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.^M^(fJ~ Pow^u ^- %Jt. 
 
THE 
 
 WORKS 
 
 OP 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 CONTAINING HIS LIFE; 
 
 BT 
 
 JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ,. 
 
 THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, 
 
 BY HIMSELF GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, aND OTHERS; 
 
 ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY 
 
 INCLUDINO 
 
 TIIE POETRY OP BURNS, BY DEt CUltlUE; 
 
 BURNS'S SONGS, 
 
 FROM JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL, MUSEUM," AND " THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIE& . 
 
 SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF TIIE OTHER POETS 
 
 FROM THE BEST COLI^ECTlOKSi 
 
 WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. 
 
 BXIXG, IV ONE WOIIK, TIIE TRUF.ST CXHIBITION OF THE MAN AND THE POET, AND THE 
 FULLEST EDITION OF HIS POETRY AND PROSB WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED. 
 
 NEW rORK: 
 LEAVITT & ALLEN BROS., 
 
 No. 8 HOWARD STREET, 
 
PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 Tns fofiOKing trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all 
 Jie advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
 ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus 
 or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celehratcd names their 
 countrymen are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut vp, mid 
 a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing 
 poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- 
 self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. — 
 Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse 
 of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps 
 the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think 
 any thing of his worth showing; and none of the following works were com- 
 posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations 
 of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe 
 the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
 breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- 
 ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were 
 his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be 
 its own reward 
 
 Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does ii 
 with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even 
 he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being 
 branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the 
 world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a ^ew doggerel Scotch 
 rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, 
 forsooth ! 
 
 It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, wnose divine ele. 
 gie: do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " HumUiti,^ 
 has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to tinne !" 
 If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once ^or /iH. 
 that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, 
 otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre 
 below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever 
 give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the 
 loor, unfortunate Ferguoson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, 
 that, even in hi* highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- 
 tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his 
 sye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, 
 Uian for servile imitation. 
 
iy PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks . N-t the 
 mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the 
 bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- 
 tl'''«-ing him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom- 
 V je'distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the 
 .■< Jite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- 
 lowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- 
 did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non- 
 Bense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others— let hi<iS 
 be oondjmned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. 
 
Ik the Dedication of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap 
 tain Graham iMoore. the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his 
 Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and 
 *■< men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the 
 " performance of which it v/as scarcely to be hoped that general approoa- 
 " tion could be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper To such 
 " an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- 
 " pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme 
 *' thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations, 
 •< joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and ot 
 •' other friends ©f the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist." 
 
 These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to 
 suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour, 
 while others have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeandshness 
 in favour of persons of established reputation, who might be chary of a tick- 
 lish and imoracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the 
 facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the master-spirits 
 of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a 
 superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage ? They 
 have all voluntarily written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no 
 feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only honour, but write as if 
 honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing 
 attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it. as a decisive test of the evil 
 days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- 
 tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving hia 
 character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- 
 rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. 
 
 It is true. Dr. Carrie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's 
 auto-biographical letter to Dr. iMoore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — 
 the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of INIr. 
 Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma- 
 terials. They form trulv the verv baclfrbone of tl.e poet's life, as edited hi 
 
V " ) 
 
 Dr Cunic. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and howevei 
 largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, tliey ought also 
 to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with 
 the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative 
 of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold 
 and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- 
 men of all degrees, of that literary talent, \;hich had only been inferred^ 
 hvpothetically, from the nature of her elementary institutions. 
 
 v\'e have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currle. 
 It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours, 
 as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of reducteitr. — He 
 was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with 
 professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei- 
 ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended 
 that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after 
 a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man 
 and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to 
 him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however 
 tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- 
 ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei 
 such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in 
 justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and mora' 
 character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features 
 unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru 
 lence of party strife. 
 
 The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This 
 is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals oi 
 the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, -.vho each ol 
 them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon ti.e publications of 
 Cromek, who in his " K cliques," and " Select Scotti&h Songs," brought to 
 light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- 
 ted and kept alive tlie general feeling, which was not gratified in its fuil 
 extent until nearly thirty years after the publication of Dr. Currie't work. 
 It was nut until 18"^7 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the 
 person of Mr. John Lockhart, thv» son-in-law of Sir \Valtcr Scoit, and (ra- 
 ther a discordant title). Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in 
 that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part 
 of that excellent repertory known by the title of CousUihles 31/ sec/ /a hi/. 
 
 It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied 
 of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting 
 them, alter an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. Jt 
 certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the 
 ciiampion of the Bard who sung, 
 
 " A man's a man for a' that :" 
 
 and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public 
 patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect 
 persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upon him. But the 
 lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove 
 prejudices and soften asperities; to say notliing of that independence of 
 mind which always adiieres to true genius, and which the circumstances 
 in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred snirit. Mr 
 
f ••• 
 
 ( 1" , 
 
 Lockhart, it will farther bo observed, besides having compiled his iv-ork vr. 
 der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate 
 delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical mannci 
 than the preceding biographers. lie judged for himself; he took neither 
 flicts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and 
 where doubtful, extricated the fiicts in the most judicious and careful man 
 ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested 
 his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet 
 did, always thinks and speaks for himself. 
 
 These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have 
 preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the 
 present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi- 
 tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which 
 Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained 
 in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the 
 respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns. — The 
 following general heads will show the nature and extent of the present 
 work. 
 
 1. The Life by Lockhart. 
 
 2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, 
 
 with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published 
 in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since 
 brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 
 
 3. Essay (by Dr. Carrie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of 
 
 Burns. 
 
 4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 2U0 in number, and many 
 
 of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 
 
 5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger 
 
 work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, 
 and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 
 
 6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, 
 
 besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and 
 others. 
 
 The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only 
 complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public. 
 Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with 
 the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire 
 novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- 
 ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and 
 a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like- 
 wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. 
 
 Mew Yokk, Sept. 11, 1832. 
 
CONTENTS OF BUUNS'S WORKS. 
 
 OF THE LIFE. 
 
 Page 
 Chap. I —The Poet's Birth, IJSO— Circumstances and peculiar Character of his 
 Father and Mother — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of 
 his i\Iental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 10, ^ i — viii 
 
 Chap. II — From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as 
 I^.bourers, at stated AVages — At rural work tlie Poet feared no competitor — This 
 period not marked by much iMental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- 
 gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir- 
 vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member of a Batchelor's Club, ix^— xu 
 
 Chap. Ill — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossgiel — 
 Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not 
 J'rosperous — The iMuse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in 
 local polemics, and charged with heresy — Curious account of these disputes — 
 Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin. 
 cjpal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the \\'est Indies 
 — The alternative, ,„-„ — — xx — zxxiv 
 
 Hhap. IV — The Poet gives up Mossgicl to his Brother Gilbert— Intends for Ja- 
 maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supjdy means of outfit — 
 One of COO co])ies printed at Kilmarnock, IJUtJ — It brings him extended repu- 
 tation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- 
 stances, Guaging first Imited to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — 
 Sayings and doings in the first year of liis fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan 
 desisted from because of encouragement by Dt. Blacklock to publish at I'^din- 
 burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, „„ „^ xxxv — Ixils 
 
 Chap. V — The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1780-7 — By his advent, the condition 
 of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pediintic — is lightc-l 
 up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca- 
 ressed by the fashionable — \Vhat happens to him generally in that new world, 
 and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern 
 life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by 
 bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as 
 Slot the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried off' their feet by it, 
 while the nhilosopliers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 co])ies by Creech, 
 wliich yields mucn money to the Poet — Hesolves to visit the classic scenes of his 
 own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back 
 to the region of poverty and seclusion, „,^„.^ ^ ^-„.,„., Ixiv — Isxi 
 
 Chap. VI — flakes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first 
 pf these, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends Li the " Auld Clay 
 Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends 
 during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one 
 effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst tl-e 
 fleshpots, winter 1787-!5 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised 
 liinl), and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Excise — Another 
 crisis, in which the Poet fuids it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop 
 not to desert him — Growls over iiis publisher, but after settling with him leaves 
 Eilinburgh with £500 — Steps towards a more regular life, „ Ixii — Ixxv 
 
 Chap. VII fliarries — Announcements, (apologetical,) of die event — Pemarkr, — 
 
 Becomes C17U8) Farmer at Elliesland. on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity, six 
 
n CONTENTS. 
 
 Pa^ 
 
 miJes from Dumfnes — The I\Iuse wakeful as ever, while the Poet mainuiiiis a 
 varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon 
 the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother 
 poet, who shews cause against success in farming — Tlie untoward conjunction of 
 Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of adniirir.g 
 visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life — Leaves tlliesland (17'Jl) 
 to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, — IxxSii — 5V 
 
 CiiAP. VIII Is moreheset in town than country— His early biographers, (Dr. 
 
 Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct 
 to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drii.ker, or of his 
 revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual 
 discharge of his official ckities — lie is shov/n to have been the aft'ectionate and be- 
 loved husband, although passing follies im])Uted ; and the constant and most as- 
 siduous instructor of his children— Impulses of the French Eevolution — Synip. 
 toms of fraternizing — The attention of liis official superiors is called to them — 
 Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this pe- 
 riod—Gives his whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native 
 dialect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, x.n— cil 
 
 Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — 
 
 Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminislu-d by narrow circumstances 
 
 Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter— Th.e Poet misses public pa- 
 
 tronage: and even the fair fruits of his own genius — tlic appropriation of which 
 is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell— His magnani- 
 mity when death is at hand ; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a 
 dying man— Dies, 21st July 179o— Public funer;.l, at wl-.ich many attend, and 
 amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- 
 knowledge the Poet, living— His family muniScently provided for by the public 
 
 Analysis of character— His integrhy, religious state, and genius— Strictures 
 
 upon him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Byron, and otiiers, . — „ cx-.cxxxiv 
 
 Verses on tlie death of Burns, by ]Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, cxxxv 
 
 Character of F>ums and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, c\xxvii 
 
 Preface to th.e First Edition jf Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, ..„„- cLxiii 
 
 Didlcalion to the Cdedonia-" Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, . dn% 
 
vii 
 
 CONTENTS OF THE POEMS 
 
 \ Bar(? s Epitap.i, ~ 
 
 Address to a Hoggis, 
 o a Lady, 
 to a Louse, 
 to a Mouse,-- - - - 
 to Colonel de Peyster, 
 
 to Edinburgh, -~- 
 
 to General Demourier, 
 
 to J. Syme,~v 
 
 to Mr. Mitche , 
 
 to Mr. William Tytler, 
 
 to Robert Graham, Esq. 
 
 to the Deil, 
 
 to the Owl,-, , 
 
 to the Shade of Thomson, 
 
 to the Scotch Representatives,- 
 
 to the Toothache,- 
 
 to the LTnco Guid, 
 
 A Bodication to Gavin Hamilton, 
 
 ,\ Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King), 
 
 A Grace before Dinner,-™. 
 
 Ansiver to a Tax Surveyor, . 
 
 A Prayer in Piospect of Death, 
 in Anguish, 
 
 A Sketch, 
 
 A Winter N'ight,-. 
 A Yision,-~~w~~. 
 
 — - 55 
 
 40 
 
 T.' 
 
 42 
 '.'9 
 7-1 
 4.1 
 S5 
 17 
 71 
 Gl 
 51 
 14 
 S2 
 55 
 4 
 
 41 
 
 IS 
 
 75 
 
 72 
 
 .-fi, 7S 
 
 . 58, 78 
 
 .-, 82 
 
 t'9 
 
 — 69 
 
 Death and Dr Honibook,- 
 Despondency, an Ode, 
 
 a Hymn, 
 
 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 
 
 on William Creech, ~ 
 
 on Peg Nicolson,— ..,.- — -... -. 
 
 Tarn Samson, 
 
 on the Year 1788, . 
 
 9 
 
 32 
 78 
 
 40 
 76 
 77 
 t'3 
 68 
 
 Ipistle to a Voung Friend, . 
 to Captain Riddel, - 
 
 to Davie, a Brother Poet (1), . 
 to Cavie, a Brother Poet (2), 
 to Gavin Hamilton, 
 to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,- 
 to J. Rankin with Poems,- 
 
 to Mr. .Macadam, 
 
 to Terraughty, . 
 
 to the Reverend Mr. M'Math, 
 to \V. S. Ochiltree, —— — ~™ 
 Epitaph on a Friend, 
 
 on a Noisy Polemic,- 
 on a Ruling Elder,^ — 
 en Gavin Flamilton, . 
 on R. .\itkcn, . 
 
 39 
 
 81 
 50 
 59 
 79 
 
 45, 45, 79 
 47 
 81 
 81 
 79 
 46 
 75 
 55 
 
 on tlie Poet's Father, . 
 or. VVee Johnny, . 
 
 Extempore Effusions in the Court of Session, 
 on Falsehood,- 
 to a Friend, 
 to Mr. Syme, , 
 
 Refusal to Dine, 
 when at Carlisle, - 
 
 Halloween, ...-....■. .,„..,.„. 
 
 Holy Fair, ™ "' 
 
 Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,—— 
 Inscription, Altar of Independence,-. 
 
 Lamcnt of Queen Marj-, 
 
 55 
 55 
 55 
 55 
 82 
 85 
 hS 
 74 
 71 
 85 
 
 24 
 6 
 
 73 
 
 72 
 
 50 
 
 Lament for James Earl of Giencairn, 
 
 for a Scotch Bard gone to the West 1 
 Lines left at a Friend's House, 
 
 left at Carron, ~ 
 
 left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, „ 
 
 left at Tavmouth Inn, — . 
 
 on a Posthumous Child,. 
 
 on a Wounded Hare, 
 
 on Bruar Water, 
 
 on Captain Grose 
 
 on Mi-;s Cruikshanl<s, 
 
 on Religion, 
 
 on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, .— 
 
 on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, 
 
 on the Death of J. Maeleod, 
 
 on the Fall of Fyers, —- 
 
 on the Highland- 
 
 on William Smellie,. 
 
 to a Mountain Daisy 
 
 to an Olfended Friend, . 
 
 to an Old Sweetheart with his Poems 
 
 to a Voting Lady with Books, . 
 
 Page 
 
 _ oi 
 ndies, 4C 
 37 
 6S 
 IS 
 58 
 59 
 54 
 51 
 56 
 56 
 78 
 76 
 53 
 57 
 53 
 7ti 
 71 
 58 
 74 
 62 
 75 
 59 
 
 7J 
 39 
 
 52 
 
 to Mis L. with Heattie's Poems,- 
 
 to Robert Graham, Esq 
 
 to Ruin, 
 
 to Sir John Whitefoord, — . 
 
 M.an was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, — 
 Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph, - 
 
 New- Year's Day, a Sketch, . 
 
 Ode on a Miserly Character,, 
 on my Early Days, 
 on Pastoral Poetrv, . 
 on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, 
 to Liberty,- 
 
 Poor Maillie's Elegy, . 
 
 Scotch Drink,- 
 
 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, 
 Stanzas on Death, . 
 Strathallau's Lament,- 
 
 Tam o' Shnnter, - 
 
 Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, 
 
 The Auld Farmer's New-Year's Salutation to his 
 
 Briis o' Ayr, ,™~ — — ™ 10 
 
 Calf, — ; ~— '■ ™~ — i< 
 
 Cotter's Saturday Night, .-— ^- 53 
 
 Death and Dying VV ords of Poor Maillie, _ 16 
 
 First six Verses of 9Uth Psalm, 58 
 
 Henpecked Husband, — —„—..-- — -> 68 
 
 Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, 51 
 
 Ordination, ^ '3 
 
 Twa Dogs, — -..- -. — ~- I 
 
 Whistle, — L— -^ — .- 59 
 
 Vision, „— — — i'O 
 
 ™, 81 
 
 53 
 
 73 
 
 71 
 
 49 
 61 
 7fl 
 61 
 
 77 
 
 16 
 
 3 
 
 72 
 37 
 63 
 
 52 
 
 Vowels, a Tale, 
 
 Winter, a Dirge,— 
 
 Essay on Scottish Poetry iDr. Currie), . 
 
 84-33 
 
CONTENTS OF TIIE SELECT SCOTTISU "SONGSL 
 
 imircw and his Cu.ty Gun,, 
 ^nnie Lawrie, 
 
 fts I wfiit 0!it in a May Morning, , 
 AuM Rub Morris, . 
 
 Robin Gray,~. 
 Aye wauki})' 0,~~~ 
 A waulirife Minny, . 
 Awa Whigs Awa, „ 
 
 Deds of Swe;t Roses, 
 
 Beis the Gaikie 
 
 Bessy Bell anl Mary Graj 
 Hide ye Vet 1 2 sets). 
 
 Blink o'er thi Burn Sweet Hetty 
 Blue Bonnet? over the Border,-. 
 Bonnie Barbara Allan, . 
 
 Dundee, 
 
 Mary Hay,- 
 
 Came ye o'er frae France, 
 
 Carle .-.n' the King come, 
 
 CaulJ Kail in Aberdeen,-, 
 
 Ca the Kwes to the Knowes, — 
 
 Charlie is my Darbrig, - 
 
 Clout the Cau'dron,. 
 
 Cofkpc-n, 
 
 Come under my Plaidie, 
 
 Comin' thro' the Rye, „ 
 
 Com Rigs are Boniue, -. 
 
 Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago), 
 
 Cromlei's Lilt, ..,. 
 
 Dinna think Ronnie Lassie,, 
 Donald Coupar, 
 Down the Biun Davie,- 
 Dumbarton's Drums,—-. 
 Dusty Miller,, 
 
 Ettriek Ranks, .^..^ 
 
 Fair Annie of Lochroyan, . 
 F'airly Shot of Her, ».— ~— . 
 False' Love and hae ye Played Me This, . 
 
 Farewell to Ayrshire, 
 
 Fare ye weet my Auld Wife 
 
 For Lack o' Gol I She's left me. 
 For the Sakeo' Somebody, . 
 rye gar rub her o'er wi' Straw,-, 
 
 Gala Water,™— ^,. 
 
 Get up and Bar the Door O, . 
 
 Go to Berwick Johnic, - „-. 
 
 Ciude YiU Comes and Gude Vill Goes,-. 
 
 Ilame never cam' He, 
 Haud awa frae me Donald, 
 Hap and row the Feelie o't,- 
 llere's a Health to them that's awa,- 
 Hey ca' through,—-. 
 Highland Laddie, 
 Hooly and Fairlie,. 
 HugKic Graham,-, 
 
 I had a Horse and I had nae mair, 
 
 I'm o'er N'oung to Marry Net, . 
 
 I'll never leave \e, - 
 
 I loo'd nae a Laddie but anc, —.-, 
 
 Jenny Dang 'he Weaver, —-. 
 
 If ye'll be my Dawtie and sit on my I'laid, 
 
 In the Garb of Old >-a"i. , 
 
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 Jockey said to Jenny,—— 
 John Hay's Bonnie Lassie, 
 John o' Badenyon, 
 Johnny Copo,- 
 Johnny Faa, 
 
 Johnr.y's Gray Breeks, 
 Jumpin John, ,.—---. 
 
 Kale of Aberdeen, - 
 
 Kathrnie Ogie, 
 
 Keep the Country Bo.mic Lassie, 
 
 Kelvin Grove, 
 
 Kenmure's on and awa Willie, 
 
 KiUycrankie (the Battle), - 
 
 Killyerankie O (the Braes), 
 
 Kind Robin loes nie, . 
 
 Lady Mary Ann,- 
 
 Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now, 
 
 Lassie lie near me,- 
 
 Lewis Gordon, — - 
 
 Little wat ye wha's comin', 
 
 Lochaber lio more, 
 
 Lochnagar, 
 
 Logan Braes, (double set),- 
 
 Logie o' Buehan,, 
 
 lis 
 
 144 
 
 136 
 
 ms 
 
 159 
 
 Lord Ronald, my Son, -— 
 Low down in the Broom, , 
 
 JIacpherson's Rant, — — — - 
 
 Maggie Lauder, 
 
 Mary's Dream, - 
 
 Mary Scot, the Flower o' \arrow, 
 
 Merry hae 1 been Teething a Heckle, 
 
 Mill, Mill, 0,_. 
 
 My Auld Man, . 
 
 My Dearie, if thou Die, . 
 
 My Jo Jiuiet, . 
 
 M y Lo\e she's but a Las,sie yet, — ,-, 
 
 l\ly Love's in Gcrmanie, 
 
 My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me, 
 My Native Caledonia, 
 
 in; 
 
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 My only Joe and Dearie O, ~ — . 
 My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing 
 My Wife has taen the Gee, . 
 
 Neil Gow's Farett'«ll to Whisky O, . 
 
 O an' ye were Dead Gudeman,- 
 O can ye labour Lea Voung Man,. 
 Och hey Johnny Lad,, 
 
 O dear Minny what shall I do, . 
 O merry may the Maid be. 
 
 O on oehrio (the Widow of Gleneo;, 
 Old King Coul,- 
 OurGuidman cam' Hame at E'en, . 
 O'er the Muir araang the Heather, . 
 
 O'er Bogie v\i' my Lo'e - -— 
 
 O Waly, Waly up yon Bank,— 
 
 Polwarth on the Green, 
 
 Poverty parts Gude Comp;uiy,- 
 
 Ro.'ilin Castle,- 
 Roy's Wife,. 
 
 Sae Merry as We hae been, 
 
 Sandy o'er the Lea, .. .. 
 
 Saw ye Johnny ('omin', — ^ 
 Saw ye my Father, — 
 
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 21 
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 23 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 ^av/ ye ti<ip niy PeR^V. 
 
 She r(V^<^ and let me in, ,^^,*** 
 
 J^tecr Ikt uj) riiiil haiul lier ;;aun, 
 Stre])lH)n nnd Lyi'' ■ 
 Symon Droitie, . 
 
 Tak' your AiiUl Clo.iK about you, 
 
 Taiii o' the Balloch, 
 
 Tarry Woo,. 
 
 The Auld Mans Mare's dca^l, 
 
 The Auld Wile ayoiit tlio Kire, 
 
 The Hattle o' Slierra-miiir, 
 
 The lianks o' tlie Tweed, _ 
 
 The Beds o' Sweet Roses, . 
 
 The Uirks of Invermav, . 
 
 The Hlvthesome Briilal,- 
 
 The Blathrie o't,. 
 
 The Bnatie rov«'s, 
 
 TheBobof Dumblaiie,, 
 
 The bomiie bruckct Lassie, 
 
 The boniiie Lass o' Branksome, 
 
 The biinnie Lass that made the Bed to me. 
 
 The Brae-; o' Ballendean, -. 
 
 The brisk young Lad, ,. 
 
 The Biume o' the Cowdenkuawcs, 
 
 The Bush abnon Traquair, 
 
 The Campbells are comin', 
 
 The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft, 
 
 The Coallier's boniiie Lassi 
 
 The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn, 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, 
 
 The Flowers of Edinburgh, 
 
 The Foray, ~. 
 
 The Gaberlunzie Man,. 
 The happy Marriage, ~ 
 The Hishland Queen, , 
 Tie Jolly Beggar, -™„ 
 
 The Lammie, 
 
 The Landart Laird, 
 
 The Lass of Peatie's Mill, .^ 
 
 The Lass o' Liviston, ,.. — .~~-, 
 
 The Last I ime I cam' o'er the Muir,, 
 The Lea-Rig,^,^.^,,,^.. ...., 
 
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 1U6 
 IH 
 
 The Life and Age o' Man, 
 
 The Maid that tends the Goats, — 
 
 The M:iltm;m, 
 
 The merry Men O, 
 
 The Miller o* Dee, 
 
 The Minstrel (DonoLhthead), 
 
 The muckin' o' Geordie's Hyre, . 
 
 The Old Man's Song,. 
 
 The Poets, what Fools the're to Deave us 
 
 The Poesie, . — ~ — 
 
 The Bock and the wee pickle Tow, — 
 
 The Soutois o' Selkirk, 
 
 The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, 
 
 The Turninspike ~~,. 
 
 The weary Pund o' Tow, 
 The wee, wee German Lairdie, 
 The Wee Thing,. 
 
 The Wee Witikie, 
 
 1 he White Cock.ade, „ — 
 
 The Widow, „ 
 
 The Yellow-halr'd Laddie, 
 
 I he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, 
 There's nae Luck about the House, — ™~ 
 This is no Mine Ain House, 
 Tibbie Fowler, . 
 Tibbie Dunbar,„„„ 
 To Daunton Me, 
 
 To the Kye wi' Me, (2 sets), 
 Todlin Haine, 
 Tranent-Muir, 
 Tullochgorum, . 
 
 ' P>"»is within a Mile o' Edinburgh iown, 
 ..'side (.' sets),. 
 
 „ ,, ana Warn a' Willie, 
 Up in the Moruin' early,. 
 
 Wandering Willie, 
 Waukin' o' the Fauld, . 
 We're a' Nid Noddin,, 
 
 Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, 
 
 Willie was a Wanton Wag, > ., 
 
 Woo'd and Married and a', . 
 
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 if;9 
 
 CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. 
 
 Aaieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu,, 
 Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, 
 
 Afton Water, • 
 
 Again rejoicing Nature sees, 
 
 A Highland Lad my Love was born,~~- 
 Ara.uig the Trees where humining Bees, 
 
 A Man's a Mau for a' that, 
 
 Anna,„~. 
 Annie, ., 
 
 A red red Hose, 
 
 A ll.Kse Hud by my early Walk, 
 A Southland Jennie, 
 Auld Lang Syne, — ~- 
 Auld Rob Morris, 
 
 Bessv and her Spinning. Wheel, . 
 Behold the hour the Boat arrives, . 
 Beware of Bonnie .\nn. 
 Beyond thee. Dearie, 
 Blythe hae I been on yon Hiil,. 
 
 BIythe was She, 
 
 Oonnie Bell, -^ 
 
 Jean, . ~~ 
 
 Lesley, 
 Wee i'hing, . 
 
 jJruce at Bannoukburn, 
 
 I'Talcdonia— (their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle),, 
 Cau'it thou leave me thus, Katy, 
 Reply, 
 
 Ca* the Ewes,~., , .,.. » — ~ 
 
 Chloe, 
 
 Page. 
 
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 Chloris,~ 
 
 Clarinda, 
 
 Come let me take Thee to my Breast, 
 
 Contented wi' LittVi 
 
 Country Lassie, 
 
 Craigieburn-wood,, 
 
 Dainty Davie, — 
 Deluded Swain, 
 Does haughty Gaul,, 
 Down the Burn Da\ie, , 
 Duncan Grav,~ 
 
 Evan Banks, „. 
 
 Fair Eliza, 
 
 Fairest Maid on Devon Banks,. 
 Fate gave the Word, ~, 
 For the Sake o' Somebody, . 
 Forlorn my Love,. 
 From thee Eliza,~. 
 
 Pagt. 
 
 ^ 197 
 ™ 197 
 197 
 197 
 193 
 193 
 
 Gala.W'atcr,, 
 Gloomy December, ,., 
 
 Green grow the Rashes 0,~~ 
 Gudewife count the Lawin',., 
 
 Had 1 a Cave on someAVild distant Shore, 
 Hands'ime Nell, . 
 
 Her flowing Locks, ~- — «. — ~ 
 Here's a htallh to Ane 1 loe dear, . 
 to Them that's awa. 
 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 Hole's a Bottle and an Honest Frieml, . 
 
 Hi^hlaml Harry,- 
 Highliinrt Mary, 
 
 How Cruel are the Parents, 
 
 How lang and dreary is the Night, 
 
 1 am a Son of Mars,. 
 
 Panf. 
 
 2il4 
 
 20.) 
 205 
 204 
 201 
 
 Jamie come try me, 
 
 c.ream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,- 
 ni aye c,i' in by yon Town, 
 I'm o'er Voung to Marry yet, 
 it is nae Jean thy binnie Face,. 
 Jookey'i ta'en the Parting Ki^s, 
 
 John Anderson my jo, 
 
 John Barleycorn, 
 
 Last May abraw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 
 Lassie wV the Lint- white LockS; 
 
 Lay thy Loof in mine Lass, 
 
 Let not a Woman e'er complain,-. 
 
 Logan ISraes, 
 
 Long, long the Night, 
 
 Lord Gregory, 
 
 jord Daer, 
 
 Macplierson's Farewell,, 
 
 Maria's Dwelling, 
 
 Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion,. 
 
 llary Moriion, . 
 
 Meg o' the Mill, - 
 
 My Honnie Marv. 
 
 M,' Heart's in tlie Highlands, — 
 
 My toady's Gown there's Gairs upon't, . 
 
 My Nannie's awa,. 
 
 Mv Nannie O. — . 
 
 My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, 
 
 My .SpGu^e Nancy, 
 
 My Wife's a winsome Wee Thmg, 
 
 Musing on the Roaring Ocean,—™ 
 
 Naebody, 
 Nancv, 
 
 * '"■ ■^.' »-"'■'— "■ • 
 
 Now Itanks and Hracs are clail in Green, ~. 
 Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green,™- 
 Now wesllin VVin.ls and slaughtering Guns, 
 
 O' a' the airts the Wind can blaw,- 
 
 O ay my Wife she dang me, 
 
 O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,-. 
 
 O lor Ane and Twentie Tarn, 
 
 O gin my Love were yon Red Rose, 
 
 O leave Novelles ye Mauchlin Belles, 
 
 O let me m this ae Night, 
 
 O Love will venture in, -.,— .. — «— — , 
 
 O May, thy Morn,- 
 
 ()n a Bank of Flowers, 
 
 On Cessnock Bank, . 
 
 On the Seas and far away,- 
 
 Open the Door to me O,- 
 
 O Pliilly happy be that day,- 
 
 O stay sweet warbhng Woodlark, . 
 
 O wat ye Wh.a's in yon To^n, 
 
 O were I on Parnassus Hdl, -_ 
 
 O wcrt Thou in the Cauld Blast, - 
 
 O wha is She that Locs me,. 
 
 Out over the Forth,- 
 
 Pcggv .\lison. 
 
 Philiis the Fair, 
 
 Powers Celestial wnose protection, 
 
 I'uirtith Cauld, - 
 
 Rantin' Roarin* Willie,-. 
 
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 £22 
 
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 292 
 
 Raving W'inda around her blowing,-^— ~——~—~ 2i3 
 
 Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, ..,— . 22.1 
 
 She's Fair and She's Pause, 2-'.^ 
 
 She says she Loes me best of a', , 22.1 
 
 Sic a Wife as Willie had, — „ ■J'-Ji 
 
 Steer her up and haud her gaun, 221 
 
 Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburu-vvood, .- 2.'4 
 
 Tarn Glen 
 
 The .\uld Man 
 
 The Banks o' Castle Gordon, 
 
 o' Cree 
 
 o' Devon, 
 
 o' Ooon, 
 
 o' Nith,_ 
 The Bard's Song, 
 The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, 
 The Big-bellied Bottle,-, 
 The Birks o' AberfeldiC; 
 The Blue-eyed Lassie, 
 
 The bonnie Wee Thing, 
 
 The Braes o' Balloehmyle, 
 
 The Carle o' Kellyburn'-Braes 
 
 "The Chevalier's Lament, 
 
 The Day Returns, 
 
 The Death Song, . 
 
 The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman, 
 
 The Election 
 
 The Gallant Weaver 
 
 The Gardener, 
 
 The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast. 
 
 The Heather was bloomin' 
 
 The Highland Lassie O, — 
 
 The I.ad that's far awa, — 
 
 The Lass o' Balloehmyle, 
 
 The Lass thit made the Bed to me, 
 
 The Lazy Mist, 
 
 The Lea-Rig 
 
 The Lovely Lass o' Inverness, 
 
 The Lover's Salutation 
 
 The Riggs o' Harley 
 
 The Soldier's Return, 
 
 The stown Glanceo' iviudness,— . 
 
 'I'he Toast 
 
 The Tocher for Me, 
 
 The Woodlark, 
 
 The "\'oung Highland Rover, 
 
 There'll never be Peace till Jamie cmnes ha;nc,~ 
 
 Thcre's a Youth in this City, 
 
 There's News Lasses, 
 
 There was once a Day, 
 
 This is no mine ain Lassie, — — — . 
 
 Thou has left me ever Jaime, — 
 
 Tibbie 1 haescen the Day, 
 
 To Mary in Heaven, 
 
 True-hearted was He, 
 
 Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, „ 
 
 Wandering Willie,——. — ~ ,- 
 
 What can a Voung La-sie do wi' an Auld .Man, -. 
 
 Wha is that at my Bower Door, -— ~— — — — . 
 
 When Guildford 'Goc<l, , 
 
 Where ate the Joys I hae met in the Morning, -, 
 Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad 
 
 Wdlie brew'd a Peck o Maul, „ 
 
 Will ^'e go to the Indies my Mary,, 
 Wilt thou be my Dearie, 
 
 Von Wild Mossy Mountains, 
 
 Voung Jockey was the biythest Lad, 
 Vounp f eggv, .■„»>,——.—.. — . 
 
 225 
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 256 
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 2.'8 
 
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CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 17S3, 1784 
 
 Page 
 
 Lcn {yCtters, at 2i?, in good English, but unavail- 
 ing. ^ — _„ 2i7_9 
 
 To Mr. Murdoch— state ot the Poet and liis Opi- 
 nions, ~ — .^^^ — ^-„,~-„„„.„,.„.,,„ 249 
 
 Extracts from the Scrap-book, „,.„„ 250-2 
 
 1786. 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh— first pub- 
 lish in<;, „ , 
 
 To Mr. Macwhinnie, Ayr— same topic, 
 
 To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline— route for Ja- 
 
 T<i Mr. David Brice — same — about to become 
 Poet in print— ihe last foolish action he is to 
 commit, ~~— «-«»-.„„„„„.,„„,.,.,.„„, , , 
 
 To Mr. Aitken, Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a fu- 
 ture state, ~~~ ...„„,.,.^»,.„,„„„ .„,„ 
 
 To Mrs Dimlop— first Letter— her order for Co- 
 pics — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir W. 
 
 To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory— hurry — 
 f;oin£; abroad -sends Songs, „,„„„ 
 
 From br Blacklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie— 
 witli just estimate of the l-'oet's merits— which 
 puts an end to tlie West India scheme, and brings 
 liim to Edinburgh, „„ ........„„„,.,.,.,„..„ 
 
 From Sir John Whitefoord — complimentary,-,—- 
 
 From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview 
 with Dr. Blacklock — good advice, 
 
 ■R) Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline — from Edinburgh 
 — the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or 
 John Bunvan— favours of tlie Edinburgli public. 
 
 To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline — with the Lines on 
 Lord Daer, r,^.,,,,,.,,,,,,^,.,,,,^,,,,,,,^ 
 
 1787. 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at 
 Eduiburgh, ^-^^ ~-»™™„l_„„„,.».„„„„.„,.,„ 
 
 To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the s.ime, and 
 humourously apologetical. .^^ .„,„,„..„„ 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantine — Fanning projects and 
 farther mcidcnts at Edinburgli, .. 
 
 To tne Earl of Eglinton— a thaiikful Letter, 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop— tre.its of Dr. Moore and lils 
 Writings — critic.il remarks on his own — and 
 upon himself at the height of popular favour,-. 
 
 To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of 
 
 V'ro'ii Dr. Moore — thinks the Poet not of the ir- 
 ritab'ile genus — admires his love of Country and 
 independent spirit, not less than his Poetical 
 Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the 
 Mountain Daisy, „. ,„ t'60 
 
 To Dr. Moore — general character of Mi.ss Wdliaras' 
 Poems, „-„„-„,„-„, 26'J 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantme — printnig at Edinburgh, 
 and getting \\\i phiz done, -. . 261 
 
 From Dr. Moore — with his View of Society — and 
 other Works, .,. 261 
 
 To ihe Earl of Glencairn — with L,ines for his Pic- 
 
 To the Earl of Biieian — as to Pilgrimages in Cale- 
 donia. ,,,,',,,,,.,,,,„ 262 
 
 2.52 
 2J2 
 
 2.33 
 
 255 
 
 251 
 
 255 
 
 2,55 
 256 
 
 256 
 
 256 
 257 
 
 -'j7 
 
 257 
 
 25S 
 258 
 
 259 
 259 
 
 Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Fergjss'm, 2Ci-i 
 To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow — the Poet clings 
 
 to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still 
 
 the Old Man with his deeds, 261 
 
 To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical 
 
 Museum, ..„„„„,^ ,„„„„ 364 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— the Bard— his 
 
 situation and views, , , „„. 264 
 
 To the same, .„-„„„ . „, , 265 
 
 To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first 
 
 Pilgrimnge, - -„,..„, „,„-^ .„, 265 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti- 
 
 To tlie Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair — leave taking,„ . 
 
 From Dr. Bl.air — who notices hi-^own claims for 
 first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — 
 gives the Poet, at parting, » certificate of cha- 
 racter, with much good advice, both wordly and 
 poetical. 
 
 265 
 265 
 
 266 
 
 To Mr. Willi.im Creech— with the Elegy during 
 the first Pilgrimage, ..„„ .-„„„ 263 
 
 From Dr. Moore — sparing use hereafter of the 
 Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua- 
 ble hints also given, ,.., „„„,..„„ 267 
 
 To Mr. William Nieoll — the Poci's Itinerary in 
 braid .Scots,-—™ , , , .„ 2d7 
 
 From Mr. John Hiitcheson, Jamaica — Poems 
 excellent — but better in the English stvle— Scot- ■ 
 tish now !)ccoming obsolete — dissuades from the 
 West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a 
 man of learning and genius there," — - 26S 
 
 To Mr. W. Nieoll— on arriving at home— morali- 
 zes over the Scenes and Companions of his re- 
 cent elevation— gloomily a> to the future, 268 
 
 To (iavin Hainilton — occurrences of the second 
 Pilgrunnge. _— - -„^— — 269 
 
 To Mr Walker, Blair-in-Athole — the s.ime — the 
 Duke's family,-, 270 
 
 To Mr. Gilbert lUiriis-furth^'r adventures, — „- 270 
 
 From Mr.Ramsay of (Jchtertyrc — with Inscriptions 
 —Tale (>f Oiven Caineron^hints for a Poetical 
 Coinpositioti on the grand sc.de and other taste- 
 ful and interesting m.ittL'r.- 271-2 
 
 From Mr. Walker, .-Vthole-llouse— particulars of 
 the Poet's visit there — female contrivances to 
 prolong his say,-, .— — „, 273 
 
 Ftom Mr A. M. an admiriUif I''riend returned 
 from abroad — with tributary Ver.se>, t'?j 
 
 From Mr. Ramsay to the Re . William Voung — 
 introductory of the Poet, -. „— „-„ 2H 
 
 From the same to Dr. ulacklock — with thanks for 
 the Poet's ac(|uaintance and Son.;s— .\nec<lotes, 274 
 
 From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Le'aer from an old 
 Tiit.ir, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he 
 had helped to cultivate, ~ „ — ^— „, 275 
 
 From Mr R , from Gordon. Castle — incidents 
 
 of the Poet's vi.sit there, -—„— „ 275 
 
 From the Rev. John Skinner — jirefers the Natural 
 to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- 
 butes to the Song-making cnterprize, — „— „„ 27fl 
 
 From Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach — Gaelic airs — the 
 Poet's .''Jorthern Tour,, ,. ., ,,,^„ 277 
 
 To Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield— lihymes, 278 
 
 Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81 
 
 To .Miss M an Essay on the complimentary 
 
 style, — .-. ■ ,,,,, 281 
 
 To Mr. Robert Aiiislie — friendship,-, ,—,.- 281 
 
 To :Mr. John Ballantine— with Song, \ e Banks 
 and Braes o' Bonnie i .onn, „-,,, ,.,.....jj., , , , , ,,,, 231 
 
XI. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Page. 
 Sketch of his 
 
 . 281-6 
 
 To Pr. Moore, from tlie Poet- 
 Life „„„ _„, 
 
 From Mr. Gill)ert Burns, a rumunf; Commentary 
 on tlie fore.>oin!i,„„..^ 'i'86-90 
 
 From Mr. Murdduh, as to the Poet's early Tui- 
 tion, . ^,,,,. .,,,. ...,-, r , n -I .....J. V90-2 
 
 From Professor Dugald Siewart— his Sketches of 
 the Poet,-™- „,„„_ ,-„,.„.292-5 
 
 From Mr. Gilbert Burn,';, giving history of origin 
 of the principal Poems, , 29i-7 
 
 From the same, in continuation — and Essay on 
 Education of lower Classes, ~~ , r'97-,'5n2 
 
 Peath and Character of Gilbert Bums,- --r,-. , 31-2 
 
 The ^oet'sScraj)-b!ook. (farther extracts), 3U2-o 
 
 LETTERS, 17S3. 
 
 fo Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— second visit — 
 bruised limb, - 304 
 
 To the same — repelling insinuation as to iiTili- 
 
 To a Lady — upon the use of sarcasm iminittd to 
 
 him against her, - „-, „„ 3 4 
 
 To Mr. Robert Cleghorn— origin of the Cheva. 
 
 504 
 
 304 
 
 3C5 
 
 305 
 
 answer — and with Fanning 
 
 lier's Lament, 
 From the same, 
 
 opinions, „.„ 
 To Mr. James Smith, .^vonfield — marriage pre. 
 
 To Mrs. Punlip — Farming — reasons for and in- 
 structions m the Excise — tart expressions, —-„ 
 
 From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming 
 Nancy," by a Buehan Ploughman, and other 
 Songs — his own Latin poetry, . »_- 306 
 
 To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at his going 
 to the Continent, -„,- ,.,.,.,.,., 306 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil— likes the 
 Georgics — disappointed in the .iEneid, often an 
 imitation of Homer— Dryden, Pope's master, 
 in genius and h.armony of'langiiage, 307 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dvdl Letter may be a 
 kind one, , ,„ „^„^ 307 
 
 To Mrs. Dunloji — inequality of conditions, . 507 
 
 To the same— first from Kllisland— his marriage, 3(i8 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-mi!k Cheese— s 
 slice of it good for indigestion of all kuids, . ^ 308 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainshc— friendbhip— the Poet'i 
 suspicious temperament — his purpose to leave 
 the light troops of Fancv for the squadrons of 
 heavy-armed Thounju— Warriape, ,„„ , iJ9 
 
 To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Maiichline— the Poet's 
 new hc-jse, . „ /gg 
 
 To Mr. Roi.-ert Ainslie — a ser'ous Letter. ijo 
 
 To Mr. George Lockhart, Gbsgow — adnuration 
 of ceriain Female beauties, „ . Z\\ 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlnp — a hieU-peiin\ — Friar's Carse 
 Hermitage and olher Lines, ,1. 311 
 
 To the s.ime — liis answers to hi r, mt Fchoes — 
 .Marriage Anecdotes— aicoum of his Wife— Let- 
 ter writing, , „™ „ — „,„_„ 312 
 
 To the same — gos-ip of a iJinner-iiarty- Life and 
 Age of Man— religii. us impressions, 312 
 
 To Robert Graham, Esq. with fir-t Poetical Ad- 
 
 To Mr. Beiigo, Engraver— estimate of the Poet's 
 new neighbours — matters poetieii, , ., , ^, 314 
 
 To Miss Chalmers — complimen'ary to her — and 
 explanatory of his maniage- present state and 
 prospeetfr-Songs,-„ . — ..,.,. 515 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlo)! — twins— ex' A.Tsms— verses, „„ 316 
 
 To Mr. Peter !1i1I-m pinioiis of the Poetry of 
 Thomson, - ., ,-,■,■,...,, ,. ,. , , ..^ 317 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — the Major's present, 317 
 
 To ajiologetical for the bloody and t\rannical 
 
 Mouse of Stewart,-™ ,,,,.,„,.../ 518 
 
 To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh — 
 with Song^ and good .idvice for his Musicil Mu- 
 seum, „ . „ Sig 
 
 To Dr. Biaekloek- with Poetical Pieces and Songs 
 — liis .Marriage and other movemenis, 319 
 
 To Mis. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poel'^ esli. 
 mate of worldly coneeins, as against the func- 
 tions of the immortal soul — .\ulil LangS>ne 
 
 and (;ther .Song's, — - -.-.,. , , . ., ,,, ,,.,,, 320 
 
 Tr a yount Lad>, tntlosiiig a liallad upon her,-, o'Z^ 
 
 I'S,^ 
 
 Poft 
 
 To Sir John WhitefoQ .^thanks for his ToIunUry 
 
 defence of the Poet, ---. ,-,r.,,r,,., ■ , , . u 5T 
 
 From Mr. Gilbert Bum -Mew. Year's wishes,„ 3Zl 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — Ihesa e — approvesof set times 
 
 of Devotion— glowing ?ntiments of a Life be- 
 
 vond the Grave, , , ,,.- ■ , , ,. j,.,^ 321 
 
 From the Rev. P. Cari e— of Mylne and his 
 
 Works, „„„„- 322 
 
 To Dr. Moore — poetical imrposes — worldly s!ate 
 
 of the Poet and his Friends, 322 
 
 1 o Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice and encourage. 
 
 ment, — — — „ „- 323 
 
 To Bishop Geddes — " What am 1 ?— Where 1 am i 
 
 — and for what am I destined ?" 324 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — contrast of high and low — 
 
 Mylne's Poems, — „ 324 
 
 From William Burns, the Poet's Brother— his out. 
 
 set and prnoress ,. ■ , ,,,,,,,,,,■ n... .J.J 3';'5 
 
 To the Rev. P. Carfrae— Mylne's Poems, 326 
 
 10 Dr. Moore— the Bard's sufferings from the 
 
 Death and Funeral of a sordid Female,-., 326 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality— order for 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — Sketch of Fox, „ 528 
 
 To .Mr. Cunningham— effusions of Friendship, ~ 328 
 From Dr. Gregory — iron bound criticism - ■ ..... 32a 
 To Mr. James Hamilton, Glaspow — consolation, 529 
 
 To Mr. William Creech — Toothache, 329 
 
 To Mr. M-Auiey of Dumbarton - descriiitive of 
 
 the Poet's feelings and condition, — — .. 330 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same tojiics, 3 
 
 From Dr. Moore — advice — to jire-erve and ]iiiiish 
 his lays, and to abandon the Scotti>h stanza and 
 
 dialect — Zeluco, — -,-, ..„ „„—„.„ 531 
 
 To .Mrs. Dunlo)) — low spirits — religious feelings,™ .'ijl 
 
 From Miss J. Little — with a poetical tribute, , 33i 
 
 From Mr. Cunningham — reniiniscences of Fergus- 
 
 To !\Ir. t^unningham, in answer, ~— — „ 533 
 
 To Mr. Dunloii — domestic matters— Poetical Tri- 
 bute from Miss L a Future Stale— Zeluco, 334 
 
 From Dr. Blacklock — a friendly Letter in Rhyme, 331 
 
 To Dr. Blacklock — a suitable answer, " 335 
 
 To Captain Riddel — the night of the Whistle, 335 
 
 To the .same — the Scrap-book, —————— —-.„„., 33S 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word '• Exciseman," 335 
 To Robert (Jraham, Esq.— Cajitain fJrose and lo. 
 
 cal polemics, ^— — 336 
 
 i oMrs. Dunlop — " under the mlseiics of a diseas. 
 
 Cd nervous systCTn," . .,,,,,, ,, 337 
 
 To Sir John Sinclair — the Library of Dunscure,— 558 
 From Cajitain Riddel to Sir John— on same sub- 
 ject, — — — — -— , 338 
 
 1790. 
 
 To Gilbert Rums— the Players^Verscs for them, 
 From William Bums — at Newcastle— wants inlor- 
 
 mation and fraternal instructions, 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer— Ballads, _ 
 
 From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices, 
 
 From Mr. Peter Hii; — " a poor rascally Gauger," 
 
 — Borouj;h Reform— Books — Note, with secrets 
 
 worth klinmng, . „ r. rr-. r., .r. r.,.j. ,. r ,....., . . j . .. . j . 
 
