it is heard in the wail- 
 ing cry of thousands of his countrymen who sigh, Remorse ! 
 Remorse ! It is now too late. The world re-echoes the cry. 
 
«^ 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 l< li 
 014 389 928 7 
 
 
 ■ -■-:./-;■:,;,;/ ::"--■;•-''''■■;•' i^'-'r'"'^^'^^^^^^ 
 
 r' '/ " . ■'■ ' ■-,; v.- -•''''•• ■;^''''^y■■'''V'iy.i;J:;;v/'v'^''^H^7, 
 :^^^■;■;::^•-;v:^v:•M■;■^i;v/••^•>':.t;;;,'^:K•■<^;^■p^5^e• 
 
 ,.,'/....■. ,; ' - '- •'• ■-■'■'' ■■■■■' '■!('. ■■■■ .-ifif'^ov/- 
 
 
 ^1'^^^ 
 
 #-