 To Mr. William Nieoll — last illmss and death of 
 Peg Nieolson — matters theatrical — eccle>iastieal 
 squabbling — Exciseman's duty, - - 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham— on Letter writing— exist- 
 ciicc — and the course of the Poet's reading — 
 Deism — Scepticism, 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill — a large order — existence, 
 
 539 
 
 3.59 
 3iC 
 541 
 
 541 
 
 342 
 
 3i5 
 513 
 
 From William Bums, at London— his ad\entures 
 shears ihi! 6u// preach at Covent Garden Cha- 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop — advantages of the Union— Lord 
 Chestcrhekl — .Mirror — Lounger- Man of Fell- 
 ing, 
 
 rroiii Mr. Cunningham — Iriendlv notices 
 
 To Dr r.Iooie — Letter writing — Zeluco— .Miss 
 
 To Mr. Muriloih — len wing friendly intercourse. 
 
 From Mr Munloeli — Death of William Burns,— 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham — Independence^Sinolletl's 
 
 Ode, — .,,... - 
 
 545 
 3.5 
 
 34£ 
 
 .^46 
 34- 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 x\n 
 
 Page. 
 From Dr. Blacklook— a Letter In Rhyme— Dr. 
 
 Aniicr^on and the Hee, 34S 
 
 From Mr. Ciinniriiiham— a Song for each of the 
 
 fonr Seasons siigffcsteil, — 349 
 
 To Mrs. Oiinl'ip — Bittli of a Posthumous C'hilil— 
 
 Oile I hereon, . ~ 319 
 
 To Crawford Tait, Ksq.— recommencling a young 
 
 Xo • Partitanshiii ~- 3o0 
 
 1791. 
 
 To Mr. Ci>nninr;h(<m— ElcRy on Miss Burnet, 
 To Mr. Peter Hill -Kssay on Poverty, 
 From A. F. Tytle-, Ksq.— Tam o' Stianter, 
 
 To Mr. Tytler— in answer, ~ 
 
 • o Mrs. budldiv -broken arm— Elegy on Miss 
 
 Rurnet — a remembrance, ~~« ; 
 
 Vo L^(iy Marv Constable— a SnulT-box, . 
 
 To Mrs. Graham of FIntry— Ual'ail on Queen 
 
 Mary — the Piiefs gratitude, ^. — 
 
 From the Rev. Principal Baird— Michael l!ruce,„ 
 T^ Prmeipal H lird— otfering every aid for pub. 
 
 Istiing Bruce's Works, 
 
 To the Rev. Archibald AUisoi.— his Kssays on 
 
 To Dr. Moore— Songs and Ballaas — Zeleuco — pri. 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham— Song, "_ There'll never be 
 
 peace till Jamie come Name,'" ....,.....„~_~~~~ 
 To Mr. Dalzell, Factor to Lord Gleneairn — the 
 
 Poet's grief for his Lordship— his wish to attend 
 
 the Funeral .. — — ^ ««. ■ 
 
 From Dr. Moore — crilieises Tam r)' Shanter, and 
 
 other pieces— solicits the Poet's remarks on 7,c. 
 
 leueo— advises him to be more chary of giving 
 
 Cop es— and to use the modern English, 
 
 To Mrs- Dunlop — a domestic occurrence — ixclu- 
 
 sive advantag s of humble life. 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham— in behalf of a persecuted 
 
 Schoolmaster, .„..»..,««-«—— ~~~~~~.^ . — 
 
 From the Earl of Buehan — crowning of Thomson's 
 
 Bust at Ednan, 
 To the same — in answer,. 
 To Mr. Thorn;.- SIcan, Manchester — ilisappoiiit- 
 
 meiit — perseverance recommended — The Poet's 
 
 From the Earl ''f Bujhan — suggests Harvest-home 
 for a theme to the Muse, ~ — . 
 
 To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the 
 death of hei Brother, Lord Gleneairn, 
 
 To Mr Robert Anislie— a Mind diseased, .„_ — 
 
 From Sir J'hn Whitefoord— Lament for Lord 
 
 From A. k! i'ytler, Esq.— the Whistle — the La- 
 
 To Miss Davies — sentimental — with some hints as 
 
 to a R idieal Reform, . 
 
 To Mrs Dunlo)! — with the Death-Song — Higli- 
 
 To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew. 
 
 To the saiiie— Witch Stories of KirU-Alloway, ~~ 
 "Ti Mrs. Punlop — animadversions of the Board — 
 
 malicious iiisiiniation.s— a cup of kindness, 
 
 To Mr. W. Smcllie— ijitroductory of Mrs. Riddel, 
 To Mr. W. Nicoll— admiration of, and gratitude 
 
 for s.ige advice, ~....... -.— •.~~~~~~~....~...... 
 
 To Ml. Cunniiifham — the Poet's .Arms, 
 
 1 o M r. Clirke invitation to come to the Country, 
 To Mrs. Diiiilo]) — a Platonic attachment aiul a 
 
 Ball.id — Religion indispensible to make Man 
 
 better ami l.a.ipier, ~.^~~ ~~. — .... .- 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings, 
 
 To M's. unl>p— difference in Farming for one's 
 
 sell' and Firming for another, .., 
 
 To the same — a Family infliction— condolence, ~ 
 To the same — shortness and uncertainty of Life— 
 
 Rights of Wom.-in. 
 
 To Robert liraham, Esq.— justiiies himself against 
 
 the charge of disairection to the British Consti- 
 
 tution, ..,« — - — ...-..— — 
 
 To Mis. Dunlop— the Poet's im|iro\cd h.iOiti— al- 
 
 3.^0 
 .1,51 
 .vil 
 3-Ji 
 
 553 
 
 3j.) 
 3.54 
 354 
 5.55 
 356 
 
 356 
 
 356 
 
 357 
 
 358 
 
 358 
 359 
 
 359 
 
 359 
 
 360 
 .560 
 
 3C0 
 
 361 
 
 56.' 
 
 362 
 
 363 
 563 
 
 3n4 
 364 
 
 365 
 3G5 
 566 
 
 367 
 
 3ij7 
 
 36S 
 569 
 
 369 
 370 
 
 I'age- 
 hisions to her suggestions for his o(Tici(iI pre mo- 
 
 To Miss B. of \'ork — mor.ilizes over the chance. 
 
 medleys of human intercourse, .....„,.~.....~..™ 371 
 To P.itrick MiUer, Esq of Dalswinton — an honest 
 
 To John Francis Erskineof M.ir, Esq — th:; Poet's 
 indepenilencc of sentiment, and p.irtici)larly his 
 opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, .* 372-A 
 
 To Mr. Robert Amslic — Spunkie — Schoolcraft 
 caught by contact, — 373-4 
 
 To Miss K- delicate, Haltery to a Beauty, 374 
 
 To Laly Gleneairn gratitude to her I'amily — 
 from an independent Exciseman, ~...,..,™..~, 374-A 
 
 To Miss Chalmei-s— a curious analysis which fhcws 
 " a Wight nearlv as miserable as a I'oet,' ~.~. 375 
 
 To John M'Mardo, Esq.— out of debt, .-, 3'.5-6 
 
 LETTERS, 1791., 1795, 1796. 
 
 To the Earl of Bnchan — with " Bruce's Address," 376 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals, 376 
 
 To a Lady— the same, ,.~.. — , — . — 376 
 
 To Mr. the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- 
 
 lion and literary leisure, 
 To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated 
 puppies, 
 
 ■«-7 
 
 377 
 377 
 377 
 378 
 578 
 
 To the same — gin horse routine of Excise business. 
 
 To the same— efTects of a c-<iol reception 
 
 To the same — a spice of caprice. 
 
 To the same — firm yet conciliating, ~. 
 
 To John Syine, Esq. — praises of Nlr. A. — Song on 
 Mrs. Oswald, «,,«...-.««.«.-*.«.. 578 
 
 To .Miss in defence of his reputation — re- 
 claims his MS..^ — ..-. ~~. 378-9 
 
 To Mr Cunningl.iim— a Mind Diseased— Religion 
 necessary to Man, .~.^„ .~........-.,-. 379 
 
 To a L.ady'— froiTi the Shades, „„ . .580 
 
 To the Earl of (ikneairn— the Poet's gratitude to 
 his late Brotlier,^-, „.. ,..^....„..-,., — 380 
 
 To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Li>cs of the 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel— .solitary confinement good to re- 
 claim Sinners — Ode for Uirth-day of Wa^iiiig. 
 
 To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for 
 the Mu-eum, , ~ 381 
 
 To Mr. Miller of Dals.vinton — ('ci'lines to be a re- 
 gular contributor to the Poet's Corner of the 
 Morning Chronicle, ~ , — ~~~..«.~~ — . SSI 
 
 To Mr. (iavin Hamilton — the I'oct lee, ininends a 
 particular regiirien to him, ..^ ............. 382 
 
 To Mr. Samuel Clarke — penitence :ifter excess, „ 582 
 
 To Mr. Alexander Fiiidlatcr- Supervisor — " So 
 much for schemes," — ....- . — ~- .'83 
 
 To the Editoisof the .Morning Chronicle — its in- _ 
 
 To Mr. \V. Dunbar- New-Year wishes, 383 
 
 To Miss FontLiiclle — with a Prologue for her be- _ 
 
 io Mrs. [">uiilop — cares of the Married Life — Dum- 
 fries Tneatrieals — Cowper's Ta.^k — the I'oct's 
 Scrap-book, — , SSI-J 
 
 I'o Mr. Heron of Heron— I'olitical Ballads— _ 
 Dreams of Excise promotion, 3&S 
 
 To the Right Hon W. Pitt— m behalf of the 
 Scots Distillers, 38f 
 
 To the M:igistrates of Dumfne— Free School E- 
 ducation, .,.,..^.-~~. — — — ~ — .. — .~ -. 587 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's 
 Work — acting Supervisor— New Ve.ai wishes— 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel — Anacharsis — the Muses still pre- 
 
 To Mrs Diiiilo|) — in aOliclion, — ■ ~~ 388 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-day lovahy, 388 
 
 To Mr. James Johnson — the Nluseum — a consum- 
 ing illness hangs over the Poet,~ « 589 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham^from tlie lirow, Sea-bath- 
 ing Quarters— sad picture, __~™ ~~~~~....^,„ 389 
 
 To Mrs. turns — from the Brow— titrengthcned — 
 but total decay of appetite, 389 
 
 To .Mrs Uuiilop— a last farewell, 5iiS 
 
CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE 
 WITH ]MR. GEORGE THOMSON 
 
 Page. 
 From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to _ 
 
 the Select Melodies, -™— — . -~ — ■ — •591 
 
 The Poet's answer — frankly embarking in the 
 
 Work -~- — r~r — U" 
 
 From Mr. TtioiTison— views of conslucting the 
 \Vorl<— and with 1 1 Songs for New Verses, oJ2 
 
 From the Poet— ^ith the " I.ea Ria"— " My Nan- 
 nie O"— " Will ve go to the Indies my Mary, oU^ 
 
 From the Poet— with " My Wife's a wanton wee _ 
 thing" — '• O saw ve bonnie Lesley,"-^ — > -~~ .593 
 
 From the Poet— with " Ye Banks and Bracs^^and 
 Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery," — oOl 
 
 From Mr. Thomson— criticisms and eorrcetions,- o9-i 
 
 From the Poet — admits some correction';, " but 
 cannot alter b nnic Lesley"'— additional Verse 
 for the " Lea Ilig,". -~— , — ~~," — -. 
 
 From the Poet— uith " .\uld Rob Morris and 
 
 From the Poet— w^dlT^Poortith Cauld" and 
 Galla VVate 
 
 oU5 
 .'95 
 595 
 
 From Mr. Thcnr.'OT— laiulatorv for favours re- 
 ceived— details the plan of his Work— P. ^. from 
 the Honourable A. Erskinc— a brother Poet _ 
 
 and contributor, — . ~~ "59° 
 
 From the Poet— approves of the details- otUrs 
 matter anecdotic— the Song " Lord Gregory '— 
 
 Eii'diNh and Scots se'S of it, . ~ -ni 
 
 From the Poet— with " Wandering Uillie,'_ ^.N 
 
 From the Poet—" Open the Door to me O, -~ — -^-^ 
 Prom the Poet—" True-hearted was he," — -— — oJ i 
 From Mr. homsnn— with complete list of Sonijs, 
 
 and farther iletails of the Work, — -^ .i9i-b 
 
 Fnnn the Poet— with " The Soldier's return — 
 
 " Meg o' the Mill," -— ---" "^^ 
 
 From the Poet— S ng making his hobby— oilers 
 valuable hints for enriching and nnprovmg th_e 
 
 \Vork ,™— ^-~— ~-™ "- jyo-J 
 
 From Mr. •I'homson— in answer, . — ■ •— ~ ■^•'■^ 
 
 From the Poet farther hints ami eruieal vcmai ks 
 —sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit _ 
 
 Tune, " Bonnie Dundee," ~ ;~ •''•^^ 
 
 From the Poet— with " I he last time I cime oer 
 
 the moor," : — — — ~r-~, *"" 
 
 From Mr. rhoni^on— excuses hi, taste as against ^^ 
 
 the Poet's, -~- "— , r~ ~ j,,n 
 
 Kiom the Poet— doguiaticallv set against altering, lUU 
 ■j hi' Poet to Mr. Thomson— Fraser the Hautbov 
 
 Pag*. 
 
 From the Poet— with New Song to " Allan Wa- ^^^ 
 
 From the' same^^^wUh Song " Whistle and I'll 
 come to vou, mv Lad," and " PhiUis the i air, 
 to the " Muekin" o' Geordie's byre, ■""."-■ ^"^ 
 
 From the same—" Cauld Kail"— a Gloamm Shot 
 at the Muses, ~~~— „„_-™-~~- ^^-503 
 
 From the same—" Dainty Davie"— four lines of 
 ■.■opg and four of Chorus, ,— „ — ~ ~-~ ^oi 
 
 From Mr. Thomson— profuse acknowledgments 
 for many favours, ~— ~-^ -•"""" ^"* 
 
 From the Poet-Peter Pindar— "Scots wha hae 
 wi Wallace bled"—" So may God defend the 
 cause of truth and liberty as he did that day, ~ 40- 
 
 From the same- with Son" " Behold the hour the 
 Boat arrives," to the Highland Air " Oran gaoil, «!fi 
 
 From Mr. Thomson—" liruee's Address"— the Air 
 " Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie 
 tatie" — verbal criticisms, — ~ -'■""• — 
 
 From the Poet— additional Verses to " Dainty 
 
 Player— Tune and Song, " 1 he Quaker s \\ ite 
 
 — " Blvthe hae I been im von Hill," —— — "10 '-t 
 
 The same— mad ami ition— "Logan Hraes"— Frag- 
 ment from Withersnoon's Collection—" O gin 
 mv lo\e were yon Red Rose.",^ ' .~ ^^ 
 
 Mr -i'hom.son- in answer— a change of Partners in 
 the Udik,.^ — . ~ — -—- — ~, ^"' 
 
 The p. et to Mr Thomson— T une and Air o' 
 " Bonnie Jean"— the Poet's Heroines, . 1U. 
 
 The same— a remittame acknowledged—" Mow- 
 ers of ihe Forest"- the authoress— Pinkerton s 
 Ancient Ballads— iiroiihecies, — . ; — •■-— ^t)i 
 
 Mr. Thomson to the Poet— .\irs waiting the Mu- 
 
 sc's leisure -— ~~r,~r T 
 
 The Poet to Mr. Thomson— I une, Robin A- 
 ,i;,ir"_" PhiUis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail 
 
 in AlK-rdeen," -^ ~— ;— — ■ ■*U3 
 
 From Mr. Thomson— grateliil lor the Poets ' va- 
 lued Fpistles-'-wants Verses for " l)"Wti tie 
 burn Divic"— mentions Drawings for the W ork, 403 
 From Ihe Poet— Tune " Rohi" Adair" aR-a'"— 
 send! " Had 1 a tlave" to it— Gaelic origin of the 
 Tuae ™— *''* 
 
 4U6 
 
 I-)avie"— " Through the wood, Laddie"— " Cow- 
 den-knowe,"— " Laddie lie near me"--the Poets 
 form of Song making— " Gill Moiriee — ' High- 
 land Laddie"-" Auld Sir Simeon"—" Fee hirn 
 Fathei"— " There's tiae luck about the House 
 —the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye mv Fa- 
 ther"—" odlin hame" — sends "Auld Lang 
 Svne"— farther notices of other Songs and ual- 
 ],,-,ls ^ , •lu7-o 
 
 From 'the Pwt-rcjtets the verbal criticism on the 
 Ode, " Bruce's Address," ..—^ ,--- ; ■»"» 
 
 From Mr. Thomson— Strictures on the Poet s no- 
 tices of the above Songs— again nibbling at the ^_^ 
 
 Fiom'"th7pi^et™''The Ode pleases me so much I 
 cannot alter if— sends S.mg " Where are the 
 Jovs I hae ir.et in the moniin',"- —;;; 4ua 
 
 From the Poet— sends " Deluded Swam and 
 " Raving Winds around her blowing"— Airs 
 and Songs, to adopt or reject— diRcrtnces ot ^^^ 
 
 From t'h'e'same^ Thine am I my FaiUilul Fair" 
 —to the " Quaker'!. \Vifc,"_which is just the 
 Gaelic Air " Liggeram cosh " 
 
 -Re- 
 
 Fr. m Mr. Thomson— in answer -^ — 
 
 From the Poet— Song to " My Jo Ja et, — 
 From Mr. Thomson— proposed eoiifcience 
 
 marks on Drawings and Snngs, -.— -— - 
 
 From the Poit— same subjecls-PUyel— a iMenu 
 
 — whenbyhinderanceotlheWork— >oiig ihe 
 
 Banks of Crec," • ■^.'~, — ~~ 
 
 From the same-" The auspicious iienod prcg 
 
 410 
 410 
 
 410 
 
 411 
 
 roin uic- ^,limJ— * i'^ „i..., ,....-.--.. ,- , ., 
 
 mint With the happiness ot Millions --Inscrip- 
 tion on a Copy of the Woik presented to Miss 
 
 Graham of Fintry, — - — ~— ~ W\ 
 
 From Mr. Thom-on in answer,. . p-~ 4" 
 
 ■ On the Seas and far 
 
 From the Poet— with Song ^ - - 
 
 awav," «-. — «* ."'"''* — " "' ,' " .,i 
 
 From Mr. Thomson-criticises ih.at Song severely. 412 
 From the Pcet— withdrawing it—" making a Song 
 is like begetting a Son"— .sends " Ca the yewc« ^^^ 
 
 From the same— Irish Air— studs Song to it " Sa ' 
 flaxen were her niiplets"— Poet's taste m Music 
 like Fredericof Prussia's— has begun " O let me 
 
 this ae night"— Epigram, • 411 
 
 ., .* ._ ..... .*■.,. 
 
 Ill lllis .11. iiij^iiv ^fb ■» , , , , 
 
 From Mr. '1 homsoii — prufusc ot acknowinig 
 ments. 
 
 413 
 
 From'lh'e siin.c— Peter l'indar'» task completed— 
 Uilson's Collection— dressing up of Old hoiiss, 1i« 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 "»om th* \ Oct — " Craigie-bum Wood" and the 
 heioiiio— ll.'cipe fur Sons; making — Sonj; " Saw 
 yc my rhely" — " The Posie" — " Donochthead" 
 %K.t the Poet's — " \Vhistle o'er the lave o't" his 
 — so is •' nivthe was she" — sends Song " How 
 iMif; and dreary is tlie nijht" — " Let not Wo- 
 ma;i e'er comi)!ain" — " Sleep'st thou" — East 
 Indian Air— Snag " The Aiikt Man," — ,.,.,.„ 414 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, and 
 viith far' her commissions, _„,„~™,~™,~~~~ 415 
 
 From the Poet-thanks for Uitson — Songof Chlo- 
 ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" — 
 " lassie wi' the lint-white locks" — " Maria's 
 dwelling" — " Banks and Uraes o' l)onnie Doon" 
 — Reeijie to make a Scots Tune — humble 'S- 
 quest for a Copy of the Work to give to a fe- 
 male friend, ,™„ , — , _-™-^ 416-17 
 
 From Mr. Thomson— in answer — criticisms — sends 
 three Co))ies and as welcome to i.'0 as to a pinch 
 of sn u ff. ,„„„„™,„^ 4 1 7 
 
 From the Poet — Duet completed — sends Sonjs 
 "O PhiUy happy be that day" — "Contented 
 wi' little"—" Canst thou lenve me thus my 
 Katv"— Remarks on Songs antl the Stock and 
 Horn, . _~~~. — ~v. ..„,~-^ 418 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — modest acknowledgments — 
 Pictures for the Work, -^ 419 
 
 From the Poet— with Song " Nannie's awa"— Pic- 
 tures, . „~-™~ . „ 419 
 
 From the same — origin.Tlity a coy feature in 
 composition — sends " .\ man's a man for a' 
 that" — which shows that Song makini^ is not 
 confiuid to love and wine — new set of " Crai- 
 gip-hurn Wood," „„,„^w 419 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ,.,.„„« 419 
 
 Vxn-.n the P.iet— with, "O letmei.i thisae Night," 
 ami \nswcr, . ~.~ — . — ., .m«.~ 420 
 
 frrmi the same — .Vouse of sweet Ecelcfcchan— :;ir, 
 " We'll g ing nae mair to von TonTi," is worthy 
 of veisfs, — ■ 420 
 
 "vsa Mt. IfKWdion — in a^«er,.^..'~>»~~>.x.«~o tSO 
 
 From the Poet — witt four Songs, ' The Wood 
 lark" — " Long, long the Night" — " I heir groves 
 o sweet Myriies" — " 'Twas na her bourne blue 
 Ecn was mv ruin,- >. -. — 42t 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — acknowledgments — piitures 
 for the work, ~„~^»-, ■ -„ 4!.'0-l 
 
 Fnim the Pott — with two Songs, " How eruei .".re 
 the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds, 
 " Vour Tailor could not fce more punctual, "«~ 42» 
 
 From the same — acknowledgment of a present, ~„ 4'Jl 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallei's U.ii- 
 lad of " William and Margaret," -,~~~~-~, — . 421 
 
 From f^he Poet — with four Songs a.'id Verses, 
 " O Whistle and I'll come to ye, my Lad" — " O 
 this is no my ain Lassie" — " Now Sprin;; has 
 clad the Grove in Green" — " O honnie was yon 
 rosy Brier," — Inscription on his Poems present- 
 ed to a young L.idy, . .. : — „ 422 
 
 From Mr. Thomson— in acknowledgment, ~-..~~ i'il 
 
 From the Poet— wiih English Song, " Forlorn, 
 
 From the same — with Song, " Last ^!ay a br.i' 
 Wooer cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Fiag- 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — in answer, ~ — ,w-~ 4'J3 
 
 From the s.amt — after an awful pause, 4i.'3 
 
 From the Poet — acknowledges a Pre.>ent to Mrs 
 li.— sends Song, " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch- 
 
 From Mr. Thomson — in answer, J2i 
 
 From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the 
 
 From Air. Thomson — in answer, — ^„^- . -121 
 
 From the Poet — with Song, " Here's a heal h to 
 
 them that's awa." ~- ^.„~-™ — -^ — 4.I.'A 
 
 From the samo— announces his purpose to te.ise 
 
 all his Songs,. „ — -~ -™™ 425 
 
 Fi'um the same — at Sea-bathing — depressed and in 
 
 eVremitv, . > 42! 
 
 Fi\fi Mr. Thoirjon— with a liemittfaw,..— .~» *a 
 
LIFE 
 
 O? 
 
 110J3ERT BURNS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Contents The PoeVs Birth, 1759 — Circumstances and peculiar Character of hs Fdihtr 
 
 and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were, of his Moitc^ 
 Improvement — Commencelh JLove and Poetry at 16. 
 
 *' l\Iy father was a fanner upon the Carrick Border, 
 And soberly he brought me up in decency and order?" 
 
 Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January 1759, in a clay-buih 
 cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of -Ayr, and in the im- 
 mediate vicinity of the Kirk of Alloway, and the " Auld Brig o' Doon." 
 About a week afterwards, part of the frail dwelling, wliich his father had 
 constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant 
 poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a 
 neighbouring hovel. The father, William Burnes or Burness, (for so he 
 spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re- 
 moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments. 
 The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited, 
 in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith 
 Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances- 
 tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil- 
 liam Burnes settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no- 
 tion that he himself had beeii out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but thoutrli 
 Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale 
 which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a 
 mere fiction, and such it was. Gilbert found among his father's papers a 
 certificate of the minister of his native parish, testilying that " the bearer, 
 William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to 
 Suppose that when any obscre nortlicrn stranger fixed himself in tliose 
 days in the Low Country, such rumours Mere likely enough to be cucu- 
 tet' concerning him 
 
n LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 William Bnrnes laboured for some years in the neiglibourliood of Edin- 
 (•iiri^h as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time 
 when Robert was b.)rn, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of 
 small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm ; but resided on a few aeres '^f 
 land, wliieh he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he ha- 
 originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. lie married 
 .\gnes Brown in December 17.57, and the poet was their first-born. Wil- 
 liam Rurnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently 
 entitled to respeet. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish 
 parish school, and profited largely both by that ami by his own experience 
 in the M-orld. " I have met with i'ew," (said the poet, alter he luul him- 
 self seen a good deal of mankind), •' who understood men, their manners, 
 and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. 
 There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the fori' 
 of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and Iron. 
 «hieh it appears that he had adojUed more of the Arminian than of the 
 Calvinistie doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con- 
 sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered 
 among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affect ior.ate re- 
 verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who 
 have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs 
 no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours 
 that will never fade, '• the saint, the lather, and the husband," of J/ie 
 Cottar's Sdturdai/ jXiffJit. 
 
 Agnes lirown, the wile of this good man, is described as "a very sagaci- 
 ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- 
 ner;" and it seems that, in features, and, as he grew up, iii general address, 
 the poet resembled her more than his fath.er. She had an inexhaustible store 
 of ballads and f. uiitionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant 
 imagination b\ tnis means, while her husband paid more attention to '• the 
 weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboureil hard tcir 
 the sup])ort of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- 
 guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as 
 her children. But thousjh their honesty and diliuence merited better thiiiirs, 
 their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in h.is 
 Jotter to Dr. IMoore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a 
 very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, 
 and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." 
 
 These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth 
 of \\ iiliam l>urnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; who, wh.en his garde- 
 ner expressed a m ish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and 
 confessed at the same time his inability to meet the changes of stockiuir it, 
 at once advanced 1 KU) towards the removal of the difliculty. Fumes ac- 
 cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount (>liphant, in the parish of 
 .4yr) at Whitsuntide 176(5, when his eldest son was between six and seven 
 years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrij)- 
 tion ; and .Mr. I'erguson dying, and his affairs falling into the hantls of a 
 \iari,h Jurtor, (who afterwards sat tor his pictuie in the Ttra Dp^/s), Burnes 
 was iilad to i:;;ive un his bar<rain at the end of six years. lie then removed 
 nbout ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish 
 of Tarbolton. But h»'re, affer a short interval of prosperity, some untl>r- 
 tcinatu misunderstanding took j)lace as lo the conditions of the leost ; the 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. iii 
 
 disputo was referred to arbitration ; and, after three 3'ears of suspense, the 
 result involved Burnes in ruin. The wortiiy man lived to know of this de- 
 cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. 
 He died of consumption on the l-Uh I'ebruary 1781. Severe labour, and 
 hopes only renewed to be baflled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- 
 table structure and temperament of body and (jf mind. 
 
 In t!ie midst of the harassing struggles which lljund this termination, 
 William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting 
 the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- 
 tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may 
 [)e. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway 
 .Miln, about a mile from the house in which he was born ; but Campbell, 
 the teacher, being in the course of a i'uw months removed to another 
 Bitiiation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John 
 Murdoch to su])ply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, 
 and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, 
 and (iilbert his next brother, were the a))test and the favourite pupils of 
 this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter 
 published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the [)art which 
 he had in the early education of our poet. lie became the frecjuint in- 
 mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of 
 the virtues of Wiiliam Barnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his 
 humble abode. 
 
 " lie was (says Murdoch) a tender and afrectionate father ; he took j)lea- 
 6ure in leading his children in the path of virtue; not in driving them, as 
 come parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are 
 averse. Me took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when 
 he did rebuke, h( was listened to with a kmd of reverential awe. A look 
 of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with 
 the ttrtrz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a 
 loud lamentation, and brought forth a liood of tears. 
 
 " He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were 
 labourers under him. I think I never saw him angry but twice : the one 
 time it was with the foreman of tlie band, for not reaping the field as lie 
 was desired; and the other tune, it was with an old man, for using smutty 
 inuendos and double eiifetu/res." " In this mean cottage, of which I my- 
 self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger j)o"- 
 tion of content than in any palace in Ivarope. 77ie (/attar's Suturduy Niyhf. 
 will give some idea of the temper and manners th.at prevailed there." 
 
 The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- 
 pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing; they connnittcd psalms and 
 hynm& to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he 
 tells u^) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in 
 the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. " As soon," says he, " as 
 they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose 
 order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions ibr poetical words ; 
 and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the 
 upper end of the class, even when ranged ^Mth boys by flir their seniors, 
 The books most commonly used in the sc/iool were the Sj)tlliii(j Booh. 
 \X\Q Ntw Testnmott, the Bible, Masoris CuLnction of Prone and Verse, and 
 Fixher's English Grammar." — " Gilbert alw vs appeard to me to possess a 
 mere lively imagination, and to be more the wit, than Robert. I at- 
 
V LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 tempted to teach them a little church-music. Here they were kft far be- 
 hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark- 
 ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them 
 to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- 
 ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mintl 
 Gilbert's foce said, 3Iirth, with t/iee I wean to live; and certainly, if any 
 person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was the 
 most likely to court the Muses, he would never have guessed that Jiobert 
 had a propensity of that kind." 
 
 *' At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means 
 a Tavnurite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for o retentive memory, 
 a stauborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 
 piety. I say idiot piety, because 1 was then but a child. Though it cost 
 the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; 
 and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- 
 tives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 
 much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her 
 ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest 
 collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, 
 brnwnies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-liglits, 
 wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other 
 trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong 
 an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
 sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody 
 can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an ef- 
 fort of pliilosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition 
 that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 7/ie Vision of Mirza, and a hynm 
 of Addison's, beginning, IIoiv are thy servants blest, O Lord ! I particular- 
 ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to m}' boyish ear — 
 
 "• For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
 IJigh on ihe broken wave — " 
 
 I met with these pieces in 3Iuson's English Collection, one of my school- 
 boolcs. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
 more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were. The Life of Han- 
 nibal, ?Lr\i\ The llislorj/ of SirWiUiam Wallace. Hannibal gave my young 
 ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after tlie 
 recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; 
 while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my 
 reins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
 rest." 
 
 Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two 
 years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country. 
 •' There being no school near us," says Gilbert I'urns, " and our little ser- 
 vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook tc teach us arith- 
 metic in the winter evenings by candle hght — and in this way my two elder 
 sisters received all tlie education they ever received " Gilbert tells an anec- 
 dote which must not be oi litted here, since it furnishes an early instance 
 of the liveliness of his brc her's imagination. Murdoch, being on a visit 
 to the family, read aloud or- ■ evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- 
 nicus — the circle listened w h the deepest interest until he came to Act 
 2, DC. 5, where Lavinia is troduced ' with her lands cut oil', and her 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. « 
 
 toiigue cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an 
 ai^ony of distress, tluxt their friend would read no more. " If ye will not 
 hear the play out," said William IJurnes, " it need not be left with you. ' 
 — " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about 
 to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good younij 
 man interfered, saj'ing he liked to see so much sensibility, and left The 
 School fur Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert 
 was nine years of age. " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be 
 more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we 
 raiely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no 
 b()> .■^- of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest 
 part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers 
 and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their 
 farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. 
 ^ly father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- 
 versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was 
 at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to 
 jf.ad the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- 
 ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrovred Salmon's Georjra- 
 phicnl Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
 situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a 
 book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derham's Physico 
 and Asfro Theolncfy, and H(tys 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 equalled. My father had beer. 
 a subscriber to Stachhouscs History of the Bible. From this Robert col- 
 lected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book was so it- 
 lianino/is as to slachen Ins industry, or sn anfiqaated as to damp his researches." 
 A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having 
 fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted 
 him. 
 
 When Burns was about thirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent 
 him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish 
 school of Dalrjnnple. two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, fbi 
 the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two 
 fees : or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- 
 bour of the form ! '• We lived very poorly," says the poet. *' I was a dex- 
 terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother, 
 (Gilbert', who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
 corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some 
 satisfaction, but so did not I My indignation yet boils at the recollection 
 cf the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." 
 Gilbert Burns gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail 
 — " To the buifetings of misfortune," says he, " we could only oppose 
 hard labour and the most rigid economy We lived very sparingly. For 
 several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the 
 members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength 
 and rather bej'ond it, in the labours of the farm. My broth.er, at the age 
 of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the 
 principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
 The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and 
 difficulties, was very great. To think of oui fathei growing old (for he was 
 
VI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 now above fifty), broken down witli the long-continued latigues- of his life 
 v/ith 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 pe- 
 riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits 
 with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. 
 At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
 headach; which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- 
 tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in 
 the night-time." 
 
 The year after this, Burns v/as able to gain three weeks of respite, one 
 before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus stmiti- 
 ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in tl e 
 town of A)T, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the English 
 grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He labouri d 
 enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- 
 niHit with a dictionary and a Telcmaqne, of which he made such use at his 
 cisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert) 
 he was able to understand any ordinary book of French prose. His pr.?- 
 o-ress, whatever it really amounted to, was looked on as something oi" a 
 prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that 
 Robert Burns must next attempt the rudiments of tliS Latin tovgue. He 
 did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were 
 of no sort of value. Burns's Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed 
 quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's lUidiments 
 can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done. 
 Tlie matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it 
 with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little 
 French, and no Latin. He had read, however, and read well, ere his six- 
 teenth year elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of his own 
 country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he 
 tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the 
 Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull 
 and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, -lus- 
 tice's British Gardeners Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scrijitn.re 
 Doctrine of Original Sin, A Sekct Collection of Evglish Songs, Ilervey's 
 ]\h'dilations," (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish 
 peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this 
 list Piimela, (the first novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- 
 lumes of Peregrine PirJde, two of Qmnt Fatlioni, and a single volume of 
 " some English historian," containing the reigns of James 1., and his son. 
 The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my radc mccuni. 1 pored 
 over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by 
 verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation or 
 fustian ; and 1 am convinced i owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, 
 such as it is." 
 
 He derived, during this period, considerable advantages from the vicinity 
 of Mount Oliphant to tlie town of Ayr— a place then, and still, distmguish- 
 ed by the resideiK-e of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- 
 sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin- 
 cial situations. To his friend. Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first 
 '.nstance, whatever attentions he received therr fiom peoi)lu older as wt;L' 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vV. 
 
 ns hi^licr tlian himself: some sucli persons appear to have taken R pkaisure 
 in lending liim books, and surely no kindness could have been ni:ire useful 
 to him than this. As for his coevals, he lumself says, very justi}, " It is 
 not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense 
 of the distance between tliem and their ragged playfellows. Mi/ young 
 superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the cloulerhj appearanie of my 
 nlough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which v/ere often exposed to all 
 the inclemencies of all the seasons. They Mould give me stray volumes 
 of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and 
 one, whose heart I am sure not even the -Munny Begum scenes have tainted, 
 helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and 
 benefactors, as they occasionally went otf for tlie East or West Indies, was of- 
 ten to me a sore affliction. — but I was soon called to more serious evils." — 
 (Letter to IMoore). The condition of the family during the last two years 
 of their residence at Mount Oliphant, when the struggle whicli ended in 
 their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- 
 ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely bui'den of sorrow, as well as 
 toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, and which would have 
 broken iiltogether any mind wherein feelings like his had existed, without 
 strength like his to control them. The removal of the family to Locldea, 
 in the parish of Tarbolton, took place wlu;n Burns was in his sixteenth year 
 He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- 
 sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of liic — > 
 the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, 
 brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I lirst conmiit- 
 ted tiie sin of Rh^Ti^.e. Vou know our country custom of coupling a man and 
 woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my lifteenth au- 
 tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. 
 My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing iier justice in that 
 language ; but you know the IScottish idiom — she was a boume, sweet, sousie 
 lass. In short, she. altogeth-cr unwittingly to herself, initiated me in tliat 
 delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin- horse pru- 
 dence, and book-worm [)hilosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our 
 dearest blessing here below ! Mow she cauglit the contagion, I caimot t''ll ; 
 you medical people talk much of infection irom breathing tlie same air, the 
 touch, ^c. ; but I never expressly said 1 loved Iier. Indeed, I did not know 
 myself why I liked so much to loiter bcliind witli her, when retiuning in 
 the evening from our labours ; why tiie tones of her voice made my heart- 
 strings tin-ill like an .'Eolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat SL<h 
 a furious ratan, when 1 looked and lingered over her little hand, to |)ick ( ut 
 the cruel nettle-stings and tliistles. Among her other love-ins})iring t>i a- 
 lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempt*. d 
 giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as lu 
 imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who 
 had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be com- 
 posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his lather'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 moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 
 
 " Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been rr.y 
 T'lv, and till within the last twelve months, have been my higliest enjoy 
 
viil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 The earliest of the poet's productions is the little ballad, 
 
 " O once I loved a bonny lass. 
 
 Burns himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ,* 
 yet it contains here and there lines of whicli he need hardly have been 
 ashamed at any period of his life : — 
 
 " She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
 Bairh decent and genteel. 
 And then there's something in her g 
 Gars ony dress look weel." 
 
 " Silly and puerile as it is," said the poet, long afterwards, " I am al- 
 ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days 
 when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a 
 wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour 1 never recollect it but my 
 heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS. Memorandum 
 book, August 178S.) 
 
 In his first epistle to Lapraik (1785) he says — 
 
 " Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 1 to the cranibo-jingle fell, 
 
 Tho' rude and tough ; 
 Yet crooning to a body's sell 
 Does weel eneugh." 
 
 And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days," we have the 
 fdlowing passage : — 
 
 " I mind it weel in early date, 
 
 Wlien I was beardless, young and blate, 
 
 .And first could thrash the barn. 
 Or haud a yokin' o' the pleugh, 
 An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 
 
 Vet unco proud to learn — 
 AVhen first amang the yellow corn 
 
 A man I reckoned was, 
 An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
 
 Could rank my rig and lass — 
 Still shearing and clearing 
 
 The tiilier stookit raw, 
 WV claivers and haivers 
 
 Wearing the day awa — 
 E'en then a wish, I mind its power, 
 A wish that to my latest hour 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast : 
 That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
 iomc useful plan or book could make, 
 
 Or sing a sang, at least : 
 The rough bur-tliisile sjireading wide 
 
 Amang th.e bearded bear, 
 1 turn'd die weeder-clips aside. 
 
 And spared the symbol d';ar." 
 
 He is hnrdly to be envied who can contemplate without emotion, this 
 exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. It was amidst such 
 scenes that this extraordinary beinjx felt those first indefinite stirrings ol 
 immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the ningniri- 
 ccnt image of " the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, around tlie walls 
 ol Jiii cave." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 \iBTENTS Prom 17 to 24 — Robert antl Gilbert Burns work to Iheir Fniher, as Lnhourtr$^ 
 
 at stilted Wiiyes — At Rural W: rh the Poet feared no Competitor — Tlus period not marked 
 by much Mental Improvement — At Dancini/- School — I'rnpress in Lore and Pietry — A 
 School lit Kirkosu-ahfs — Bad Company — At Irvine — Flaxdressiny — Becomes there Mem 
 ber of a Batchelors Club. 
 
 ** O enviable early days, 
 
 ^V'hen dancing thnuj;htless pleasure's mare, 
 
 To care and guilt unknown ! 
 How ill exchargcd for riper limes, 
 To feel the follies or the crimes 
 
 Of others — or my own !" 
 
 As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quilted Mount 
 Olipliant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little 
 space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugality. Robert 
 and (lilbert were emploj'ed by their father as regular labourers — he allow- 
 ing them t? of wages each per annum; from which sum, however, the 
 value of any home made clothes received by the youths was exactly de- 
 ducted. Robert Burns's person, inured to daily toil, and continually expos- 
 ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every ciia- 
 racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself that he never 
 feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion : and Gilbert Burns, 
 a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer 
 he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in tlie corn 
 field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert says, that Ro- 
 bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton. 
 He was separated from his acquaintances of the town of Ayr, and pr(;I)a- 
 bly missed not only the stinmlus of their conversation, but the kindness 
 that had furnished him with his supply, such as it was, of books. J5ut the 
 main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed 
 on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of his own turbulent passions. 
 
 " In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners a brush, I 
 went to a country dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable anti- 
 pathy against these meetings : and my going was, what to this moment I 
 rtp.nt. in opposition to his wishes. .My father was subject to strong pas- 
 sions from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
 to me, which 1 believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my 
 succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, 
 and soViety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life; for though liie 
 Will- o'- Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost tlie sole lights oi 
 rKy path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years 
 afterwards within the lino of innocence. 'Ihe great ri^.islbrtune of my life 
 was to want an aim. I saw my father's situation entailed oi me jKrpetual 
 labour. The only two openings by ich I could enter the tenii)!e of 1 or- 
 
X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 tune, wer" the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of little chicaning 
 bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I could nevei 
 squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always hated — there was contamination 
 in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, v/ith a 
 strong appetite for sociability, as v.-ell from native hilarity, as from a pride 
 of observation and remark ; a constitutional m.elancholy or hypochondria 
 cism that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
 ••eputaticn for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
 strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense -• and U 
 will not seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome guest whe/c I vi- 
 sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, 
 there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
 vi;i\% tin penchrait pour I' adorcAle moitie (III genre hiimain. My heart was com- 
 cletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other; 
 and as in every othe/ warfare in this world my fortune was various, some- 
 times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a 
 repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor and 
 thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther i'oi. my 
 labours than v/hile I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in tlie 
 way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adven- 
 ture without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in- 
 t»'ei)id dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa- 
 sions, and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret oi 
 half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing 
 the intrigues of half the courts of Europe." 
 
 In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother 
 writes as follows : — " 1 wonder k,ow llobert could attribute to our father that 
 lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which 
 he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that about this time he began 
 to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as iiis 
 not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and vrhich 
 he would naturally think a dancing school was not likely to correct. But 
 he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense on 
 cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted 
 with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. 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 permitted the rest of 
 the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. 
 Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it. 
 And thus the seven years we lived in 'I'arbolton parish (extending from tl)e 
 seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) w ere not n^arke.I by 
 much literary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laicJ 
 of cerUxin habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but 
 too prominent, and which malice and en\'y have taken delight to enlarge 
 on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
 with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their 
 society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of lome 
 fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were oi'ten such as nearly to 
 equal those of the celebi'ated Sappiio. I never indeed knew that he 
 fainted, sunk, anil d:eil away ; but the agitations of his mind and body 
 exceeded any tiling of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a 
 |>articu!ar jealousy of people >vh() were richer than hiniscil', or wnu had 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x« 
 
 Tijre conseq ence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons 
 of tliis description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty of 
 his good pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was 
 install y invested with a sufHcient stock of charms, out of tlie 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 seeme(? 
 wlien invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned 
 paramount in his ailections ; but as Yorick's aiTections fiovvxnl out toward 
 
 Madame de L at the remise door, v.hile the eternal vows of Eliza were 
 
 upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions., which 
 formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love." 
 
 Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youtli " without an 
 aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sulHciently various moods oi 
 his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* tliat he 
 wrote some stanzas which begin beaL:tifully : 
 
 " I drcam'd I lay wliere flowers wert- springing 
 
 (jiaily in the sunny beam ; 
 Listeniiif,' to the wild birds singing 
 
 By a i'allen crystal stream. 
 Straight the sky s^rew bl.ick and danng, 
 
 Tl;ro' the woods tlie whiilwinds rave. 
 Trees with aged arms were warring, 
 
 O'er the swelling d-umlie wave. 
 Such was life's dei.eicl"ul morning." Sus. 
 
 On comparing these veises witl those on " Handsome Nell," the ad- 
 vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two sfeort years, must 
 be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely 
 overlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs 
 bat one Scotch word. It was about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad ol 
 much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over 
 with delight, because of the faithfulness v/ith which it recalled to him the 
 circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood. 
 
 — " IMy father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
 And carefully he brought me uj) in decency and order. 
 And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er u farthing ; 
 For without an ho. .est manly heart, no man was worth regarding. 
 
 Then out into the world my course I did determine ; 
 
 T/io' to he rich -mis not m;i uinh, yet to he great xi'tn charming ; 
 Aly tfilrnts thcij were not the -.carsf, nor i;rt vvj education ; 
 llcsolved was I at least to try to mend my situation. 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befnend mc; 
 So 1 must toil, ar.d sweat, and l)roil, aiid labour to sustain me. 
 To ))lough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bied me early ; 
 For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. 
 
 Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to wander; 
 Till down my weary hones 1 lay, in everlisting slumber. 
 No view, nor care, but slum whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; 
 1 live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow," &c. 
 
 These are the only two of his very early productions in which we ha"»e 
 "iothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the 
 ;har'PH of those rural beauties who followed eat.,h other in the dominion ci 
 
 * Reliques. p. 2i2 
 
%U LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S 
 
 his fancy — or shared tlie ca{)r*icious throne between them ; and we maj 
 easily believe, that one who possessed, with his other qualidcations, such 
 powers of flattering, feared competitors as little in the diversions of his 
 evenings as in the toils of his daj'. 
 
 The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style. 
 »he especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some- 
 vhat difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay, 
 very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in 
 his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles 
 to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win- 
 dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon, 
 or, if the weather be severe, (a circumstance which never prevents th«s 
 journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn. 
 This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com- 
 monl)' wink at, if they do not openly approve, the observance ; and the 
 consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per- 
 sons not fomiliar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry 
 m.ay find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of 
 almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe- 
 riod, — and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved, 
 are, without exception, beautiful. '1 hey show how powerfully his boyish 
 fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country, 
 and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth 
 and simplicity of nature breathe in every line — the images are always just, 
 of' en originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg- 
 ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of each 
 successive ballad. 
 
 The best cf the songs written at this time is that begmning,— 
 
 " It was upon a Lammas night, 
 \\'hen corn ri^s are boniiie, 
 Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 
 
 I held awa to Annie. 
 The time Hew by wi' tentless heed, 
 
 Till, 'tween the late and early, 
 Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 
 To see me thro' the bailey." 
 
 We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says 
 he, " which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I 
 spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from 
 home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying, 
 dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. Hut I made a greater pro- 
 gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that 
 time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fidl in with those 
 who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were 
 till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though 
 L learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without -fear in a drunken squabble, yet 
 I went on v.-ith a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered \'irgo. 
 a morth which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming y/A//"^', 
 who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me 
 off at a tangent from the sphere of my stuilies. I, however, struggled on 
 with my si/ws and co-sines for a H'w days more ; but stepjKiig into the gar- 
 den one chaiming noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met mv angeL 
 love : — 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xiil 
 
 " Proserpine, fjathcing flowera, 
 Herself a fairer flower.*' 
 
 " It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain 
 ing week 1 staid, 1 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 ttic 
 country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno- 
 cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. 
 My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Tliomson's 
 and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new 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 Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most 
 devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a 
 comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon- 
 dents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had 
 not three farthings wortii of business in the world, yet almost every post 
 brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son ol' dav- 
 book and ledger. My life ilowed on much in the same course till m^' 
 twenty-third year. ) ire I'dmoiir, et vice la bageitelhy were my sole princi- 
 ples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me 
 great pleasure; Sterne and ^Mackenzie — Tristram Shaiuhj and The Man 
 of Fti'Ung — were my bostini 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, once lighted up, raged like so many 
 devils, till they found vent in rhyme; and then the conning over my ver.ses, 
 like a spell, soothed all into quiet." 
 
 Of the rhymes of those days, ^^yv, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had 
 appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their 
 number ; The Death of Poor 3Iaifie, Mailie's Ekgif, and Jahii Barleycorn ; 
 and one charming song, inspired by the Nymph of Kirkoswald's, whose at* 
 tractions put an end to his trigonometry. 
 
 Now westlin winds, and slaiightena diui 
 
 Bring Autumn's pleasimt weather ; 
 The moorcock s])rings, on whirring wings, 
 
 Amang the blooming heather. . . . 
 — Peggy dear, tlie evening's clear, 
 
 Tliick flies the skimming swallow ; 
 The sky is blue, the Kelils in view, 
 
 All fading green and yellow ; 
 Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c. 
 
 John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and 
 jxtended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor Mailie deserve more atten- 
 tion. The expiring animal's admonitions toucliing the education of the 
 " poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her 
 daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, enibeddc:! 
 upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand in the Twa Dogs, 
 and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his DeaUi and Doctor Hurnhooh, It 
 need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she 
 did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She 
 had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and because exceedingly attached 
 to his oers/in 
 
xiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 *• Tbro' all the town she trotted by him ; 
 A lant; half-mile she could ilescry liini ; 
 M'i' kindly bleat, Avhen she did spy him, 
 
 She run wV sjjeod : 
 A friend mair faitlifu' ne'er came ni^h him, 
 
 Than JMailie dead." 
 
 These lilt.e pieces ai-e in a mucli broader dialect than an}' of their prs« 
 decessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch. 
 Kot\vitlistanding the luxurious tone of some of Burns s pieces produced in 
 those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con- 
 firms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until 
 after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that 
 Ills short residence '• away from home" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed 
 in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable 
 alteration on some of his habits ; but in i781-'2 he spent six months at 
 Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change. 
 
 '' As his numerous connexion-3," says Gilbert, " were governed by the 
 strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from v/hich he never deviated till 
 h";s twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry 
 'i his was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock- 
 ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probability of being mas- 
 ter offer a great while. He and I liad for several years taken land of our 
 father, for tlie purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in t!)e 
 course of sellin<r it, Robert bcijan to think of turnimi flax-dresser, both as 
 bemg suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to 
 the flax-raising." Burns, accordingly, v/ent to a- half-brother of iiis mo 
 thei s, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn- 
 ing this new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but 
 mis-rortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally caught 
 lire during the carousal of a new-year's-day's morning, and Robert '' was 
 left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " I was obliged," says he, 
 " to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune Avere gathering thick 
 round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he Avas visibly far gone 
 in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a hcllefUle whom I adored, 
 and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted 
 me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that 
 brouglit up the rear of this infernal file, was, m}' constitutional melancholy 
 being increased 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 mc,yc citrsed." The following letter, addressed 
 by Burns to his father, three days before the unfortunate fire took place, 
 will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that 
 aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir- 
 cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one : — 
 
 " HONOUUED Sll{, 
 
 <' I HAVE purposely delayed writing, in he hope that I should have 
 the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day; but work comes so hard 
 unon us, : at I do not cIi'' \-x. 'o oc G>.v*'it ou thf.: cc.'''>u:><, .J.-> well as for 
 som: other iiitle reasoiis, which I shall tell you ».i meeting. My health is 
 nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder; 
 and, on the whole, I a. > jt'i'-.t better than otherwise, though I mei.tl by 
 very slow degrees. The weakness of my .icrvcs has so debilitated my 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Xf 
 
 niii.i, tliat I dare nc-itlicr review past wants, nor look forward into futurity 
 fiv; the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast ])roduccs most unhappy 
 cfFi cts on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or twc 
 my spiiits are alightened, I gltminer a little into futurity ; but my principal, 
 and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for- 
 wards in a moral and religious way. I am (juite transported at tlie thought, 
 that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
 pains and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you 
 I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myseli", I 
 could contentedly and gladly resign It. 
 
 ' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 
 
 " It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, IGth, and 17th 
 verses of the "/th chapter of Re^'elations, than with any ten times as many 
 verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
 with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for tliis 
 wo'-ld, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the 
 bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- 
 able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, lam altogether unconcerned 
 at the thoughts of this hfe. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably 
 await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet 
 them. I have but just time and paper to return you my gratelul thanks 
 fo^ the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much 
 ne.;lected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem- 
 beivd ere it is yet too late. Present my dutifid respects to my mother, 
 and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. INIuir; and, with wishing you a 
 merry New-year's- day, I shall conclude. 
 
 " 1 am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, 
 
 " IloBEUT Burns." 
 
 " P. S. — ^ly meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get 
 more." 
 
 The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows : — 
 
 " l'>. Therefore are the)' I'-eforethe throne of God. and serve him day and night in his tem- 
 ple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell amonf; them. 
 
 " IC. They shall hunger no mere, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on 
 tJiem, nor any heat. 
 
 " 17- l-"or the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne sh:ill feed them, and shall lead theso 
 unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." 
 
 " This letter,"' says Dr. Currie, " written several years before the publi- 
 cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was 
 humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the 
 poetical temperament, and that buoyant and an:bitious spirit which indi- 
 cates a mind conscious of its strength. Xi Irvine, Burns at this time j)os- 
 sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- 
 ling a-week. Ho passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and 
 Ins food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family. 
 The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears, was 
 nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup- 
 ply. Yet even in this situation, his active Imagination h.ad formed to itself 
 oictures of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure in 
 
Kvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 tlie world, shows how ardently he wished for honouraole fame ; aiid his 
 contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of 
 youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reHection, and of suffering, 
 the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly 
 horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, 
 where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness 
 shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness." — Life, p. 102. 
 
 Unhappily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol- 
 lections of his virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought 
 for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which " his youth was heir to.' 
 Irvine is a small sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous 
 spirits of a smuggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met 
 with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert, 
 " of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose 
 society prepared urn for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had 
 hitherto restrained liim." 
 
 One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at 
 Irvine, seems to have been David ISillar, to whom the Epistle Ui Da- 
 vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequenth' addressed. Sillar was at this time a 
 poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer 
 oi local verses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life 
 and conversation. 
 
 Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine : — 
 " From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but thepsinci- 
 pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friend-hip I formed v< ith a 
 young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune He 
 vas the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighboialiood, 
 taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with ;; view 
 of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was re;-.-ly to 
 launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; v.here, 
 after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with 
 him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast ot 
 
 Connaught, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with 
 
 independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir- 
 ed him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In 
 some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
 proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine • 
 and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw who was 
 a greater fool than myself, where women was the presiding star ; but he 
 spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard- 
 ed with horror. Here his friendship did me a mimchief^' Professor Walker, 
 when prc{)aring to write his Sketch of the Poet's life, was informed by an 
 aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- 
 cussing religious topics, jmrticularly m those circles which usually gather 
 in a Scotch churchyard after service. The senior added, that Burns com- 
 monly tooK the high Calvinistic side in such debates; and concluded with 
 a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in a great measure for 
 the gradual adoption of " more liberal opinions." It was during the same 
 period, that the poet was first initiated in the mysteries of free masonry, 
 " which was," says his bro.her, " his first introduction to the life of a boon 
 companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvii 
 
 John Ranken, a ■•'ery dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he 
 afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which will be noticed in its place. 
 
 " Rhyme,'' Hums says, " 1 had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) " but 
 meeting with Ferguson's Scotti.s/i Poems, I strung anew my wildly soand- 
 ing l\re with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavern 
 could keep him long from his proper vocation. But it was probably this 
 accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a great measure finahy deter- 
 mined the Scoff/sh character of Burns's poctr}- ; and indeed, but for the 
 lasting sense of tliis obligation, and some natural sympathy with the personal 
 misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the very 
 higli terms in which Burns always mentions his productions. 
 
 Shortly before Burns went to Irvine, he, his brother (lilbert, and some 
 seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- 
 ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and 
 which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- 
 tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly fdled is 
 evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend 
 more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- 
 cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next *hey came prepared 
 to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter th^s proposed. Burns 
 drew up the regulations, and evidently was the principal person. He in- 
 troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap- 
 pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Of 
 the sort of questions discussed, we may form some notion from the minute 
 of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-vvritii g. — Question for Hal- 
 liTWEEN, (Nov. 11), 1780. — " Suppose a yowig man, bred a farmer, bid 
 without aivj fort line, has it in his power to marry either of two tcomeii, the one 
 a girl of large fortune, hut neither Jiandmme in person, nor agreeable in con- 
 versation, but who can manage the. household affairs of a farm well encvgh ; 
 the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behavi- 
 our, but ivitkout any fortune : tchich of them shall he choose ?" Burns, as 
 may be guessed, took the imprudent side in this discussion. 
 
 " On one solitary occasion," says he, " we resolved to meet at Tarbol- 
 ton in July, on the race-night, and have a dance in honour of our society. 
 Accordingly, we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening 
 in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that 
 every brother will long remember it with delight." There can be no doubt 
 that Burns would not have patronized this sober association so long, unless 
 he had experienced at its assemblies the pleasure of a stimulated mind ; 
 and as little, that to the habit of arranging his thoughts, and expressing 
 them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, we ought to at- 
 tribute much of that conversational skill which, wLen he first mingled with 
 the upper world, was generally considered as the most remaikable of all his 
 personal accomplishments — Burns's associates of the Bachelor's Club, 
 must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other- 
 wise such minds as his and Ciilbert's could not have persisted in measuring 
 themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display 
 of the poe> s own vigour and resources, at these club-meetings, and (more 
 frequently than his brother approved) at the Free Mason Lodges of Irvine 
 and Tarbolton, extended his rural reputation ; and, by degrees, prepared 
 persons not immediately included in his own circle, for the extraordinary 
 impression which his poetical efforts were ere long tc cr=«.ti? aU over " the 
 Carrick border." 
 
xvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 David Sillar gives an account of the beginning of his own acquaintance 
 H'itli Burns, and introduction into this Bachelor's Club, which will always be 
 read with much interest. — " Mr. Robert Burns was some time in the parish 
 of Tarbolton prior to my acquaintance vvith him. His social disposition 
 easily procured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with 
 which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while i( 
 set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindre<l at- 
 tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had 
 a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his principles. lie 
 wore the only tied hair in the parish ; and in the church, his plaid, which 
 was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he wrapped in a particular 
 manner round his shoulders. These surmises, and his exterior, hnd such 
 a magnetical influence on my curiosity, as made me particularly solicitous 
 of his acquaintance. Whether my acquaintance with Gilbert was casual 
 or premeditated, I am not now certain. By him I was introduced, not 
 only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time, 
 I became a frequent, and I believe, not unwelcome visitant. After the 
 commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we frequently met 
 upon Sundays at church, when, between sermons, instead of going with 
 our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these 
 walks, I have frequently been struck with his facility in addressing the fair 
 sex ; and many times, when I have been bashfully anxious how to express 
 myself, he would have entered into conversation with them with the great- 
 est ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversa- 
 tion, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the Cvw 
 opportunities of a noontide walk that a country life allows her laborious 
 sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the nei'-'li- 
 bourhood of Stair, a situation peculiarly adapted to the genius of a rural 
 bard. Some book (generally cno of those mentioned in his letter to Mr. 
 Murdoch) he always carried and read, when not otherwise employed. It 
 was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, 
 in time of a sowen supper, he v/as so intent on reading, I think Tristram 
 Shandy, that his spoon falling out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a 
 tone scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick !' Such was Burns, and such 
 were his associates, when, in May 1781, I was admitted a member of 
 tiie Bachelor's Club.' 
 
 The misfortunes of William Burnes thickened apace, as has already been 
 seen, and were approaching their crisis at the time when liobert came 
 home from his flax-dressing experiment at Irvine. The good old man 
 died soon, after ; and among other evils which he thus escaped, was an af- 
 fliction tliat would, in his eyes, have been severe. The poet had not, as 
 he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of " li- 
 beral opiijjt'ns" with whom he consorted in Irvine ; and he expressly 
 attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after " he 
 put his hand to plough again." He was compelled, according to the then 
 all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in 
 church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birtl; of an illegi- 
 timate child ; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such ex- 
 hibitions, there can be no difference of op' ion as to the culpable levity 
 witii which he describes the nature of his oli'enre, and the still more re- 
 preliensihl-e bitterness with which, in his Epistle to Kanken, he inveighs 
 against the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was 
 
LR'E OF ROBERT BURNS. Xli 
 
 ihen B regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could i:evet 
 have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under 
 the appellation of " Daddie Auld." T/ie Poet's Welcome to an llkgitiimite 
 Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very 
 manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one 
 pleasure to contemplate. There is a soiig in honour of the same occasion, 
 or a similar one about the same period. The rantin Dog the Daddie o't, — 
 which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. 
 
 When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his 
 own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of 
 the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has 
 thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited 
 in his bosom. " To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin," 
 he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottars Saturday Night, had not, 
 we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional 
 sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother, l^ut 
 his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he 
 was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice ; and the fermenting 
 bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself, escaped (as may be too often 
 traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry, sarcasms against 
 others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done him 
 no wrong. 
 
 It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro 
 poses to himself on this occasion : — 
 
 " Tne mair they talk, Fm kend the letter ; 
 
 E'en let them clabh !" 
 
 This is indpod a singular manifestation of " the last infirmity of Dobie 
 rniridfi." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Contests — 77iC Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Moss"iel~. Their incessant 
 
 lahnnr and moderate habits— The farm cold and unfertile— Not prosperous The Muse 
 
 anti-calvinistical— The poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he- 
 
 res J/— Curious account if these disputes — Earli/ poems prompted by them. Origin of and 
 
 remarks vpnn the poet's principal pieces— Love lead* him far astray— A crisis The mil or 
 
 the West Indies— The alternative 
 
 •• The star that rules my luckless lot 
 Has fated me the russet coat. 
 And damn'd my fortune to the groat; 
 
 But in requit, 
 Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 
 
 O' country wit." 
 
 Three mmiths before the death of William Burnes, Robert and Gilbert 
 took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with 
 the view of providing a slielter for their parents, in the storm v/hich they 
 liad seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this 
 place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted 
 of 119 acres, and the rent was £90. " It was stocked by the property 
 and individual savings of the whole iamily, (says Gilbert), and was a joint 
 concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary 
 wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance 
 and mine was £7 per annum each ; and during the whole time this family 
 concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe- 
 riod at Lochlea, Fiobert's expenses never, in any one year, exceeded liis 
 slender incoiue." 
 
 " I entered on this farm," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come, 
 go, I will he imae. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended 
 markets ; and, in sliort, in spite of the dei-'d, and the world, ami the jleah, 
 I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor- 
 tunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half 
 our crops. Tliis overset all my wisdom, and I returned, I'die the dog to his 
 vomit, (tml tJie sow that was tvasJicd to Iter tvallowiiig in the mire." 
 
 *' At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming ?rwe, he 
 procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, 
 expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These 
 farming memoraivhims are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a 
 spe« "imen may gratify tlui reader.". — Specimens accordingly lie gives ; as. 
 
 *' O why the deuce sliould I repine, 
 And be an ill fbrcboder ? 
 I'm twcnty-tliree, and five foot ninfi— 
 V\i ^o and be a sodjjcr," &c 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxi 
 
 ■* O leave novells, j'c Mauchline belles, 
 
 Ve're safer at your spinning wheel ; 
 Such witching books are baited hooks 
 
 For rakish rooks — like Kob Mossgiel. 
 Your fine T)m Jones and (Irandisons, 
 
 They male your youthful fancies reel. 
 They heat your veins, and fire your brains, 
 
 And then ye're prey for Rob .'Moss^'iel," &c. &c. 
 
 Tlie foul jeais dating which Burns resided on tliis cold and ungrateful 
 farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his hfe. It was tlien that 
 his genius developed iis highest energies ; on the works produced in these 
 years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest: 
 it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights, 
 and in all but its darkest shadows; and indeed from the commencement 
 of this period, the history oi' the man may be traced, step by step, in his 
 own immortal writings. Bums now began to know that nature had meant 
 him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured in 
 what he felt to be his destined vocation Gilbert continued for some time 
 to be his chief, often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte- 
 resting and delightful than this excellent man's account of the manner in 
 v> hich the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were 
 composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. 
 
 The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them waa 
 known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, 
 and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and 
 more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of wliich he 
 formed one in Mauchline, on the Tarljolton model, immediately on his re- 
 moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent 
 in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared 
 the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, 
 which nmst not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergj'men 
 among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that 
 after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met lUn-ns in 
 company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by 
 him, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expresbions, and the 
 authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his 
 power of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to 
 me by accident. On the occasion of my second appearance in the pulpit, 
 I came with an assured and tranquil mind, and though a i'cw persons of 
 education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- 
 fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was 
 of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was atfectcd v.ith 
 a tremor and embarrassment, which suddenly apprised me of the impression 
 which my mind, unknown to itself had previously received." Tiie Pro- 
 fessor adds, that the person who had thus unconsciously been measuring 
 ihe stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents 
 and education, but '• remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con 
 stitutional firmness." 
 
 Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a 
 tlieological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- 
 ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually 
 be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It 
 mav be guessed that from the time of his residence at Irvine, his stric- 
 
xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 tures were too often delivered in no reverend vein. " Polemical divinity, 
 says he to Dr. IMoore, in 1787, " about this time, was putting the coun- 
 try half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversation-parties on Sun- 
 days, at funerals, S:c., used to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and in- 
 discretion, that I raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which has not 
 ceased to this hour," 
 
 To understand I'urns's situation at this time, at once patronized by a 
 number of clergymen, and attend-i-d with " a hue-and-cry of heresy," we 
 nuist remember his own words, " that })olemicaI divinity was putting the 
 country hali'mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu- 
 tion of 1ikS8, have pretty equally divided the Church of Scotland, it so 
 happened that some of the most zealous and consjiicuous leailcrs anil par- 
 tizans were thus opposed to each other, in constinit warfare, in this parti 
 cular di>;trict ; and their feuds being of course taken up among their con 
 gregations, and spleen and prejudice at work, even more furiously in the 
 cottage than in (//e manse, lie who, to the annoyance of the one set of belli 
 gerents, could talk like Burns, might count pretty surely, with whateve 
 alloy his wit hajipened to be mingled, on the applause and countenance of 
 the enemy. And it is needless to add, they were the less scrupulous sect 
 of the two that enjoyed the co-operation, such as it was then, and far more 
 important, as in the sequel it came to be, of our poet. 
 
 William Burnes, as we have already seen, though a most exemjilary and 
 devout man, entertained opinions very difi*erent iVom those which conmion- 
 ly obtained among the rigid Calvanists of his district. The worthy and 
 pious old man hin^self, therefore, had not improbably infused into his son's 
 mind its first prejudice against these j)ersons. The jovial spirits with whom 
 Burns associated at Irvine, and afterwards, were of course habitual dcriders 
 of the manners, as well as the tenets of the 
 
 " t)rilKKlox, ortlioilox, wIm believe in Jolin Knox." 
 
 We liave already observed the effect of the yoimg poet's own first collision 
 with the ruling powers of presbyterian discijiline ; but it was in the very 
 act of settling at Mos.^giel that Burns formed the connexion, ^hich, more 
 than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to the matter now in 
 (|ucsti:)n. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but 
 the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. (Javin Hamilton, writer (?. p. 
 attorney; in .Mauchline, a man, by every account, of engaging manners, 
 open, kind, generous, and high-spirited, between whom and Robert rnirns. 
 a c!o.^e and intimate friendship was ere long formed. Just about this time 
 it happened that Hamilton was at 0]>en feud with Mr. .\uld, the minister 
 (jf Mauchline, (t!ie same who had already reJtnhcd the poet), and the ruling 
 elders of the ])arish, in conse(]uence of certain irregularities in his personal 
 coniluct and ileportment, which, according to the usual strict notions of 
 kirk discijjline, were consiilered as fairly demanding the vigorous interfer 
 ence of these authorities. 'I'he notice of this person, his own landlord, and, 
 a.^ it wt)u!d seem, one of the principal inhabitants of the village of .Maucl>- 
 line at the time, nnist, of course, have been very flattering fj our polemical 
 young f'armer. He espoused (Javin Hamilton's (piarrel warmly. Hamilton 
 was naturally enough disjjosed to mix up his personal affair with the stand 
 ing controversies whereon .'Vuld was at variance with a large and powerful 
 body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr Hamilton's ardent /y;v>- 
 /tv/e'camc to be as veh.emently interested in the church politics of Ajrshire, 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xxiij 
 
 Bs lie could have been in jjolitics of another order, had ho happened to be 
 a freeman of some open borough, and hii patron a candidate ibr the honour 
 '^f representing it in St. Steplien's. Mr. Cromek lias been severely criti« 
 cised fo'" some details of Mr. (Javin Hamilton's dissensions with his parish 
 minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to limit tlie censure to the 
 tone and spirit oi' the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty 
 squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Hurns's po- 
 etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly 
 excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a 
 world of vexation and controvers^y forty years ago ; and the English reader to 
 whom all such details are denied, will certainly never be able to compre- 
 hend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable 
 productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well 
 add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- 
 rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa- 
 lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- 
 ed times that preceded the Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po- 
 pular hatred, in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal 
 hand in bringing a thousand of f/ie Higldand hu.sl into that region in IG77-8. 
 The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects 
 of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants 
 and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald 
 had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re- 
 gard with any thing rather than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty 
 writer of Mauchline. A well-nursed prejudice of this kind was likely 
 enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth 
 of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every 
 trace of feuds, that were still abundantly discernible, in the days when 
 Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- 
 ation of, — 
 
 " Poet Burns, 
 And his priest-skelping turns " 
 
 It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged 
 among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on 
 either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud 
 and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the 
 su])erabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems 
 to have mingled much of the charity of the Christian temper. 'I'he ^^ hole 
 exhibition was unlovely — the spectacle of such indecent violence among 
 the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many 
 men's minds — and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert 
 Burns's principles, the elfect must have been powerful as to him. 
 
 .Macgill and Dalrymple. the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long 
 been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par- 
 ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity; and the for- 
 mer at length published an Essay, 
 
 the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis- 
 cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac- 
 knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity 
 of apologizing for them to his own congregation from the pulpit — which 
 oromise, however, he never performcfl. The gentry of the country took 
 
xxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 tor the most part, the side of Macgill, who was a man of cold unpopulai 
 manners, but of unreproached mora! character, and possessed of some ac- 
 compHshmei.ts, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The buli 
 <~f the lower orders espcused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those 
 who conducted the prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil 
 ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill — 
 Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a 
 writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speakins.-.. 
 had the principal management of Macgill's cause before the Presbytery, 
 and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha- 
 milton, and through him had about tliis time formed an acquaintance, whicli 
 soon ripened into a warm rricndsliip, v.ith Burns. Burns, therefore, was 
 from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perhaps the most effective 
 partizan, of the side on v.hich Aiken liad staked so much of his reputation. 
 Macgill, Dalrymple. and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- 
 tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, are the Ncio Light pastors of his 
 earliest satires. The ])rominent antagonists of these nien, and chosen cham- 
 pions of the Auld Light , in Ayrshire, it must now be admitted on all hands, 
 presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad 
 a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. These men prided them- 
 selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre- 
 sentatives of tlie haughty Puritans, v.lio chiefly conducted the overthrow 
 of Popery in Scotland, and wlio ruled for a time, and would fain have con- 
 tiimed to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion 
 than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst 
 that iiigh -spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever 
 in their mouths, these men were in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as 
 
 relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever wore cov.d and cord austere 
 
 and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners 
 
 very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all 
 outward appearance at least, overflowing with pharisaical self-conceit, as 
 well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this 
 ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the worst of these gloomy 
 passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- 
 ment ; and that Burns has grossly overcharged his portraits of them, deep- 
 ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding al- 
 together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re- 
 deemed the originals withm the sympathies of many of the worthiest and 
 best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at 
 least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour, 
 charges of that hein;)us sort, which they fearlessly, and I fear justly, j)re- 
 ferred against their antagonists. No one ever accused them of sipiing the 
 Articles, adn)inistering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church, 
 whor,e fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least, 
 disai'owed. 
 
 The law of Church-patronage was another subject on Mhich controversy 
 ran higii and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- 
 tion of things on this lead being upheld by all the men of the New Light, 
 and condenmed as equally at variance v/itli the precepts of the gosjjcl, and 
 the rights of freemen, hy not a \'i;\v of tiie other party, and, in particular, 
 by certain conspicuous zealots in tlie innnediate neighbourhood of lUirns. 
 While this warfare raged, there broke out an inte tine discord within the 
 
LIFE 01' HOBEIIT BUKiVS. xx» 
 
 onin;i of tiip fiiction Aviiicli he loved not. Two of the foremost h'adors oi 
 t!u; Aii!(l Light parly quarrelled about a question of jiarish boundaries 
 the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilniarnoek, and there, in 
 the t'pen court, to which the announcement of tlie discussion had drawn a 
 multitude of the country people, and Burns among the rest, tl:e revf rend 
 divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, 
 and abused each other coriDn pnpulo, with a fiery virulence of personal in- 
 vective, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where- 
 in the laws of courtesy arc enforced by those of a certain unwritten code. 
 " The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, " was 
 a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both 
 of them ilraimttis pcrsorue m my Ho!;/ Fail-. I had a notion myself, that 
 the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copj' of it to 
 a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that 1 could not 
 guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it j)retty clever. With 
 a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar oj 
 appl(nis(>" This was The Ilali/ Tnilzie, or Ttca Ilerrls. The two //tr//s, 
 or pastors, were .Mr. Moodie. minister of Kiccartoun, and that Ubvourite vic- 
 tim of lUirns's, John llussell, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards 
 of Stirling — " From this time," Burns says, " 1 began to be known in the 
 
 country as a maker of rhymes ^^"'^ Wi/Iic's Prayer next made its 
 
 appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several 
 meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might 
 
 be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul, 
 
 presents llo'u Wtl/ie's Pniyer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. 
 Currie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of 
 the poet who took such a judicious method of" leading the liberal mind to 
 a rational view of the nature of piayer." — " This," says that bold com- 
 mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the 
 metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them- 
 selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- 
 ing and polemical warfare. Burns embraced and defended the opinions of 
 Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not 
 reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, v.hose very essence is 
 love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the 
 Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvalion to none but 
 a 'iktw of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disr iples of Maho- 
 met, the Boman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who 
 differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, 
 descend to the pit of perdition, man. Avoman, and child, without the possi- 
 bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians 
 of the j)resent day, and such was Holy Willie's style of prayer. The hy- 
 pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint, 
 were perceived by the discerning penetration of I'urns, and to expose 
 them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited 
 in tliat able production is precisely the same view which is given uf him, 
 in diil'erent words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, 
 th.at the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- 
 ed bawd is more accejjtable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who has 
 hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sb.eep alone \\\\\ be 
 saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the 
 wilderness, to perish without mercy — that the Saviour of the world loves 
 
xxvf LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are 
 hateful in his sight, but " he loves lliem because he loves them." Such 
 are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High 
 Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet who loves maniiind, and whc 
 has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with hr.nor. . , . Tlie 
 gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being 
 has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * 
 
 This Reverend autlior may be considered as expressing in the above, 
 and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments witli which 
 even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received 
 among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas- 
 pliemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis- 
 ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go far to make the 
 reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native 
 county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it 
 fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- 
 ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of 
 this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing 
 more about tlieir professional character and authority, were almost the 
 only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of 
 approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, 
 from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when 
 "ather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- 
 jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first 
 a[)j)roaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your 
 bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in 
 (October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- 
 stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting 
 t!ie cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied an-d forcible as 
 yours, may do th s in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- 
 ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be 
 recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
 to the heat and inexperience of youUi ; — and few poets can boast, like 
 'J'homson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to 
 blot. In particu'ar, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, 
 wliich makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- 
 gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- 
 viduals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent 
 men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which 
 may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the 
 heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- 
 cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
 ne fcr these hints." 
 
 It is amusing to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the 
 tricks ofr.heir trade : l>urns knew already what lustre a compliment g'.iins 
 from being oct in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of 
 
 " Gaun Ilaniilton's deserts, .... 
 
 He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; 
 Vet has sae mony taken' arts 
 
 WV great and sma" 
 Frae God's ain priests t!ie people's hearts 
 
 He steals awa," &C. 
 
 • The Rev. Hamilton Paul's Life of Burns, pp. 40, 41 
 
LIFE OF UOBEKT BUIJNS. xxvu 
 
 Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as having 
 merited Willie's most fervent cMecratioa by his '• glib-tongucd"' defence of 
 the heterodox doctor of Ayr i 
 
 *' liord ! visit lliem wha did employ liim. 
 And for thy people's sake destroy 'em." 
 
 Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise ol 
 his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems," 
 said he, " until Mr. Aitken rcr/d tlinn into repute." 
 
 Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus 
 orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various 
 satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The OnHnation ; 
 T/ie Kirk's Alarm, Sec. S:c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy 
 Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps 
 its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in- 
 deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper 
 that malice had fonr.ed its princii)al inspiration, or that its chief attraction 
 lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- 
 spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest 
 mufterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands 
 ot a national poet. The Ilohj Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- 
 prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch 
 the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or 
 nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical 
 master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and 
 others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Ikn-ns's 
 previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from 
 choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had, 
 some time before any of his philij)pics on the Auld Light Divines made 
 their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, 
 a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Hdi/ Fair itself dis- 
 plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language 
 and versification, as must have, prepared them for witnessing, without won- 
 der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that " among 
 the earliest of his poems," was the Fpistle in Darie, {i. e. Mr David Sillar). 
 and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of 
 William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difiicult measure 
 of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease 
 and grace in his very unnecessary trammels : but young poets are careless 
 beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great 
 poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so 
 that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must 
 be literally taken, on the celebration of Jea?i. with which the e{)istle ter- 
 minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanztis, whicli 
 may have been added some time after the first draught. 'Ihe gloomy cir- 
 cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, 
 were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- 
 tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this 
 was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Hums ex- 
 rrcificd his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend 
 a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivia] 
 points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could 
 
xxvifi LIFE OF ROBERT BURts'S. 
 
 be put in their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed u-ithont an^ 
 regular plan. When any thing made a strong iaipression on his mind, so 
 as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and 
 embody the thougl-.t in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please 
 liim, he would tlien think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- 
 ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, 
 I think, in summer 1784-, when in the interval of hiirder labour, he and I 
 v,'ere weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin- 
 cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Robert's 
 becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
 with the epistle, and said to him I v,-as of opinion it would bear being 
 printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I 
 thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis- 
 tles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed 
 to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was 
 a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- 
 ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ; 
 that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
 consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-be<iiiin<j. Ko- 
 bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending 
 it to some magazine ; but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing 
 how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, 1 think, in the winter 
 follovv'ing, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and 
 I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to 
 me tlie Ad/ress to the Ddl. The curious idea of such an address was su<r- 
 gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts 
 and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- 
 age. Dentil and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in tlie Kilmar- 
 nock edition, was produced early in the year 17>)5. The schoolmaster of 
 Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful 
 class of men, had set up a shop of grocery loods. Having accidentally 
 fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at- 
 tached to 'he study of medicine, he had added the sale of a "ii^w medi- 
 cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of 
 which, overlooking his own incapacity, he h.td advertised, that '• Advice 
 would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a 
 mason -meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too 
 ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
 from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes 
 his meeting with Death, one of those tioating ideas of apparitions, he men- 
 tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work ibr 
 the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- 
 peated the verses to me next afternoon, as 1 was holding the plough, ana 
 he was letting the water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lop. 
 /Y///d was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He 
 Bays in that poem, Ou Fusten-eenive luul a rockin. I believe he has omit- 
 ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those 
 primitive times, when the country-women employed their si)are hours io 
 spinning on the rock or distalf. This simple implement is a very portable 
 one, and well fitted to the eocial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
 house ; hence the j)hrase o? r/oinr/ a-rocking, or ivith the rock. As the con- 
 nexion tile phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the reci 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BUR^S. xxTx 
 
 gave place to tlic spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both 
 sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as 
 women. It was at one of these rochinga at our house, when we had twelve 
 01 fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — 
 " When I upon thy bosom lean," \\as sung, and we were informed who was 
 the auth.or. Upon this KoDert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his 
 second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Moiuitnin 
 Dftisi/ were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author 
 was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each 
 was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert 
 for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while 
 he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v.'ere produced for the pur- 
 pose of bringing ft -ward .some favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
 to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture 
 of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind ho^v• 
 this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, 3Ian tL-cis made to 
 Mourn, v.as composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he 
 thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us 
 worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family 
 worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- 
 tars S'lturclaj/ Night. The hint of the jilan, and title of the poem, were taken 
 from Ferguson's Farmers Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure 
 in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently 
 to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday aftrt- 
 noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- 
 munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their 
 Qumbcr abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure 
 9f hearing the author repeat The Cottars Saturday Night. I do not recollect 
 to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly ehctrifed. 
 The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy 
 through my soul." 
 
 The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among 
 the most popular of his brother's performances ; and there may be a time 
 for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as Avorks of art. It may be 
 mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely 
 compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- 
 tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that 
 his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. 
 Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to conmiercial 
 pursuits, Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not eflec- 
 tuaily withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer- 
 ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless 
 the lucky hour in which the dominie of 'i'arbolton provoked the castigation 
 of Robert Burns. In those days the b'cotch universities did not turn out 
 doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only 
 medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit 
 of a considerable circuit of parishes ; and his advice, to say the least of the 
 matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the 
 wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. I'he poem wl>ich 
 drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- 
 signed to produce any such serious eilect. Poor Hornbook and the j)oet 
 were old ac^quaintanccs, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma 
 son lodce. 
 
XXX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 In 3Ian was made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual idea that set 
 the poet to work, it is but too evident, tliat he wrote from the habitual 
 feeli-ngs of his own l^osom. The indignation with which he through life 
 contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, the con- 
 trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was 
 never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those 
 stannas : — 
 
 " See yonder poor o'erlai^nur'd wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile. 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil. 
 And see his lordly fellow worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn, 
 Unmindful, tho' a wee])ing wife 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 If ['m design'd yon lordling's slave — 
 
 V>y Nature's laws design'd — 
 AVhy was an independent wish 
 
 E'er planted in iny mind ? 
 If not, wliy am I subject to 
 
 His cruelty and scorn, 
 Or «hy lias man the will and power 
 
 To make his fellow mourn ?" 
 
 " I had^an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. 
 Dimlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old 
 man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his 
 highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing 
 the simple old song of The Life and Age of Man' 
 
 In ]\Ian tons made to Mourn, Burns appears to have taken many hints 
 from this ancient ballad, which begins thus : 
 
 " Upon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three, 
 
 Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie; 
 
 On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, 
 
 AVith many a sigh and sob did say —Ah ! man is made to moan !"• 
 
 Tlie Collar s Satnrdai/ MgJit is, perhaps, of all Rurns's pieces, the one 
 whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, 
 would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, 
 of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stanzas, it ap- 
 pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being 
 contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform- 
 ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he 
 remained ^^vit a short while on the wing, and efibrt is too often perceptible ; 
 here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of tlie 
 conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- 
 siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream 
 from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no 
 glare on the surface. 
 
 It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a 
 genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant 
 energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and j)e- 
 nury, who shall alfcct to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen- 
 sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the 
 pieties of virgin loi e, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. 
 
 • Croniek's Scottish Soncs. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi 
 
 Tlio Cottar i Saturday Nif/lu and the IIoJi/ Fair liavc been put in con 
 irast, and much marvel made that they should have spruuij^ from the s;unc 
 source. " 1 he annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Su[)[)ei 
 in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfort-.^.ate 
 Heron, " of those old ])opish festivals, in which superstition, traffic, and 
 amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in 
 it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the display of that 
 strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- 
 guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous; 
 of that picturesque power of fancy which enabled him to represent scenes, 
 and jiersons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner 
 almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- 
 gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he bud ne- 
 cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics 
 around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no les5 than whatever was alFcct- 
 ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the 
 ex(|uisite graj)hic truth of the poem to which the critic refers? The ques- 
 tion remains as it stood ; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture 
 of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual 
 celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what 
 is *' affiectingly beautiful in rural life," mak3 a part in the original which 
 was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy," and 
 " Lun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ^ It 
 would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which 
 Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival m 
 which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- 
 rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men 
 are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above 
 the tombs of their fathers. 
 
 Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad 
 with the inspiration of th.e moment, from whatever source derived, too far 
 It can hardly be doubted that the author of T/ie Cottar s Saturday Nit/Id 
 had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the 
 most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that 
 had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he 
 might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his lluli/ i'air is 
 quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other 
 han:l, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the 
 ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself. The family prayers of the Saturday's 
 night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys- 
 tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they are — 
 and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask 
 of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in 
 which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it 
 is surely just that they should pay most attention to what lie has delivered 
 under the gra\ est sanction. 
 
 The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion ol 
 The Iluly Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and, 
 indeed, expressly applauds Burns for hav-ng endeavoured to explode ' a* 
 Duses discountenanced by the General Assembly." IlaUmoe'en, a descrip 
 live poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Huly Fair 
 and containing nothing that could offend *he feelings of anybo' y, was pro- 
 
Kxxli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Sliced about the same period. Eurns's art had now reached its climax 
 but it is time that we shculd revert more particularl_y to the personal his- 
 tory of the poet. 
 
 He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could 
 at the best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so lars^e 
 a family ; and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only 
 escaped in oc( asional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes or 
 solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he 
 very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- 
 ing his fortune in the West Indies, where, as is well known, the managers 
 of the plantations are, in tlie great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's 
 own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two or three different 
 occasions, long before his poetry had excited any attention, he had applied 
 for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention 
 of his acquaintances in the sea-port of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth 
 describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a 
 new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his 
 native land ; and but for an accident, his arrangements would certainly 
 have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last 
 of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were 
 evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to 
 inquire ; that they Avere many, his songs prove, for in those days he M'rote 
 no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Moriaon — Behind yon bills 
 where Stinchar jiews — On Cessnock hank there lives a lass — belono- to this 
 period ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell the ob- 
 ject of by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which lie has 
 accordingly immortalized in the noblest of his elegiacs. In introducin'T 
 to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — 
 
 " Will ye go to the Indies, my pilary. 
 And leave auld Scotia's shore ?— 
 ■Will ye go to the Indies, my .Mary, 
 Across the Atlantic's roar ?" 
 
 Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the West 
 Indies, I took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on — 
 
 " Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 The Castel o' IMontgomerie ; 
 Green be your woods, and fdir your flowers, 
 Your waters never drumlie." 
 
 he adds, — *' After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
 tion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of Ma}', in a sequester- 
 ed spot by the banks of A..yr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell bo- 
 fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among 
 her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn 
 following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she liad 
 scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried 
 my dear girl to her grave in a i'ew days, before I could even hear of her ill- 
 ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love." givea 
 some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous inquirer into the 
 details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking 
 ceremoiu'als, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions, 
 
LIFE OF HOMElCr BUHXS xxxn 
 
 antl to impose awe. The lovers stood on eacli side of a small purliiij: brook 
 — they laved their hands in tiie limpid stream — and, holding a liihle be- 
 tween them, pronouneed their vows to be faithful to eaeh other. 'I'hej 
 parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Croniek's story 
 lias recently been confirmed very strongly by the accidental discovery of a 
 Bible presented by Burns to Marii ('(tvtphell, in the possession of her still 
 surviving sister at Ardrossan. lIj)on the boards of the first volume is in- 
 scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my nanie 
 falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. I'i. On the second volume, 
 — " Tiiou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the I-ord thine 
 oath." — St. INIatth. chap, v., v. .S3. And, on a blank leaf of either, — " Ro- 
 bert Burns, Mossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of thia 
 pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland 
 Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious 
 attempts in poetry. In the B pistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint- 
 ed), the very earliest, according to (lilbert, of these attem])ts, the i)oet 
 celebrates " his Davie and his Jcdti." This was Jean Armour, a young 
 M'onian, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter 
 of a res{)ectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where 
 she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re- 
 sjjected vidcw of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden 
 charms in the best pieces which he produced atMossgiel ; amongst others 
 is the six Belles of Mauehiine, at the head of whom she is placed. 
 
 " In IMauchline there dwells six proper yourfr belles, 
 '[ he i)ride ol' ilie ))hice antl its neiglibourlioiKl a ; 
 Their carri:ij,'e iind dress, a stranf,'er would guess, 
 In liOn'on or I'aris they'd gotten it a* : 
 
 ** miss INIillar is fire, Miss IMarkland's divine, 
 
 IMiss Smitli she t as wit. and Miss Betty is braw ; 
 There's beauty and fortune to get wi' iSliss .Morton, 
 But Armour's the jewel for n:e o' them a'." 
 
 The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex- 
 pccted. Jean Armour found herself pregnant. 
 
 Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state when he 
 was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement oi 
 it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to fly the country 
 at once; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline. tlie confidant of lus 
 amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things i am fixed as fate— staying 
 at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven. I will not do! 
 — the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good Ciod bless you, and make 
 
 you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of parting friendship 
 
 If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me (iod, in my hour o» 
 need." The lovers met accordingly , and the result of tlie meeting was 
 what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's 
 feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears 
 of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a 
 written acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and 
 produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to th.e Scots 
 law. was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irrccjular marriage having 
 really taken place ; it being of course luiulcrstood that the marriage was to 
 be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could 
 no longer be concealed from her family. The disclosure was deferred tc 
 
xxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 the las* moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with 
 equal surprise and anger. Pjurns, confessing himself to be unequal to the 
 maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he 
 hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban- 
 don liis larm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread, 
 at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could 
 appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed en 
 his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but tJie 
 fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document. 
 
 It v.as under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- 
 came the mother of twins. — I'urns's love and pride, the two most powerful 
 feeliiigs of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- 
 gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute 
 insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- 
 published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as 
 deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human 
 calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once 
 from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and tb.is course seemed new to 
 be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for th.e main- 
 tenance of the children whom lie v.as prevented from legitimating ; but 
 the man who had in his desk the inmiortal poems to which we have been 
 referrin^^ above, either disdained to ahk, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary 
 assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that preiented 't 
 eelf to his view was America or a iail 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CCNTBNTK The Poet gives up Mosxghl to his Brother Gilhett — TnlenJs for Jiimriiceu. . 
 
 Subscription Edition of his Puems sm/i.'cstel to sup;ilt/ menus of outfit — One ofdOO cupiet 
 printed at Kilmiirnock, 17S6 — It tiri wis him extended repntatinn, and £20 — Alio many 
 vcri/ kirul ieiids, but no patron — In these circumstances, Gua(iin(j first hinted to him by 
 his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Snyinris and doinys in the Jin t year of his fame — 
 Jamaica ayain in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. liluc/JocA 
 to vublish at Edinburgh, rt-herein the Poet sojourns. 
 
 ** He saw misfortune's cauld nor^-zvest, 
 Ijant; imistRrinj:^ up a bitter blast ; 
 A jillet brak his heart at last, 
 
 III may she be! 
 So, took a birth afore t'nc ma-^t, 
 
 An' owre the sea." 
 
 Jamaica was now his mark, for at that time the United States were 
 not looked to as the phice of refuge they have since become. After some 
 httle time, and not a Httle trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on 
 the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one ol 
 his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, liowever, 
 he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the i'ew pounds requisite 
 for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest 
 poems that ever delighted mankind. 
 
 His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, iNIr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged 
 him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard ar 
 experiment which might perhaps better liis circumstances ; and, if any tole 
 rahle number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them v.orse 
 than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- 
 cess in the matter; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that 
 Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy 
 out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to tlie 
 printer , and encouraged by the ray of light which unex})ected jwtronage 
 had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- 
 gress, some of the best p )ems of the collection. The tale of the 7 wa iJaijs, 
 for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been 
 written in the short interval between the publication being determined on 
 and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. AJoore i.s 
 as follows : — 
 
 " I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was onl) 
 nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power loi 
 Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish mv 
 Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : 1 
 thought they had merit; and it was a delicious idea tlut I should be called 
 a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- 
 driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that n)hospitable clime, and ^one to ihu 
 
xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 world of S])irits. I can truly say that, pavvre inrofuu/ a> I then was, I had 
 [jretty nearly as high an itk-a of myself and of my Avorks as I have at this 
 moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- 
 nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point 
 of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- 
 rance of themselves. —To know myself, had been all along my constant 
 stu.'y. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced mj'self with others : I watch^ 
 cd every means of information, to see how much ground 1 occupied as a 
 man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — 
 where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- 
 fident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the 
 roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
 West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
 for wliich I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — INIy va- 
 nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and 
 besides, I pocketed nearly t 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
 thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As 
 soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
 zone, 1 took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the 
 
 Clyde ; for 
 
 " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 
 
 " I liad been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the 
 terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
 pack of t;ie 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 
 should ever measure in Caledonia, The gJuomy night is gathering fast, when 
 a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrev/ all my schemes, 
 by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." 
 
 To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a few details, 
 gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters. — W hile 
 tlic Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- 
 ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means OT 
 remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches 
 of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular guaging, it occurred tc 
 himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any 
 other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he 
 possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the publication of the 
 poems than one might sui)pose from his own narrative, in the hope that 
 tliese gentlemen might at length succeed in their efforts in his behalf. The 
 poems were received with favour, even with rapture, in the county of Ayr, 
 and ere long over the adjoining counties. " Old and young," thus speaks 
 Robert Heron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were 
 alike delighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in (ial- 
 lo'.vay, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even plough 
 boys and maid- servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earner 
 the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, 
 if they might but procure the Works of IJurns." — The poet £oon found 
 that his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a 
 lively interest in his oersonal fortunes was excited among some of the ^en- 
 
 • ';i]l)CTt Burns uictiiior.s, that a single individual. ^\r. William r^rl"" 
 Kihiiariiock. subscribed for '6b cooiUt 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii 
 
 try of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it wag 
 pretty sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among 
 others, the cclebarted I'rofessor Duj^ald Stewart of Kdinbwgh, and his ac- 
 complished lady, then resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to 
 notice him with much ]X)1 te and friendly att'^ntion. Dr. Hugh I'dair, wh.o 
 then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened 
 to be paying !Mr. Stewart a visit, and on reading T/ic Ilohj Fair, at once 
 pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and IMrs. Stewart, her 
 self a poetess, Mattered him jierhnps still more highly by her warm com- 
 mendations. J>ut above all, his little volume happened to attract the no- 
 tice of IMrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune, 
 enthusiastically attached to her country, and interested in whatever ap- 
 peared to concern the honour of Scotland, 'f his excellent woman, while 
 slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden- 
 tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume 
 at The Cottar's Satunhn/ Night. " She read it over," says Gilbert, " with 
 the grcate^^t {)leasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple 
 cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re- 
 pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony 
 and satisfaction." Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to INIossgiel, dis- 
 tant sixteen miles from her residence, with a very kind letter to Burns, re- 
 questing him to supply her, if he could, with half-a-dozen copies of the 
 book, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns 
 v\as from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this 
 very interesting letter : — 
 
 " Madam, Ai/rshre, 1786. 
 
 <' I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
 Iionoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
 handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. 1 am 
 fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive ta 
 the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to cori- 
 ceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those 
 whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him 
 with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, 
 Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more swcetlv 
 than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the 
 Saviour of his Country. 
 
 " Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief I" 
 
 " The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with 
 pleasure, was The Life of Ilannihid ; the next was The History of Sir 
 Jf'illiain Wulloce: for several of my earlier years I had {'i:\v other authors ; 
 and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
 the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
 those boyish days 1 remember in particular being struck with that part o^ 
 V\ allace's story where these lines occur — 
 
 " Sy^.e tn th'" Lp^lan w<x)il, ivhcn it was late, 
 i'o make; a silent and a safe retreat." 
 
 • See Prose Compositions. 
 
xxxviil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my nne ot life allovi'eJ, 
 and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood, 
 with as much devout enthsiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I 
 explored every den and dell v/here I could suppose my heroic countryman 
 to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart 
 glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
 equal to his merits." 
 
 Shortly afterwards commenced a personal acquaintance with this ami- 
 able and intelligent lady, who seems to have filled in some degree the place 
 of Saii;e Mentor to the ncet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend 
 him to the utmost of her power. His letters to ]Mrs. Dunlop form a very 
 large proportion of all his subsequent correspondence, and, addressed as 
 they were to a person, whose sex, age, rank, and benevolence, inspired at 
 once profound respect and a graceful confidence, will ever remain the most 
 pleasing of all the materials of our poet's biography. 
 
 At the residences of these new acquaintances. Burns v,as introduced into 
 society of a class which he had not before approached ; and of the manner 
 in which he stood the trial, Mr. Stewart thus writes to Dr. Currie : — 
 
 " His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, 
 manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and 
 worth ; but without any thing tliat indicated forwardness, arrogance, or 
 vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to 
 him ; and listened, with apparent attention and deference, on subjects 
 where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. It 
 there had been a little more of gentleness anol acconmiodation in his tem- 
 per, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been 
 accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his 
 dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his man 
 ner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
 among his various attainments than the fiuency, and precision, and origi- 
 nality of his language, when he spoke in company, more particularly as he 
 aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully 
 than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. At this time, 
 Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
 formed a plan for going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, 
 however, without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him 
 to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed 
 at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or ganger in his 
 own country." 
 
 The provincial applause of his publication, and the consequent notice ol 
 his superiors, however flattering such things must have been, were far from 
 administering any essential relief to the urgent necessities of Burns's situa- 
 tion. Very shortly after his first visit to Catrine, where he met with the 
 young and amiable Basil Lord Daer, wh.ose condescension and kindness on 
 the occasion he celebrates in some well-known verses, we find the poet 
 writing to his friend, Mr. Aiken of Ayr, in the following sad strain : — " I 
 have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within respect 
 ing the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the un- 
 certainty of getting soon into business, the consequencesof my follies, which 
 may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides, 
 I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causea 
 
lAFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxix 
 
 n-Iiich von pretty well know — the pan<^ of disappointment, the sting of 
 pride, wilh some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
 iny vitals, like vultm-es, when attention is not called away by society, or 
 the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety Is 
 the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the liands of the executioner. 
 All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I havH 
 only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am 
 in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it." 
 
 lie proceeds to say, that he claims no right to complain. " The world 
 has in general been kind to me, fully up to my deserts I was for some 
 ti'ne past fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl .of the misanthrope. 
 I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
 cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 
 I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never 
 with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- 
 ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however 1 might pos- 
 sess a warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was 
 rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
 ties, there was something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and 
 youtliful compeers were striking off, with eager hope and earnest intent, 
 on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I v.-as " standing idle 
 •n tlie 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 ktioiv 
 one's errors, were a probability of jnendivg them, I stand a fair chance ; 
 but, according to the reverend Wcstnu'nster divines, though conviction 
 must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it." 
 
 In the midst o'f all the distresses of this period of suspense. Burns found 
 time, as he tells Mr. Aiken, for some " vagaries of the muse ;" and one or 
 two of these may deserve to be noticed here, as throwing light on his per- 
 sonal demeanour during this first summer of his fame. The poems appear- 
 ed in .July, and one of the first persons of superior condition (Gilbert, in- 
 deed, says tlie first) who courted his acquaintance in consequence of having 
 read them, was Mrs. Stewart of Stair, a beautiful and accomplished lady 
 Burns presceited her on this occasion with some iSISS. songs ; and among 
 the rset, with one in which her own charms were celebrated in that warm 
 strain of compliment which our poet seems to have all along considered 
 the most proper to be used whenever this fair lady was to be addressed io 
 rhyme. 
 
 " Flow {Tentl}', sweet Afton, among tliy green liraes, 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in tliy praijc : 
 "My .Mary's asleep by thy nmrniuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet .Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 How pleasant tliv banks and green valleys below. 
 Where wild in the wo(pdlands the [irimroses blow; 
 There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea, 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my IMary and me." 
 
 It was in the spring of the same year, tliat lie happened, in the coTirse 
 of an evening ramble on tiie banks of the Ayr, to meet with a young and 
 lovely unmarried Utdy, of the family of Alexander of Ballamyle, of whom, 
 it was said, her personal charms corresponded with tlie character of her 
 mind. The incident gave rise to a ])oem, of which an accoinit will be 
 found in the following letter t? Miss Alexander, the object of his iiispiia- 
 tion • — 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 « Madaw, 3Tosf!fjiel, }Hth yov. 178d. 
 
 " Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy 
 and capricious whim, that I beheve the workl generally allows them a 
 larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment 
 and prudence. I mention this as an a})ology for the liberties that a name 
 less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave 
 to present you v/ith. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the 
 theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can pro- 
 duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it i<^ 
 equally sincere as fervent. 
 
 " The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare ?av, Ma 
 dam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
 reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the 
 favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in 
 all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the 
 distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or 
 the verdant spreading leaf It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I 
 listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every han 
 with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my pa 
 lest I should disturb their little songs, or irighten them to another stati 
 Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
 3'our harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to 
 discover j'our secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature 
 gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary 
 hav>'thorn-t\vig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but 
 nuist have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from 
 the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the 
 scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, 1 spied one 
 of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
 landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold 
 commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, 
 they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. 
 
 " What an hour of inspiration for a j)oet ! It would have raised plain 
 dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 
 
 " The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps i 
 iiut poorly answers what might be exi:)ected from such a scene. 
 
 " I liave the honour to be," &c. 
 
 " 'Twas even — the dwey fields were preen, 
 
 On every blade the peails hang;* 
 The Zephyr wanton'd round the beam, 
 
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
 In every glen the mavis sang. 
 
 All nature listening seemed the while, 
 Ex' ept where green-wood echoes rang, 
 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochiiiylc. 
 
 M'ith careless step I onward strayed, 
 .My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
 
 M'hen musing in a lonely glade, 
 A maiden t'air 1 chanc'd to spy ; 
 
 Ilir loo]< was like the morning's eye, 
 Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
 
 ■ Hang, Scotticism for hunff 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xli 
 
 Perfection '.vliispcrccl iias>itifj by. 
 Behold tliu liiss o' IJallochniyle !* 
 
 Fair is the morn in flowery IMay, 
 
 And sweet is ni(;!it in autumn mild; 
 A\'hc'n roviii}; tliroiii,'h tlic jrarden fjay, 
 
 Or wanderinj^ in the lonely wild : 
 But woman, nature's darling child ! 
 
 There all her charms site does compile: * 
 
 £ven there her other works are foilM 
 
 By the bonny lass o' Balloclimyle. 
 
 O had she been a country maid. 
 
 And I the happy country swain, 
 Thouf^h sheltered in the lowest shed 
 
 That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
 Throuf^h weary winter's wind and rain, 
 
 With joy, with rapture, I would toil, 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 
 The bonny lass o' Ballochinyle. 
 
 Then pride might climb the slippery steq), 
 
 ^^'here fame and honours lofty shine ; 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 
 
 ()t downward seek the Indian mine : 
 Give me the cot below the pine. 
 
 To tend the Hocks or till the soil, 
 And every day have joys divine, 
 
 A\'ith the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 Tlie autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Burns, 
 Alio had already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi- 
 aered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be 
 ft)st altogether, unless he made up his mind, and secured his passage to 
 the West Indies. The Kilmarnock edition of his poems was, however, 
 nearly exhausted ; and his friends encouraged him to produce another al 
 the same place, with the view of equipping himself the better for the ne- 
 cessities of his voyage. But the printer at Kilmarnock would not under- 
 take the new impression unless Burns advanced the price of the paper re- 
 quired for it ; and with this demand the poet had no means of comiplying. 
 Mr. Ballantyne, the chief magistrate of Ayr, (the same gentleman to whom 
 the poem on the Twa Brigs of Ayr was afterwards inscribed), offered to 
 furnish the money ; and probably this kind offer would have been accepted. 
 But, ere this matter could be arranged, the prospects of the poe were, in 
 a very unexpected manner, altered and improved. 
 
 Burns went to pay a parting visit to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, 
 a gentleman from whom, and his accomplished family, he had previously 
 received many kind attentions. After taking farewell of this benevolent 
 circle, the poet proceeded, as the night was setting in, " to convey hia 
 chest," as he says, " so far on the road to Greenock, where he was to cm- 
 bark in a ^ev; da'^j's for America." And it was under these circuinstancea 
 that he composed the song already referred to, which he meant as his lore- 
 <rell diige to his native land, and which ends thus : — 
 
 " Farewell, old Coila's hills r.nd dales, 
 ller heatiiy moors and winding vales. 
 The scenes where wretched fancy roves. 
 Pursuing past unhappy loves. 
 
 " Variation. Ttij lily's hue and rose's dye 
 
 Iic.>pokc the lat^s o' BallocliOiyle. 
 
Ill LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 
 
 Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
 Tuy j)e3ce with these — my love with those — 
 The burstinj; tears my heart declare, 
 Farewell, tlie bonny banks of Ayr." 
 
 Dr. Laurie had given Burns much good counsel, and what comfort he 
 could, at parting ; but prudently said nothing of an effort -Hhich he had 
 previously made in his behalf. He had sent a copy of the poems, with a 
 sketch of the author's history, to his friend Dr. Thomas Blacklock of Edin- 
 burgh, with a request that he would introduce both to the notice of those 
 persons whose opinions were at the time most listened to in regard to lite- 
 rary productions in Scotland, in the hope that, by their intervention. Burns 
 miglit yet be rescued from the necessity of expatriating himself. Dr. 
 Blacklock's answer reached Dr. Laurie a day or two after Burns had made 
 his visit, and composed his dirge ; and it was not yet too late. Laurie 
 forwarded it immediately to INIr. Gavin Hamilton, who carried it to Burns. 
 It is as follows : — 
 
 " I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a tes 
 .imony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of 
 sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertain- 
 ments of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations 
 retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finish- 
 ed that pleasing perusal. IMany 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 v/it and hu- 
 mour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
 nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book \^ithout 
 feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish tc have 
 expressed my approbation in verse ; but v/hether from declining life, or a 
 temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom- 
 plish that agreeable intention. 
 
 " Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly 
 read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name in- 
 serted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done or not, I never 
 could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to 
 have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual 
 friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per 
 formances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the 
 whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be 
 wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more nume- 
 rous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain 
 that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give 
 it a more universal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been 
 published in my memory." 
 
 We have already seen with what surprise and delight Burns read this 
 generous letter. Although he had ere this conversed with more than one 
 person of established literary reputation, and received from them atten- 
 tioni?, for v.hich he was ever after grateful, — the despondency of his spirit 
 appears to have remained as dark as ever, up to the very hour when his land- 
 lord produced Dr. Blacklock's letter. — " 'i'l-ere was never," Heron says, 
 *' perhaps, one aniong all mankind whom you might more truly have called 
 an anj_'t'l iqsan earih than IJr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlIH 
 
 M a child, yet endowed with manly sagacity and penetration. His heart 
 was a perpetual spring of benignity. His feelings were all tremblingly 
 alive to the sense of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the 
 vn-tuous. Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness." Tht 
 was not tlie man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage witL 
 eeble praise, and in order to shift off the trouble of future patronage, to 
 bid the poet relinquish poetry and mind his plough.—" Dr. Blacklock " 
 says Burns himself, "belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had 
 not dared to hope. IIis opinion that I would meet with encouragement in 
 Edinburgh, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a 
 6.ngl(3 acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star 
 that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for once niade a 
 revolution to tlie nadir." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Odntents TTie Poet winters in EdinhurpTi, 17SC-7 — liy his advent, the condition of thai 
 
 t;iy, Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as hy a mete(k 
 — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while caressed by the fashionable— 
 What hap]>ens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and 
 very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond 
 all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally 
 admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, 
 while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yield* 
 Hitch money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed 
 dth thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him hack to the region of poverty and S€clusio'<u 
 
 " Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 
 
 nil liail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
 Wliere once beneath a monarch's feet 
 
 Sdt legislation''s sovereipfn powers ; 
 From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'ra, 
 
 As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
 And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 
 
 I shelter in thy honour'd shade." 
 
 BuKNs found several of his old Ayrshire acquaintances established in 
 Edinburgh, and, I suppose, felt himself constrained to give himself up 
 for a brief space to their society. He printed, hov/ever, without delay, a 
 prospectus of a second edition of his poems, and being introduced by 
 JNlr. Dalrymple of Orangefield to the Earl of Glencairn, that amiable 
 nobleman easily persuaded Creech, then the chief bookseller in Edinburgh, 
 to undertake the publication. The Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of 
 the Faculty of Advocates, the most agreeable of companions, and the most 
 benignant of wits, took him also, as the poet expresses it, " under his 
 wing." The kind Blacklock received him with all the warmth of j)aternal 
 affection, and introduced him to Dr. Blair, and other eminent literuti ; 
 liis subscription lists were soon filled ; Lord Glencairn made interest 
 with the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the most distinguished 
 members of the northern aristocracy), to accept the dedication of the forth- 
 coming edition, and to subscribe individually for copies. Several noblemen, 
 especially of the west of Scotland, came forward with subscription-moneys 
 con.siderably beyond the usual rate. In .so small a capital, where everj 
 body knows every body, that which becomes a favourite topic in one 
 leading circle of society, soon excites an universal interest : and bef >re 
 ]3urns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to nis 
 earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — ' For my own affairs, I 
 am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempisor John Ban* 
 yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among 
 the wonderful events \n the Foor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along 
 with tiie l>lack Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Brid|je." 
 
LIFE OF ROBEUT BURXS. x v 
 
 It is but a nii'lanclioly business to trace ainon<^ tbe records of literary 
 liistory, tb.e manner in wliicb most great original geniuses have been greet- 
 ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters ot 
 taste : coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies oi' professional criti- 
 cism (lowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : 15i.'.t 
 the reception of Burns was worthy of TIte Mini of Fedtnij. Mr. Henry 
 Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal tast-e. 
 After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi- 
 tion of the 5)oems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin 
 burgh periodical of that period : — •' I hope I shall not bo thought to assume 
 too much, if 1 endeavour to place him in a higher point of view, to rail 
 for a verdict of his country on the merits of his works, and to claim (c 
 him tliose honours which, their excellence appears to deserve. In men- 
 tioning the circumstance of his humble station, 1 mean not to rest his pre- 
 tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con- 
 sidered in relation to the lowness of liis birth, and the little opportunity of 
 improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed, 
 must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab- 
 stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to 
 me fully entitled to command our feelings, and to obtain our applause." 
 
 After quoting various passages, in some of which his readera 
 
 " must discover a high tone of feeling, and power and energy of expres- 
 sion, particularly and strongly characteristic of the mind and the voice ot 
 a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable 
 in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the 
 scenery of nature," and " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity 
 this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered condition, 
 had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent 
 ajipeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong 
 of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity in 
 wh.ch it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight 
 the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori 
 ty, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."* 
 
 The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to. 
 Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh when he thus wrote to one 
 of liis early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too 
 obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- 
 denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes 
 the same lettt.r with an ominous prayer for " better health and more spi- 
 rits."! — Two (ir three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja- 
 niiary 14, 17S7). 1 went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W 
 Grand Master Charteris, and all the (irand Lodge of Scotland visited. The 
 meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were 
 pre*jnt in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so- 
 lemnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Caledonia and Caledonia's bard, 
 Brother Burns,' which rung througii the whole assembly with multiplied 
 honours and repeated acclamations. As 1 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 1 had finished, one of the 
 
 • The Lounper for Saturday, December 9, \'iW>. 
 
 + I.<;tter to 31r. BaUantyne of Ayr, December 13, l/iiC ; Reliques, p. 12. 
 
xir LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Grand Officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting ac- 
 cent, ' very well indeed,' which set me something to rights again." — And 
 a few weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associates 
 who was meditating a visit to Edinburgh. " By all accounts, it will be a 
 difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke 
 a week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with 
 the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told 
 that — 
 
 *' Cards to invite, fly by thousands each night ;" 
 
 and if you had one, there would also, 1 suppose, be ' bribes for your old 
 secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines 
 and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. Qucerenda pccunia prU 
 mum est — Virtus post nwnmos, is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem- 
 ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosopher? 
 in Edinburgh have taught you better sense." 
 
 In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis- 
 per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the 
 spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried ahvays a sufficient 
 memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself; and 
 of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that oi 
 selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from 
 all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any 
 head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect 
 which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners 
 and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the 
 country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the 
 number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him 
 for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's 
 house, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his 
 first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though 
 strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a 
 ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want 
 of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above 
 it. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten- 
 sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as 
 to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes- 
 sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre- 
 quent among tlie upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked 
 oy a thoughtful gravity which shaded at times into sternness. In his large 
 dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided It was full of mind ; 
 and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one 
 who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He 
 was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday 
 costume of a farmer, and that of the company with which he now associ- 
 ated. His black hair, without powder, at a time when it was very gene- 
 rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. Upon the 
 whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea- 
 port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con- 
 jectured iiiin to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable 
 class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of ailecta- 
 tiori, nor roiild a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviou' 
 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xlvii 
 
 ar conversation, that he liad been for some months the favourite of all the 
 "a'^Iiioiiahle circles of a metropolis. In convcrr-ation he was jioucrl'ul. His 
 concej>tions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and 0!i all subjects 
 were as remote as possible from common places. Though someAvhat autho- 
 ritative, it was in a way which gave little olfence, and was readily imputed 
 to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and sol'tening asser^ 
 tion, M-hich are important characteristics of pohshed manners. After break- 
 fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublishf"' pijCwo, and 
 he recited liis farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a des- 
 cription of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than 
 the poem itself I paid particular attention to his recitation, which wau 
 plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, bat without any eloquence or art. He 
 did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the 
 sentiment by the variations of his voice He was standing, during the time, 
 with his face towards the window, to which, and not to liis auditors, he di- 
 rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the 
 language of his composition might have borrowed Irom the language oi' his 
 countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary 
 company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning 
 from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal perlbrmers on 
 the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the 
 ^ong. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company 
 witli him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each 
 had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet, 
 the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to nuike him the central 
 figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest i)r()])or- 
 tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was 
 expected." * 
 
 To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom is always 
 readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : — 
 *' As for Burns, I may truly say, Viryilinm vidt Unit inn. 1 was a lad of 
 fifteen in 178G-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and 
 feeling enough to be nmch interested in his poetry, and would have given 
 the world to know him ; but 1 had very little ac(juaintance with any lite- 
 rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two 
 sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time 
 a clerk of my father's He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to liii! 
 lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I 
 might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, 1 saw him 
 one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se- 
 veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele- 
 brated iMr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked, 
 and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns's 
 manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, re- 
 presenting a soldier lying dead on tlie snow, his dog sitting in misery jn 
 one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines 
 «refc written beneath, — 
 
 " Coltl on Canadian hills, or Miiulen's plain. 
 Perhaps that ))arent wept her soldier slain — 
 I'.eni o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew. 
 The big drops, mingling witii the milk *ie drew, 
 
 • Morrisi)n'8 Burns, vol. i. pp. Ixxi, IxxiL 
 
Xiviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 
 
 Gave the sad presage of liis future years, 
 The child of misery baptized in tears." 
 
 " Burns seemed much affected by the print, or ra'dier the ideas which 
 it suggested to liis mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the 
 lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they 
 occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising 
 title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my information to a friend 
 present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look ant. 
 a word, Arhich, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, 
 with very great pleasure. 
 
 " His person was strong and robust ; his manners rustic, not clownish ; 
 a f-ort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef- 
 fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
 features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it ronveys 
 the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in i^erspective. I think his 
 coinitenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I 
 would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa- 
 gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern 
 agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude- 
 wan who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and 
 shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, 1 think, indicated the 
 poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, 
 which glowed (1 say literally glniced) when he spoke with feeling or inte- 
 rest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though 1 have seen 
 the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect 
 self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who 
 were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himselt 
 with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and 
 when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at 
 the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver- 
 sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except 
 in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he 
 should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite- 
 rary emoluments have been since liis day) the efforts made for his relict 
 were extremely trilling. I remember on this occasion I mention, I tliought 
 Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
 having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of lerguson, he 
 talked of them with too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt- 
 less, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about 
 Burns. I have only to add, that his dress correspontled with his manner. 
 Pie was like a fitrmer dressed in his best to dine witli the Laird. 1 do not 
 sj)eak in inalnm par/an, when I say, I never saw a man in comjiany with 
 his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free fnmi either 
 the reality cr the affectation of em!)arrassment. 1 was told, but did not 
 obseive it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al- 
 ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged th.eir 
 attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of (jordon remark 
 tills. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of Ibrty 
 years since."' — 
 
 There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period 
 higiily favourable for his reception as a I'ritish, and especially as a Scottish 
 poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed sin e the death of Thomson : — 
 
LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS. xlix 
 
 Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared : — Dr. Jolinson 
 tiad belied tlie ricii promise of his eurly appearance, and confined liim- 
 self to prose ; and Cowper liad liardly begun to be recognized as having 
 anv considerable pretensions to fdl the long-vacant throne in England. At 
 home — without derogation from the merits cither o(" Doufjhis or the Min- 
 strel, be it said — men must have gone back at least three centuries to find 
 a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which 
 the generous criticism of iMackenzie at once admitted " the Ayrshire 
 Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, un(]ueslion- 
 ably and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors, 
 Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic- 
 turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces- 
 sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the 
 Pi(i;/ ; and in his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive 
 energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stranger, 
 at least since " Dunbar the Mackar." The IMuses of Scotland had never 
 indeed been silent; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen- 
 der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was 
 handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment, 
 faithful images of the peculiar tenderness, and peculiar humour, of the na- 
 tional fancy and character — precious representations, which Burns himself 
 never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and 
 with a scanty handful of exceptions, the best of them, at least of the seri- 
 ous kind, were very ancient. Among the numberless effusions of the 
 Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man- 
 ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains 
 worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous 
 ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations had 
 passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of Iiii 
 countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain. 
 
 The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," saic) 
 Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in 
 Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge- 
 nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part 
 to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine 
 that they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic tlieir 
 antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construc- 
 tions." And although 1 cannot well guess what the doctor considered as 
 the irregular constructions of JNlilton, there can be no doubt of the general 
 justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson w^rc both men of hum- 
 ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant 
 habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who 
 thfmsclvcs did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse, 
 did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who was en- 
 tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and 
 pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the 
 surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun- 
 ter's Tryste, than to have expressed the rtjsults of iutiuiate knowledge anc 
 sympathy. His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Uppei 
 Ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckcnbooths ; and he could neithc» write 
 English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- 
 traying a lamentable want of skill in the use oi" his instruments. It was re- 
 
 D 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 served for Burns to interpret the inmost soul of the S>_^)ttish peasant in all 
 its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad- 
 ing either his sentiments or his language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is 
 the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly masculine genius. This 
 is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na- 
 tive district is, in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The 
 "ew poeis * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were 
 all men of high condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of 
 their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, in o 
 far as they have been produced, had nothing to do witii the peculiar cha- 
 lacter and feelings of the men of the west. As Burns himself has said, — 
 " It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, &c. there is 
 scarcel}' an old song cr tune, which, from the title, <S:c. can be guessed to 
 belong to, or be the production of, those counties." 
 
 ']'he history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that 
 of the kingdoms, h.as not yet been made the subject of any separate work 
 at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the 
 learned labours of Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob- 
 scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre- 
 dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the literature of the 
 country was affected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- 
 tronage it had, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec- 
 tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of 
 Stuart, appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact, 
 that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the 
 long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re- 
 moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union, 
 appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se- 
 parate literature of our own ; nay, for a time, to have all but extinguished 
 the flame of intellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed 
 by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be- 
 lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of 
 their own prince and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was 
 humbled; the unhappy insurrections of 1715 and 1743 revealed the full 
 extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer- 
 ciless advantage of the fallen. 
 
 Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the 
 blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions, 
 in the only departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and 
 a success v.-hich will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his- 
 tor)\ Deprived of every national honour and distinction which it was pos- 
 sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — 
 sunk at last, as men thought, effectually into a province, willing to take 
 law v.'ilh passive submission, in letters as well as ])olity, from her poweriul 
 sister — th.e old kingdom revived suddenly fi-om her stupor, and once more 
 asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only 
 to hear, but to applaud, and " v.-herewith all Europe rung from side to 
 side," at the moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the 
 reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na- 
 tional pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope. 
 
 • Such as Kennedy, Sinw, JMontgomery, and, more lately, Ilamilton of Vilbertfield. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURN\S. li 
 
 It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of e.iilncnt men of letter-, 
 5i-ho, in th(Mr various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name 
 of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere with 
 their "eception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them, 
 it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. They 
 were men, generally speakins;, of very social habits; living together in a 
 small capital ; nay, almost al'i </f '.lie n , "ir, .» ■ .''Lout one street, maintaining 
 friendly inlcrcouise contiiiuall)' ; nui a {"vw of them considerably addicted 
 to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume, 
 convivial. I'urns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles : 
 but it was the extraordinary resources he displayed in conversation, the 
 strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the sj)len- 
 dour nf his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings 
 H'ere stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these 
 practised masters of the arts of ta//{. There were several of them who 
 probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is 
 ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no very ready 
 respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot- 
 tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to 
 maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with 
 i'nu'ns's /^igantic understanding; and every one of them whose impressions 
 on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation 
 to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus- 
 ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polish.ed scho- 
 lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer- 
 tain they all felt sufficiently when they were actually in his presence. It 
 is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald 
 Stewart, in which he describes himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised 
 to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essajj on 
 Tdste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the 
 general principles of the association of ideas. 
 
 Burns would probably have been more satisfied with himself in these 
 learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con- 
 versation to the very feelings whicii formed the noblest inspirations of his 
 poetry. His sensibility was a? tremblingly excjuisite, as his sense was 
 masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro- 
 fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them 
 in reality with something of the same feeling which may be suj)])Osed to 
 attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious sjiecimen of morbid ana- 
 tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who 
 took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret 
 nluih that overspread his haughty countenance when such suggestions oc- 
 cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines of a 
 diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgh. " April 
 9, 1787. — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a 
 great many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of lif(;, 
 as I have been, I anj determined to take down my remarks on the spoU 
 Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, 
 or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how 
 it is with the world in general, but witli me, making my remarks is by no 
 means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one 
 to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination. 
 
Hi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acute- 
 ncss and penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- 
 bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while 
 to make any observation on what passes around them, except where thai 
 observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in 
 their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of 
 novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap- 
 able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may 
 pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost 
 soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing part 
 jf that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable 
 imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. 
 For these reasons 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 jihrase, loithout feud or favour. — Where I hit on 
 any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity 
 and. begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se- 
 curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same 
 lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " 1 know 
 not how it is ; I find I can win liking — but not respect." 
 
 " Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free style of Dr. 
 Currie) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and em- 
 ployments had placed and kept him in a situation for below that in which the 
 writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon 
 works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in 
 fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is 
 equal in eiTect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord- 
 ingly. Judge tlien of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose, 
 when to a man like Dr. Currie, writing with views so honourable, the so- 
 cial condition t.f the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to 
 place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might 
 be discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost with- 
 out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's 
 weight."-^ It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and 
 justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currie, did not often 
 find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and 
 attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e- 
 merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what found its way into men's 
 bosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance 
 of the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being 
 looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded 
 the works of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se- 
 ■juence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he 
 preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only 
 in his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and 
 the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful Mork : hahoniis 
 renin et. cnvfilenlew. " There are 'i<i\s of the sore evils under the sun give 
 me more uneasiness and chagrin tlian the comparison how a man of genius, 
 nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a 
 
 • Mr. Wocdswonh's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12. 
 
LIFE OF UOnERT BURNS. \\v. 
 
 mere ordinary cliaractcr, decorated with the traj)pin^s and futile distinc- 
 tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing 
 wiili ho^le^t pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour 
 to wliouj honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire some- 
 thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
 bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any 
 one at table ; yet how wiil it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili- 
 ties would scarcely have made an eiglitpenny 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 (jlencaim has wounded 
 me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He 
 showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only 
 blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder- 
 pate, and n)ysclfi', that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage 
 of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- 
 lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him 
 more. I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so 
 capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
 virtues. With Dr Ijlair I am moreat my ease I never respect him with 
 humble veneration ; but uhen 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. 
 \Nhen he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye 
 measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
 scarcely any emotion, what do 1 care for him, or his pomp either?" " It 
 is n( t easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of any one; but, in 
 my opinion. Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and 
 application can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; 
 liis vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is 
 justly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the 
 first, the very first rank in prose ; even in poetry a bard of natures mak- 
 ing can only take the pass of him. He has a heart, not of the very finest 
 v/ater, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy 
 and most respectable character." 
 
 A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' D'Israeli, * says — ■' Once 
 we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious sketches 
 of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its 
 shadowiness, from the vrarm shozzhs of Burns, when he began a diary of 
 his heart — a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of his 
 emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to 
 project such a regular task, but quite impossible to get through it." This 
 most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en- 
 tire. Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ; 
 however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf- 
 ficiently the complexion of liurns's prevailing moods during his moments 
 of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a 
 mood (they recurred often enough) that he thus .-eproached " Nature, par- 
 tial nature :" — 
 
 " Thou pivest the ass his Iiiile, the snail his shell ; 
 The inveiiom'd wasp victoiious guards his cell: 
 
 • D'Israeli on the Literary Charaifter, vol. i. p. 136. 
 
liv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Bu(, on ! thou bitter stepmotlieT, and hard. 
 To thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard. . 
 In naked feeling and in aching pride, 
 He bears the unbroken blast from every side.' 
 
 No bla?t picrcrd this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde 
 Ecension, 
 
 One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinbu'gh, has been 
 handed down to us by Cromek — It was, " that between the men of rustic 
 life and the polite world he obser'ed little difference — that in the former, 
 though unpolished by fashion aud imenlightened by science, he had found 
 much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined and accomplished 
 woman was a thing almost new to hini, and of which he had formed but a 
 very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how 
 to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the 
 high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately 
 patricians," as he calls them, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one 
 of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met with a man^ 
 " Vv'hose conversation so completely carried her off her feet," as Burns's. 
 The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa- 
 tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here 
 referred to. But even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of 
 the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere tlie 
 season v.as over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously, no 
 longer seemed to knov,- him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, 
 and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. 
 
 It is but too true, that ere this season was over. Burns had formed con- 
 nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap 
 probation by the eminent literati, in whose society his dehiit had made so 
 powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame, 
 indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- 
 lousy — how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty 
 means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share; and it is also suf- 
 ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational 
 habits which men, accustomed to the delicate o'oservances of refined so- 
 ciety, might be more v.-illing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- 
 sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such 
 a genius, under such circumstances developed He by no means restricted 
 his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to 
 the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance 
 of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so 
 small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce 
 deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as 
 admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- 
 flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness, 
 for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into 
 a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day. at tlie 
 table of Dr. lilair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the 
 rest ir comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable 
 rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and 
 manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious fiow o^ 
 lanjjuage ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishment; 
 
 • Dr. Koben Walker. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 1- 
 
 /or ivliicli Blair was lionoured in a most accomplislicd society, or to the 
 p;iliA!ie(l elegance u'liich lie first iMtroduccd into the elcxjuence of the Scot- 
 tisli [)al})it. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing eU'ects of such an 
 earn pad e ; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' hibouring un- 
 der that conijHilsory elfort winch was unavoidable, while the thougiits ol 
 all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns 
 Jiowed his good sense by making no effort to repair this bhmder ; but years 
 afterwards, lie confessed that ha could never recall it without ex(]uisite 
 pain. !Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- 
 ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the I'rofessor 
 would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been 
 well aware of tlie rarity of such good-nature among \[\q gains inilabih ol 
 authors, orators, and wits. 
 
 A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded 
 by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinljurgh, 
 the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Gray ft Eh(/i/ 
 a poem of which lie was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- 
 markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every 
 subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on tliis 
 excjuisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation or 
 (Jray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- 
 ral than specific, Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he 
 thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the jioem, but 
 always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good 
 while \\ith his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by 
 the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, he roused 
 himself and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great 
 vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, 1 now 
 perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, 
 
 and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be 
 
 mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and hov/ true the 
 remark afterwards made by Mr. Kamsay is, that in the game of society l>e 
 did not know when to play on or off. Wliile the second edition of his Poems 
 was passing through tlie press, Burns was favoured with many critical sug- 
 gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- 
 ing over with him, or hearirtg him recite (which he delighted at all times 
 in doing) his IIulj Fair, stopped him at the stanza — 
 
 Now ;i' tlie cotifjrej-Mtion o'er 
 
 I> silent exjHciatioii, 
 For Uussel specls tlie holy door 
 
 \l i' tidings o' Salvation — 
 
 Nay, said the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the wit of this 
 verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another 
 strange specimen of wantof t'art, when he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of 
 the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to 
 acknowledge the obligation in a note. 
 
 But to pass from tliese trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con 
 ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either 
 clergymen or professors must ha^e been in the presence of this big boned, 
 black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, ha\ing 
 Q3tc,t>d ids way among tlieitf from the plough-tail at a single stride, niao' 
 
.vi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorougti 
 conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he 
 was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them 
 by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- 
 tice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under- 
 standiiig.-; of his time in discussion ; overpowered the bo7i vmts of the mcst 
 celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
 the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the 
 thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble — ray to 
 tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos; and all this 
 M'ithout indii ating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro- 
 fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid 'n money and 
 smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed 'if do- 
 ing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it : and, — 
 last and probably worst of all, — v.ho was known to be in the habit of en- 
 livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more 
 frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in 
 all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he 
 fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, 
 ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. 
 
 The lawyers of Edinburgh, in v/hose wider circles Burns figured at his 
 outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, 
 were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, 1 take 
 it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those 
 days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the 
 country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still 
 do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men 
 as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What 
 their haughtiness, as a body, was. may be guessed, when we know that in- 
 ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any 
 man from the bar. In one remarkable insta-nce, about this very time, a 
 man of very extraordinar3' talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed 
 in a long and painful struggle tor admission, and, in reality, for no reasons 
 but those I have been alluding to. by gentlemen who in the sequel stood 
 at the very head of the Whig party in Kdinburgh ; * and the same aristo- 
 cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept 
 more persons of eminent qualihcations in the background, for a season, 
 than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged 
 nineteen out of twenty of those "patricians," whose stateliness Burns so 
 lou!^ remembered and so b tterly resented. It might, perhaj)s, have been 
 well for liim had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine- 
 bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those 
 whose branis and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises q? legal study 
 and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger 
 about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin 
 and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of 
 men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of 
 jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largciy in 
 tho.se tavern scenes of audacious hilarity, which then soothed, as a n)atter 
 
 * .Mr. .'olri \\'ilil, son of a Tobacconist in ilic Flijrli Street, lyilinbur},'h. lie came to be 
 Professor uf Civil law in tliat L'n er&ity ; but, in ill.: end, was also an inbtanct of unhapiiv 
 genius 
 
I 
 
 li 
 
 X.IFE OF ROBERT BURNS 1\ h 
 
 of course, the arid labours of tlie northern vobhssc de la riihc. T]ie tavern- 
 life is iio\v-a-(lays nearly extinct everywhere; but it was then in full 
 vigour in Ixlinhurgh, and there can be no doubc tliat Burns rapidly fami- 
 liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after aH, tasted but 
 rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider 
 his Svntrh Drink, and other jovial strains of the eariy period, as conveying 
 any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse 
 Tinn-xk," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have 
 expressed, amusfingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found 
 her name celebrated in tlie Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert 
 Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was rrf/arrl/css, as, to the 
 best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in 
 all his life." And in addition to (Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, 
 we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great 
 worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that 
 period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such solicitations and al- 
 lurements to excessive convivial enjoyment, as hardly any other person could 
 have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns wel. , and himself 
 mingled largely in some of the scenes to which he adverts in tlie following 
 strong language : " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- 
 tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern 
 brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and 
 passionately embrace the enchantress. The biic/is of Edinburgh accom- 
 plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. 
 After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, 
 not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of 
 his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge 
 conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It would 
 be idle ?inw to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could 
 serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this u-i>tler. Burns con- 
 tinued to lodge with John Kichmond, indeed, to share liis bed; and we 
 have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the 
 poet, for the statement, that while he did so. " he kept good liours." lie 
 removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William Nicoll, one of the teachers 
 of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and 
 considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns"s 
 from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ 
 ate o'i the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, 
 the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions 
 of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoil's 
 letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, 
 and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic elfusions, 
 exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pK asing to the poet, 
 except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, 
 I susipect, very far from being an unflivourable specimen of the society to 
 which Heron thus alludes: — " He (the poet) snfftred himself to be sur- 
 rouniled by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they 
 had been in company with Bukns, and had seen Ijurns as loose and as 
 f:o!ish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance 
 and moderation ; but he was already almost too mucli captivated with theii 
 wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to then 
 
 more sober charms " Heron adds — " He now also began to contract some- 
 Da 
 
IviJi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed lo be, among hi? 
 favoLirite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, the cock ol 
 the company, lie could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom 
 and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could 
 less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and 
 vyhich sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stevrart's descrip- 
 tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with 
 one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek. 
 
 Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- 
 serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for 
 them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper- 
 fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst 
 of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rude«t rhymes he 
 sung, 
 
 " to be great is charming ;" 
 
 and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the 
 first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that 
 he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled 
 with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that which appear- 
 ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that he should 
 delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there 
 was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in tlie li- 
 cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be 
 received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival 
 his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes 
 to convey regret i" 
 
 But these, assuredly, were not the only feelings that influenced Burns : 
 In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, v.-e have the best 
 evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- 
 ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be 
 as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined 
 to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, 
 though his jealous pride might induce him to record his suspicions in lan- 
 guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what 
 he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots 
 of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded u ith an at- 
 mosphere of joy and hope. On the i.Hh of January 1787, we find him 
 thus addressing his kind patroness, ■Mrs. Dunlop : — "You are afraid I shall 
 grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, i know 
 myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; 
 I am willing to believe th.at my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a 
 most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
 the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of 
 polite learning, polite books, and polite company— to be dragged forth to 
 the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections 
 of awkward rusticity, and crude unjiolished ideas, on my head, — I assure 
 you. Madam, I do not dissemble, when 1 tell you I tremble for the conse- 
 quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, uithout any of 
 tliose advantagcB which arc reckoned necessarj- for that character, at leas 
 
 " Heron, 11. 2n. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lix 
 
 n\ (hh time of day. lias raised a partial tide of public notice, whicli lias 
 borne nic to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, niy abilities 
 jre inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the 
 same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of 
 truth. ... 1 mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I 
 do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- 
 tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when my bubble 
 of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup 
 in my hand, looking forward witli rueful resolve." — And about the same 
 time, to Dr. ^.loore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the 
 greater part of those even Avho are authors of repute, an unsubstantial 
 dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish 
 is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
 changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- 
 stood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
 as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted 
 with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may 
 have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, 
 W'hich may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- 
 tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I 
 do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty 
 of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have 
 borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, 
 April the '23d, 1787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr. 
 IMoore: — " I leave Edinburgh in the course often days or a fortnight. I 
 shall return to my rural shades, in all likeliliood never more to quit them. 
 I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are 
 all of too tender a construction to bear carriaije a hundred and fifty nnles." 
 One v,'ord more on the subject which introduced these quotations: — .Mr. 
 Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint 
 among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to 
 Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself. 
 But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, shovr 
 and marvel of the season as he M-as, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had 
 it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- 
 sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could 
 have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- 
 -ing shared with him all that they possessed on his nrst arrival in the metro- 
 polis, faitlifully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- 
 able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede;" and, moreover, per- 
 haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis- 
 tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course 
 of conduct which he actually pursued, 'ihe second edition of Burns's 
 poems was published early in .March, by Creech ; there were no less tlian 
 1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- 
 lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not 
 take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession 
 of a considerable sum of ready money; and the first impulse of his mind 
 was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He 
 had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means 
 among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own j)0(.'try 
 niade it equal, on that score, to any other — " The appellat'.-.': of a Scottisif 
 
Ix: LIFE OF ROBERT BURMS. 
 
 bard is by (ap my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex. 
 alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish story, are the themes I 
 could v'kh to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, 
 unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am 
 unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on 
 the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, 
 and tc Tiuse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
 abodes if her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * 
 
 The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor. 
 ainary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top ol 
 Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the 
 sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- 
 casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Mr. Alexander 
 Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to 
 liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- 
 tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and 
 has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal 
 almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress 
 has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- 
 day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the 
 Whig-livery), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots 
 
 The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite 
 morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells 
 us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had 
 ever done in company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond 
 of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad- 
 miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
 many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- 
 derstand vv'ho had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth 
 which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- 
 tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in 
 Edinburgli. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which 
 Iiad not been previously printed; but, with the exception of the Address to 
 Eduiburgli, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. 
 Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important 
 additions were. Death and Doctor Ilornbuoh, The Brigs of Ayr, The Ordi' 
 nation, and the Address to the tinco Guid. In this edition also, \VJie)i Guild- 
 ford fjidd our pilot stood, made its first appearance. 
 
 The evening before l.c quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- 
 ter to Dr. lUair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and 
 expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had 
 shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- 
 dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation 
 However the metor like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- 
 tract notice, 1 knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal tc 
 the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I 
 have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not sur- 
 prise me in my quarters." 
 
 It ought not to be omitted, (liat our poet bestowed some of the first fruits 
 of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto 
 
 • Letter to Mrs. Dunlop Edinburgh, 22d I\Iarch 1787. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 1x1 
 
 nei^Iccteci rcnmins of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the 
 C;uion<i:ati' churchj'ard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address 
 to h.dinhurgh, — so graphic and compreliensive, — as tlie proper record of 
 the feehngs engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- 
 ness shoun to him, in his long visit, and under which feelings he was now 
 about to quit it for a time. 
 
 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 EniWA ! Scoiia\<i darling scat ! 
 
 All hail thy palaces and towers, 
 ^\'here once beneath a monarch's feet 
 
 Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs • 
 From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 
 
 As on the banks of Ai/r I stray 'd, 
 And singing, lone, the lingermg hours, 
 
 I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 
 
 Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 
 
 As busy trade his labours plies'; 
 There architecture's noble pride 
 
 Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
 Here justice, from her native skies, 
 
 High wields her balance and her rod ; 
 There learning, with his eagle eyes, 
 
 Seeks science in her coy abode. 
 
 Thy sons, Ediha, social, kind, 
 
 \\'ith open arms the stranger hail ; 
 Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 
 
 Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
 Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 
 
 Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
 And never may their sources fail ! 
 
 And never envy blot their name. 
 
 Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 
 
 <jay as the gilded summer's sky, 
 Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 
 
 Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I 
 Fail Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
 
 Hoftv'n's beauties on my fancy shine : 
 I see the sire of love on high, 
 
 A I d own his work indeed divine ! 
 
 There, watching high the least alarnis, 
 
 Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar : 
 Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms, 
 
 And mark'd witi) many a seamy scar: 
 The pon'drous wall and massy bar. 
 
 Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : 
 Plave oft withstood assailing war. 
 
 And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 
 
 With awe-struck thought and pitying teari 
 
 I view that noble, stately dome, 
 Where Scoiia''s kings of other years. 
 
 Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
 Alas ! how changed the times to come ! 
 
 'I'heir royal name low in the dust ; 
 Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 
 
 Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 
 
 Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
 
 \Vhose ancestors in days of yore. 
 Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
 
 Old Scotia''s bloody lion bote : 
 E'en / who sing in rustic lore. 
 
 Haply mi/ siirs have left their shed, 
 And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 
 
 Bold following where i/our fathers led { 
 
 Eptxa ! Scnfia'g darling seat ! 
 
 All haU thy palaces and tow'rs, 
 M'here once beneath a monarch's feet 
 
 Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
 From marking wildly-scatter'd flowcra, 
 
 As on the banks of At/r I stray'd, 
 And singing, lone, the Hng'ring hourS) 
 
 I shelter in thy honour'd aliad^ 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Contents. — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first if them, 
 after an ahsence (f six months, amonpU his friends in the " Auld Clay lii(;gin" — Finds 
 honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and 
 is familiar icith the great, but ne'er secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — 
 Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpts, winter 17S7-8 — Upset in a hackney coach^ 
 U'hich produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the EX' 
 else — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. 
 Dnnlop not to desert hij7i — Growls over his publisher, but after settling with him Icaret 
 E-V'nhurgh with £bQO — Steps towards a more regular life. 
 
 " Ramsay and famous Fer^juson, 
 (lied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
 Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tunc 
 
 Thro' Scotlajid rings, 
 "VATiile Irvine, L;ij;ar, Ayr, and Doon, 
 
 >«'aebody sings." 
 
 On the Q>U. of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with IMr. Robert 
 7\inshe, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire. — 
 Among ether changes " which fleeting time procureth," tliis amiable gen- 
 tleman, whose yoathtul gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now 
 chiefly known as the author of some Manuals of Devotion. — They had 
 formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- 
 ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the 
 old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer. 
 
 This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were 
 to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and 
 Burns and his friend performed tlieir tour on horseback ; the former being 
 mounted on a favourite mare, whom lie had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- 
 nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean c' Edinburgh's 
 head on the 'Sid of July l(i37, when jjie attempt was made co introduce a 
 Scottish Liturgy into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty 
 animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous 
 terms, in a letter to his friend Nicoll while on the road, and which will be 
 found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " INIy auld ga'd gleyde 
 o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as teuch and birnie as a 
 vera tievil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a. 
 kirk, and lipper-Iaipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman 
 in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but slie's a j'auld poutherin girran 
 for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, 
 are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and a^'e the hindmost hour tlie 
 lightest," (Jlc. &c. 
 
 Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's 
 family, and visited successively Dunse, Coklstream, Kelso, Eleurs, and the 
 ruins of Uoxburgh Castle, nea*- mIucIi a holly bush still marks the spot or 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiii 
 
 whico James II. of Scotland was killed by the bursting of a ( annon. Jedburgh 
 — where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- 
 dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- 
 thedral (abbey);" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), 
 with tlie appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ; 
 Melrose. " that far-famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes ol 
 Yarrow, Having spent throe weeks in this district, of which it has been 
 justl}'' said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its icng," 
 Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkworth, Morpeth, New- 
 castle, Hexliam, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and 
 rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr. 
 Milkr's proj)erty, and was so much pleased with the soil, and the terms 
 on wliich the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to 
 return again in the course of the summer. 
 
 The poet visited, in the course of his tour. Sir James Hall of DunglaSj 
 author of the well known Essat/ on Gulhic ArcJtitccture, Sec; Sir Alexander 
 and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton- 
 Don ; IMr. Brjdone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and 
 learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, S:c. ; and, 
 as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and 
 characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch 
 of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — 
 
 " Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably 
 dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 
 
 " Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . . 
 The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- 
 cularly the sister. 
 
 " Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker. 
 
 " Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — 
 fine bi'idge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat 
 Mr. Foreman in a dispute about ^'oltaire. Drink tea at Lenncl-House with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
 Coldstream. 
 
 " Titesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine 
 Dridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides oi 
 the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace 
 — fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Caslle — a holly bush growing 
 where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- 
 non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli- 
 gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hoicl of the 
 Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburglishire, su- 
 perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
 improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- 
 cence of farmers and farm houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the Jed 
 to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. 
 
 " Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming romantic 
 situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the 
 houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here 
 have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine 
 romantic little river. Dined with Capt. liutherford, . . . return tc 
 Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed v ith some ladies to be shown Love-lane, 
 and Blackburn, two fairy scenes Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to 
 
.xi/ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but 
 eadly addicted to punnin<^. 
 
 " Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- 
 dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- 
 sations. 
 
 " Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club— all gentlemen 
 talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from .iJBO to 150 
 value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. 
 Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind 
 and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir 
 — Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my 
 English tour. 
 
 " Tuesday. Dins with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . 
 Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh 
 a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the 
 Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — 
 Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
 both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." 
 
 He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- 
 ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, l.Sth May. In this 
 he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were 
 used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence 
 the name of Creech's Ltvce ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- 
 nery he had visited. 
 
 " Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
 And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
 And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 
 
 ^\'hile tempests blav/." 
 
 Burns returned to INIauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine 
 ihe delight with which he must have been received by the family after the 
 absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone 
 so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- 
 est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so 
 miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the 
 Sheriff's oificers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, 
 his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, 
 from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- 
 light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- 
 ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with 
 prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- 
 ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and 
 fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : 
 but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was 
 not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld 
 clay biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any 
 that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed tlie ground- 
 work of his character; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- 
 sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance ol 
 condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him 
 through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had giver 
 him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain tlian was 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ix> 
 
 ever counterbalanced by tbe exquisite capacity for enjoyment witli wliich 
 he was also endowed. There are few ol" liis letters in which more of the 
 dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the followinj^ extract: — 
 " I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene- 
 rous ; but the stateliness of the i)atricians of Edinburgh, and the ser\ility 
 of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I 
 returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- 
 cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, 
 in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid 
 unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
 ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance 
 and friendship I have, or think I have, in life — I have felt along the lines, 
 and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I 
 am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
 fortune." 
 
 Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society, 
 were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this aflectionate young 
 woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the 
 preceding summer; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable 
 he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children. 
 
 Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- 
 ture establishment; and Avas very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far 
 as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- 
 val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a 
 specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- 
 rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- 
 ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- 
 son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder 
 that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter 
 and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them ])ar- 
 takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself 
 incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together 
 in so humble and quiet a circle as that of Mossgiel. His appetite for wan 
 dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After 
 remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- 
 ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Invcrary, and so back 
 again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to JMauchline. Of this second excur- 
 sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- 
 pondence, printed by Ur. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In 
 one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage 
 streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, 
 which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in anotner, he gives 
 an account of Jenny (Jeddes running a race (ifier clnmer with a Highlander's 
 pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on 
 Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters. — " I have as yet," says he, 
 " fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just 
 as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, 
 I shall somewhere have a farm soon." 
 
 In the course of this tour, Burns visited the mother and sisters of his 
 friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
 in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- 
 bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Cauipbell, called otherwise the Cuslle 
 
Ixvi LIFE Oi' ROBERT BURNS 
 
 cf Glonm, is grandly situated in a gorge of the Ochills, commanding an 
 extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the 
 Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the 
 days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland 
 The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The 
 Cauldron Linn and Rumbling Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- 
 bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one oi 
 the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in 
 a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but 
 the respectfulness of admiration. 
 
 How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding; Devon, 
 
 ^Vith green sprsading bushes, and flowers blooming fair; 
 
 But the bonniest flower on tlie banks of the Devon 
 AVas once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
 
 .Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
 
 In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 
 And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 
 
 That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 
 
 O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I>et Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
 
 And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 
 A fairer than eitlier adorns tlie green valleys, 
 
 AVhere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 
 
 At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss 
 Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the most interesting se- 
 ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to 
 ]Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may 
 be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, 
 liaving been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing 
 the neglected palace at Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some 
 verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning familj^ on the window of his 
 inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time 
 Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- 
 ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and 
 even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his 
 works hitliei to published in Britain, we present them to our reatlers as a 
 literary curiosity. 
 
 Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd. 
 And laws for Scotia wlH ordain'd ; 
 I'ut now unroof 'd their palace st-.mds ; 
 Tlicir sceptre's sway'd by other hands. 
 
 The injured Stuart line is gone, 
 
 A race ouilandisli fills the throne ; — 
 
 An idiot race, to lionour lost. 
 
 Who know them best, despise them most 
 
 The young ladies of Harvieston were, according tc Dr. Currie, surprised 
 with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on 
 Devon water and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, 
 showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- 
 f-A anticipations which the realities oi" the prosjiect might rather disappoint 
 
 I I 
 
! 
 
 I 
 
 I ! 
 
 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii 
 
 This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for gnv/.tcd that 
 Bums surveyed any seenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- 
 tion, merely beeause he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a 
 company of young ladies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption 
 on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, liis companion teased 
 him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening 
 in tlie wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ; 
 " Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! wliat a glorious sight !" 
 " Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " 1 would not look! 
 look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" 
 
 Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, 
 in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : 
 
 " Notwithstanding the various reports I heard daring the preceding win- 
 ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I 
 should have concluded in favour of liis 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. 1 was, however, somewhat alarmed about the 
 effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- 
 fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- 
 paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- 
 tatio;i at h.is heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late 
 become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity 
 to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Maucldine, where Burns 
 presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- 
 pliments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a 
 visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well 
 as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the 
 marks of some practice in extempore elocution." 
 
 In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of 
 Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Ilarvieston. He was received with 
 particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Air. Ramsay (a friend 
 of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His 
 host was among the last of those old Scottish La/ini.sfs who began with Bu- 
 chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls 
 of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and 
 these particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and 
 translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was deeply 
 read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the 
 elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any 
 man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. 
 Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, 
 and proposed the GeiUle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write 
 Scnltish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exliausted that 
 field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says .Mr. K. " to 
 have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were 
 wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- 
 pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed 
 such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him. the impulse of the mo- 
 ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, than 
 with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 1 should have 
 j»iade little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always knovr 
 
Ixviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 wlien to play off and when to play on. When I asked him whether the 
 Edinburgh literati had mended his poems by their criticisms — * Sir,' saio 
 he. ' those pjentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who «pin 
 their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " 
 
 At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet's jacobitism procured him a hearty 
 welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering 
 herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- 
 hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving ag 
 her toast after dinner, Hooki imcos, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry 
 when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray- 
 ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, 
 passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the 
 pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the 
 cutti/stool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some 
 time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith ot 
 Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more 
 extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- 
 take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and 
 are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- 
 lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for 
 their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- 
 trian. 
 
 *• August '25th, 17S7 This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for 
 
 a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality ot 
 humour promises me much entertainment. — IJnlithgoiv. —A fertile im- 
 proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among 
 the farmers, 1 always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- 
 dity of tlie peasantry. Tliis remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, 
 Merse, Roxburgh, S:c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a 
 man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the 
 poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they 
 are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse 
 farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- 
 folks, kc. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- 
 try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- 
 vated like a garden." 
 
 It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated 
 the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist; or that 
 with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to 
 be the paramount principle. But. where the greatness and happiness of a 
 people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safelj 
 tak^a for a guide as the inductions of the political economist: — 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her loved at hoine, revered abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but tlie breath of kings, 
 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God !" 
 And cotes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 
 
 'I'he coUdf^e leaves the pn lace far behind ; 
 ^Vh•it is a lordling's poniji ! a cumbrous load. 
 
 Disjj'uising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined; 
 O Scothi .' my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent 
 Li'ng may thy hardv sons of rustic oil. 
 
 Be blest wiih health, and peace, and sweet content 1 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. Ixij 
 
 And, O I may IIe:iv'n ilieir sim))le lives prevent 
 
 From Luxury's contapon, wc.ik and vile ! 
 Tlicn, liowe'er croivni ;u.d conmrlt be rciU, 
 A viit-^oiis populace may rise il>e while. 
 And stand a wall of tire around their much-Iovcd Islr. 
 
 Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, 
 decayed, idle grandeur — charnnngly rural retired situation — the old Roya. 
 Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated by the brink 
 of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ot 
 Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ot 
 repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor 
 pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
 squalid, stuck in a corner oiold Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and 
 nmch more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- 
 solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- 
 ters " 
 
 At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin- 
 terested. I fancy to myself that 1 see my gallant countrymen coming over 
 the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers or 
 their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding 
 more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- 
 thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the 
 victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued Mberty 
 and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns"s famous ode on the 
 battle of Bannockburn. 
 
 At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhyme." This al- 
 ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the 
 parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely 
 Lnglish heroics — 
 
 " Poetic ardours in my ha<iom swell, 
 
 Lone wanderinjf by the hermit s mossy cell ; 
 
 The sweeping,' theatre of hanging woods ; 
 
 The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... 
 
 Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
 
 And look through nature with creative fire .... 
 
 Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
 
 misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
 
 And Disappointment, in tnese lonely bounds. 
 
 Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
 
 Here heart-struck (irief might heavenward stretch her scan. 
 
 And injured Worth forget ar.d pardon man." 
 
 Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum: — •' Druids* temple, three cir. 
 cles of stones the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain- 
 mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- 
 east — sny prayers on if." 
 
 His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows: — " Dunneld 
 — Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout-built, High- 
 land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- 
 resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with 
 unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret (jow. — Friday — 
 ride up Tummel river to IHair. lascally, a beautilul romantic nest — wild 
 grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. 
 • — Bfcir — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of 
 tliat family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. — Sutur* 
 day — Tisit tie scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS 
 
 Mr. Walker, who, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in 
 Edinburgh tlirough Blacklock, was at this period tutor in the family ol 
 Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the 
 Beat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- 
 tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I 
 hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
 of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar 
 rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- 
 cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, 
 begged I would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was 
 already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view 
 of tlieir beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited 
 to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced 
 the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- 
 ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic 
 hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from 
 which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himse.lf on the heathy seat, 
 and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm ot 
 imagination. It v/as v/ith much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
 spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was 
 great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from 
 what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, 
 aiid firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good 
 sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
 appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- 
 get a proper respect for the separate species cf dignity belonging to each. 
 He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
 propriet3\ and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he kncv/ 
 it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. 'Jhe Duke's fine young 
 family attracted much of his admiration; he drank their healths as honesl 
 men and bnnnie lay.scs, an idea which Avas much applauded by the company, 
 aiid A'ith which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took 
 a ride with him tlirough some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
 bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen 
 pf his happiness of concei)tion and strength of expression. I will mention a 
 cmark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time 
 3 few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and 
 wliile Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on 
 account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at t mos by 
 coarseness of manners ; " in ^ihort,' he added, " his mind is like his body, 
 he has a confounded strong in-kneed 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 1 recommended 
 to him as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des- 
 criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- 
 lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the ]-\ills (J 
 Jiriiar, and in a i'ew days 1 received a letter from Inverness, with the versej 
 enclosed." * 
 
 At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman tc 
 whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more tlian one important 
 
 " Extract of a letter from I\ir. ^\'alker to I\lr. Ciini.ingliam, dated Pcrtli. 24th Octobci 
 7t»7 
 
LIFb OF ROBCar BURNS. Ixx 
 
 occasion ; and ?>Ir. Walker expresses great regret tliat he did not remain 
 p day or two more, in which case he must liave been introduced to Mr. 
 Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and 
 had the chief manatiement of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was 
 but little addicted to literature; still, had such an introduction taken 
 place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration 
 on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- 
 tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. 
 
 I'roni Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among 
 cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the 
 Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- 
 tish music), Badenoch, tSrc. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with 
 Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the 
 way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical 
 bed in which, tradition srn/s. King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from I'ort 
 George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to 
 
 Fochabers, taking Culloden Muir and Brodic House in his way T/iitrS' 
 
 flay, Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break- 
 fast at Kilraick — old iMrs. Hose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong j)as- 
 sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, 
 daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the motlier, 
 perha[)s owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung 
 two (jaelic songs — beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very 
 beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, niikl- 
 est, sweetest creatures on earth, and hapjjiness be with them ! Brodie 
 House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — 
 Fridaj/, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — INIr. Bro- 
 dic tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch meeting, is 
 stiil haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Ehpn — vene- 
 rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Alelrose, but 
 nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy 
 of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- 
 pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, 
 and aflable — gay and kind — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- 
 sible — God bless them."* 
 
 Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- 
 burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the diimer 
 hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the 
 moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling conrpanion had 
 i been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this 
 soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the 
 Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- 
 neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to 
 come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school- 
 master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath 
 and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies 
 could solten his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- 
 ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ 
 ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll 
 ind he, in silence an(' mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the 
 
 • Extract from JournaL 
 
rxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 coast of the IMurra}' Frith. The abridgment of Burns's \isi.t at Gordon 
 Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment, 
 but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons 
 of such influence, might hav ; begot a permanent intimacy, and on theii 
 parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches 
 on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider. 
 
 Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively 
 Nairn, Forres, .Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James 
 Burness. writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him 
 int--) the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three 
 days. When William Burness. his father, abandoned his native c'lstrict, 
 never to uevisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare- 
 well oi' his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof of 
 their lowly home could be descried ; and the old man appears to have 
 ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell 
 to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire 
 kindred, and afte that he seems to liuve maintained the same sort of cor- 
 respondence. Ue now formed a personal acquaintance with these good 
 people, and in a letter to liis brother Gilbert, we find him describing therr 
 in terms which show the lively interest he took in ail tlieir concerns. ■ 
 
 " The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm 
 as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what 
 cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses .^" lie arrived once more in 
 Auld lleekie, on the Kith of September, having travelled about six hun- 
 dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance 
 with his own countrv, and visited some of its most classical .scenery — ob- 
 served something of Highland manners, v\-l'iieh must have been as interest 
 ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among tlu 
 sturdy .Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe 
 riod avowed. 
 
 Of the i'cw poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already 
 mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch 
 Ness, he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets — 
 
 " .Among the heathy liills aid rufjired \voO(l>, 
 The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods,' &c. 
 
 When at Sir Wifiam Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray 
 of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song — 
 
 " P.lvthe, lilyihe, and merry was she, 
 lilythe was she but aiul ben," &c. 
 
 And the verses On Scariiig some IVildfoicl on Loch Tiirit, — 
 
 " ^\'hy, ye tenant.s of the lake. 
 
 Vox me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. 
 
 were composed while under the same roof Th.esc last, except perhaps 
 liriKir Wtiter, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- 
 derings of the sunnner. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find 
 many traces t the delight with which he had contemplated r.ature in tliese 
 alpine regions 
 
 • fiencral Corre.spondenco. 
 
LIFii OF ROBi^Iir BURNS. ixxiii 
 
 Tlic poet or.ro more visited liis family at iMossii^iel, and Mr. IMiilcr at 
 Dalsu'iiitoii, tTc tlie winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of 
 that f^entleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but deeidea 
 to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland. It was not. however, un- 
 til he liad for the tliird time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 17hS, that a 
 bargain was actually concluded. More than lialf of the intervening 
 months were spent in Edinburgh, M-here Burns found, or fancied that his 
 presence was necessary for the sat.sfactory completion of his affairs with 
 the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough tluit one great object was the 
 society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor was he without the 
 annisement of a little romance to fill up what vacant hours they lei't Jiim. 
 He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful 
 widow — the same to whom he addressed the song, 
 
 " Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c. 
 
 and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and 
 which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome 
 sentiment, than could be produced from all his writings besides. 
 
 At this time the publication called Johnsons Museum of Scottish So7ig 
 was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on 
 Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though 
 Green prow the nishcs is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the 
 first volume, published in 17H7, many of the old ballads included in that 
 volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared 
 in March I 788. we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have 
 been already mentioned, * and three far better than them, viz. 'Jlieniel 
 Mcnzies bonnij Mary ; that grand lyric, 
 
 " Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
 The wretch's destiny, 
 JVIacpherson's time will not be long 
 On yonder gallows tree ;" 
 
 both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland 
 visit; and, lastly. Whistle and I'll come to yoxi^ my lad. Burns had been 
 from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and 
 music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- 
 portunities ar.d appliances than he could have commanded previously; and 
 it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own 
 poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which 
 had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did 
 not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns 
 composed very inw pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- 
 gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his 
 s(wigs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this 
 hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very like y to agree. 
 Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- 
 tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early 
 days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken 
 to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst 
 the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence- 
 forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in which 
 
 " ■' Clarinda,' and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devoi." 
 
iXXlV 
 
 I.1FE OF ROBERT BURNS 
 
 he wtis at lenpjtn about to be engaged. Burr.s was present, on the 3 1 st oi 
 December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince 
 Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which 
 Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that 
 the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth- 
 ing rhapsody — far, far different indeed from the Chevalier's Lament, which 
 the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of 
 the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be- 
 tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * 
 
 For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he 
 was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach. 
 «' Here I am," he writes, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised 
 limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid 
 iiorrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was 
 the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- 
 ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliance to gua- 
 rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got 
 halfway through the five books of Moses, and halfway in Joshua. It ia 
 really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him 
 to get an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind 
 it with all the elegance of his craft." f— In another letter, which opens gaily 
 enough, we find liini reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood. 
 " I can t say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path 
 that meagre, squalid, iamine-lijced spectre, Poverty, attended as he always 
 is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily 
 withstood his buiTctings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is 1 
 DARE. My worst enemy is moi-nitme. There are just two creatures that 
 I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or 
 an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish 
 without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." \ — One more 
 specimen may be sufficient, i] " These have been six horrible weeks. 
 Anf^uish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have 
 a hundred times v.ished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- 
 mission ; for I would not dihe in any poor ignorant wretch by svUing out. 
 Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and Clod knows a miserable soldier enough : 
 now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more cons])icuously 
 wretched. 1 am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for 
 the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
 fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." 
 
 it seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered In Edin- 
 burgh, in the hope tliat, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, 
 goniething would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked 
 and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but 
 all the while murished, and assuredly it would hove been most strange if 
 he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country would ere 
 long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and cui - 
 finemcnt gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side 
 of his prospects ; and the letters which we have qucted may t*ach those 
 (vho envy the powers and the fame of genius, to paue for a moment over 
 
 • Ocn' ral Correspondence, No. 40 
 
 ■\ Hcliinie-*, p, 43. 
 
 11 Geutriil ' ;orrespo!idence. No. 43. 
 
 Ibid. p. 44. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ux.f 
 
 the annals of literature, and think Avhat superior capabilities of miscT/ have 
 been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven with the possession ol 
 those very talents, from which all but their j)ossessors derive uimiingled 
 gratification. Burns's distresses, however, v.ere to be still farther aggravated. 
 While still under the hands of h.is surgeon, he received intelligence from 
 Mauchllne that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exj)osec' 
 her to the reproaches of her family. Tlie father sternly and at once turnec' 
 her out of doors; and IUumis, unable to walk across his room, had to writs 
 to his friends in iMauchlinc to ]>rocure shelter for his childi'en, and for hei 
 whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to 3.1rs. Dunlop, 
 written on hearing of th.is new misfortune, he says, " ' I tvish I were cleud, 
 hut I'm no like to die.' 1 fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for 
 the best. You must not desert me. Your Iriendship 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 hoj)e. Se- 
 riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path 
 
 But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." * 
 
 It seems to have been noio that Burns at last screwed up his courage to 
 solicit the active interference in his br'.ialf of the Earl of (jlcncairn. Tlie 
 letter is a brief one. Burns could i/1 endure this novel attitude, and he 
 rushed at once to his request. " 1 wish," says he, " to get into the excise. 
 I am told 3'our Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- 
 missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already 
 rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
 that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie 
 of liome, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters 
 from destruction, 'i'hcre, my lord, you have bound nie over to the highest 
 
 gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any 
 
 other of The Great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am 
 ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita- 
 tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as ot 
 the cold denial." f It would be hard to tliink that this letter was coldly or 
 negligently received; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to 
 Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment 
 which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's 
 iniiuence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still afl'ectionately remenihcred 
 in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,') happening to hear Lurns, ^vlule 
 'lis patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, witliout 
 dropping any hint of his intention, and conm^imicated the state of the 
 poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fin tray, one of the conmiissioners of excise, 
 wljo had met Hums at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im- 
 mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my 
 dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Mrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- 
 tii.in. '1 lie question is not at what door of lortune's palace shall we enter 
 in : but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing 
 to do. 1 wanted ini hut, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
 this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate 
 bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my 
 existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the 
 cciomissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my 
 firm friends." % 
 
 • Reliques, p. 411. -f- General Coriespondence, No. 40. J Reliques, p. 50 
 
.XXVI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con 
 fniement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he 'l-^'i abuses very heartil} 
 in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however, 
 when they were at last made up, mus*. have given the impatient author a 
 very agreeable surprise ;. for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn, 
 we find him expressing his hopes that the gross profits of his book might 
 amount to " better than i 200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr 
 Creech, he found himself in possession of £500, if not of i GOU. Mr. Ni 
 coll, the most intimate fHend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex- 
 cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — " He 
 certainly told me that he received £000 for the first Edinburgh edition, and 
 i'lOO afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product 
 of Creech's edition at i 500, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- 
 ters, at £M00 only. Nicoll hints, in the letter already referred to, that 
 Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not wish 
 to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probable, 
 the expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de- 
 ducted from the £7 00 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions 
 in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be 
 reason for thinking fhat Creech subsequently paid more than A 100 for the 
 copyright. Jf he did not, how eame Burns to realize, as Currie states it 
 at the end of his Memoir, " nearly 1900 in all by his poems?" 
 
 This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele- 
 vated his spirits greatly, and given him for the time a new stock of confi- 
 dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's 
 farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resorf, to be 
 made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first 
 act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing 
 £ 180 or i 200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my- 
 self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. IMoore, " for it 
 was mere selfishness on my jiart. I was conscious that the wrong scale of 
 the balance was pretty heavily charged, and 1 thought that the throwing a 
 little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, miglu 
 liel[t /) snif.oth matters at the grand reckoniny" • 
 
 • General Corrcspoad«ic«, Nq, c6. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 li'jyTF.Nls — MuTTtes — Announcement!:, fapnlogetical), of the event — Remaiin — Eecnmes 
 ( 788) Farmer nt Elliesland, on the Nith, in a rn/nant/c vicinity, six miles from Dumfries — 
 The Muse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and exteiLsive literary corre- 
 ipondence with all and sundry — liemarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person 
 and MaLits at this period by a brother poet, who shoirs cause ayninst success in farming— 
 The untoward cnnjunction of (iauaer to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the 
 calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra i^-nvivial life — Ideates Ellieslana 
 C 1791) ij be exciseman in the town of JJumfries. 
 
 *' To make a happy fireside clime 
 For weans and wife — 
 That's the true pathos and sublime 
 Of human life." 
 
 Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- 
 piel, and went through the ceremony of a Justiceof l^eace marriage with 
 Jean Armour, in the writing-cb.ambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He 
 then crossed the country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain with 
 Mr. Miller as to the tarm of L-^lliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly 
 have been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet ; 
 they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied 
 him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive 
 terms, of nineteen years each, — in all seventy six years; the rent for the 
 first three years and crops ,t'5() ; during the remainder of the period i 70 
 per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan- 
 tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and, 
 the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant 
 was to receive £300 fiom the proprietor, tor the ejection of suitable build- 
 ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 178S, but 
 the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns 
 thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify 
 himself for holding his excise connnission by six weeks' attendance on the 
 business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all 
 the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Currie mentions this 
 as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, was continually rid- 
 ing between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on 
 the road, " sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had 
 formed." What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On 
 the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie : 
 — " 1 have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms, 
 among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars aiul 
 Highlanders of the brain ; but 1 am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy 
 battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
 squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding cop 
 
ixxyjii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 trivance. . . . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation e^ 
 specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 have 
 taken is vastly for my happiness." * 
 
 To ail his friends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfacticn in 
 regard ti his marriage. '* Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- 
 lop, " is just. I am indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and 
 still mu. h-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the 
 naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no 
 sporting with a fellovr-crcature's happiness or misery. The most placid 
 goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
 with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and spriglitly cheerfulness, 
 set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; 
 these, 1 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should ne- 
 ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, 
 
 nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding 
 
 To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger; my preservative from the 
 first, is tne 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 io eminently mistress, and during my absence in 
 Kithsdale, sne is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and 
 
 sisters in their ctairy, and other rural business You are ri<''ht, 
 
 that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a 
 cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own 
 mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would f^eldorw 
 have been of the number." f 
 
 Some montiis later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not, 
 perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing 
 a young lady), — " but," he continues, " 1 have no cause to repent it. If 
 I have not got polite laliie, modish manners, and fashionable dress, 1 am not 
 sickcried and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school afiec- 
 tatiun ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the 
 soundest constitution, and the kindcbt heart in the country. Mrs. Burns 
 believes as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus hel csp/it ct k p/its lumnele 
 hnmnie in the universe ; although fche scarcely ever, in her life, except the 
 Scriptures and the Psaims of David in Metre, spent five minutes together 
 on cither prose or verse — I must except also a certain late publication of 
 Scots poems, which she Juis perused very devoutljs and all the ballads of 
 the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest 
 woodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls 
 it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel sX Ellit.'sland, J and only 
 occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, Uiat he wrote the beat tiliU 
 
 song 
 
 " Of a' the airts tlie wind can blaw I dearly like the west, 
 For tliere the bonnie hissie lives, the lassie I lo'e best ; 
 There wildwoods grow, and rivers rov.', and iiioriy a hill between ; 
 15ut day and night my fancy's flight is ever \vi' my Jean. 
 
 O blaw, ye wcstlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees, 
 A\'i' gentle gale, frae nuiir and dale, bring hair.c the laden bees. 
 And biiiig tlie lassie back to me, that's aye sac neat and clean; 
 Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean." 
 
 • Reliqncs, p. CS. -I* Sec General Correspondence, No. 53 ; and Reliqucs, p- 60, 
 
 X lldiiiues, p. 75. |i Ibid. p. 273. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ixxix 
 
 One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- 
 ly marked with his haughtiness of character. " I have escaped," savs he, 
 *' tlie fantastic caprice, the apish aifectation, with all the other blessed 
 boarding-scliool acquirements v.-hich are sometimes to be found among fe- 
 males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the 
 would-be gentry." * 
 
 " A discerning reader," saj^s INTr. Walker, « will perceive that the let- 
 ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- 
 respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- 
 ing on an ;:nwelcomc step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments 
 to justify the deed, anu essen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f 
 I confess I am not able l.o discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any 
 of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev. 
 Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise," 
 says he, •' has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with 
 Jean wh.en in the blaze of his fame. . . Tlie praise is misplaced. We 
 do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what tlie 
 law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, 
 and it is truly ludicrous to hear him, aware as he nuist have been, of the in- 
 dissoluble power of the obligation, tliough every document was destroyed, 
 talking of himself as a bachelor.'" J There is no justice in these remarks. 
 It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- 
 male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar- 
 riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriai^e 
 having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female 
 herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only 
 not assuming, but rejecting the character of I'urns's wife ; and had she, un- 
 der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu- 
 ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- 
 cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but 
 that of her own father, it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the v.orld 
 could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all 
 along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful wliether she had 
 ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- 
 clared the marriage of 178B. Burns did no more than justice as v.ell as 
 honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could 
 have compelled him to perform. 
 
 To return to our story. Burns complains sadly of his solitary condition, 
 when living in the only hovel that lie found extant on his farm. " I am," 
 says he, (September 9th) "busy with my harvest, but for all that most 
 [ileasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- 
 bow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country in 
 any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only know 
 in graces, &c., and the value ol' tiiese they estimate as they do their plaid- 
 ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, tliey have as much id(;a of a rJiino- 
 ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September Kith) he says 
 " Tills hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every 
 blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved 
 from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be 
 pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day alter 
 
 • Oe;ier:!l rorresjjonilsr.ce, No. 55. 
 J Paul's Life of liuriis. p. 4.1. 
 
 i- Hlorrisjon, vol. i. p. Ixxxvi;. 
 
lxx>- LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 myreajters." His .'■ouse, however, did not take much time in building, 
 nor had he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his 
 \Tife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and few housekeepers 
 start with a larger provision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs. 
 Burns had lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup- 
 pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro- 
 thers and sisters from Mossgiel. From that quarter also Burns brought a 
 whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was 
 then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and 
 of the south of Scotland, partook, at the san^e table, of the same fare with 
 their master and mistress. 
 
 Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six rniles 
 above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the h.ouse of Dalswinton, ol" those noble 
 woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa- 
 trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in 
 which he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes 
 lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red 
 scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare 
 shingle of the precipice all but overhangs the stream, Burns had his favou- 
 rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially 
 when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- 
 lent. For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more serious 
 and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion 
 to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be eas^ 
 to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he 
 contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom ol 
 winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a 
 gloamin' shot at the muses." 
 
 The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period c? his life 
 was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for t'le first time under a roof 
 of his own — with his v/ife and children about him — and in spite of oc- 
 casional lapses into the melancholy which had haunted his youth, looking' 
 forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is 
 known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, 
 
 " I liae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ; 
 I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody; 
 1 hae a penny to spend — there —thanks to naebody ; 
 1 hae naething to lend— I'll burrow frae naebody." 
 
 In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A 
 Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his 
 seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, nay the morning of life — 
 health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — his genms 
 liad been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription, 
 more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder, 
 therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense ot 
 nnportance and independence." 
 
 Burns, in his letters of the year 1 789, maKcs many apologies for doing 
 but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied nmch 
 of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained 
 on his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. Oe 
 
 • Poetical Ikventouy to Mr. Aiken, February 1/86. 
 
1.1FE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxl 
 
 the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- 
 farmers, but by the neigiibouriiig gentry of all chisses ; and now, too, for 
 the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own linuse by curi- 
 ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene- 
 rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more 
 time tlian he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at 
 his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; ibr 
 in addition to some pieces which we have already had occasion to notice, 
 he contributed to this year's Muskum, The Thames jiows promUtj (o thQ 
 Sea ; Tlic lazy mist hangs, S)-c. ; The day rctuins, my bosom hnnis ; Tarn 
 Glen, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go 
 fetch lame a pint of wine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which, 
 however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); Jofm 
 Anderson, in part also a rifacciamento ; the best of all his Ijacchanalian 
 pieces, IViliie hrewed a peck a' maut, written in celebration of a festive meet- 
 ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. Nicoll of 
 the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To Mary in 
 Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands admitted, composed 
 by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he 
 heard cf the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Croniek 
 lias thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances which did not oc- 
 cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal recollec- 
 tion on this occasion, and whose recollections o^ all circumstances con- 
 nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being 
 remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- 
 saic edition of the histcrj-. * According to her. Burns spent that day, 
 though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa- 
 rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to 
 grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the 
 barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, 
 entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return 
 to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always 
 promised compliance — but still remained where he %vas, s,triding up and 
 down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and 
 starry. At last IMrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of strav/, with 
 his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and 
 prevailed on him to come in. Pie immediately on catering the iiouse, called 
 for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with al' lie case of one 
 copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses-- 
 
 " Thou lingering star with lessening ray, 
 
 Tliat lovest to greet ilie early mom, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 i\!y Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O i\lary, ilear dejiarted shade. 
 
 Where is thy place of btisst'ul rest ; 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?" &<;- 
 
 Tlie Mo.liefs Lament for her Son, and Inscription in an Hermitage in 
 Nilhsdale, were also written this year. From the time when Burns settled 
 Iiimself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care 
 tlie extensive correspondence in which his celebrity had engagetl liiin. The 
 
 • I 0W9 these particulars to ^!r. Jl'Diarmid, the ahle editor of ;he Dumfries Courier, and 
 brother of tlie lamented author of " Lives of liriiish Statesmen. " 
 
xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ettcrs that passed between him and his brother Gilbert, are among iJie 
 most precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knoviledgc 
 of and confidence in each other, no one can doubt ; and the plain manly 
 affectionate language in which they both write, is truly honourable to them, 
 and ir '■he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert, 
 January l^t, 1789, " I have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in 
 the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former 
 years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look 
 at our family vicissitudes, ' through the dark postern of time long elapsed,' 
 I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of 
 seasons is to us ; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over 
 the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
 turn out well." 
 
 It was on the same new-year's-day that Burns himself addressed to Mrs. 
 Dunlop a letter, part of which is here transcribed. It is dated Elliesland, 
 New-year-day morning, 1789, and certainly cannot be read too often : — 
 " This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
 came under the apostle James's description! — the prayer of a righteous tnan 
 availeth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
 blessings ; everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy- 
 ment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, 
 should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that 1 approve of 
 set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
 in on that habituated routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
 our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, 
 to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day, — the first 
 Sunday of May, — a breezy, blue-skyed moon sometime about the begin- 
 ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ; 
 these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 
 
 " I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ' The 
 Vision of IMirza ;' a piece that struck my young fancy before 1 was capable 
 of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the 5th day of the moon, 
 which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holi/, after 
 having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended 
 the high hill of Dagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation 
 and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or 
 structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
 them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck 
 with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
 pression. 1 have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the 
 mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
 ding-birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with par- 
 ticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of tlie curlew in a 
 summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
 autumnal mornii)<r, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm 
 of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow 
 ing ? Arc we a piece of machinery, which, like the TEolian harp, passive, 
 takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
 something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself partial to such 
 proofs of those awful and important realities— a God that made all things 
 —man's innnaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe b*^ 
 vond death and the y.rave." 
 
LIl'E OF ROBEllT BURXS. .xxxia 
 
 Few, u Is to be hoped, can read sucli tliiniis as tlicsc without delight ; 
 none surely, that taste the elevated pleasure they are calculated to in- 
 spire can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burn>.'s history, with- 
 out being afflicted. The " golden days" of Elliesland. as Dr. Currie justly 
 calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming s{)eculations 
 once more failed ; and he himself seems to have been aware that such was 
 likely to be the case ere he had given the business many months' trial ; for, 
 ere the autumn of 1788 was over, he applied to his patron, Mr. (irahani of 
 Fintray, for actual emjiloyment as an exciseman, and was accordingly aj)- 
 pointed to do duty, in that capacity, in the district where his lands were 
 situated. His income, as a revenue officer, was at first only XSo ; it by 
 nnd by rose to iaO ; and sometimes was 170. These pounds were hardly 
 earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very 
 often from the farm, whicli needed his utmost attention, and exposed him, 
 which Avas still worse, to innumerable temptations of the kind he was least 
 hkely to resist. 
 
 I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu- 
 lars of this part of Burns's history, derived from a source which every 
 lover of Scotland and Scottish ])octry must be prepared to hear mentioned 
 ] with respect. It happened that at the time when our poet went to Niths' 
 • dale, th.e father of Mr. Allan Cunniuijham was steward on the estate of 
 > Dalswinton : he was, as all m-1io have read the writings of his sons will 
 I readily believe, a man of remarkable talents and attainments: he was a 
 j wise and good man ; a devout admirer of Burns's genius ; and one of those 
 ! sober neighbours who in vain strove, by advice and warning, to arrest the 
 j poet in the downhill path, tov.-ards. which a thousand seductions were per- 
 I petually drawing him. Mr. Allan Cunningham was, of course, almost a 
 I child when he first saw Burns ; but, in what he has to say on tliis subject, 
 we may be sure we are hearing the substance of his benevolent and saga- 
 cious father's observations and reflections. His own boyish recollections 
 of the poet's personal appearance and demeanour v,i!l, however, be read 
 } M'ith interest. " 1 was very young," says Allan Cunningham, " when I 
 first saw Burns. He came to see my father; and their conversation turned 
 partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste 
 j and skill. Burns had just come to Kithsdale ; and I think he appeared a 
 shade more swarth}' than he does in Nasmytifs ]iicture, and at least ten years 
 j older tlian he really v>as at the lime. His liice v.as deeply marked by 
 I thought, nnd the habitual expression intensely melancholy. His frame was 
 j very muscular and well proj)ortioned, though he had a short neck, and 
 5on!ething of a ploughman's stoop : he v. as strong, and proud of his strength 
 I saw him one evening match himself with a number of masons ; and out 
 of five-and- twenty practised hands, the most vigorous j'oung men in the 
 [)arish, tliere was only one that could lift the same weight as Burns He 
 luid a very manly face, and a very melancholy look ; but on the coming of 
 those he esteemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed 
 with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. I once heard 
 him read 7\nii o SItindcr. I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice 
 followed all the undulations of the sense, and expressed as well as his ge- 
 nius had done, the patlios and humour, the horrible and the awful, of that 
 wonderi'ul performance. Asa man feels; so will he write; and in propor- 
 tion as he b'.-mnathizcs with his author, so will he read him with tirace and 
 ftnect 
 
 ! 
 
.xxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " I said tl'.at Burns and my father conversed about poetrj and farming 
 Tlie poet had newly taken possession of his farm of Elliesland, — the masons 
 w ere busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him, 
 and a little of its ntoney in his pocket, — in short, he had found a resting- 
 place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his 
 farm, and particularly about the beauty of the situation. ' Yes,' my father 
 said, ' the walks on the river bank are fine, and you will see from your win- 
 dows some miles of the Nith ; but you will also see several farms of fine 
 rich holm, * any ons of which you might have had. You have made a 
 poet's choice, rather than a farmer's.' If Burns had much of a farmer's 
 skill, he hp/d little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired 
 of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with Ellies- 
 land, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, ' how could he miss 
 but fail, wiien his servants ate the bread as fast as it was baked ? I don't 
 mean figuratively, I mean literally. Consider a little. At that time close 
 economy was necessary to liave enabled a man to clear twent} pounds a- 
 year by Elliesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques- 
 tion : he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard- 
 working farmer ; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayrshire. The 
 lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fireside, and ate 
 it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon 
 reach to tv/enty pounds a-year.' 
 
 " The truth of the case," says Mr. Cunningham, in another letter with 
 which he has favoured me, " the truth is, tl)at if Robert Burns liked his 
 farm, it v/as more for the beauty of the situation than for the labours which 
 it demanded. He was ton waj-ward to attend to the stated duties of a 
 husbandman, and too impatient to wait till the ground returned in gain the 
 cultivation he bestowed upon it. The condition of a farmer, a Nithsdale 
 one, 1 mean, was then verj' humble His one-story house had a covering 
 of straw, and a clay floor; the furniture was from the hands of a country 
 carpenter ; and, between the roof and fioor, there seldom intervened a 
 smoother ceiling than of rough rods and grassy turf — while a huge lang-settle 
 of black oak for himself, and a carved arm chair for his wife, were the only 
 matters out of keeping with the homely looks of his residence. He took 
 all his meals in his own kitchen, and presided regularly among his children 
 and domestics. He performed family worship every evening — except dur- 
 ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty was perhaps limited to Saturday 
 night. A few religious books two or three favourite poets, the history of 
 his country, and his Bible, aided him in forming the minds and manners of 
 (he family. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care 
 Df her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools. 
 
 "•' The picture out of doors was less interesting. 'I'he ground from which 
 the farmer sought support, was generally in a very moderate state of culti- 
 vation. The implements with which he tilled his land were primitive and 
 clumsy, and his ovt'n knowledge of the management of crops exceedingly 
 limited. He plodded on in the regular slothful routine of his ancestors ; 
 he rooted out no bushes, he dug up no stones ; lie drained not, neither did 
 lie enclose . and weeds obtained then iull share of the dung and the lime, 
 which he bestowed more like a medicine than a meal on his soil. His 
 plough was iJie rude old Scotch one ; his harrows had as ofcen teeth j1 
 
 • Ilohii is ff.it, rich meadow liina, intervsning between a stream and tlie general elevation 
 di' tlic adjoi.m flg cuuntiy. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxv 
 
 ivood as of iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wlieclcd, or were, more 
 (iroperly speaking, tunibler-carts, so called to distinguish tlieni from trail 
 carts, both of which were in connnon use. On these rude carriages his 
 manure was taken to the field, and his crop brought home. The iarmer 
 himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments. His 
 poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred ot 
 innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast-work of old maxims 
 and rustic saws, which he interpreted as oiacles delivered against improve- 
 ment. With ground in such condition, with tools so uniit, and with know- 
 ledge so imperfect, he sometimes succeeded in wringing a ^t^w hundred 
 pouni s Scots from the farm he occupied. Sucli was generally the state of 
 agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own 
 skill was equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- 
 tunate. An important change soon took place, by which he was nat fated 
 to profit ; he had not the foresight to see its approach, nor, probabl}', the 
 fjrtitude to await its coming. 
 
 " in the year 1790, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, 
 and ten. and fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and 
 his house, differed little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He 
 would have thought his daughter a< edded in her degree, had she married a 
 joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a 
 " portioner" of the soil mingled together, equals in appearance and impor- 
 tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to 
 agriculture; the army and navy consumed largely; corn rose in demand; 
 the price augmented ; more land was called into culiivation ; and, as leases 
 expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- 
 ed the rents ; and the farmer was soon borne on the wings of sudden wealth 
 above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, 
 carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even bogan to exchange the hanks of 
 yarn with which it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He 
 laid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his 
 servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a 
 thing unfashionable, and became a kind of rustic r/e/iihiiu/n, v.ho rode a blood 
 horse, and galloped home on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and 
 to the terror of every modest pedestrian. \Vhen a change like this took 
 nlace, and a farmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase 
 the land he rented — which many were, and many did — the same, or a still 
 more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elliesland ; 
 and Burns, had he stuck by his lease and his plough, avouUI, in all human 
 possibility, have found the independence which he sought, and sought in 
 vain, frara the coldness and parsimony of mankind." 
 
 r.Ir. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland in 
 these terms : — '• During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said 
 that Burnis conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as 
 H man. and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kirk on ^Sunday, 
 though he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinism of 
 that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading 
 club ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes- 
 ti "'ty, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. 
 iiut the failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which 
 he was compelled to support an increasing family and an eypensive station 
 Ui life, preyed on his spirits ; and, during these fits of despair, he was will 
 
xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ing too often to become tlie companion of the thoughtless and the gross. J 
 am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, 
 and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also 
 in the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the 
 licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. 
 These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and I am afraid 
 they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had 
 so much of the poet about them, and fev/ poets so much of the man ; — the 
 man was probably less pure than he ought to have been, but the poet was 
 pure and bright to the last." 
 
 The reader must be sufficiently prepared to hear, that from the time 
 when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected 
 the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the 
 plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of excelling, or 
 stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, 
 a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in far different 
 pursuits. •' I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally 
 ganger, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect 
 dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has. recorded 
 the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on 
 the subject are uniform!}' bitter. " I have the same consolation," he tells 
 Mr Ainslie, " wliich I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi- 
 ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage ■ 
 ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the 
 crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has th.e surest chance 
 of preferment.' " On one occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " There 
 is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- 
 man ; but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession :" — which 
 may periiaps remind the reader of (iibbon's lofty language, en finally quit- 
 ting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris, for his Swiss re- 
 tirement : " I am too modest, or too j)roud, to rate my value by that oi 
 my associates." 
 
 Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, 
 had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments 
 of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along 
 witli him in the duties of the excise, could present. He was, moreover, 
 wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own. by the reputiition which 
 he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of cntc'tainment 
 in conversation. I'rom the castle to the cottage, every door t!ew open at 
 his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered 
 it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man's board 
 in the same trim that he sat down to it. The farmer, if Burns was seen 
 passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jenny Geddes, until 
 he could persuade the bard that the day was hot enough to demand an 
 extra-iibation. If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the ii/Tiiate3 
 were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; 
 and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as- 
 sembled round the ingle; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and 
 
 " He ours tliis i.iglu — wha knows what comes to-niovrow ?" 
 
 was the language of every eye in the circle that welcomed him. Tlie 
 stateliest L^entry of the count}', whenmei tliey had es])ecial merriment in 
 
 I I 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvil 
 
 \\o\v, called In the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven nieir carousals.* 
 The t'anious song ot' T/ic Whistle of iCDiih connneinorates a scene of this 
 kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc- 
 curred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life amo!!g this jo- 
 vial squii-carchy. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, liad met to deter- 
 mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should {)ossess the lf7ii.sf/i\ which 
 a common ancestor of them all had earned ages before, in a Ijacchaiialian 
 contest of the same sort with a noble t()[)er from Denmark ; and the poet 
 was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate 
 
 " Then up rose the bard like a prophet in ilrink, 
 Crai^d-irroch shall soar wlien creation sliall sink ; 
 But if dioii worild'st flourish inniiortal in rhyme. 
 Come, one bottle more, and luve at the sublime." 
 
 Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe fronj temptations of this kind, 
 even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- 
 ty of hiis wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they 
 ate and drank at his cost, and often went awav to criticise him and his 
 fare, as if they had done Burns and his black howl f great honour in con- 
 descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such companj' and 
 such li(|uor. 
 
 We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he 
 was half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti- 
 tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to dwell. For example, 
 th.e circumstances under which the verses on T/te ivciindtd Hare were 
 written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, 
 son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunnijigham, 
 that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was 
 in the custom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every 
 evening, along the Kith, and by the nutrrh between his land and curs. 
 The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the 
 gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one. and wounded her : she ran 
 bleeding by Burns, \\ho was pacing up and down by himself, not far from 
 me. Me started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or 
 he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed. 111 war- 
 rant he would have been as good as his word — though 1 was both young 
 and strong." 
 
 Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to 
 Elliesland, was Captain Grose, tlie celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns 
 briefly describes as 
 
 " A fi:ie fat fod^'d wlf^ht— 
 
 Oi stature sliort, but genius bright ;" 
 
 and who has painted his own portrait, both with pen and pencil, at full 
 length, in his Olio, f his gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set 
 fortli in the copy of verses — 
 
 • Tlicsc paiticulars are from a letter of Dayitl Macculloch, Es(^., who, being at ihis period 
 a very yom.g mun, a i)assi()i'.ate ;;dmirer of Uurns, and a capital singer of many of iiis serious 
 sor.t>, used often, in his etuhusiasm, to accompany the poet on his professional excursions. 
 
 + r.iirns's fimous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marljle, was die nuptial gift of Mi At- 
 n'liur. I'i^ fat!'er-ii:-l w, who himself fashioned it. .After passing through many hands, it it 
 r.mv iii excellent keeping, tliat of Alexander Hastie, Esq. ot London. 
 
xxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, 
 Frae ."Maidenkirk to John O'Groats, 
 A chitld's amaiig ye takin' notes," &c. 
 
 and, infer alia, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Burns liad too 
 much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know- 
 ledge of Scottisli phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- 
 searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- 
 quaintance that vv'e owe Tarn o Shunter. Burns told the story as he h.ad 
 heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Captain, and v.as easily persuaded 
 to versify it. The poem was the work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well rc- 
 nifmbers the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk 
 by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her 
 children. " He was busily engaged crooning to liinissll, and .Mrs. Burns 
 perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered bcliind with her 
 little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the 
 strange and wild gesticulatioi^s of the bard, who, now at some distance, 
 was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very 
 loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses 
 which he had just conceived : — 
 
 " Now Tam ! O Tarn ! had they been queans, 
 A' plump and strappi:i' in their teens ; 
 Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, 
 l?een snaw-wliite seventeen. bunder *iinen, — 
 'J'liir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
 That ance were plush o' good blue hair, 
 I wad hae gi'en them off my liurdics. 
 For ae blink o' the bonnie ijurdies !" -j- 
 
 To the last Burns was of opinion that Tam a' Slianfer was the best of 
 all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and 
 public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in 
 question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu- 
 tion of the ])iece, so fin- as it goes., leaves nothing to wish for; the OY\\y cri- 
 ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. 
 Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot 
 where he v.-as born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has 
 marked the progress of Tam's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- 
 dition. 
 
 " By this time he was cross the ford 
 
 W'hare in llie snaw the chapnuin smoor'd, 
 And past the biiks and nieikle sUuie, 
 W'barc dnicken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 And through the whins, and by t1ie ciirn, 
 A\'hare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; 
 And near the tlior;', aboon the well, 
 W'hare Mungo's mither hang'd hersell.'' 
 
 ^one of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was 
 Iain o" Slianter himself an imaginary character. ISlianter is a farm close 
 to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen 
 years old, studied mensuration, and " first became actjuainted with scenes 
 of swaggering riot." 'J"he then occupier of bhanter, by name Douglas 
 
 • " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on arced of 1 7*10 divisions." — Ciomrli, 
 
 -)- The above is (|u-,)tcd from a .^IS. journal of Oomck. .Mr. M'Diarmid confirms the 
 
 statement, and a(h!s, that llie iioet, liavmg coiumitted the verses to wiiting on the top of Ilia 
 
 Kj(l.h/kr (i\er tlie water, came into tlic house, and read them inmiodiatc'y m high triumph at 
 
 he tircside. 
 
LIFE OF HOnERT BURNS. 
 
 Ixxxix 
 
 ^iriihaino, \v;is. ])y all accounts, cquully what the Tarn of the poet appears, 
 — a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more hiterest in the contrat)and 
 trafiic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ; 
 antl to his dj'ing day, lie, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers 
 by the name of Tarn o' Shanter. 
 
 A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Klliesland. 
 Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, liappening to pass througli Nithsdalc in 1790, 
 met 15urns riding rapidly near (Jloseburn. The i)oet was obliged to pursue 
 iiis professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ramsay and his fellow-traveller 
 to Klliesland, where lie joined tlicm as soon as liis duty ])ermitted him, 
 saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed 
 in //asfr." Mr. Ramsay was " much ]ileased with his i/.ror Sah/'mt qttalh, 
 ^nd his modest mansion, so unlike tlie habitation of ordinary rustics." 
 The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temj)erament, 
 who looked in accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen- 
 ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. " Poor Burns!" say? 
 Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." 
 
 The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Elliesland, Mere 
 told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search of 
 him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw 
 a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap mode 
 of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose greai-coat, fastened round him by a 
 belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsword. It was 
 Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share 
 nis humble dinner." These tra»'ellers also classed the evening they s},eut 
 at I'^lliesland with the brightest '"f their lives. 
 
 Towards the close of 1791. tlie jioet, finally despairing of his farm, ae- 
 lermined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered 
 easy of arrangcmeni: ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi- 
 sion, v/hich raised his salary from the revenue to 170 per annum, removed 
 his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con- 
 duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and 
 lio nouri.sIied warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly 
 devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Elliesland, liowever, 
 with a heavy heai't. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its 
 early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roup of liis 
 farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of Avhisky, a very melancholy 
 scene. The competition for his chatties was eager, each being anxious to 
 secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is jileasing tc 
 knov,-. that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude, 
 Burns had superintended the formation of a subscription library in the parish. 
 His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much lionour : his 
 choice of author?, (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being 
 in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions are now conmion, almost 
 universal, indeed, in all the rural districts of southern Scotland : but it 
 flioiild never be forgotten that B>urns was among the first, if not the very 
 first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr Riddel, " as to 
 take the whole management of this concern ; he was treasurer, librarian, 
 and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his 
 public spirit, and exertions for their improvement. and information." Once, 
 and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Elliesland to revisit Edin- 
 burt'h. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; tiiat business ac 
 
«ic LIFE Or KOBEliT BURNS. 
 
 complishcci, he returntvi immediatelj, and he never again saw the capital 
 He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " T > a man who has a home, however 
 humble and remote, if that liome is, hke mine, the scene of domestic com- 
 fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust — 
 
 " Vain pomp and glor of the world, I hate you !" 
 
 " When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gap 
 sng blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, 
 •,vliat merits had he had, or what demerits have I had, in some state of! 
 pre- existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre 
 of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world, 
 the sport of folly or the victim of pride .... often as I have glided with 
 humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself 
 to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro- 
 portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have 
 [lushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out hia 
 iioms, or as we draw out a perspective ' 
 
CHAPTER nU. 
 
 Covfrvr<! Is more he.set In fmrn than connfry — 77/5 rnrhj I'or/raphrrs, (Dr. C'irrie not ex* 
 
 ccptixi), have coloured ton diirhly under thiit lieod — It is not correct to spenh of tlie poyt at 
 hnvhii] sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of /us rerels as other tlion orctisioniil, or of 
 tfieir huiint] irilerfeitd with the punctiiid disch(iri;e of his vfjiciul duties — He is shoirn to 
 have been the affectionate and beloved husband, aUhouyh passing follies imputed; and the 
 constant and most assid'ions instructor of his children — Impulses <f the French Iiev"liition 
 — Symptoms offratrri:isinp — J'hc attnitinn of his ijficicil superiors is called to them — Prac- 
 tically no blow is inflicted, only the bud name — Interestinij details tf this period — dives hit 
 whale soul to snny mahiuy — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attexd- 
 mnt facta, as to the portion (f his immortal lajj/s. 
 
 " The King's most humble ssnrant, i 
 Can scarcely s]),ire h. niinule? 
 Jvi'i. I am yours at diimer-thn-i. 
 Or else the devil's in iu" * 
 
 The fotir principal biograp!iers of our poet, Heron, Currie, Walker, ani 
 Irving, concur in tiio general statement, that his moral course from the 
 'jine when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more ot 
 .lie matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these : — 
 '• In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was 
 licre exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot 
 of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap- 
 prentices, young surgeons, merchants" clerks, and his brother excise- 
 men, flocked eagerly about him, and irom time to time pressed him to 
 drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian 
 Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- 
 ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of 
 course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept tlie 
 invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- 
 ing so much the scene of public anmsemcnt, not a little corrujUcd, and 
 though a husband and a father. Burns did not escape suffering by the gene- 
 al contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- 
 nals between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- 
 guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His .lean behaved with 
 a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made 
 liim feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not 
 reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants seme distressing shades 
 that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, 
 of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went 
 to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a tov^n, tluin lie b.ad be^n in 
 the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife liad her owu 
 
 ' "■ The al;Ove answer to an Liivitation was written extenipore on a leaf torn from his i'.j' 
 eise-book Crumek's MSS 
 
jccii LIFE OF ROBF.UT niJKXS. 
 
 panic Jir causes, sometimes, for dissatisfliction. But tliat Burns ever sunk 
 into a toper — that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot- 
 tle ever interfered with his discharj^e of his duties as an exciseman — or 
 that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec- 
 tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all 
 false. His intemperance was, as Heron says, xwjits; his aberrations of all 
 kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources 
 of exquisite misery in the retrospect; they were the aberrations of a man 
 whose moral sense was never deadened; — of one who encountered more 
 tem])tations from without and from within, than the immense majority ot 
 mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able 'o imagine ; — 
 of one, linally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could 
 be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which 
 the passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, 
 are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too 
 strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet Mas 
 careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at 
 EUiesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of 
 his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain, 
 that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of 
 his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of his 
 later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- 
 fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and I'aul : 
 and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Curric Th« 
 stiitenient h.as no doubt been exaggerated, but i^ has its foundalion in truth ; 
 and by the kindness of iMr. Tram, supervisor at Castle Douglas in Gailo- 
 way, 1 shall presently be enabled to give some details which may throw 
 light on this business. 
 
 Burns was much patronised when in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry 
 Krskinc, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of 
 the place — nmcli more so, to their honour be it said, than by any o'i the 
 influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Lllies- 
 land, .Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour. Mr. Riddel of I'riars Carse, 
 and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- 
 ed to tiie same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- 
 pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the 
 d'Strict, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he Mas 
 thrown, entertained sentiments of the same uescnption. Burns, Mhenever 
 in his letters he talks seriously of political matters, uniformly describes his 
 early jacabitisni as mere " matter of fancy." It may, houever, be easily 
 believed, that a fancy like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, was 
 well prepared to pass into certain other dreams, M'hich likewise involved 
 feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of 
 the old elements of political disaffection in .Scotland, put on a new shape at 
 the outbreaiJngof the Irench Revolution; and Jacobites became half jaco- 
 bins, ere tliey were at all aware in Mhat the doctrines of jacobinism Mcie 
 to end. Tlie Whigs naturally regarded the first daMU of freedom in lV;ince 
 witli feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but 
 universal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour- 
 bon despotism ; and thi>re Mere fev.' mIio more ardently participated in the 
 general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feehr.g that 
 .ook place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to <VMr 
 
LIFE OF ROBEUT BURN'S. xcii 
 
 the course of the rrcnth JJcvolution, and Burke lifted his powerful voices 
 was grea*. Scenes more painfi.d at the time, and more so even now in the 
 retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse- 
 quences oi" the rancour into which party feelings on both sides n.»w rose and 
 fermented. Old and dear tics of friendship were torn in sunder ; society 
 was for a time sh.aken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams oi 
 tiie Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi. 
 valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the 
 generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed 
 mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than luited. The very 
 name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had knov.n and loved 
 each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it 
 had been some loathsome pestilence. 
 
 There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town ol 
 Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- 
 tlemen's families of the south of Scotland, reelings that worked more 
 violently in Kdinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in 
 this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the 
 standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his ej)igrams, his songs, 
 were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- 
 less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many 
 of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- 
 gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King ( jeorge 
 the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- 
 dition, — a^d to be shunned accordingly. 
 
 The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions 
 vvhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns 
 Is a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous 
 period, a democrat In that department, as then conducted, I am assured 
 that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than 
 that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject, 
 unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- 
 tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what tiie exact termination 
 of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord- 
 ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood, Burns, i7iter alia, gave great of- 
 fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the 
 health of William Pitt ;" and lei't the room in indignation, because the so- 
 ciety rejected what he w^ished to substitute, namely, " the health of a 
 greater and a better man, George Washington." 1 suppose tlie warmest 
 admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days 
 to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of 
 these two great men. 1 he name of Washington, at all events, when con- 
 temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will 
 unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station 
 which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- 
 tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time 
 when Burns, being a servant of ?>Ir. Pitt's government, was guilty of this 
 indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than readied 
 the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc- 
 currence of the same sort. Burns tiros writes to a gentleman at whose 
 table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but 
 I am sober thi, morning. From the expressions Captain • made use 
 
KCiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. 
 
 of to me, had I liad nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
 certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces- 
 sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such 
 as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to 
 think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in 
 a drunken squabble. Farther, you kno^ that the report of certain political 
 opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink oi 
 destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same 
 way. ^ You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs. 
 Burns's welfare with the task of v/aiting on every gentleman who was pre- 
 sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- 
 ter all, was tlie obnoxious toast ? May our success in the preseTit war he equal 
 to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty 
 cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well 
 as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but 
 that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- 
 picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which Ciin only 
 be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings 
 on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy p"e- 
 riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than 
 that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinkino-. 
 or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, 
 or disapproving, of a particular measure of government, into the test of a 
 man's loyalty to his King ? 
 
 Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm 
 equally at command, was, we may. easily believe, the most hated of human 
 beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the 
 administration of v.diich he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in 
 his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of 
 the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, 
 after these j)rinciples had been really developed by those that maintained 
 them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in 
 all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. 
 His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to v.-ords ; and 
 though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792, 
 before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed 
 the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought 
 themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet. 
 
 At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of 
 INIan, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the 
 whole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under 
 the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself 
 zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the 
 27 th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Sol way 
 Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted 
 to v/atch her motions. !?he got into shallow water the day afterwards, and 
 the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, 
 and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewavs, a brother exciseman, 
 an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a 
 guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself 
 on a similar errand to Ecclefcchan, and Burns was left with some men un- 
 der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. Iron: 
 
f .- 
 
 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 \c^ 
 
 the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in mj^ hantk), it appears 
 that Burns manifested considerable impatience wliile thus occupied, being 
 (oft for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force which he knew to be 
 madequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of liis comrades 
 hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about Iiis 
 journey, the m.an answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his 
 pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon 
 the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself 
 among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them ihis 
 wsU-known ditty : — 
 
 " The de'il cum' ficUllinj; thro' the town, 
 And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
 And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' AnU i\Ialioun, 
 ' We wisli you luck o' the prize, man. 
 
 CiiOKUS — ' ^Ve'll mak' ourmaut, and brew our drink, 
 ' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; 
 ' And mony thanks to the muckle black ds'il 
 ' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman 
 
 ' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
 ' There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
 ' liut the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', 
 ' Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' " 
 
 Lewars arri^'ed shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting 
 himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to 
 Doard her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers v.cre 
 greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, 
 with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon 
 which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, 
 thought fit to i)urchase four carronadcs, by way of troph}^ But his glee 
 went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- 
 vention, requesting that body to accept of th.em as a mark of his admiration 
 and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the 
 custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to do':bt, 
 «-as the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of hi? ^^alous 
 superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one 
 knew and felt that v/e were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend 
 that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most sosurd a^d presump- 
 tuous breach of decorum. When lie learned the Impression that had been 
 created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to liis pa- 
 tron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the ie'bwing letter, dated December [lil^: 
 
 '• Sir, — 1 n.ave been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- 
 nhell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your 
 board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person 
 disaffected to government. iS'ir, you are a husband and a father. You 
 Lnow what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and 
 your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded 
 and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- 
 pected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist- 
 ence. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot? and from the 
 damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I believe. Sir, I 
 , may aver it, and in the sigiit of Onnu'science, that I would not tell a deli- 
 
iC-H 
 
 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 berate faisebood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, thas 
 those I have mentioned, hung over my head. And I say that ilie allega- 
 tion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution, 
 on revolution principle;, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached 
 You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows hzwi 
 warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you 
 Fortune, Sir, has made you j)o\\'crful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- 
 tronage, and me dependence. I would not, Ibr my single self, call on 3'our 
 humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, I would disperse 
 the tear that now swells in my eye ; 1 couid brave mist'ortune ; I could face 
 ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thousand doors stand open.' 15ut, good God ! 
 the tender concerns li .ct I have mentioned, the claims and ties tliat I see 
 at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither 
 resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have 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, \>ith mv 
 latest breath, I will say I have not deserved !" 
 
 On the "^d of January, (a week or two afterwards), we find him writing to 
 Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — " Mr. C. can be of little service to me at 
 present ; at leas-t, 1 should be shy of ajij-lying. I cannot probably be set- 
 tled as a supervisor for several years. 1 must wait the rotalinn of lists, 
 &:c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my 
 political principles, and I wish to let th.at matter settle before I offer my- 
 self too nuich m the eye of my superiors. 1 liave set henceforth a sea! en 
 my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my senti- 
 ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- 
 tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in 
 the blast tliat announces the destructive demon. But " 
 
 " The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " lias been torn av.ay by 
 some barbarous hand." — Th.ere can be little doubt that it was torn away by 
 one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and 
 :!i-om the most praise-worth motive. 
 
 The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has 
 been said above, in obscurity; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be 
 withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, aj)pears to have 
 gone forth, that th.e affair terminated in something which i'urns himsch 
 considered as tantamount to the destruction of all hope of future promo- 
 tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one 01 
 Ills biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even 
 fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his 
 life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least) 
 ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter Scot: 
 has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The 
 political predilections," says l>e, " for they could hardly be termed princi- 
 ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At h;'s first ap- 
 pearance, he felt, or affected, a ])ropensity to Jacobitisin. Indeed, a youth 
 of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty yca-'s ago, could hard!}' escape 
 this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of so.md sense 
 ,ind sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and hi^b achievement. The 
 madecjuacy of the means by which that prince aaempted to regs'n the 
 ■""oun furJ'cited by his lathers, the stran;^e and almost poetical adventures 
 
r IFE OF ROBEIl r BURXS. xcvii 
 
 wliicli he uiulerw'L'nt, — the Scottisli martial cliaractcr, honoured in his vic- 
 tories, and dei^raded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales oi' the veterans 
 who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress 
 upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of 
 Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast; for l>urns him- 
 self acknov.-Iedges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 240), tliat ' to tell 
 the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- 
 dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way oi' rire Id ba(/(ttelie.' The 
 same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed iJurns in his choice of [loli- 
 tical tenets, when the country was agitated by '•evolutionary principles, 
 'riiat the poet should have chosen tlie side on whicli high talents wure 
 most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- 
 tions of society were always odious, should have listened with comjjla 
 cence to the voice of French philosopliy, which denounced them as usur- 
 pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Vet 
 we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise de])artment had 
 tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they 
 might have spared themselves the di<gr(tcn of rendering desperate the pos- 
 sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is hut too ccrldin., that from the 
 moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- 
 sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened liis 
 hfe. We doubt not, that in that awful period of national discord, he had 
 done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- 
 ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan 
 was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and 
 perhaps successfully. The conduct of i\Ir. Graham of Fintray, our poet's 
 only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects tlie high- 
 est credit on that gentleman." 
 
 In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, wlio can refuse to 
 concur? but I am bound to sa}', that after a careful examination of all th.e 
 documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access. I have great 
 doubts as to some of the. principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- 
 ment. I have before me, lor example, a letter of INIr. Findlater, formerly 
 Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's inmie- 
 diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that very respectable per- 
 son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac 
 cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took 
 place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps 
 a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither (!o 
 J believe his promotion w^as thereby affected, as has been stated. That, 
 nad he lived, would, I liave every reason to think, have gone on in the 
 usual routine. His good and steady friend ?.Ir. (Jraham would have attended 
 to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on thi 
 account ? or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature 
 grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne do« n by the pressure 
 of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it uould occasionally revive, 
 and like an expiring lamp, emit bright fiashes to the last." 
 
 When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- 
 ed m Uumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is 
 very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours 
 but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi- 
 cess, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the gr»at 
 
yrviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 est possible favourite with his brothers in arms. His conimanding officer 
 Colonel I)e Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem 
 her of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the 
 last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service tc 
 the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- 
 ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- 
 ception of Uibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," 
 says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has 
 
 stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse Wis poor aim 
 
 honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- 
 where sung v,-ith an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's 
 Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which 
 sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port; and 
 the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish 
 this exquisite and useful song, with Scots wha hue ivi' Wallace bled,— the 
 Sony of Death, and Does haughty Gaul Invasion Threat,— a\\ lyrics which 
 enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had 
 obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- 
 membered by the rich to his prejudice— his imperishable lyrics were re- 
 warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants." 
 
 Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — {Mr. 
 James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much oi 
 Burns both" as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as- 
 sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person wlio gives any thing 
 like an exact statement : and according to him. Burns was admonished 
 " that it was his business to act, not to think"')— in whatever language the 
 censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had 
 any cause to suppose that Ins hopes of ultimate promotion v.ere extinguish- 
 ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. 
 I'indlater, who had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his 
 confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence 
 of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help 
 thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns, 
 the year before he died, was permitted to oc^ as a Supervisor ; a thing not 
 likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting 
 him "in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. 
 
 On V.ie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been 
 dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to 
 Burns as affixing"^ r//,sY/m«' to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty 
 unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of M'ord and deed, 
 was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- 
 traction, it behoved a public oliiccr, gifted with talents and necessarily with 
 influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that 
 passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation 
 that Burns's subsetjuent conduct effaced the unfavourable imi)ression creat- 
 ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits 
 pf their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by 
 illness and death. '1 hese Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub- 
 ordinate ofiicers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un- 
 der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent, 
 appears to be made out ; that thn/ could have been justified in trying it to a 
 farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the govenmient 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT RURNS. xcix 
 
 af the country itself, I must say I think it is much more difficult to defend 
 tlieni. Mr. l^itt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension of X'-OO a-year for writ- 
 ing liis Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did 
 begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs 
 as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons wlio had 
 every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater 
 than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such 
 quarters as these, would have been at once safe and graceful. What the 
 minor politicians of the day thought of Durns's poetry I know not ; but 
 Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " 1 can think of 
 no verse," said the great Minister, when I'urns was no more — " I can think 
 of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com- 
 ing sweetly from nature." * 
 
 Mad Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lcpaux or Carnot, or 
 a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been 
 more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every- 
 body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- 
 ing that in such cases as this, that v,-hich the general voice of the country 
 does admit to be everj-body's business, comes in fact to be the business oi 
 those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. 
 
 To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some> 
 what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually- 
 guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- 
 ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his 
 residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent 
 man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- 
 lieves to be true. 
 
 " Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the 
 popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- 
 licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from 
 his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours 
 and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by 
 which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon- 
 siderable share of his admiration : he was, theretbre, a zealous advocate of 
 constitutional reform. The necessity of this he oiten supported in conver- 
 sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- 
 dence that he ever went farther. Lie was a member of no political club. 
 At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- 
 ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in 
 tlieir debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre- 
 spond with them in any form whatever. Tliough limited to an income 
 which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused lot) a- 
 year ofl'ered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition 
 paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject 
 this proposal, liis independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- 
 
 • I am assured that Mr. Pitt used these words nt the table of tlie late Lord Liverjiool, 
 soon after Burns's dcLith. Ilow th;it event might come to be a natural topic of conversation 
 at that table, v.-ill be seen in the sequel. 
 
 + Air. (iray removed from the scliool of Dumfnes to the High Scliix)l of Edinburgh, in 
 which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. lie tlien be- 
 came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into iioly orders, 
 and died a few years since in the East Indies, as ofhciating chanlwin to tJie (jjniixmy in the 
 presidency sf 31adras. 
 
c LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may Lave been his opinion 
 of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not thmk it right to 
 fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." 
 
 The satemcnt about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning 
 Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the 
 proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen 
 in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in 
 accordance with what Mr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed 
 Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet 
 declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment 
 was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban 
 doning. * 
 
 Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar 
 scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the 
 squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely 
 espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very 
 effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- 
 bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was 
 written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of 
 boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of VVesterhall, and Mr. Miller the 
 younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- 
 tron's family. There is much humour in it : — 
 
 THE FIVE CARLINES. 
 
 1. There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme, 
 To send a lad to Lur.nun town to bring them tidings hanie, 
 Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there. 
 And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 
 
 2. There was Maa^y by the banks o' Nith, -f a dame w' pride eneugb, 
 And ."Marjorj o" the Alonylochs, J a carline auld and teugh ; 
 
 And blii\kin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near iSolway-side, 
 And wliisky Jean that took her gill in (ialloway sae wide; j| 
 And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, % o' gipsy kith and kin, — 
 Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within. 
 
 3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day. 
 
 And nioiiy a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae, 
 But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a anc but tway. 
 
 4. The first he was a belted knight, •* bred o' a border clan, 
 And he wad gae to Lunnun town, inighi nae man him withstan'. 
 And he wad do theii errands weel., and m-eikle he wad say, 
 And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 
 
 6. The next came in a sodger youth, ■f-f and spak wi' modest grace, 
 And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their ])leasure was ; 
 He wadna hccht them courtly gifts, nor meiklc speech pretend, 
 Lut he wad hecht an honest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 
 
 6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, 
 For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themsei.. 
 
 7- Then out spak mim-mou'd 3Ieg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride, 
 • And she wad send the sodger youtli, whatever might betide ; 
 
 For the auld guidman o' Lunnun JJ court slie didna care a pin ; 
 But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ 
 
 " This is stated on the au'hority of Major Jliller. 
 
 •|- Dumfries. * Latlnnaljen. § Annan. |[ Kirkcudbright 
 
 ^Sanquhar. "• Sir J. Johnstone. '-f-f Major MUler. 
 
 tJ George HI. *\!^ The Prince of Wales. 
 
 ^_- .il. J I J .M 
 
r.IFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. ci 
 
 R. Then up sprang Bess o' Annaijdale, and a deadly ;iitli slie's tacn. 
 That slie wad vnte the border kni^^hl, thouj^li slie >houkl vote her lane; 
 For far-aff fowls liae tcuhers fair, and fools o' clianf,'c arc fain ; 
 But 1 liae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet again. 
 
 9. Says black .Joan frae Cricluon Peel, a carline stoor and grim, 
 
 Tiie auld guidman, and the young guidnian, for nie may sink or swim; 
 For fools will Treat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn; 
 But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 
 
 10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink. Ye weel ken. kimmers a% 
 The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's lieen at the wa' ; 
 And niony a fiiend that kiss't his cup, is now a freniit wight. 
 
 But it's nt'er bt said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 
 
 11. Then slow raise .Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, 
 Her ancient weed was ru«set gray, her auld Scots bluid was true; 
 
 There's some great folks set light by me I set as light by them ; 
 
 But I will sen' to Lunnun toun wliam I like best at name. 
 
 12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, rae mortal wight can tell, 
 (Jod grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. 
 
 T!ic above is far the best humoured of these productions. The e.ection 
 to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe 
 contest, and at a very heavy expense. 
 
 These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the 
 chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- 
 lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by 
 
 Burns's venom, when 
 
 He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, 
 
 And pours his vengeance in the burning line;" 
 
 find represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as 
 leading a choral shout that 
 
 He for his heresies in church and state, 
 
 Jliglu richly merit iMuir's and Pahiier's fate." 
 
 But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of 
 people, was sure to connect liim more strongly with the passions, and, un- 
 fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we 
 have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I 
 quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs, 
 Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to 
 the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, 
 that in my way of life 1 want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- 
 sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing 
 whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- 
 ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was 
 guilty of such excess. 
 
 This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to 
 expatiate. 
 
 " Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter 
 years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- 
 ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called 
 in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- 
 gerated view of the failings of my brother's lite at that period, which is cer- 
 tainly to be regretted.'" — " I love Dr. Currie," says the IJev. James Gray., 
 already more than once referred to, but 1 love the picmory of Burns more 
 
en LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth 
 The poet of The Cottars Saturday Night, who felt all the charms of the 
 humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged, (in Dr Curries Nar- 
 rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- 
 ed of his species. As 1 knew him duruig that period of his life emphati- 
 cally called his evil days, I am enabled to speak from my oum 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, be- 
 cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but 
 I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him 
 It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- 
 tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- 
 ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- 
 som of his family he spent many a delightfid 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 Eng- 
 lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of 
 heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- 
 torians I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like 
 these are consistent with habitual drunheiiness ? 
 
 '• It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of lu'm. 
 He was of a social and convivial nature. Me was courted by all classes ot 
 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 struck, like the fire from hea- 
 ven ; but even in t!ie liour of thoughtless gaity and merriment, I never 
 knew it tainted by indecency. It v/as playful or caustic by turns, follow- 
 ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or 
 amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, 
 but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossncss. In his 
 morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last 
 night's mtempcrance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was 
 the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From 
 his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- 
 lestial mien. \\ hile his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, 
 and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate. 
 If would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting 
 and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading 
 was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately 
 acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the 
 poets by heart 'Hie prose authors he could quote either in their own 
 A'ords, 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 memoiy, his imagination, were fresh 
 and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottar s Saturday Night. The 
 truth is, that Burns was seldom into.iicalcd. The drunkard soon becomc'S 
 besotted, and is shunned even Dy the convivial. Had lie been so, he could 
 not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- 
 sed, that tiie hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond ti'ie limit 
 marked by prudence: but what man will venture to affirm that in siiua- 
 tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at al! 
 imes liave listened to her voice .'' 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ciil 
 
 "■ The men with whom he generall)' associated, v/crt not cf the lowest 
 ordor He numoered among his intimate friends, many of the most respco 
 table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vieinity. Several of those were at 
 tached to him by tics that the hand of ealunniy, busy as it was. could ne 
 ver snap asunder. They admired the |)oct for his genius, and loved the 
 man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His earlj 
 friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity 
 that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- 
 vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in 
 this country, and not a "iiiw females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. 
 They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment 
 of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misibrtunes, and 
 they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue 
 alone inspires." 
 
 I'art of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on sitbjects, 
 as to which Mr. Tindlater's statement must be considered as of not merely 
 sulFicient, but the very highest authority. 
 
 " .My connexion with Itobert Burns," says that most respectable man, 
 " commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con- 
 tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of 
 his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch, of my especial pro 
 vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer 
 of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country 
 men. In the former capacity, h.e was exemplary in his attention ; and 
 was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of 
 •.vhich, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from 
 him to myself, in a case of only .•^ffw/wr/ inattention. — ' I know, ^ir, and re- 
 gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- 
 ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and as the gentle- 
 man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the s'lngle in- 
 stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or imprcjiriety in my conduct as 
 an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character sliaU fall a sa- 
 crifice to the dark manoeuvres of a smuggler." — This of itself affords more 
 than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he 
 would have written in such a style tn me., but from the impulse of a consci- 
 ous rectitude in this department of his duty, indeed, it was not till near 
 the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and 
 this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating 
 infirmities. 1 will further avow, that i never saw him, «hich was very li-e- 
 quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, 
 after he removed to Dumfries, but in liours of business he wa -juite liini- 
 self, and capable of discharging the dities of liis office; nor ivas he ever 
 known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore- 
 noon. ... 1 have seen Burns in all his various phases, in hisconviviaJ 
 moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family ; indeed, I 
 believe 1 saw more of him than any other individual kad occasion to see, 
 after he became an Excise officer, and 1 never beheld any thing like the 
 gross enormities with which he is now charged: That when set down in 
 an e^ening with a lew friends whom he liked, he was apt to prolong tlie 
 social hour beyond the bounds which prudence v.ould dictate, is unques 
 
 ' Mr. Findlater watched by Burr.s the i.ii;lit before he died. 
 
civ LIFE OF nOBERT BURXS. 
 
 tiorvable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other 
 wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." 
 
 These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from 
 men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which 
 they know to be untrue. 
 
 To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, the}' were, it is obvious, and 
 that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own 
 dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times 
 with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- 
 dered the nervous susce])tibi]ity and haughtiness of Burns's character can 
 hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No 
 one knev/ better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- 
 sons as were most likely to take the ireedom of admonishing him un points 
 of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more 
 amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicolk . . 
 " O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon 
 of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- 
 headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy 
 supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
 rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wietch, of whom the 
 zigzag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- 
 pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble 
 rav of tl.at light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straiirht as the 
 arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of uispiration, may it be my 
 portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa» 
 ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet 
 among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, 
 so be it ! 
 
 " For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !"' &c. &c. &c. 
 
 To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, 
 might not such a Tii quoc/ue be addressed ! 
 
 ihe strongest argument in favour of those mIio denounce the statements 
 of Heron. C'urrie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the 
 poet, during tiie laUer years of his career, as culj^ably and egregiously ex- 
 ai;gerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole, Lurns gave sa- 
 tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- 
 nue service ; he, nioreover, as Mr. Gra}' tells us, (and upon this ground 
 Mr. Cray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- 
 cation of his children, and spent more hours in their private tuition than 
 fathers who have more leisure than his cxcisenianship left liim. are oiten 
 in the custom of so bestowing. — " Me was a kind and attentive father, and 
 took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds 
 of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he 
 did not. like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public schoois ; 
 he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great 
 pains in training their minds to liabits of thought and reflection, and in 
 keiping tlicm pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa- 
 cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili- 
 gence. W ith his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he 
 iiad read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in 
 Dur language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in 
 Uie study of Latin. This bov at ended the (jrammar School of Dumfries 
 
LIFE OF ROBEUT BURNS. <;v 
 
 and soon attracted my notice by the sl.-ength of Iiis talent, and the n, ilour 
 ot'his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thous^ht it rigiit 
 to advance him a form, and he bc\L^an to read Cicsar, and gave mc transla- 
 tions of t!iat author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry, 
 I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able 
 to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the au- 
 thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed thai polished and forcible 
 English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- 
 dent merely to show what minute attention lie paid to tins imp .tant 
 branch of parental -luty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote, 
 after his removal t :> Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable 
 length, ( 'J'ai/t o S)uinter\ his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to 
 Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. (ieorge Thomson, furnish 
 undeniable proof that, in whatever /VV.v of dissipation he unhappily indulg- 
 ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual 
 grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in 
 .question have not hesitated to hold up to the conmiiseration of mankind. 
 
 01" his letters written at Klliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo 
 volumes have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would 
 be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, 
 has been published to enable ever}' reader to judge for himself of the cha- 
 racter of IJurns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism 
 bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural 
 the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than 
 belong-; to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in 
 point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes 
 strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great 
 body of elaborate prose-writing. 
 
 We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to 
 Johnsons Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a 
 lively interest in that work : and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- 
 cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherro 
 unpubHshed. and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely, 
 anrl most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Wix. Cromek saw 
 among .h)hnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into 
 the coUet-tion, in Burns's handwriting. 
 
 His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- 
 ed in September 1792; and .Mr. (iray justly says, that whoever considers 
 Iiis correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself must be satis- 
 fied, that from that time till the connuenccment of his last illness, not 
 many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new 
 stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, for the niost part embellished 
 with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, 
 and criticisms, iiurns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The 
 songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at 
 the head of all our poet's performances: it is by none disputed that very 
 many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed 
 nuieli more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and 
 K\w. taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions 
 of that ovei-\iarm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- 
 
 • Letter from the Hev. James Gray to I\lr. Gilbert Burns. See liis KsliuoJi, vol. I A^ 
 pendix. No. v. 
 
cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 fusions. Burns knew that he was now engaged on a work destined for tlic 
 eye and ear of refinement ; he kiboured throughout, under the salutary feel- 
 ing, " virginibus puerisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap- 
 py indeed for his own fame — for the Hterary taste, and the national music, 
 of Scotland ; and, what is of far liigher importance, the moi'al and national 
 feelings of his countrymen. 
 
 in almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed 
 in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect. 
 He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- 
 respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels 
 never ventured on more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy 
 — following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; 
 and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett 
 might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be 
 the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste 
 and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in 
 silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned 
 only his own feelings ; but in writing to .Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion 
 either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs," 
 says he, " gravel me to death. 1 have not that command of the language 
 that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for naniby- 
 pambj'. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There 1 am al- 
 ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort of 
 national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his 
 native land from her peculiar idiom, 'i he " genius ioci" v.as never v>"or- 
 shipped more fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says 
 he, " that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I 
 made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its 
 rise, Lnclutber and the Braes of Balloiclcii excepted. So far as the locality, 
 either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascer- 
 tained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish 
 Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch Avith an irreverent 
 hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution 
 for the pleasure of strangers. " '1 here is," says he, \ " a naivete, a pas- 
 toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
 which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and 1 will add, to every ge- 
 nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of 
 our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let 
 me give you : — Whatever Mr. Meyel does, let him not alter one iota of 
 the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- 
 tional music preserve its native features. 'Ihey are, 1 own, frequently 
 wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
 city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." § 
 
 ()(' the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, 
 his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," say? 
 he, 'ith April \l'^^, "how nmch this business has added to my enjoy- 
 ments. \\ hat with my early attachment to ballads, your book and baliad- 
 
 • Correspondence with ."Mr. 'J'liomson, p. 111. -f- Ibid. p. fiO. J Ibid. p. ','A\. 
 
 ^ It iii.'iy aiiiUNC tlic rc'iidur to lu;ir, tliut iji spite of all liiiri.s's success in tlie use of liis native 
 dialect, even un eminently s])iriucl bookseller to whom the iii;.nuscri|'t cf W averlty was m;1). 
 mitted, hesitated for some ti;ne abnut publisJiiiiK H, o" accouiit of tlie Scots dialoi;ue Literwo- 
 ven in ilie novcL 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii 
 
 ■T.r.kiiig are now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fcrtification was 
 Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
 race, (God tyrant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, 
 cheerfully looking back on the honest Iblks with whom 1 have been hap- 
 py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last 
 looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall 
 be ' (lood niglit, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " * 
 
 " Until I am comj)lete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, 
 I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider 
 the poetic sentiit.ent correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, 
 — then clioose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, 
 which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
 down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in 
 unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my 
 bosom, — hunnning every now and then the air, with the verses 1 have fram- 
 ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary tire- 
 side of my study, aiul there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at in- 
 tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own 
 critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- 
 variably my way. — What cursed egotism !" f 
 
 In this correspondence with Mr. Thon;son, and in Cromck's later pul)li- 
 cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu- 
 lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- 
 ten, fhey are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poet's per- 
 sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- 
 nion of his own individual life. A new l^ood of light has just been poured 
 on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish 
 Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular 
 volumes too. it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's 
 history. The reader must be contented with a few general memoranda ; 
 
 " Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- 
 spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him v.ith enthusiasm, 
 or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No, no. When- 
 ever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal 
 to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
 nation ? Tout au contrail e. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for 
 his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst 
 he pi])ed to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- 
 ing a fine woman." \ 
 
 " I can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- 
 sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not 
 make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, 
 
 " Wliere love is liberty, and nature law." 
 
 Musically speaking, the first is an Instrument, of which the gamut is scanty 
 and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers 
 etiual to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a 
 very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. Th^ welfare and hap])iness oj 
 ,he beloved ol)ject is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervader> m) 
 
 • Correspondence witli I\lr. 'I'iiouison, p. 57- + Ibid- P- USl- 
 
cvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 soal ; and — ^vhatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they 
 might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having 
 these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity 
 disdains the purchase." * 
 
 Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which 
 begins, 
 
 " Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 
 A place where bouy saw na'." 
 
 Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while 
 the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate oi 
 the performance. 
 
 There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, 
 and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto, 
 and Sco** has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances." 
 
 " Had we never loved sae kindly, 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 Never met — or never parted, 
 "We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- 
 witching songs. 
 
 I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions 
 rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. 
 " Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet'f 
 character as a husband, but without the slightest proof; and I might pass 
 from the charge with that neglect which it merits ; but I am happy to say 
 that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, 
 among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the 
 memory of lier departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of 
 the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, 
 or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of 
 the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an 
 habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, 
 which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou- 
 sand anonymous calumnies." f 
 
 Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. 
 Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place. 
 V^'e have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled 
 when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- 
 ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" 
 and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a 
 wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the 
 puet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one 
 more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. 
 
 - Come, winter, wiih thine angry howl, 
 And raging Lend the naked tree — " 
 
 " There is liardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any 
 earthly ol^ject gives me mere — I do not know if I should call it pleasure 
 
 • Correspondence with ]Mr. Thomson, p. 101. 
 
 + Letter in Gilbert liurns's Edition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ci« 
 
 ^but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than 
 to walk in the sheltered side ■/ a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the 
 stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my 
 best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to 
 Him, who, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' M-alks on 
 the wings of the wind.' " — To the lust, his best poetry was ^:iKVaced anaidal 
 scenes of Roiema desolation. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Co**lNTS. — The poets morfal period approaches — Tits jeculiar temperament — Symptoms of 
 prenuiture old (uie — These not diminished ht/ narrow circumstances, by cliagrin from ncfflcct, 
 and by the death of a Dauohter — The poet misses public patronage : and even the fair fruits 
 of Id's on I genius — the apjinpriation of ichich is debated for the casuists who yielled to hint 
 merely the shell — His magnanimity iclien death is at hand; his interviews, conversations, 
 and addresses as a dying man — Dies, 2\st July 1796 — Public funeral, at which many at- 
 tend, and amongst the rest the future Preniier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- 
 hnowledge the poet, living — His family munificently provided fur by the public — Analysis of 
 character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings 
 iy Scott, Campbell, liyrun, and others. 
 
 " I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
 AVith all a poet's, husband's, father's fear.** 
 
 We are drawing near tlie close of this great poet's mortal career ; and 1 
 would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu- 
 mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, pure and unde- 
 based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings. 
 
 For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficiently 
 plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- 
 trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- 
 serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose, 
 delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — 
 to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it? the tem- 
 porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the 
 essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thouglit it his duty, as a biographer, 
 to extract and circulate. 
 
 A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once 
 had occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- 
 ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about tliis 
 time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady 
 side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay 
 with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together lor the 
 festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. 
 The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him 
 to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — tliat's all over 
 nov.';" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baiilie's 
 pathetic ballad, — 
 
 " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
 liisauld ane look'il Ijcttcr thun iiiony ane's new; 
 But now h',' lets't wear on y way it will hinj;, 
 And ca^ts hiniscll dowie ui)oii ihe corn-bini:. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxi 
 
 ' O were we yn\inp, as we anre hae been, 
 W'c sud liae hven Kallopiii;,' doun on yon green, 
 And linking it ower the lilywliite lea, — 
 And zvcrcita my heart light I wad die.'* 
 
 Tt was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es- 
 cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed 
 the spriglitliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend 
 homo Avith him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball 
 arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of 
 some verses which he had recently composed. 
 
 The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual 
 term of human existence, might have done so much to increase his fame 
 as a poet, and to purity and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too 
 probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it 
 seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood bed been a 
 course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily 
 constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the 
 toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any 
 thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an 
 intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative were 
 sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who 
 ol'ten shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, 
 when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those 
 ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi- 
 tation and suffocation" of which (iilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- 
 turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water 
 by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course 
 of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief. On 
 a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- 
 vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any 
 subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi- 
 lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing 
 either of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! 
 
 " The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the 
 poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- 
 lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- 
 ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative 
 view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but 
 how thev are formed to bear. Take a bcinjr of our kind, aive him a stronger 
 imagination and a more delicate sensibility, v.hich between them will ever 
 engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of 
 man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as 
 arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper t(. 
 his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows 
 in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short 
 send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from 
 the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man 
 iving for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure 
 of his Moes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and 
 you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." 
 
 " Letter to ^Miss Chalmers in 1793. 
 
CIXll 
 
 LIFE OF IlOBERr BURNS. 
 
 In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Buri.s has traced his owh 
 character far better than any one else has done it since. — But with this lot 
 what pleasures were not mingled ? — " To you. Madam," he proceeds, " I 
 need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse besto.vs to counterbalance 
 this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she 
 has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels oi 
 wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difliculties, baiting 
 them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
 whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our 
 happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's 
 solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- 
 ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
 raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" 
 
 It is common to say of those who over-indulge tliemselves in material 
 stimulants, that they Uvcfist ; what wonder that the career of the poet's 
 tliick-coming fancies should, in the immense majority of cases, be rapid 
 too? 
 
 That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant 
 evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- 
 celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all 
 necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," 
 as Mr. \v'ordswort!i says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, 
 " through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of 
 the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to 
 dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as I'aisc 
 sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the 
 testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by hlf own hand — 
 in words the import of wliich cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded 
 that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his 
 views. It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by 
 strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- 
 sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : 
 and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many 
 peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and 
 many accessary iniluences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would 
 have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — 
 
 " One pouit must still be f^eatly dark, 
 
 The nionng why they do it : 
 And just as lamely can ye mark, 
 
 How far perhaps they rue iu 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man, 
 
 Still gentlier sister woman — 
 Though they may gang a kennin' wrang; 
 
 To step aside is hun:an," 
 
 touid not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic torce by any 
 poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it m ere felt that, 
 like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors • 
 and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed 
 sown fro'n above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suilering.' 
 
 In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his 
 end, it is needless to conjecture, 'i licy liad their share, uncjuestionably, 
 along with otlier influences which it would be inhuman to tluiracterise ab 
 
LIFE OF ROBEIIT BWRXS. c.xii 
 
 mere follies — such, for cxanii)!e. as tliat Lrt^neral depression of s])!r!ts wliii-h 
 liaiii ted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily or 
 such, a being as JJurns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or 
 oven a casual nxp; t'ssion of discouraging tendency from the persons on 
 whose gooa-will ail hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world- 
 ly promotion depended, — or that pmital exclusion from the s]iecies of so- 
 ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from 
 liowever inadequate causes, certainly did occur during s( me of the latter 
 years of his life. — All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold 
 tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive 
 minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tenq)ting 
 to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let 
 the following letter speak. — It was written February 25, 17'J-i, and addres- 
 sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and 
 faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his 
 
 fa:nily " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ? 
 
 Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without 
 one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may 
 overwhelm her? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as tlie tor- 
 tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the 
 blast ' If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb 
 me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two mo;:tiis I 
 have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and franse were ab ori- 
 giiie, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my 
 existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary 
 share in the ruin of these »**** times — los'res which, though trilling, were 
 yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times 
 could only be envied hy a rep'obate spirit listening to the sentence that 
 dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I 
 have exhausted in reflection every topic of comlbrt. A heart at ease wo\dd 
 liave been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself, I 
 was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
 the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 
 Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- 
 tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a 
 certain noble, stubborn something in man. known by the names of courage, 
 fortitude, magnanimity. The otjikk is made up of those feelings and sen- 
 timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure 
 them, are yet, 1 am convinced, original and component parts of the human 
 soul; \\\o?,c sv uses of t lie mind, \i' V m?iy he allowed the expression, which 
 connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all power- 
 ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and 
 the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams 
 on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
 time can never cure. 
 
 " I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
 on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as tlie trick 
 o'^the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many; or at most as an uncer- 
 tilin obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with v/hich 
 tl ey are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel 
 with a man for his irreligion, any more than 1 would for his want of a nm- 
 sical ear. 1 would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to 
 
cxiv LIFE 01' ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 others, wQtc such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this poii t ot view 
 and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child oi 
 mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- 
 timent, and taste, I shall thus add la'*gely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
 myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk, 
 will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
 lighted v/ith the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him, 
 wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balm}^ gales, and enjoy the 
 growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth 
 of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's 
 God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary 
 s})here, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
 pnthusiasm of Thomson, 
 
 ' These, as they chanj^e, 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 I ask what of the delights 
 among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them ? And they 
 have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her 
 own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the jiresence of a witness- 
 ing, judging, and approving God." 
 
 They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who 
 have ])ermitt.ed themselves to believe that his only consolations were those 
 of " the opiate guilt applies to grief," will do well to pause over this noble 
 letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under wliich he was destined 
 to sink, had already beaten in the outworks of his constitution when these 
 lines were penned. The reader has already had occasion to observe, that 
 Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually 
 v/ith pecuniary difficulties, than which nothing could have been more like- 
 ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively 
 imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil ; and this among, and per- 
 haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding 
 to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to 
 have been of very trivial amount at tiie worst, which we also know he him- 
 self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is 
 impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all 
 times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last 
 consideration, howev^jr, was one which would have given slender relief to 
 Burns. How he shmk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- 
 niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- 
 ready. 
 
 The following extract, from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated 
 December 179.'i, will speak for itself: — " i-ir, it is said that we take the 
 greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and i pay myself a very high 
 coinj>liment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. 1 
 have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any num. — Here is 
 Ker's account, and here are six guineas; and now, I don't owe a shilling 
 to man, or woman either. But for these danmed dirty, dog"s-t?ared little 
 pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on 
 von long ago. Independent of the obligations yoiir hospita'ity has laic 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxv 
 
 me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man ap 1 
 j2^cntlenian of itself was fully as uiucli as I could ever make head against 
 but to oue you money too, was more than I could face. 
 
 Tlie question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out his 
 beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- 
 son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- 
 tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently ealcu- 
 hited for i)opu]arity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very 
 obvious question. The poet himself in a letter to Mr. ("arfrae, dated 
 1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I 
 hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne"s relations 
 are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- 
 self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. .Johnson for any pecu- 
 niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- 
 pears from a passage in Cromek'j lleliques, that the })oet asked a single 
 copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour to 
 himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received 
 at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his 
 book I know nothing ; but the Correspondence of Curns with Mr. Thomson 
 contains curious cnouirh details concernintr his connexion with that eentie- 
 man's more important undertaking. At the outset, »Sej)tembcr i'i'J"J, we 
 find Mr. Thomson saying, " W'e will esteem your poetical assistance a 
 particular flivcur, besides paying any reasonable ])riee 30U shall please to 
 demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we 
 are resolved to save neither pains oor expense on the publication." To 
 v.hich Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think 
 my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one 
 or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your un- 
 dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, iS.c. would be downright pros- 
 titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I 
 shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, G'ude spcca 
 the icark" The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in 
 the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, Ist July 1 HJ3, where 
 he says, " I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- 
 site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a ]^oor re- 
 turn for what you have done : as I shall be benefited by the publication, 
 you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat 
 it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, 
 if 3'ou do, our correspondence is at an end." To wliich letter (it inclosed 
 i6) Burns thus replies : — " I assure j'ou my dear ^^ir, that you truly hurt 
 me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. How- 
 ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of 
 that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that lionour which crowns the 
 upriglit statue of liobert Burns's integritj- — on tl'.e least motion of it, I 
 will indignantl}' spurn the by-past transaction, ar.d from th.at moment com- 
 mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- 
 ment and inde[)endence of mind will, I trust, loi'.g outlive any of his wants 
 wliich the cold unfeeling ore can sui)ply : at least, 1 will take care that 
 Buch a character he shall deserve." — In November 17y4', we find Mr. Thom- 
 son writing to Burns, " Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In .May 
 179.3, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited 
 the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of Tht Coiturs ^alurdui/ S'ic/lit 
 
CXVI 
 
 LIFE OF ROBRRT BURN'S. 
 
 b}'' Allan) ; " I do not tliink I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem 
 and respect yor., for the liberal and kind manner ;n which you have enter 
 ed into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfectei, 
 without you. So 1 beg you would not make a fool of me again by speak 
 ing of obligation." In February 179(3, we have Burns acknowledging a 
 
 " handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. 
 
 Lastly, on the l'2th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week 
 before Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After 
 all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you 
 for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- 
 count, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, 
 and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that 
 sura, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor- 
 rors of a jail have put me half distrnacted. — I do not ask this gratuitously, 
 for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
 w^ith five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To 
 which Mr. Thomson replies — " F^ver since 1 received your melancholy let- 
 ter by Mrs. Ilyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner I could en- 
 deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again 1 thought of a pe- 
 cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, 
 and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. 
 1 thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the l:^th, 
 and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- 
 ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your 
 
 sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume 
 
 of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of 
 
 your labour ; remember Pope published the lUud by subscri{)tion. Think 
 of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." 
 
 Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in tlie correspondence 
 of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. 
 Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel 
 called JS/ubilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared 
 in 18 !G, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — 
 
 " I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- 
 vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he wrote for my collec- 
 tion ; althougli there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the 
 printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the public testi- 
 mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the 
 maticr, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, 
 of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, 
 that notwithstanding the united labours of all the men of genius who have 
 enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious 
 time consumed by n)e in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding 
 with every amateur and poet by whose means I expected to make any %a- 
 luable additions to our national music and song ; — lor the exertion and mo- 
 ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har- 
 mony in Vienna; — and for the sums paid to engravers, printers, and others. 
 On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un- 
 questionable and well-known character, who has printed the music lor 
 every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing I can 
 say : In August IHDi), he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at the 
 very unvo rantable attack which has been made upon you by the autho.' 
 
LIFE OF RODERT BURN'S. cxi'ii 
 
 m( X/fJii/ia ; nntliiiic: could be nioro unjust tlian to say you liA(l cnrlclied 
 VoursL'If by Burns's hibours ; Tor tlie whole; coucltu, thou^Ii it inc-Iudcs tho 
 iiiboiirs of Maydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex- 
 penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains 
 any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times 
 beyond the reality; the sale is greatly magni(ied, and the expenses are not 
 in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly 
 and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been 
 manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the 
 anonymous author calls nie, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit 
 much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written 
 ab;)ve fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un- 
 pubfushed at his death ; I had the riglit and tl)e power of retaining them 
 till 1 should be ready to publish them : but when I was informed that an 
 edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put 
 them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters, 
 and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold 
 for the family's behoof to Messrs. C'adell and Davies. And I liave the sa- 
 tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr. Cun- 
 ningliame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- 
 dered my sacriiice of tlie prior right of publishing the songs, as no ungrate- 
 ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- 
 ingly, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for 
 an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' if ever 
 I come to Edinburgh, I will certainly call on a person whoso handsome con- 
 duct to my brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in 
 the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the 
 harmony o\' the moral feelings.' Nothing is farther from my thoughts 
 tlian to claim any merit for what I did. I never would have said a word 
 on the subject, but for the har;-h and groundless accusation which has been 
 lirought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which 1 have long 
 sulFered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- 
 pearance." 
 
 '1 his statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes tl:e necessity of an}' addi- 
 tional remarks, (writes I'rofessor Walker). When the public is satisfied; 
 when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and. above all, when the delicate 
 mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with itself in contemplating his conduct, 
 there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them. 
 
 So far, i\Ir. NN'alker : — W by Burns, who v.as of opinion, wh.en he wrole 
 his letter to Mr Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those 
 nf the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notions of independence 
 had sustained no shock in th.e receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, 
 sliould have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recomjiense from '1 hom- 
 son, it is no easy matter to ex])lain : nor do 1 profess to understand why Mr. 
 'I'homson took so little pains to argue the matter in Unnne. with the poet, 
 and convince him, that the time wl.ieh he himself considered as fairly en- 
 titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued 
 and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book 
 containing both songs and music. '1 hey order tliese tliings differently 
 aow : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns, 
 has long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much 
 nu)!n.y '-immaliy for an aimnal handful of songs, as was ever naid to our 
 ">afd tur the whole body of his writint:s. 
 
CXVIII 
 
 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Of the increasing irritability ofour poet's temperament, amidst those trnii 
 bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish 
 proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex 
 ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business,, 
 and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em 
 
 ployment for a poet's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d 
 
 melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me 
 to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and 
 fluttering I'ound her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors 
 of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it 
 was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, 
 on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that 
 wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." 
 
 Towards the close cf 179j Burns was. as has been previously mention- 
 ed, employed as an accing Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a 
 step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and 
 from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr. 
 Graham might elevate him yet farther. I'hese hopes, however, were mingl- 
 ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest 
 child lingered through an illness of v.hich every v/cck promised to be the 
 lar-t ; and she was hnally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with 
 anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. 'J his was a 
 severe blow, and his own nerves, tliough as yet he had not taken any seri- 
 ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. 
 
 " 'I'here had need," lie writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there 
 had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husi',and and 
 father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe 
 to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 1 see a 
 train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on 
 what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the 
 conmiand of i'nte, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things 
 (ijppen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 
 'Tis here that J envy j'our j)eople of fortune — A fiuher on his death-bed, 
 taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but 
 the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency 
 and friends ; v/liile 1 — but 1 shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on 
 the subject." 
 
 To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his 
 supervisorshij). and saying that at last liis political sins seemed to be for- 
 given him — iToes on in this ominous tone — "■ \\ hat a transient business is 
 lile ! Very lately I Mas a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already 
 begin to feel the rigid l.bre and stiifening joints of old age coming fast over 
 my frame." We may trace the melanciioly sequel in the few follo^ving 
 extracts. 
 
 " Slst Jdimary ITOii. — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afllie- 
 tion. '1 he autunm robbed me of my only dauiihter and darling c!;ild, and 
 Ihat at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of i)y power to pay 
 the last duties to her. 1 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 doubtl'ul ; until, ai'ter many weeks of a sick bed, it seems 
 to have turned up life, and 1 am beginnnig to crawl across n)y room, av: 
 oucc indeed have been belbre my own d:>r in the street. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. . cxix 
 
 •' \Vhen pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 
 Affliction purifies the visii;il ray, 
 Ro^iijion li:iils the drear, the untried night, 
 
 Tliat shuts, Ibr ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." 
 
 But a few (!a\r after this. Burns was so excceclingly inipr'idciit as to join 
 B festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in tiie 
 morning. The weatlier was se\ere, and he, being mueh intoxieatetl, took 
 no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its influence. It 
 Iia;-; been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It 
 is certairi, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through 
 all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — 
 and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal 
 issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted v.as violent ; con- 
 fmement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed 
 miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his 
 friends, that health would return with sunmicr, v/cre destined to disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " Atli June 1796.* — I am in such miserable liealth as to be utterly inca- 
 pable of showing my lo3alty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma- 
 tisms, I meet every ^ace with a greeting like tliat of Balak and Balaam, — 
 Come curse me .Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " 
 
 " 77// JkI;/ — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you 
 no more. — lor tliese eight or ten months I have been ailing, sonietimcs 
 bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- 
 tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the 
 last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- 
 ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my cliair. — My spirits 
 fled ! tied ! But I can no more on the subject." 
 
 This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from 
 the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- 
 fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June; " the medical 
 folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was 
 bath.ing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by tlieir ad- 
 vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- 
 den of care. " The duce of the matter," lie writes, '' is this; when an ex- 
 ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, 
 shall I maintain myself and keep a liorse in country quarters on 4.3.')?' 
 He im])lorcd his friends in Kdinburgh, to make interest with the Board to 
 grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an 
 exit truly en pvvlc — if I die not of disease, 1 must perish with hunger." 
 
 Mrs. lUddell of (ilenriddel, a beautiful and very acccmp!i>hed woman, 
 to wh.om many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his 
 life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow ^hen 
 Burns reached his batk.ing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as 
 comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his 
 conveyance, the poet visited her on the .Tth July; and she has, hi a letter 
 published by Dr. (. urrie, thus described his appearance and conversation 
 on that occasion : — 
 
 " 1 was struc k with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp 
 of death was impressed on liis features. He seemed already touching tlie 
 brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, IMadam, have you any 
 
 • The birth-dav of George III. 
 
JXX 
 
 LIFE OF ROBERT RUKNS. 
 
 commands for tlie other world ?' I re])Iied tliat it seemed a doubtrul case 
 wliicli of us should he there soonest, and that I hoped he uould yet li\e tc 
 write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) Me looked in my 
 face witli an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me 
 look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no- 
 t!)ing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. 
 We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and 
 the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. lie spoke of his 
 'leatli without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but witli firmness as 
 well as feelir.g — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
 him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- 
 ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of 
 lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
 the promising genius of his eldest son, and the Hattering marks of appro- 
 bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on hi? 
 hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety tor his family 
 seemed to hang heavy upon liim, and the more perhaps from the retlectioo 
 that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. 
 Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- 
 rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He 
 said he was v/cil aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that 
 ever}' scrap of iiis writings would be revived against him to the injury of his 
 future reputation : that letters and verses v/ritten with unguarded and im- 
 proper freedom, and which he earnestly wislied to have buried in oblivion, 
 would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his 
 resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued 
 malice, or th.e insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve- 
 nom to blast his fame. He lamented th.at he had written many epigrams 
 on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters 
 he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, wiiich 
 he feared would now, with all tlieir imperfections on their head, be thrust 
 upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to 
 put his papers into a state of arrangement, as lie was now quite incapable ot 
 the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- 
 mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. 
 'Ihere was frecjuently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and 
 they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and 
 dijeetion I could not disguise, damped the spirit of ])leasantry he seemed 
 not unwilling to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that 
 day (the .'^th of July l?9t)) ; the next day 1 saw him again, and we parted 
 to meet no more !" 
 
 1 do not know the exact date of tlie following letter to Mrs Burns: — 
 '' Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could 
 tell you what effect sea-bathing was likel}' to produce. !t would be injus- 
 tice to deny that it h.as easeil my |)alns, and I think lias strengthened me 
 put my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow . 
 porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very luip|)y to 
 hear, by .Miss .less Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind- 
 eiet c(/!iipliments to her and 1o all the children. 1 uill see you on ISundai 
 Your affectionate husband, li. 15." 
 
 There is a very affecting letter to (lilbert, dated the 7th, in which the 
 Doe^ .sajs, •' 1 am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — (Jod keep 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. cxxi 
 
 m> wife anil clnldrcn." On the I'ith, he wrote the letter to Mr. George 
 Thomson, above (juotcd, recjuesting L'.> ; and, on tlie same day, he pei.ned 
 also the following — the hist letter that ue ever wrote — to his friend Mrs 
 Dunlop. 
 
 " Madam, I liave written you so often, without receiving any answer, 
 that I would not trouble you again, but ibr the circumstanees in which ' 
 nm. An illness v.-hich has long lunig about me, in all probability will speed- 
 ily send me beyond that hoiirnc irhencc nn tnivdltr rLtiuns. Vour li'iend- 
 ship, witii which for many years you honoured nie, was a iriendship 
 dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, 
 were at once highly entertaining and instructive. W ith what pleasure did 
 I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to 
 my poor pali)itating heart. Farewell ! ! !" 
 
 1 give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* — 
 " Rousseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open 
 lir. that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night 
 or two before I5urns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the 
 minister of Ruthwell. His altered appciyance excited much silent sympa- 
 thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shinmg brigiitly through 
 the casement, Miss Craig (now .Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light 
 mi:i:!it be too much for him, and rose with the view of lettinir down the win- 
 'li w blinds Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding 
 the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' '1 hank you, my dear, 
 for your kind attention ; but, oh, let him shine ; lie will not shine long for 
 uie. 
 
 (Jn tlie iSth, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came baca 
 to Dumirics. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive '' visibly cluuig- 
 ed in his looks, being with dililculty able to stand upright, and reach his 
 own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of 
 po]'«ular feeling in the town during the short space which interveneil between 
 his return and his death. — '♦ Dunilries was like a besieged place. It was 
 known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but 
 of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or 
 three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. 
 They spoke of his history — of his person — of his work? — of his f.mily — of 
 his fan>e — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an 
 eiuhusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to mv remembrance. All that 
 he-said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and .Maxwell was a 
 kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caught u}) and reported from street to 
 street, and Iiom house to house." 
 
 " His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unrufHed, and his wit ne- 
 ver forsook him. He looked to one ol' his fellow volunteers with a smiie, 
 as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' .John, don't let 
 the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of 
 his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his lite drew near 
 a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased. 
 It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets 
 dining the hours of remission from labour, and by these means 1 had an 
 opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages, 
 his diuerences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- 
 
 • I take the opportunity of or.ce more acknowkd^nj: n-.y great olli^atior.s vt this gentle. 
 <Ean who ia I umlerbtauci, coni.ecicd by his nitirriaj^e witli liie faiiiily ol die j-oet 
 
cxxu 
 
 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 given : they thought only of his genius — of tlie deh'glit his composition! 
 had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some depart* 
 ing spirit, whose voice v/as to gladden them no more." * 
 
 •' A tremour nov/ pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the auiliority 
 of the j)hysician who attended him ; " !iis tongue was parched-, and his mind 
 sunk into delirium, when not roused hy conversation. On the second and 
 third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, 
 July '^Ist 1796, Robert Burns died. 
 
 '• I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning- 
 ham ; " several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned 
 cofiin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around 
 the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strev/n, according to the usage oJ 
 the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death liad not 
 increased the swarthy hue of his face, v/hich was uncommonly dark and 
 deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around 
 it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room 
 where lie lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble 
 dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely en the heart than i{ 
 his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of 
 high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the 
 space of several minutes — Vv-e went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- 
 per was heard. This was several days after his death." 
 
 On the '-^oth of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades 
 Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of 
 Dumfriiis were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he 
 had a)iticipated) Avith military honours. The chief persons of the tosvn and 
 neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a i'cw tra- 
 velled from great distances to witness the solenmity. 'I'he streets v/ere 
 lined by the Fen ^ble Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque 
 Ports, then quartcdat Dumfries, whose commander, Lord iiawksbury, (af- 
 terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal 
 introduction to the poet, f ofhciat-^d as one of the chief mourners. " The 
 multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says 
 Cunningham, " witJi the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or 
 twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and 
 mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions niing- 
 ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of L'umfi-ics, 
 with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes- 
 tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perlurps have 
 since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- 
 cession away. The scarlet and gold — the banners disjjlayed — the mea- 
 sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments 
 of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene; and 
 had no connexion with the poet. 1 looked on it then, and 1 consider it 
 now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of suj)crfiuous state which migiit have 
 been sj>ared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted 
 spirit bad experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who 
 
 ore now jiroud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen 
 
 I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into wliich he was about to 
 dc'St:end for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath tc 
 
 ■ In the Ixwdon IMngarine, l!!2-l. .\rtide, " Robe Uurns ax^" Lord liyron." 
 ^ tSo Air. byiuelus informed .Mi- JM'L>i;\-;ud 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. cxxiji 
 
 part witli his remains : and wlicn he was at last lowered, and tlie first shn- 
 veliul of earth sounded on his coffin Hd, I looked iij) and saw tears on ntanv 
 cheeks where tears were not usuaL 'Ihe volunteers justified the fears oi 
 ihcir comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was 
 hca]>cd up, the green sod laid over him, aiul the Miultitude stood gaz- 
 ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. 
 The day was a fine one. the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a 
 drop of rain fell iVom dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con- 
 currence in the common superstition, that ' happy i-^, the corpse wh.ich the 
 rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, 
 which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet, 
 in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." 
 
 During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains of 
 labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his fa- 
 ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the ih- 
 niily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- 
 ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- 
 ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. 1 shall never forget the 
 looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. Ihe poet's life 
 had nst been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- 
 giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- 
 ble affection of his wife, and the world rej)ays her prudence and her love 
 by its regard and esteem." 
 
 Immediately after the poet's death., a subscription was opened for the 
 benefit of his family; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, 
 Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'.Murdo, becoming trustees for the application 
 of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the 
 lists, and not a few from Kngland, especially London and Liverpool, ^even 
 hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- 
 warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Currie's Life and Edition of 
 Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the 
 poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued 
 to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the jioet 
 died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- 
 fries, called l>urns' Street. 
 
 " Of the ;four surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 
 1^20, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Ofiice, Lon- 
 don, (Mr. Burns still remains in that estublisimient), Francis W alluce. ihe 
 second, died in l^U;^ ; \\ illiam Nicoll, the third, went to Madras m IS I! ; 
 and , lames (ilencairn, the youngest, to Lengal in 181 v?, both as cadets Ln 
 the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it 
 is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- 
 able to themselves, and to the name uiiich they bear, (hie of them 
 (.Iames\ as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity 
 on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. 
 
 'ihe great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's 
 children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suH'ered to live ar.d 
 die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by ajiy ex- 
 ternal circumstances, in degradation. \\ lu) can open the page of Burns, 
 and remember without a bhis'i. tliat tiie autlu;r of !>ueh verses, the hiimiu: 
 being whose breasl glowed with sucli feelings, was doomed to earn niert" 
 bread lor his child' en by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid 
 
cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills '' The subscription 
 for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the 
 gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement cf in- 
 dignation ^id not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that 
 Robert Barns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most 
 learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common ganger 
 among the wilds of Nithslale — and that, after he was so established, na 
 interference from a highei quarter arrested that unwortliy career : — these 
 are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory ot 
 that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who tlw^n adminis- 
 tered the public patronage of Scotland. 
 
 In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two false ar 
 guments. the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other h.aving no 
 foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly 
 set \i\), and arrogantly as v/eil as ignorantly maintained. To the one, 
 namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the 
 Poet, because the Lxciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- 
 tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the 
 matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, 
 Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was 
 BL-rtN-h.'" The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd 
 one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- 
 tronage, hov.-ever liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, 
 eo as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by 
 raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius This is indeed a can- 
 did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, 
 then, found to increase usually in pro]wrtion as the worldly circun, stances 
 of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctiine acknowledged 
 by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- 
 gelves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for 
 sympathy, the u^ual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either 
 encounter or live in constant apprehension of 
 
 "• The thniisand ills tliat ri^e where money fails. 
 
 Debts, Uueats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, ar.d jails ?" 
 
 To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no 
 less than his early youth, and after what natin-al buoyancy of animal spirits 
 he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely 
 hriiigir.g experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits 
 more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submittc' to 
 his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says ne. 
 writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, 
 and piace them over against that *»••** account of yours, which has gag- 
 ged my mouth these five or six months ! i can as little write good things 
 as aj)ologies to the man I oive money to. C), the supreme curse of nsak- 
 ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty! tliou halfs:ster of 
 death, thou cousingerman of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- 
 ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility 
 in'y pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the 
 contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of 
 genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the iiishion- 
 Hble a'ld polite, must see, in suli'ering s.lence, his remark neglected, an«^ 
 
I.IFK 01- ROBERT BURNS. cxxv 
 
 nis person despised, while s1ki1U)\v greatness, in liis idiot attempts at wit, 
 sliall meet with countenanee and applause. Nor is it only the ianiily of 
 worth that liave reason to comjjlain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
 though, in common with thee, the oUspring of evil, smart e<jiially under 
 thy rod.. The man of unfortunate dis})osition and neglected education, is 
 condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
 wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- 
 sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and 
 perishes by the justice of his country. 1/Ut far otherwise is the lot of the 
 man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit 
 and fire ; his consequent wants, are tlie embarrassments of an honest 
 fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- 
 sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, 
 perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
 respected, and dies a *»**«** and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for 
 helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner oJ 
 the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- 
 ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted iup, 
 hurrying on to th.e guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- 
 sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may 
 say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
 is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
 respective evacuations." * 
 
 In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- 
 fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sou[^^,ht relief: and to other 
 more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- 
 ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and 
 it includes some i>nmes that can claim but a scanty share in the apology ot 
 P.urns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Ad- 
 dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, I'rior, 
 Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions 
 of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one 
 whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more 
 fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. 'Ihc 
 beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those 
 who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- 
 neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and 
 of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest 
 of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a 
 like untimely grave. 
 
 " In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," savs 
 Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- 
 form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen- 
 tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity tc 
 affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action 
 unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of 
 right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing oi 
 malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca< 
 sudl temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom 1 once de 
 lighted to converse, and whom 1 yet remember with tenderness." 
 
 " Letter to Mr. Peter II iH, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328- 
 
cxxvi LIFE OFTvOBERT BURXS. 
 
 Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a 
 shilling when he died. Mis heart was ahvaj'S warm and his hand open. 
 " His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were great heyond his means ;" and 1 
 have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, fur which 
 I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, 
 an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used 
 to say when the Excise-books of tlie district were produced at the meet- 
 inf^.s ot tlie Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good 
 to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about 
 with him." 
 
 Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told 
 himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the 
 sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the 
 fervour of a poet. " It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- 
 ters, — " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to 
 be true ;" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his method ot 
 thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more 
 recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and 
 did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, 1 should be 
 charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- 
 significance of ourselves and our world, v/hen placed in comparison with 
 the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that 
 our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend 
 to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like 
 Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and 
 the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- 
 dered " a hypochondriacal disease" which occasionally visited and dc[)res- 
 sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, 
 to place many j)ages v/hich breathe the ardour, nay the exultation of faith, 
 ami the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has 
 warned us, it well befits us 
 
 " At the balance to be mute." 
 
 Let us avoid, in the name of Ileligion herself, the fatal error of those who 
 would rashly sv/cll the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally ot 
 levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable 
 objection, are sufHcicnt, in the opinion of some men, to efliice a name 
 from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such 
 men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look 
 for ilivourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any 
 step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, hul let 
 fly their fulminations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or 
 casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- 
 ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency 
 of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength 
 to the enemies of trulli. It must always be the condition of a great part 
 of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those wb.om 
 they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name 
 to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument ujion which the re- 
 ligi.m oi" multitudes is necessarily foundeil." * In conclusion, let me adop< 
 
 • LLfc of Sir Thomas Brownft. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. cxxvii 
 
 tlie beautiful sentiment of that illustrious morai poet of our own time, 
 whose i^enerous defence of Burns will be remembered while the lan- 
 ^uaije lasts ; — 
 
 " liCt no menn hope your souls enslave— 
 Be independent, },'eneious, brave ; 
 Your" i'oKT " such exum|.le gave, 
 
 And such revere. 
 But be admoni^hcd by liis pr-ive, 
 
 And tliink and fear." • 
 
 It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character 
 of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- 
 stances in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a 
 man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which 
 is alone pure and divine, iar above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen 
 and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- 
 spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which 
 they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- 
 tion, a species of devout reverence, 1 mean when the grave had closed on 
 him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- 
 sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- 
 ed liis species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought 
 we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in 
 and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found 
 addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we 
 have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Browncs and .Soulh- 
 eys in prose r" Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species 
 would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and 
 a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be 
 thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to 
 kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head 
 by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Ijyron, how broad 
 the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! 
 
 In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its 
 sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps 
 a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise 
 the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could 
 have equalled that which Burns's poetry, considered alongside of Burns's 
 history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above 
 the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, 
 as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those 
 that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and 
 in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding? 
 
 It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of most 
 men, to declaim against Burns's scnsibiHty to the tangible cares and toils 
 of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia- 
 tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the 
 great moral poet already quoted sj)caks in the following noble passage — 
 and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it 
 is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which 
 perhaps' at the time of its beinj} exerted it is but dimly conscious, a 
 
 • A\'ordswnr til's address tc the sons of Burns, on visiting his prr.ve in ICO.'i. 
 
cxxvilf LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 spirit of pleasure wherever it can be found, — in the walks )f nature, ant? 
 in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instil. cts, luxuriates 
 anionrr the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes 
 the fairer aspects of war ; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas 
 sinn of love thouj^h immoderate — from convivial pleasure thou?^h intenipe- 
 'ate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the 
 liand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way 
 to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- 
 ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrcw- 
 niinded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture 
 u'liich he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, 
 Tarn o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that 
 liis hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, M'hose excesses were fi'e- 
 quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while 
 the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is 
 driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the 
 beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the 
 service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the 
 mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity 
 are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the 
 anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy 
 ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though 
 there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. 
 
 " Kings may be Ilest, but Tarn was glorious, 
 O'er a' the ills o' lite victorious." 
 
 *' What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the 
 vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- 
 ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath- 
 ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the 
 unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite 
 skill the finer ties of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beings 
 to practices productive of much unhaj^piness to themselves, and to those 
 whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into 
 possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a 
 salutary influence over the minds of those who are thus deplorably de- 
 ceived." * 
 
 That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of 
 certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and 
 in tiie poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general 
 influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce flir different 
 effects. The universal popularity which his Avritings have all along enjoy- 
 ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, 
 a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the 
 Solway, and there is not a cottage hut so poor r,nd wretched as to be with- 
 out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does 
 not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption 
 of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Boc ks declined ? 
 Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith 
 and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most oi' the country wii" 
 
 • \\'ordsworth's Letter to Gray, p. 24. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxix 
 
 be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius ana 
 virtue woulil desire to hear them answered. 
 
 On one point there can be no controversy ; tlie poetry of Burns has had 
 most powerful influence in reviving; and strengtliening the national feelings, 
 of his couivtrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the old 
 minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined, 
 that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that nn'ght lie smothered 
 around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances 
 of Scotland were, and iiad been, sucli as to starve the tlame of patriotism ; 
 the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ; 
 and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be 
 gun to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to 
 check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has 
 since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and 
 sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no 
 doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the ibunder, and, alas ! in 
 his own person as the martjr, of this reformation. 
 
 That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the wealth of the 
 nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater 
 and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all, 
 the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It 
 may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear- 
 ing itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had 
 been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as 
 in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with- 
 out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, it had been purchased 
 dearly. " The spring fire," Allan LViiningham says beautifully somewhere, 
 " which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand 
 songbirds; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the 
 stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautilul 
 things, only for that they were old and our own. 
 
 It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began with a 
 national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to 
 make use of the dialect of his own country ; and how Moore, another most 
 enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example 
 of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But 
 a still more striking sign of the times is to be found in the style adopted 
 by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their 
 representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen. 
 In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some 
 traits of abetter kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it 
 conveys is certainlj' a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these 
 authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce — 
 
 Time out of mind ihe Southrons' mirthmakers — 
 
 the best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride 
 and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses- 
 sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius, 
 felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices of 
 the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur among their own 
 countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi- 
 ment; and on contrasting the state of things then with what is before us 
 
cxxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 now, it will cost no efFort to appreciate the nature and consequences of tht 
 victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind 
 to be surf assed. " Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vitas 
 to his dialect ;" — he gave it to more than his dialect. " He was," savs a 
 writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — '• he was m 
 many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him, 
 but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life 
 lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest 
 eminences, he had famil arly trodden from his childhood. All that world 
 he felt could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro- 
 vinces, and it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the 
 
 ' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' 
 
 The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much 
 
 is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted 
 to work ; but he has built monuments on all the high places, and they who 
 follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * 
 
 Dr. Currie says, that " M fiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert. 
 Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of 
 Burns, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all 
 the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken 
 fiction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but i<i\y of Burns's 
 pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike 
 alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of inva- 
 gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume 
 with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa- 
 tisfy every reader of Halloween, the Jolly Beggars, and Turn o' S/tan/er, 
 (to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce's Address, Mac- 
 jjliersois Lament, tic), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large- 
 ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk, 
 perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them- 
 selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining, 
 varying, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most 
 picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings. 
 
 Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt 
 the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air- 
 drawn lines and technical slang-words, the elements and materials of poe- 
 tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attemj)ts 
 that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he 
 has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely 
 imaginative charact'jr. light who will about words and forms, " Burns's 
 rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, I believe, the world 
 at large are now-a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as 
 Byron's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that 
 ever jverplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says 
 the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert 
 that that is poetry of th.e highest order, which exerts influence of the most 
 powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind. 
 
 Ijurns has been appreciated dul}', and he has had the fortune to be prais* 
 ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after hin. To accu- 
 
 Blackwood's ^Liga'.Lne, February 1817. 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNb. cxxm 
 
 mulale all that has been said of him, even by men like himself, of the first 
 oriler, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo- 
 lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im- 
 mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in 
 a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per- 
 fect and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the 
 materials in the world besides. 
 
 " The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- 
 sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret 
 connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, 
 fall short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any 
 great work of fiction, may be partly traced to the cast of his genius, and 
 partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe- 
 rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What- 
 ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion. 
 There is always enough of iiiferest in life to cherish the f:.'elings of genius ; 
 but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that 
 knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures 
 and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although 
 he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove- 
 reign genius." * 
 
 " Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his 
 lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but 
 deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in 
 compiling and composing for musical collections. There is s jfficient evi- 
 dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- 
 ous tarsk of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and 
 twisting them into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo- 
 lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste of 
 his power and fancy in small and insignificant compositions, must neces- 
 sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave 
 or important task. Let no one suppose that we under\alue the songs of 
 Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu- 
 morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever 
 displayed higher skill in marrying melody to immortal verse. But the 
 writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into 
 a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and, 
 above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition. 
 To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor 
 comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been 
 long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject, 
 which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce, 
 while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English. 
 The Scottish dialect would have rendered such a [)icce totaljy unfit for the 
 stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit 
 which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha- 
 racter of tlie gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of IJurns. It 
 would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which the 
 manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded , 
 but this deficiency would have been more than supplied by a bard who 
 could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of a 
 
 " Soecimens. vol. vii. 211. 
 
cxxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 hero sustaining the desertion of friends, the persecution of enemies, and 
 the utmost mahce of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, being partly laid 
 in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite patnos, 
 with v/hich he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage 
 views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in 
 Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the inimitable tale oi 
 Tarn o Shavfer, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com- 
 oine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with 
 •;he exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most 
 varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour- 
 ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter- 
 rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and 
 horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a 
 fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined \\ ith language and expression suited 
 to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own 
 fame, and to the honour of his country." 
 
 The cantata of the ./o//y Bcgrjars, which was not printed at all until some 
 time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of hi; 
 works until within these few years, cannot be considered as it deserves, v,-ith- 
 out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his 
 meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly- 
 rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa- 
 ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi- 
 cal forms. Ber/gars Bush, and Bi'f/rjors Opera, sink into tameness in the 
 comparison ; and indee-d, without profanity to the name of Shakspeare, it 
 may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have 
 constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre- 
 dominated over the outward shows of things — in which the sympathy- 
 awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumj)hantly 
 under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — I'hat remarkable perform- 
 ance, by the way, was an early production' of the Mauchline period. I 
 knov,' nothing but the Turn o' Slianter that is calculated to convey so high 
 an impression of what Burns might have done. 
 
 As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, INTr. Campbell may not 
 have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities 
 had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he 
 was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant 
 observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al- 
 most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three- and- twenty to 
 eight-and thirty, without having thoroughly removed any pretext for au- 
 guring unfavourably on that score, of what he might have been expected 
 to produce in tlie more elaborate departments of his art, had his life been 
 spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can- 
 not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, 
 produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions, 
 such as they were, of his later years. Mis generous spirit was open to the 
 miprcssion of every kinil of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its 
 own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even ^vhat other peo- 
 ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the generaj 
 surface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the 
 consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur- 
 3d, and to have been more intimidated than encouraged by the retrospect 
 
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. cxxxiii 
 
 [n most of tlie new departments in which ho made some trial of his strength; 
 (such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the heroic satire, 
 &C.1, he appears to have soon lost lieart, and paused. There is indeed one 
 magnificent exception in Tain o Shanter — a piece which no one can under- 
 stand without beheving, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out 
 his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers 
 of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- 
 tiomi! tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly hurnour, and irresistible pathos 
 of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- 
 line wit and sense of another Dryden. 
 
 This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided. — But let U9 
 not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is. — 
 Hums, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume 
 in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood; 
 which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene- 
 rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- 
 flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a 
 genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- 
 courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness;"* — a volume, in which, centuries 
 hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest 
 ccnsolation of his exile — Already has 
 
 " Glory without end 
 
 Scattered the clouds away ; and en that name attend 
 The tears and praises of all time." -|- 
 
 The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine- 
 teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed 
 over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But 
 a splendid mausoleum Laving been erected by public subscription on the 
 most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so- 
 lemnly transferred thi'Jicr on the bth June 1815; the original tombstone 
 having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the 
 poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given 
 below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to 
 his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in 
 Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was 
 born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his 
 admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is 
 now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi- 
 nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh — The cut annexea to ji. cxxxvi, 
 exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the nionu;iicnt la«» 
 mentioned. 
 
 See the Censura I.iteraria of .'^ir Egerton Rrydges, vol. ii. p. 55 
 iiOrd Uvron's Child liarcld, (.'anto iv. 3(i. 
 
cxxxW LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S RIONUMENT D! 
 DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. 
 
 IN AETERNUM HONOREM 
 
 IIOBERTI BURNS 
 
 POETARUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRINCIPIS 
 
 CCJUS CAR^^NA EXIMIA PATRIO SERMONE SCRIPTA 
 
 ANIMI MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUC INGENII 
 
 QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA 
 
 FACETIIS JUCUNDMATE I.EPORE AFFLUENTIA 
 
 OMNIBUS LTTTERAUUJI CULTOIUBUS SATIS NOTA 
 
 GIVES SUI NECNO.V PI.ElilQUE OMNES 
 
 VUSARUM AMANTISSIMI MEMORIAMQUE VIRI 
 
 ARTE POeTlCA TAJI PUAECI.ARI FOVENTKS 
 
 HOC MAUSOLEUM 
 
 SUPER RELIQUIAS POETAE MOKTALE8 
 
 EXTRUENDUM CURAVERE 
 
 PRIMUJI HUJUS AEPIFICU LAPIDEM 
 
 GULIELMUS MILI-ER ARMIGER 
 
 BEIPUBLICAE ARCHITECTONICAE AFUD 6COT08 
 
 IK REGIONE AUSTRALI CURIO MAXIMUS PROVINXIALIS 
 
 GEORGIO TERTIO REGNANTE 
 
 GEORGIO WALLIARUM PRINCIPE 
 
 SUMMAM IMPERII PRO PATUE TENEXTE 
 
 JOSEPHO GASS ARMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PRAEFECTO 
 
 THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ARCHITECTO 
 
 POSUIT 
 
 VONIS JUNIIS ANNO LUCIS VMDCOCXV 
 
 8A1UTIS HUMANAE MOCXXXV. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 cxxxv 
 
 The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a 
 «vi(le field for selection. — Tlie elegiac versos by \Ir. Koscoe of Liverpool 
 have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful lifo 
 
 ON 
 
 THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 RzAR high thy hleak majestic hills, 
 
 Thy shelter'd valleys ))roudly spread, 
 And, Scotia, jKiiir thv thousand rills. 
 
 And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
 Diit, ah ! wliat poet now shall tread 
 
 'J'hy airy heiijhts, thy woodland icign, 
 trainee he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 
 
 That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 
 
 As green thy towering pines may grow. 
 
 As dear thy streams may speed along, 
 As bri;,'ht thy summer suns may glow. 
 
 As gaily charm thy feathery throng; 
 But now, unheeded is the song. 
 
 And dull and lifeless all around. 
 For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 
 
 And cold the hand that waked its sound. 
 
 What though thy vigorous offspring rise, 
 
 In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
 Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 
 
 And health in every feature dwell ? 
 Vet wiio sliall now tiieir praises tell, 
 
 In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
 Since he no more the so^g sh ill swell 
 
 To lov-e, and liberty, aid thee ? 
 
 With step-dame eye and frown severe 
 
 His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
 For all thy jiys to him were dear, 
 
 AnA :tll his vows to thee were due; 
 Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 
 
 In ojiening youth's delightful jjrime. 
 Than when thy favouring car he drew 
 
 To listen to his chaunted rhyme. 
 
 Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 
 
 I o him were all with rapture fraugnt ; 
 lie heard wiih joy the tempest rise 
 
 Th:it wd;ed 'ni u to Miblimer thought; 
 And oft thy winding dells he sougiu, [fume, 
 
 W here wil'.l-H iweis pour'd their rathe per- 
 And w:ih sincere dev:'tion brought 
 
 Vo tlice the summei's earliest bloom. 
 
 But ii~i ! no fond maternal .imile 
 
 His un])rotecteil youth enjoy 'd, 
 His limbs inur'd to early toil. 
 
 His days with early hardshijjs triedj 
 And more to mark the gloomy void, 
 
 And bid him feel his misery. 
 Before his infant eyes would glide 
 
 Day-dreams of immort.ilitv. 
 
 "<st, not by cold neglect depress'd, 
 
 With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
 i^nk with the cvenini^ sun to rest. 
 
 And met at morn his earliest smile. 
 Vaked by his rustic }'ipe, meanwhile 
 
 The powtrs of fancy came along. 
 And fuoth'd his lengtlicnti, hours of toil, 
 
 With native wit and sprightly song. 
 
 — Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 
 
 \Vhen vigorous health from laliinir springs 
 And bland contentment smooths the bed, 
 
 i\iid sleep liis ready opiate brings; 
 Anil hovering round on airy wings 
 
 Float the light i'orms of young desire, 
 That of imutterable things 
 
 The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 
 
 Now spells of mightier power prepare, 
 
 l>iil brighter jjhantoms round hmi dance ; 
 Let Flattery s]iread her viewless snare. 
 
 And Fame attract his \agrant glance; 
 Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 
 
 IJnvtil'd her eyes, anclasp'd lier zone. 
 Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 
 
 He scorns the joys his youth has known. 
 
 Let Friendship pour her brightest bLize, 
 
 Expanding all the bloom of soul; 
 And iMirtli concentre all her rays. 
 
 And point them from the s])aikling bowi 
 And let the careless monienis roLl 
 
 In social pleasure uiicoi. fined. 
 And corfiilence that s])uri:s control 
 
 Unlock the inmost sprin^js of mind : 
 
CXXXVl 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 And lead his steps those bowers among, 
 
 W'liere elegance with splendour vies, 
 Or Science b'Js her favour'd throng 
 
 To more refined sensations rise : 
 Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 
 
 And freed from each laborious strife, 
 There let liini learn the bliss to prize 
 
 That waits the sons of polish 'd life. 
 
 Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 
 
 W'nh every impulse of delight. 
 Dash from his lips the cup of joy. 
 
 And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
 And let i)e>pair, witn wizard light, 
 
 Disclose tlie yawning gulf below. 
 And pour incessant on his siglit 
 
 Her spcctred ills and shapes of woe : 
 
 And show beneath a cheerless shed. 
 
 With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 
 
 In silent grief where droops 1 er head, 
 The partner of his early joys ; 
 
 And let his infants' tender ctim 
 His fond parental succour claim. 
 
 And bid him hear in agonies 
 A husband's and a father's name. 
 
 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds; 
 
 His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
 In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 
 
 Nor longer with his fate contends. 
 An idiot lau^jh the welkin rends 
 
 As genius thus degraded lies ; 
 Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 
 
 That shrouds the I'oet's ardent eyes. 
 
 — Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 
 
 Tiiy sheUer'd valleys pr )udly spread, 
 And, Scotia, pour tliy tliousand rills. 
 
 And wave thy heaths v.ith blossoms red ; 
 But never more shall poet tread 
 
 Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 
 Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 
 
 That ever breathed the sootliiu^ strsia 
 
CHARACTER 
 
 OF 
 
 BURNS AND IIIS WRITINGS, 
 
 BT 
 
 MRS. RIDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL* 
 
 The atcention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with 
 till loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- 
 bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary 
 world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
 was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended 
 with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which 
 are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- 
 brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating 
 to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or ot 
 anticipating on the province of a biographer. 
 
 Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I 
 should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny 
 been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than alFection for the 
 memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at 
 least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and 
 the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- 
 lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- 
 nicate. 
 
 It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by 
 future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, 
 and perliaps a number cf his contemporaries, that he is gencrallj' talked of, 
 and considered, with reference to his poetical talents oii/i/ : for the fact is, 
 even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, 
 that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person 
 ally acquainted with him) was actually not his /or/<?. Many others, per- 
 haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, 
 but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I 
 
 "• Mrs. Hidden knew the popt well ; slic had every opportunity for observation of what he snid and did, af 
 woll as of what wa, said of luni and done towards him. Her l)eautifiilly writttn Klojre, — fniiidly \et candid, 
 — wao well received and cener-iUy circulate*! at the time. It has bc»ni inserted by Dr. ("nrrii; in his severa' 
 edi'ions, as intcrestirj; from its elecanoe, and authoritative froni the writer's accurate information; we hav» 
 therefore most reudily given it a place here. 
 
cxxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AXD MIS WRITINGS. 
 
 would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo- 
 quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of bri.liant repar- 
 tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
 ' vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments were perfectly correspon- 
 dent to the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action, 
 energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
 polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies where in early life he 
 could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist- 
 ible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and 
 manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. 
 His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ- 
 ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rovgh exercises of 
 Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea- 
 tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the 
 firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated 
 expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid 
 lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, 
 whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiori- 
 ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous 
 affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- 
 norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the 
 ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason- 
 ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of sa- 
 tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for 
 though nature had endowed him with a portion of the most pointed excellence 
 in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, 
 and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness 
 of humour, that '• unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches 
 so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the ca- 
 price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons 
 happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. 
 This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit, (which is no unusual mat- 
 ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into 
 the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with 
 the least desire to wound. The suppression of an aich and fullj)ointed bon 
 mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly 
 classes as a virtue o«/y to he i^ovght for in the Calendar of Saints ; if so, 
 Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather de'icient in it. 
 He paid tor his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. " "1 was no 
 extravagant arithmetic," to say of hirn, as was said of Vorick, th.it " for 
 every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies;" but much allowance will be 
 made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis- 
 tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its Inti'Hi'ctual 
 sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by t'le way- 
 wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temj)cr wa* indeed 
 checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart 
 that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever 
 been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His sou! was never langiud or 
 inactive, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re- 
 treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them- 
 selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or oJ 
 decided enmity : for lie ^^ossessed none of that negative insipidity oi rna 
 
L 
 
 CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxxxix 
 
 ractcr, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent- 
 ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, tlie 
 temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledge 
 ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration tlie most 
 fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently 
 a reproach to hnn, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, where 
 lie ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured 
 forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap- 
 preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some 
 who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- 
 guished. 
 
 It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good 
 .nater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish 
 a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even 
 of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will 
 continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by 
 their versatility. He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- 
 ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his 
 engagements of friendshin. Much indeed has been said about his incon- 
 stancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they originated less 
 in a levity of sentiment, than fi-om an extreme impetuosity of feeling, 
 which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
 where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- 
 ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite 
 sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as- 
 cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid 
 and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avoival was a reparation. 
 His native //e/7e never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank 
 acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its 
 never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the 
 stronger and more acute operations of the passions, Avas impracticable to 
 the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, 
 and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might 
 have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 
 
 It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense ot 
 flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
 have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that 
 way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
 power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tri- 
 bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes 
 represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though 
 they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the 
 powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing 
 that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire plougliboy 
 was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining tlie inte- 
 rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality recjuired no 
 foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and the Mountain 
 Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his 
 genius will be readily traced, and which will be given t.> the public as 
 soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently for 
 themselves ; and had they fallen from a liand more dignified in tlie rank 
 of socinty than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual h 
 
cxI 
 
 CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRlllNGS. 
 
 grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence 
 they really sprung. 
 
 To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though 
 honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, 
 almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. 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 
 son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him 
 to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi- 
 gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the 
 loom, f 
 
 That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted 
 with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla- 
 tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him, 
 might readily be convinced. I have indeed :€.dom observed him to be at 
 a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers 
 have been the subjects of discussion. When 1 have pressed him to tell me 
 v/hy he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan- 
 guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be mas- 
 ter of he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the 
 Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vincit amor ; a sentence 
 that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly 
 seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas- 
 sic erudition extended little, if any, farthci. 
 
 The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea- 
 sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's 
 creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen- 
 sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he 
 shewed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi- 
 ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart 
 to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught 
 him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he 
 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 tile soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that 
 Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? 
 
 1 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 
 wa*! free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea- 
 sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the woild had con- 
 tinued very sUitionary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given 
 birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due re- 
 gard to the- decorums of -the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand 
 in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, thou<.h there 1 
 cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the 
 frailties tliat cast their shade over the sjilendour of superior merit, are 
 more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi- 
 
 • Tlie fate of this worthy iiiaii is noticL-d :it p. 302, wliere will be found a deserved tribute 
 to hi> uuMiiory, (Cor lie, too, iilas I is j^'onc), from tlic pen of a fiieiid. 
 
 •j- '1 he plan ol brecilinfj the poet's eltlest .son a iiianufacturcr was piven up. He has been 
 phictd in oiiC cf tlie puljlic oflicts (tiie .Stanii)-()ilii-c) in I^ondon, where lie continues to fill 
 respectably a respectable nituatioii. His btrikiny liktnebs to the poet bus btyn often le. 
 tuarkeiL 
 
CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxl 
 
 Dcrity. It Is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; tlic pcb])lc 
 tn;iy be soiled, and we never regard it. Tlie eccentric intuitions of genius 
 too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un 
 bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fata 
 to its own. No wonder then if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blazo 
 of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva- 
 riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginatio; which scorns the narrow 
 limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. 
 The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
 cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved 
 a source of frecpient errors and misfortunes to him, Hur""* made his own 
 artless apology in language more impressive than ail tne argumentatory 
 vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
 lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the " tutelary 
 muse," who conchides an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity 
 and beautiful poetry, with these lines : 
 
 " I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
 A\'i!(l send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
 IMiiled by Fancy's meteor ray, 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the li^ht that led astray. 
 Was liff/tl J'roni heaven ."'* 
 
 I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I haa proposed to rr.y- 
 gelf on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at 
 least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and clia- 
 racter : a literary critique 1 do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
 these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that 
 distinguished him, — of those talents which raised him from the jjlough, 
 where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths 
 of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around his cottage, to that 
 enviable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his 
 memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath 
 her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have 
 done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth 
 of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled. 
 
 From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public. prints, ever since 
 the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri- 
 vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not j'ct exlunist- 
 ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that lir'X'st fame will be perma- 
 nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it wil' oe found he ^k/s 
 merited by the candid and impartial among his counrrymen. And where 
 a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in- 
 terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at 
 the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted hi.« 
 nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the fribuna 
 which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — 
 
 " Where they alike in tremblinj^ hope repofc, 
 — The bosom of his father and his God." 
 
 Okay's Elegt. 
 Annandale, August 7, 1796. 
 
 " Vide the \'ision — Duan 2d. 
 
TO THE 
 
 NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 
 
 OF THE 
 
 CALEDONIAx^ HUNT. 
 
 My Lords and Gentlemen, 
 
 A Scottish Bard, proud of tlie name, and whose liighest ambition is U 
 sing in his Country's service — wlicre shall he so properly look for patron- 
 age as to the illustrious names of his Native Land; those who bear the ho- 
 nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of 
 my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 
 plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the 
 loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
 native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whis- 
 pered nie to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and ay my 
 Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. 
 
 Though mucli indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my 
 Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for 
 past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that lio- 
 nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the 
 venal soul of a servile Author, lookinij for a continuation of those favours : 
 I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the com 
 nion Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell .i.o 
 world that I glory in the title. 1 come to congratulate my Country, that 
 the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from 
 your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection, 
 wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to prefer my warmest wishes 
 to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
 wcllare and happiness. 
 
 Vv'hen you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and flivourite 
 amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your jxirty ; and 
 may Social Joy await yo.ur return : When harassed in courts or campa 
 
clx DEDICATION TO THE CALEDONIAN HUNT 
 
 with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest coiisci- 
 ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and 
 may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates I 
 May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny 
 in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find an inexorable 
 foe! 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 
 With the sincerest gratitude, 
 and highest respect, 
 
 My Lords and Gentlemen, 
 Vour most devoted humble servant, 
 
 ROBERT BURNa 
 Edinburgh, ( 
 April 4, 1787. ^ 
 
POEMS, 
 
 CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 
 
 THE TWA DOGS: 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 TwAS ij that place o' Scotland's isle, 
 That Dears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
 I'poa a bonnie day in June, 
 When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
 Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
 Forgather'd ance upon a time. 
 
 The first I'll name they ca'd him Cccsar, 
 Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
 His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
 Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's doers : 
 But whalpit some place fur ahroad, 
 Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 
 
 His locked, letter'd, hraw brass collar 
 Show'd him th« gentleman and scholar : 
 But tho' he was o' high degree, 
 The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
 But wad hae spent .m hour cares>in', 
 Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's mcssin'. 
 At kirk or maiket, mill or smiddie, 
 Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sac duddie, 
 But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
 .And stroau't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 
 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
 A rhyming, ranting, raving liillie, 
 Wha for his friend an comrade had him, 
 And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
 After some dog in Highland sang,* 
 Was made lang syne — Lord knows bow lang. 
 
 He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
 As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
 His honest, sonsie, haws'nt face. 
 Aye gat him friends in ilka |)lace. 
 His breast was white, his to-.vzie back 
 We* 1 clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gawcic tail, wi' upward curl, 
 Hurg o'er his hurdies wi' a 3wurl. 
 
 •-tuchuUin'i dog in Ossian's Fingal. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
 An' unco pack an' thick theirither ; 
 Wi' social noise whyles sriutTd and snowkit j 
 Whyles n;ice and mowdieworts they howkitj 
 Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
 An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
 Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
 Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
 And there began a lang digression, 
 About the lorda o' the creation 
 
 C^SAK. 
 
 I've often wonder'd honest Luath, 
 What sort o' life poor dogs like you aare* 
 An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
 M'hat way poor bodies lived ava. 
 
 Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
 His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
 He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
 His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
 He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
 He draws a bonnie silken purse. 
 As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steekii. 
 The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 
 
 Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiliagi 
 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
 An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin*. 
 Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
 That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
 Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonucr. 
 Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 
 Better than ony tenant man 
 His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
 An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
 I own its past my comprehension. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Trowth, Ca>sar, whyles they're fash't enetwh 
 A cotter howkin in a sheus-h, 
 Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 
 Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
 Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
 An' nought but his hau' darg; to keep 
 Them righ* and tight in tlack an' rape. 
 
2 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 An' when they meet wi sait ciis-isters. 
 Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
 An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; 
 But, how it conies, I never ken'd yet, 
 They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
 An' buirrlly chiels, an' clever hizzics, 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 Rut then to see how ye're negleckit, 
 How hufTd, and culTd, and disrespeckit ! 
 L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
 For delvers, ditcliers, and sic cattle ; 
 They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
 As I wad by a stinking brock. 
 
 I've notic'd on our Laird's court day 
 An' 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 an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
 He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
 While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
 An' hear it a', au' fear an' tremble ! 
 
 I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
 But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
 Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
 They're sae accustomed wi' the sight. 
 The view o't gi'es them little fright 
 
 Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
 They're aye in less or miir provided ; 
 An' tho' fiitigu'd wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 
 
 The dearest comfort o* their lives, 
 Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
 The jnuttlin things are just their pride 
 That sweetens a' their fire-side. 
 
 An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
 Can mak the bodies unco happy , 
 They lay aside their private cares. 
 To mind the Kirk and State affairs 
 Tliey'll talk o' ))atronage and priests, 
 Wr kindling fury in their bre-asts, 
 Or tell what new taxation's comiu'. 
 And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
 
 As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
 They get the jovial, rantiu' kirns, 
 When riiritl life, o' every station. 
 Unite in common reireution : 
 Love blinks, Wit sla|n, an' social Mirth 
 Forgets there's Can' iij)o' the oarth. 
 
 That merry ^i y the rear l)egins. 
 They bar the Quor on frosty winds; 
 The nappy lecks wi' mantling re' » 
 An' jheds a heart-inspiring steaur> *, 
 
 The luntin' pipe, aiA snee>ihin' mill, 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will: 
 The cantie auld folks crackin' cruuse. 
 The young anes rantin' thro' the house,-^ 
 ]\Iy heart has been sae fain to see them, 
 That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 
 
 Still it's owre true that ye 'nae 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' greed to quench, 
 Wha thinks to knit himself the faster 
 In favours wi' some gentle master, 
 Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin', 
 For Britain's guid his saul indentin'-- 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 Haith, lad, ye little ken about it 
 F'or liritain's guid ! — guid faith, I doubt it 
 Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 
 An' sayin' aye or no's they bid him : 
 At operas an' plays parading, 
 Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
 Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
 To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
 To mak a tour, and tak a whirl. 
 To learn hon ton and see the worl' 
 
 There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
 He rives his father's auld entails ! 
 Or by Madrid he takes the rout. 
 To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
 Or down Italian vista startles, 
 Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtles 
 Then bouses drumly German water, 
 To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, 
 An' clear the consequential sorrows 
 Love gifts of Carnival signoras. 
 For liritain's gnid ! — for her destruction . 
 Wi' dissipation, feu«l, an' faction. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gata 
 They waste sae niony a braw estate ! 
 Are we sae foughten an' hara.ss'd 
 For gear to gang that gate at List ! 
 
 O would they stay aback frae courts, 
 An' please themselves wi' countra sport*. 
 It wad for every ane be better, 
 The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ; 
 For thae frank, rantin', ramblln' billies, 
 Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
 Excejjt for breakin' o' their timmer, 
 Or s])eakiii' lightly o' their linimer, 
 Or sliontin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
 The ne'er a bit they're ill to jumr folk. 
 
 But will ye tel! mc^ Maner Cccsnr, 
 Sure gr';at folk's 'ijVs a /''"f o ])>wure! 
 N. ca'Jd i.r liunger e'er can sie> ..neto. 
 The very tnought o't need na fear tliein. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 CJG3AR. 
 
 L — il, man, were yc but whjles where I am, 
 riie gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'im. 
 
 It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
 Thro' winter's cauUl or simmer's heat ; 
 They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
 An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
 But human bodies are sic fools, 
 For a' their colk-ges an' schools. 
 That when nae real ills perplex them, 
 Thev niak enow themselves to vex them. 
 An' aye the less they hae to sturt them. 
 In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
 A country fellow at the pleugh, 
 His acres till'd, he's right eiieugh ; 
 A country girl at her wheel, 
 Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
 But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
 \Vi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
 They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
 Tho' deil huet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
 Tl.eir days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; 
 Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; 
 An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races, 
 Their gallopin' through public places. 
 There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
 The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
 The men cast out in party matches. 
 Then sowther a' in deep debauehes : 
 Ae night they're mad wi' drink an wh-ring, 
 Neist day their life is past enduring. 
 The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
 As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
 They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
 VVhyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie. 
 They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
 Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuka 
 Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard. 
 An' cheat like ony unliang'd blackguard. 
 
 There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
 But this is Gentry's life in common. 
 
 By this the sun was out o' sight : 
 An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
 The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; 
 The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
 When up they gat an shook their lugs, 
 Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
 And each took aff his several way, 
 Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 
 
 SCOTCH DRINK 
 
 Gie liim strong drink, until he wink. 
 That's sinkinp; m des air ; 
 
 An' liquor guid to tire his bhiid, 
 Thai's urest wi' %rief an' care; 
 
 There let hirn bouse, and deep carouse 
 
 WI' bumpers tlowin;; o'er, 
 'J ill he forjjets Ins Inves or dfftt!. 
 
 An' niiuds his (jrieCs no mure. 
 
 S'jliimons l'rur;iDs, xxxi. 6, "J. 
 
 Lf:t other poets raise a fracas, 
 
 'Bout vines, aiui wine;i, and drunken liacchua. 
 
 An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 
 
 An' grate our lug, 
 I sing the juice Sects bear can mak us, 
 
 In glass or jug. 
 
 O Thou, my Muse f guid auld Scotch Drink 
 Whether thro' wim]ding worms thou jink, 
 Or, richly brown, ream o'i:r the brink, 
 
 In glorious faem, 
 Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 
 
 To sing thy name. 
 
 Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, 
 And Aits set up their awnie horn, 
 An' Pease and Beans at e'en or moin. 
 Perfume the plain, 
 Leeze me on thee, Jo/ui Barleycorn, 
 
 Thou king o' grain ! 
 
 On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
 In souple scone<, the wail o' food ! 
 Or tumbliu' in the boiling flood, 
 
 Wi' kail an' beef; 
 But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood. 
 
 There thou shines chief 
 
 Fond tills the wame, an' keeps us livin'; 
 Tho' life's a gift no woith receivin'. 
 When heavy diagg'd wi' pine and grievin* ; 
 
 But oii'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 j 
 
 At's weary toil ; 
 Thou even brightens dark Despair 
 
 M'i' gloomy smile. 
 
 Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
 Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
 Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 
 
 The poor man's wine, 
 His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 
 
 Thou kitchens fine. 
 
 Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
 But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 
 Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 
 
 By thee inspir'd, 
 
 When gaping they besiege the tents, 
 
 Are doubly fir'd. 
 
 That merry night we get the corn in, 
 O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ' 
 Or reekin' on a New-year morning 
 la cog or bickef 
 
V 
 
 
 4 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 Axi' just a vree drap »p'ritua] bum in, 
 
 Thou comes they rattle T t„eir raiikt 
 
 An' gusty sucker ! 
 
 At ither's a — ■ .' 
 
 When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
 
 Tliee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
 
 An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
 
 Scotland, lainent frae coast to coast ! 
 
 rare ! to see the fizz an' freath 
 
 Now colic grips, and bar kin hoa.st. 
 
 r the lugget caup ! 
 
 Way kill us a* ; 
 
 Then JBurnewin * comes on like death 
 
 For loyal Forbes' chartered boast 
 
 At ev'ry chaup. 
 
 Ts ta'en awa' ! 
 
 Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
 
 Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
 
 The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel", 
 
 Wha mak the Wliisly Stells their prize ! 
 
 Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 
 
 Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thriue ! 
 
 The strong forehammer, 
 
 There, seize the blinkers ! 
 
 Till block an' studdie ring an reel 
 
 An' bake them up in brunstane pies 
 
 Wi' dinsome clamour. 
 
 For poor d — n'd drinkers. 
 
 When Bkirlin weanies see the light, 
 
 Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
 
 Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
 
 Hale breeks, a scone, an' M'hisky gill, 
 
 How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight, 
 
 An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 
 
 Wae worth the name ! 
 
 Tak a' the rest, 
 
 Nae howdie gets a social night, 
 
 An' deaJ't about as thy blind skill 
 
 Or plack frae them. 
 When neebours anger at a plea, 
 
 Directs thee best. 
 
 
 An' just as wud as wud can be. 
 
 
 How easy can the biirlei/ bree 
 
 THE author's 
 
 Cement the quaiTcl ; 
 It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. 
 
 
 EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 
 
 To taste the barrel. 
 
 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
 To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
 
 
 SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 
 
 But mouy daily weet their weason 
 
 
 Wi' liquors nice, 
 
 IN THE 
 
 An' hardly, in a winter's season. 
 
 
 E'er spier her price. 
 
 Wae worth that hraiidy, burning trash, 
 Fell source o' monie a patn an' brash ! 
 
 HOUSE OF COMMONS, 
 
 How art thou lost ! Parody on Sliltoi 
 
 Twins monie a poor, diiylt, drunken hash, 
 O' half his days ; 
 
 
 
 An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
 
 Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires, 
 
 To her warst faes. 
 
 Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
 
 
 And doucely manage our aifairs 
 
 Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
 
 III parliament, 
 To you a simple i »*ts prayers 
 
 Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
 
 Poor plackless devils like niysel' ! 
 
 Are humbly sent. 
 
 It sets you ill, 
 
 
 Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wine< to mell. 
 
 Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
 
 Or foreign gilL 
 
 Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce 
 
 
 To see her sittin' on her a — 
 
 ]May gravels round his l)lather wrench, 
 
 Low i* the dust. 
 
 An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
 
 An' screichin* out prosaic veise. 
 
 Wha t^vists his gruntle wi' a glunch 
 
 An' like to brust ! 
 
 O' sour disdain, 
 
 
 Out owre a glass o' ii'hisky punch 
 
 Tell them wha hae the chief direction. 
 
 M'i* honest men. 
 
 Scotland an* nif's in great affliction. 
 
 
 E'er sin they laid that curst restriction 
 
 O Whishy! soul o* plays an' pranks! 
 
 On Aqiiavita > 
 
 Accept a Baidie's humble thanks ! 
 
 An* rouse them up to strong conviction 
 
 When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
 
 An* move their pity. 
 
 Are my poor verses ! 
 
 
 • This wa« written l)cfi>re the act anent the Sooo h 
 Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and 
 
 1 
 • Burnruin — Burntlit-wind — the blacksmith^ an 
 
 Bppiopriate title 
 
 the Author return their most crateful thanks. 
 
 1 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Stat foith, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
 The h. est, open, nakt-ii truth : 
 Tell 111 ' o' iiiiin; and Scotliiid's drouth, 
 
 Ilis si'i vants humble : 
 The mi.' k!o devil blaw je south, 
 
 If ye disscuible ! 
 
 Does >ny great man glunch an' gloom ! 
 Speak I'lt, ail' never t'.ish yimr thumb : 
 Let pose- an' pensions sink or soom 
 
 Wr thetn wha grant 'em ; 
 If honest .y they canna cqme, 
 
 Faj- better want 'em. 
 
 In gat' ring votes you were na slack ; 
 Now stai -t as tightly liy your tack ; 
 Ne'er claw your lug, an fidge your l)ack, 
 
 An' hum an' haw ; 
 But raise .our arm, an' tell your crack 
 
 Before them a' 
 
 Paint S.otland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
 Her mutchi- n stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
 An' d-mn'it Excisemen in a bussle, 
 
 Seizin' a sttll, 
 Triumphant 'uahin't like a mussel, 
 
 Or lainpit shell. 
 
 Then on th tither luind present her, 
 A blackguard vimggler right behint her, 
 An* cheek-for-Oi>-.iw, a chuffie Vintner, 
 
 Colleaguing join. 
 Picking her pou>:r as bare as winter 
 
 Of a' kind coin. 
 
 Is there, that be.n- the name o' Scot, 
 But feels his heart's uid ris'ng hot, 
 To see his poor auld .'ither's pot 
 
 'I 'lis dung in staves, 
 An plunder'd o' her hi imost groat 
 
 By ^ 'ows knaves ? 
 
 Alas ! Fm but a namele« wight, 
 Trode i' the mire out o' sigi 
 But could I like Montyomerie 6ght, 
 
 Or gal) lik tSostvM, 
 There's some sark-necks I wad r.raw tight. 
 
 An' tie some i ise well. 
 
 God bless your Honours, can ye see't. 
 The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
 An' no get warmly to your feet, 
 
 An gar tiiein hear ic, 
 An' tell tbem wi" a patriot heat, 
 
 Ye winna bear it ! 
 
 Some o you nicely ken the laws. 
 To round *,he periml an' pause. 
 An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 
 
 To niak harangues ; 
 Then echo thro* Saint Srejihen's w.i's 
 
 Auld Scotland's wrangs. 
 
 Dempster, a true blue Scot I'^e warran ; 
 rhee, aith- detesting, chaste Kdherran ;* 
 
 Sir .\dam I'erguson. 
 
 A n' that glib-gabbct High ir.d Baron, 
 
 The Laird o' iiraham i* 
 
 An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 
 Ttnniias his name. 
 
 Ershinc, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
 True CaiiiphMs, I'reilerirk an' Ilui/ ; 
 An' Liviiiijitoiie, the bauld Sir Willie ; 
 
 An' niony ithers. 
 Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 
 
 Might own for britheri. 
 
 Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
 To get auld Scotl.md back her liettle ; 
 Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 
 
 Ye'll see't or lang, 
 She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 
 Anither sang. 
 
 This while she's been in canc'rous mood. 
 Her lost Mihtia fir'd her bluid ; 
 (Deil na they never mair do guid, 
 
 Play'd her that pliskie!^ 
 An' now she's like to rm red-wud 
 
 About her Whisky. 
 
 An' L — d if ance they pit her till't. 
 Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
 An' durk an' pistol at her lielt, 
 
 She'll tak the street*, 
 An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 
 
 r the first she meets ! 
 
 For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her itia, 
 An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
 An* to the muckle hou'^e repair, 
 
 wr instant speed, 
 An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear. 
 
 To get remead. 
 
 Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
 May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
 But gie him't bet, my hearty cocks ! 
 
 E'en cows the caddie 
 An* send him to his dicing box 
 
 An' sportin' lady. 
 
 Tell yon guid bluid o* auld Jiockonnock" s, 
 
 I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
 
 An' drink his health in auld iVu7i.se Tinnock9,f 
 
 Nine times a week, 
 If he some scheme, like tea and winnocka. 
 
 Wad kindly seek. 
 
 Could he some cnmmutation broach, 
 I'll pledge mv aith in guid braid Scotch, 
 He need na tear their foul reproach 
 
 Nor erudition, 
 Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotcl-potch, 
 
 The Coalition. 
 
 Auld Scotland has a raucle toi-gue ; 
 She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
 
 • The present Duke of Montrose.— (1 800,) 
 
 t A worthy old Hosicis ot the Author's in Mauch. 
 
 line, wlicre he someii.iics studies Politic* over a glait 
 
 of i\i\Aiia\ti Scotch Drink. 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 An' If she promise auld or young 
 
 To t:ik their part, 
 
 The* by the neck she should l)e strung, 
 She'll no desert. 
 
 An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
 May still your Mither's heait support ye : 
 Then, tho* a Minister grow dorty. 
 
 An' kick your place, 
 Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. 
 
 Before his face. 
 
 God bless your Honours a' your days, 
 "VTi* soups o' kail and brats o' claise, 
 In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 
 
 That haunt St Jamits ! 
 Your humble poet sings an' prays 
 
 While Itab his name is. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Let half-starv'd slaves, in wanner skies 
 See future wines, rich clust'riiig rise ; 
 Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 
 
 But blithe and frisky, 
 She eyes her freeborn martial buys. 
 
 Tak aif their Whisky. 
 
 What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
 hile fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
 When wretches lange, in famish'd swarms. 
 
 The scented groves. 
 Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 
 
 In hungry droves. 
 
 Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
 They downa bide the stmk o' ])outher; 
 Their bauldest thought's a h;uik'ring swither 
 
 To Stan or rin, 
 Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther. 
 
 To save their skin. 
 
 But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
 Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
 Say, such is royal Georgt's will, 
 
 An' there's the foe, 
 He has nae thought but how to kill 
 
 Twa at a blow. 
 
 Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; 
 Death comes, with fi-arless eye he sees him ; 
 Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 
 
 An' when he fa's. 
 His latest draught o* breatliin' lea'es him 
 
 In faint huzz>is. 
 
 Sages their snlenm een may steek, 
 An raise a philosophic reek. 
 An' phy.sically causes seek, 
 
 In clime an' season ; 
 But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 
 
 I'll tell tlie reason. 
 
 Scotland, my auld, respecteii Mither ! 
 rho' whylcs ye uioistily your leather. 
 
 Till whare ye sit, on craps o* heather, 
 Ye tine your dam ; 
 
 {Freedom and Whisky gang theglther !) 
 Tiik aif your dram ! 
 
 THE HOLY FAIR.* 
 
 A robe of seeming truth and trust 
 
 Hill crafty Observation ; 
 And secret hung with poison'd crust. 
 
 The dirk of Defamation : 
 A mask that hke the Rorget show'd 
 
 Uye-varying on the pigeon j 
 And for a inantle hu'ge and broad. 
 
 He wravt him in Reli^inn. 
 
 Hypocrisy-a ia^^aof'*. 
 
 LTpoK a simmer Sunday morn, 
 
 When Nature's face is fair, 
 I walked forth to view the corn, 
 
 An' snuff the callar air. 
 The rising sun owre Gahtnn muirs, 
 
 Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
 The hares were, hirplin' down the "ur». 
 
 The lav 'rocks they were chantm' 
 
 Fu' sweet that day. 
 
 II. 
 
 As llghtsomcly I glowr'd abroad 
 
 To see a scene sae gay. 
 Three hizzie-', early at the road, 
 
 Cam skelpin' up the wa^ ; 
 Twa had manteeles o' dolctn* black, 
 
 But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
 The third that gaed a w-e a-back. 
 
 Was in the fashion snining, 
 
 Fu* gay that day. 
 
 III. 
 The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 
 
 In feature, form, an' claes : 
 Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin, 
 
 An* sour as ony slaes ; 
 The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 
 
 As light as ony lammie. 
 An' wi* a curchie low did stoop. 
 
 As soon as e'er sue saw me, 
 
 Fu' kind that dajr 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wi bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 
 
 I think ye seem to ken me ; 
 I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 
 
 But yet I canna name ye.* 
 Quo' she, an* laughin' us she spak, 
 
 An* tiji's me by the hands, 
 " Ye, for my sake, Iia'e gi'en the feck 
 
 Of a* the ten commands 
 
 A screed some day. 
 
 • IJoly Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scot 
 land fur a sacrameiitai occasion. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 •^ Bfv name i"! Fnii — yniir cronie dear, 
 
 Tho iRMie-t IVIc'ikI vl- li I'l; ; 
 An' this is Si'j>(r.--tifii)n liLTe, 
 
 An' that's lliipiicrhii. 
 I'll) paiin t" Ii"ly F(nr, 
 
 To sjK-iid a)i hi)iir in diffiii' ; 
 Gin yc'll !;i) there, yon nink'eil pair, 
 
 Wo will get fanious liu!;hin' 
 
 At them this day.* 
 
 VI. 
 
 Quoth I, ' With a' my heart I'll do't; 
 
 I'll £;et njy Sunday's saik on, 
 An' meet yon on the holy spot ; 
 
 Faith we'se hae fine reniarkin' !' 
 Then I gaed hame at tniwdie time. 
 
 An soon I made nu- reailv ; 
 For roads were el id, f'r le side to side, 
 
 Wi' monie a weaiy liody, 
 
 In droves that day. 
 
 VII. 
 Here fai-.ners ^ash, in ridin' graitli 
 
 Gaed hoddin' by their otters : 
 Their swankles youiiij, in hraw braid-claitli 
 
 Are sj)rin^in' o'er the gutters. 
 The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang, 
 
 In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
 Wi' sweet-tiiil/i c/ifise in monie a whang. 
 
 An' fares bak'd wi' iintter, 
 
 Fu' crump that day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When by the jilntr we set our nose, 
 
 Weel heapeil up wi* ha'pence, 
 A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws. 
 
 An* we maun draw our tippencc. 
 Then in we go to see the sliow. 
 
 On ev'ry side tliey're gatherin', 
 Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, 
 
 An' some are busy bletherin'. 
 
 Right loud that day. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 
 
 Aii' screen our couutra Gentry, 
 There, racer Jt-ss, an' twa-three whores, 
 
 Are blinkin' at tie entry. 
 Here sits a raw of titthn' j ides, 
 
 Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck. 
 An' there a batch of wahster lads, 
 
 Blackguardin' frae K ck. 
 
 For _/'«/! this day. 
 
 Here some are thinkin' on their sins. 
 
 An' some iipo' their ciaes ; 
 Ane curses feet that fyld his shins, 
 
 Anithcr sighs an' liniys; 
 On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 
 
 Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces; 
 On that a set o* cii ip- at watch, 
 
 Thratig winkiu' on the lasses 
 
 To chairs chat da/ 
 
 XI. 
 
 O happy is the man an' blest ! 
 
 IS'ae wonder that it pride hiin ! 
 Wh I's ain dear lass, that he likes hmtf 
 
 Comes clinkln' down besi<le him ! 
 Wi' arm repos'd on the ch lir-bark. 
 
 He sweetly does comjjose him ! 
 Which, by degrees, slips round her neck) 
 
 An's loof upon her bosom 
 
 Unkenn'd that day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now a' the congregation o'er 
 
 Is silent expectation ; 
 For speels the holy door 
 
 Wi' tidings o' daninatimi. 
 Should Iloriiic, as in ancient dava, 
 
 'JMang sons o' God ])resi-nt him. 
 The vera sight o' 's face, 
 
 To's ain het hame had sent him 
 
 Wi' fright that day. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Hear how he clears the points o' faith 
 
 Wi' rattlin* an' thunipiii' ! 
 Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 
 
 He's stam|)iii' an' he's juinpiu' ' 
 His lengthen'd chin, his turu'd-up snout, 
 
 His eldiitch squeel and gestures, 
 Oh, how they fire the heart devout. 
 
 Like cantharidian plasters, 
 
 On sic a day ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice } 
 There's peace and rest nae langer : 
 
 For a' the real jvdyes rise. 
 They canna sit for ani;er. 
 
 opens out his cauld harangues 
 
 On practice and on moials ; 
 An' afF the godly pour in thrangs, 
 To gie the jars an' barrels 
 
 A lift that day. 
 
 XV. 
 
 What signifies his barren shine 
 
 Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
 His English stWe, an' gesture fine, 
 
 Are a' clean out o' season. 
 Like Socrates or Antunir.e, 
 
 Or some auld pagan Heatnen, 
 The moral man he does lietioe, 
 
 But ne'er a word o* faith in 
 
 That's right that day 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In guid time comes an antidote 
 Against sic puison'd nostrum : 
 
 For , frae the watei-fit. 
 
 Ascends the holy rostrum : 
 
 See, up he's got tlie woid o' God, 
 An' meek an' mini has view'd it. 
 
B 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 While Ccmmon-sense lias ta'en the road, 
 Aa' aff, au' up the Cowgate, • 
 
 Fast, fast, that day 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Wee Tielst the guard relisves, 
 
 An' orfhoddxy raihles, 
 rho' in his heart he weel believes, 
 
 And thinks it atiM wives' fables; 
 But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse 
 
 So cannily he hums them ; 
 Altho' his carnal wit and sense 
 
 Like hafflins-ways o'erconies him 
 
 At times that daj. 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 Now but an' ben, the change-bouse fills, 
 
 Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
 Here's crying out for bakes and g:Ils, 
 
 And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
 While thick an' thran?. an' loud au' lang^ 
 
 Wi' logic, an' wi' Scri])ture, 
 They raise a din, that in the enii. 
 
 Is like to breed a rupture 
 
 O' wrath that day. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ijceze rae on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 
 
 Than either Scliool or College : 
 It kindles wit, it wankcns lair. 
 
 It pangs us fiiu o' knowledge. 
 Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 
 
 Or ony ytronger pution. 
 It never fails, on drinking deep. 
 
 To kittle up our niitmn 
 
 By uight or day. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The lads an' lasses, blytln-ly bent 
 
 To mind liaith sjul an' body. 
 Sit round the tilde weel content, 
 
 An" steer about the todily. 
 On this ane's dres», an' th it ane's leuk, 
 
 They're makin' ob^ervations ; 
 While some are cozie i' the neuk, 
 
 Aa' forming asisign itions 
 
 To meet some d;iy. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But now the I 'I's an trumpet touts, 
 
 Till a' the hills are rairiii'. 
 An' echoes back rt-turn the shouts: 
 
 Black is na spairin" : 
 
 His piercing winds, like Highland swords, 
 
 Divide the joints a.." 'narrow ; 
 His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 
 
 Osiff very sauls does harrow f 
 
 Wi' frigiit that day. 
 
 XXII. 
 K vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 
 Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
 
 Wha's ragin' fiairie an' scnrchin' heat. 
 
 Wad melt the hardest whiin-stane' 
 The half aJeep stiirt up wi' fear, 
 
 An' think they hear it ro;u-in , 
 Wlien presently it does appear, 
 
 'Twas but »ome neighbour snorin 
 Asleep that day. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 *Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 
 
 How monie stories p ist. 
 An' how they crowded to the yill, 
 
 When they were a' disniist : 
 How drink gaed round, in cogs an* caups 
 
 Amang the fuinis an' benches ; 
 An' cheese an' liread, (r:if women's laps, 
 
 Was dealt about in lunches 
 
 An' dawds that daj, 
 
 XXIV. 
 In comes a gaucie, gash giiidwife, 
 
 An' sits down by the fire. 
 Syne draws her kebbuek an' her koif^ 
 
 The bssos they are shyer. 
 The auld Ruidmen, about the grace, 
 
 Frae side to side they liother. 
 Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 
 
 An' gi'es them't like a tether, 
 
 Fu' lang that d«y. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Waesucks ! for him that gets nae ^aaa* 
 
 Or lasses that hae naetlung ! 
 Sma' need has he to say a firace 
 
 Or melvie his braw claitliing ! 
 O wives be mindfii' anre yoiiisel 
 
 How bonnie lails ye wanted, 
 An' dinna for a kebbiiik-becl. 
 
 Let lasses be affronted 
 
 On sic a day ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Now CUnhimhdl, wi' rattlin' tow, 
 
 Begins to jow an' croon ; 
 Some swagger hame, the best they Aotr^ 
 
 Some wait the alternoon. 
 At slaps the billies bait a blink, 
 
 Till lasses strip their slioon : 
 Wi' faith an' hope, an' love au* drink, 
 
 They've a' in famous tune. 
 
 For ci ack that day, 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 How monie hearts t\\\- day converts 
 
 O' sinners and o' lasses I 
 Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaoc 
 
 .\s saft as ony fl.-sli i,s. 
 There's some are fou o' love divine ; 
 
 There's some are fou o" brandy ; 
 An' niony jubs that day begin. 
 
 May eud in houghmagandie 
 
 Some ither 6ij 
 
 • A street so oaHeil, which fares llic int in ■ 
 * ShakesDi'itrc'i Huinlt't. 
 
i-r - 
 
 POEMS. 9 
 
 DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- 
 
 I red ye weel, tak care c' skaith. 
 
 BOOK : 
 
 See there's a g^.Oy !* 
 
 A THUE STORY. 
 
 ' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, 
 
 Some Imoks arc lii's iVac Lti'l to end, 
 
 I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
 
 Anil some sri'frtt lies were never penn'd : 
 
 But if I did, I wad be kittle 
 
 Ev'a ^liiiisteis, they Iku; hcen keim'd, 
 
 To l)e mislear'd. 
 
 In lidly raptuie. 
 
 I wadna mind it, no, that spittle 
 
 A roiLsing wliid, at tinu's, to vend, 
 
 Out owre my beard. 
 
 Ajid nall't \vi* Scripture. 
 
 
 
 ' Weul, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ; 
 
 Hut this that I ain i^aim to tell, 
 
 Come, gie's your hand, an* sae we're gree't j 
 
 Wliieii lately on a niijKt befell, 
 
 We'll case our shanks an' tak a seat, 
 
 U just as true'd tlie De'iis in hell 
 
 Come gie's your news ; 
 
 Or Duli'.in ir!ty : 
 
 This while • ye hae been mony a gate, 
 
 Tliat e'a' he nearer ennus mirsel* 
 
 At mony a house.* 
 
 'S a nmckle pity. 
 
 
 
 ' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shoidj his head. 
 
 Tlip Clachan ylll had made me canty, 
 
 ' Its een a lang, lang time indeed 
 
 I vr&s iiiie foil, Imt just had plenty ; 
 
 Sin' I began to nick the thread. 
 
 1 stacher'd whiii^, hut yet took tent aye 
 
 An' choke the breath; 
 
 To free the ditches ; 
 
 Folk maun do something for their bread, 
 
 An' hillocks, stanes, an' hushes, kenn'd aye 
 
 All' sae maun Death. 
 
 Frae ghaists an' witches. 
 
 
 
 ' Sax thousand years are nearhand fled 
 
 The rising innon Ijesran to jrlow'r 
 
 Sin' I was to the hutching breil. 
 
 The distant Ciimnnck hills out-owre ; 
 
 An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid. 
 
 To count her horns, \vi* a' my power. 
 
 To stap or scir me ; 
 
 I set niysel' ; 
 
 Till ane Hornbook 's -f- tuen up the trade, 
 
 But whether slie had thiee or four, 
 
 An' faith, he'd waur ine 
 
 I cuuldua tell. 
 
 
 
 ' Ye ken Jock Hnnibonh, i' the Clachan, 
 
 I was come roimd about the hill, 
 
 Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 
 
 And todlin down on Willt's mill, 
 
 He's grown sae weel acqu.unt wi' Buchan \ 
 An' ither chaps, 
 
 Setting my statf wi' a' my skill, 
 
 To keep nie sicker ; 
 
 The weans haud out their fmgcrs laughia* 
 
 Tho' leeward whyles, aEjainst my will, 
 
 An' pouk my hips. 
 
 I took a hicker. 
 
 
 
 ' See, here's a scythe, and tjiere's a dart, 
 
 I there vi-i* Snmctliinrj diil forfjathea, 
 
 They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : 
 
 That put me in an eerie swither : 
 
 But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 
 
 An' awfu' scythe, out-owie ae shouthcr. 
 
 And cursed skill, 
 
 Clear-dangling, hang ; 
 
 Has made them baith no worth a f — t. 
 
 A three-taed leister on the itJier, 
 
 Damn'd hact they'll kill 
 
 Lay, large and lang. 
 
 
 
 ' 'Twas but yestreen, n le farther gaen, 
 I thjew a noble throw at ane ; 
 
 Its stature seem'd Ian<» Scotch ells twa. 
 
 The queerest sha|)e th ct e'er I saw, 
 
 Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 
 
 For fient a wame it h.ul ava ; 
 
 Hut deil-mu-care, 
 
 And tlien, its shanks, 
 
 It just play'd dirl on the bane. 
 
 They were as thin, as .•.harj). an' sma' 
 
 But did nae niair. 
 
 As cheeks o' branks. 
 
 
 
 ' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art. 
 
 ' nuld-een,'()uo'I ; ' Fiienil ! luie yelwen mawin'. 
 
 And had sae fortified the part. 
 
 VMien ither folk are busy sawin' ?' • 
 
 That when I looked to m) dart. 
 
 It seem'd to male' a kind o' stan', 
 
 It w.is 8,ie blunt, 
 
 P.ut naethiug spak : 
 
 Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
 
 At lengtli, savs I, ' Friend, where ye gaun, 
 
 Of a kail-runt. 
 
 Will ye go back ?' 
 
 
 
 • I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
 
 (t gpak right howe, — ' My name is Death, 
 But be aa flcvM." — C^ioih I, ' Guid faith, 
 Ye're mayi)e come to st.ijj my breith ; 
 
 
 • An epidemiral fever was than raginf; in that countrr 
 
 t This gintjem in, hr. Hunib'mh, h, ]>r()fessinnally 
 
 But t. Ill me, billie : 
 
 a brother of the Sovereign Order iif tlie Kcnila; but 
 
 
 by intuition and inspt/aiion, is at out* an Ajiothecary 
 Suri;win, ajicl I'hviiciiui. 
 
 
 • This rencoujitor haiiiK-invl ui si'eil-time, XlhS. 
 
 X Bueliaji's Domest'*; Medicine. 
 
 II 
 
 
 
 1 
 
lO 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 I neaihand coiipit wi' my hurry, 
 But yet the bauld A]Kitiicriiry 
 
 Withstddii the shock ; 
 J might as weel liae tried a qiinrry 
 
 O' hard whin rock. 
 
 Ev'n thetF I:e canna get attended, 
 Altho' theii face he ne'er had ken'd it, 
 Just in a kail-lilade, and send it, 
 
 As sodn's he smells't, 
 Baith their disease, and what will ineud it, 
 
 At once he tells't. 
 
 ■ An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
 OF a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
 A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. 
 
 He's sure to hae ; 
 Tlieir Latin names as fast he rattles 
 
 As A B C. 
 
 • Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
 True Sal-marinuni o' the seas ; 
 The Farina of beans and pease. 
 
 He has't in plenty ; 
 Aqua-fontis, what you please. 
 
 He can content ye. 
 
 ' Forhye some new, uncommon weapons, 
 
 Urinus Spiritus ot capons ; 
 
 Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; 
 
 Distil I'd per se ; 
 Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins. 
 
 An' moi>y mac.* 
 
 * Waes me for Jnhniit/ GerTs Huh * now ;' 
 Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! 
 
 His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, 
 Sae white an* bonnie, 
 
 Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 
 
 They'll ruin Johnny T 
 
 The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
 An' says, ' Ye need na ynke the pleugh, 
 Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 
 
 Tak ye nae fear ; 
 They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 
 
 In twa-three year. 
 
 ' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
 By loss o' blood or want o' lireath. 
 This night I'm free to tak my aith. 
 
 That HiiTiibook's skill 
 Has clad a score i* their laht claith, 
 
 By diap an' pill, 
 
 ' An honest Wabster to his trade, 
 
 Wha'^e wile's twa nieves were scarce weel bred. 
 
 Gat tip|)ence-worth to mend her head. 
 
 When it was sair ; 
 The wife slade canuie to her bed. 
 
 But ne'er spak mair. 
 
 ' A conrtra Laird had ta'en tlie batta, 
 Or Home cu inurriiig in his guts. 
 
 His only son for Ilortihonk set?. 
 
 An' pays l-.iin ■R'aB; 
 
 Tlie lad, for twa guid giniiner pets, 
 
 Was laiid himsel' 
 
 ' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, 
 
 .Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her Wbme ; 
 
 She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 
 
 In Hornbook's care ; 
 Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 
 
 To hide it there. 
 
 ' That's just a swatch o' Hornhook's way j 
 Thus goes he on from day to day. 
 Thus does he poison, kill, an' slav, 
 
 An's weel paid for't ; 
 Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prev, 
 
 Wi' his damn'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 we meet, I'll wad a groat, 
 
 He gets his fairin' !' 
 
 But just as he began to tell, 
 
 The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell. 
 
 Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 
 
 Which rais'd us baith 
 I took the way that pleased mvsel', 
 
 And sae did Death. 
 
 THE BRIGS OF AYR: 
 
 A POEJL 
 
 Inscribed to J. B- 
 
 -, Esq. Ayr. 
 
 • The £1 tve (lit;ccr. 
 
 The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plouglr., 
 Learning his tuneful trade from every hough ; 
 The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
 Hailing the setting sun, sweet, ia the green 
 
 thorn bush : 
 The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
 Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er 
 
 the hill ; 
 Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, 
 To hardy independence bravely bred. 
 By early Poverty to hardshi]) steel'd, 
 And train'd to arms in stern IVIisfortune' 
 
 field- 
 Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
 The servile, niercenaiy Swiss of rhymes ? 
 Or labour hard the )'ane^yrii' dose. 
 With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 
 No! though his artless stiains he rudely singa. 
 And throws his hand imi-outhly o'er the string! 
 He glows with all the spirit of *Jie Bird, 
 Fame, honest fame, his great, nis dear reward. 
 Still, if some Patron's geiurous cure he trace, 
 Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
 
 I When B befriends his humble laine 
 
 'And hands the rustic sti anger up to tame. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 11 
 
 WItli )irart felt throes his grateful boson) 
 
 sui'lls, 
 
 The gotllikn t) give alone excels. 
 
 'T«-a» when the stacks get on their winter 
 
 hap, 
 Anil thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : 
 FcJatoe binsjs are ^nlli;ged up IVac skaith 
 Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
 The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
 Unnuniber'd buds an' fluwers* delicious spoils, 
 Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 
 
 pili'i. 
 Are diiom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
 The death o' devils, snioor'd wl' brimstone 
 
 reek : 
 The thundering guns are heard on ev'rjr side, 
 The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
 The feather'd fit Id-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
 Siics, mothers, children, in oiie carnage lie : 
 (What warm, jioetic heart, but inly lileeds. 
 And execrates man's savaije, ruthless deeds) ! 
 Nae mair the flow"r in field or me idow springs : 
 Nae mair the grove « i' airy concert rings. 
 Except. ])erliaps, the Uobin's whistling glee, 
 I'roi.ii o' the heigiit o' some bit halt'-laiig tree : 
 The hoary morns precede the sunny davs, 
 Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide 
 
 blaze, 
 While thick the gossaniour waves wanton in 
 
 the rays. 
 'Twis i.i that season, when a simple bard, 
 Unknown and poor, simplicity s reward, 
 Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
 By whim inspired, ot haply prtst wi' care, 
 He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
 And down by ISiwpson^s* wheel'd the left 
 
 about : 
 (Whether impell'd by al'-ilirecting Fate 
 To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
 Or whether rajit in meditation high, 
 He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), 
 Thtf Avuw^y Dunuenri-r.luck.^ had nunii)er'd two. 
 And Widliice t/ti-er f had sworn the fact was 
 
 true : 
 The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-soundijig 
 
 roar. 
 Thro' the still uight dash'd hoarse along the 
 
 shore : 
 All else was hush'd as Nature's cio^ed e'e ; 
 The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 
 The chilly frost, liene.ith the silver beam, 
 Ciept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 
 
 When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard. 
 The clanging sough of whistling wings be 
 
 heard ; 
 "ira (iusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
 t (vift as the Gos \ drives on the wheeling hare ; 
 
 ♦ / nofe<i tsvcm at tlie Aid I Brig end. 
 
 * 1 \.v t«i> SI epics. 
 
 i T!»e gos-hawk, or falcen. 
 
 Aiie on th Aiild lirit) his airy shape upreara, 
 
 The ither flutters o'er the risin;/ piers : 
 
 Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 
 
 The Sjuites that owre the Bnys of Aijr presldo, 
 
 (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
 
 An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
 
 F.iys, Spunkies, Keljjies.a' they can explain them, 
 
 And ev'n the vera ileils they brawly ken tiieiu.'; 
 
 AiiH Jiihj appejr'd of ancient I'ictish race. 
 
 The very wrinkles Ciothic in his face : 
 
 He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang 
 
 Yet toiighly doure, he bade an unco bant;. 
 
 New liriy was buskit in a braw new coat, 
 
 That he, at Lon'on, frae ane A'lams got ; 
 
 In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
 
 Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
 
 The Goth was stalking round with anxious 
 
 search. 
 Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
 It chanc'd his new-come neei)or took his e'e, 
 And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! 
 Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien. 
 He, down the water, gles him thus guide'en— . 
 
 AULn URIC. 
 
 I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye're nae sheep • 
 
 shank, 
 Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bauk ! 
 IJut gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
 Tho" faith that day I doubt ye'U never see ; 
 There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a t.>odd!e, 
 Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle 
 
 NKW BKIG. 
 
 Auld Vandal, ye but show your little meuse, 
 Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
 Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
 Wliere twa wlieel-barrows tremble when they 
 
 meet, 
 Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime. 
 Compare wi' bonnie lirirjs o' nu)dern time ? 
 There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat 
 
 stream, * 
 Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
 Ere they would grate their fee ings wi' the view 
 Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 
 
 AULn KRIG. 
 
 Conceited gowk ! jjuffd up wi' windy pride ! 
 This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide 
 An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
 I'll be a Urip when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
 As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
 But twa- three winters will inform ye bette. . 
 When heavy, daik, ccuitinucd, a'-day rains, 
 Wi* dee])ening deluges o'eitluw the plains; 
 Vf'hen from the bills where springs the bi awl- 
 
 ing Coil, 
 Or stately L>iijitr''s mossy fount.iins bcil, 
 Or where the lircenock wiiids his nioorlauJ 
 
 course. 
 Or haunted Gurpal | draws his feeble source. 
 
 • A nofcti fonl, ju^t ::bo\c the AiiM Ilnp,. 
 \ The banks o1'6''<;j7«/ /*'a/i:r is oueof the lewj)?* 
 
l2 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Arous d byblust'iing winds and spnttirg tliowes. 
 In mony a tdiienl dv)\vn liis s. a-broo roww ; 
 While crashing ice, biirne on the roaring speat, 
 Sweeps dams, an* mills, an' brigs, a' to the 
 
 gate ; 
 And from Ghnhuik* down to the Rutton k(y,f 
 Auld Aur is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea; 
 Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
 And dash the guralie jaups up to the pouring 
 
 skies, 
 A lesson sadly teaching, to ynur cost, 
 That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 
 
 NEW BRIG. 
 
 Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't 
 o't! 
 The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 
 
 o't! 
 Gaunt, ghastly, gsist-alluring etlifices. 
 Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
 O'cr-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
 Supporting roofs fintastic, stony groves ; 
 Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 
 
 drest. 
 With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
 Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
 The craz'd creations of mi-<guided 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 
 
 Eea. 
 Mansions that would di-grace the building taste 
 Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; 
 Fit only for a doited Monkish race. 
 Or frostv maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
 Or cuifs of latci time>, wha held the notion 
 That sullen gloom was s-terlin^ true devotion ; 
 Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
 And soon may they expire, unblest with re- 
 surrection ! 
 
 AUI.n BRIG. 
 
 O ve, my dear-rememlier'd ancient yealings. 
 Were ye but here to share my wminded feelings ! 
 Ye worthy Pruveses, an' mony a liailie, 
 Wha in the piths o' righteousness did toil aye ; 
 Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners, 
 To wliom our moderns are but causey- 
 
 doaners ; 
 Ye godly Coiinrits wha hae blest this town ; 
 Ye godly lirUhrvn of the sacred gown, 
 Wha meeklv gae \nur liunlits to the tmitcrs ; 
 And (what would now be strange) ye godly 
 
 Writers : 
 A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
 Were ye but here, what would jo say or do ! 
 How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
 ation. 
 To see each nulanclmly alteration ; 
 
 hi the West of Scotland, where tho;p fancy.scarinij he- 
 UiCii, known l)y the name ol" O/uiUts, itiU conluiuc 
 pertinaciously to inhaljit. 
 
 • The Mill- e of tlic river A\r. 
 
 < A smail lanilingpL-u-c abc-'e the large key. 
 
 And agonizing, curse the time anil place 
 
 M'hen ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 
 
 Nae liinger Rev'rend Men, t\e\t countiy't 
 
 In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 
 
 story ! 
 Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
 Meet owie a pint, or in the Council house : 
 But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
 The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
 Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
 bers, 
 Wha waste your wcll-hain'd gear on d d 
 new £riijs and Uarbours I 
 
 NEW BRIG. 
 
 Now baud j'ou there ! for faith ye've said 
 
 enough, 
 And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 
 As for your Piiesthood, I shall say but little, 
 Corbies and Cleryy are a shot right kittle : 
 But, under favour o* your langer beard. 
 Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ; 
 To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
 I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
 In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a hanaie 
 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 priggin' owre hops an* 
 
 raisins, 
 Or gathei'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
 If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 
 Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
 And would to Common-sense, fur once betrayed 
 
 them. 
 Plain dull Stupidity slept kindly in to aid 
 
 them. 
 
 WTiat farther clishmaclaver might been said. 
 What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to 
 
 shed. 
 No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
 A fairy tra'n appear'd in order bright: 
 Adowr. the glitt'riug stream they featly danced: 
 Bright to the moon their various dresses 
 
 glanced : 
 They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat. 
 The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
 Wliile arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
 And snul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
 O had M'Laiic/ilin,' thairm-inspiring sage. 
 Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
 When thro' his dear Struthspei/s they bor« 
 
 with Hij;hland rage ; 
 Or when they struck old Scotia's meltinp airs. 
 The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
 How would his Highland lug been nobl»r fir'd. 
 And even his matchless hand with finer touch 
 
 ins;)ir'd ! 
 
 • A well knowTi perlbnner of Scottish miuic on lh« 
 violin. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 l> 
 
 No pi.'ss coulJ tell wnat instrument appear'd, 
 Hut ;ill the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
 H;irnu>iiious conceit rung in every part, 
 While simple melody pour'd moving on the 
 
 heart. 
 The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
 A venerable chief advanced in years; 
 His ho;in- head with water-lilies crown'd. 
 His manly leg with garter tangle hound. 
 Next catne the loveliest pair in all the rin"-, 
 Sweet Female Beauty hand in hajid with 
 
 Spring ; 
 Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 
 
 Joy, 
 And Suuinier, with his fervid-heaming eye : 
 A!l-cheering Plenty, with her flowii^g horn, 
 Led yellow Autunm wreath'd with nodding 
 
 com ; 
 Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary 
 
 show, 
 By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
 Next fiillow'd Courage witli his nuirtial stride. 
 From where the Feul wild-woody coverts hide ; 
 Henevolence, with mild benignant air, 
 A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
 [.earning and Worth in equal measures trode 
 From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: 
 Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 
 
 wreath. 
 To rustic Agriculture did Ijcqueath 
 The bri/keii iron instruments of death : 
 At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their ki«d- 
 
 liug wrath. 
 
 THE ORDINATION. 
 
 For sense they little owe to Frucal Heav'n— 
 To please the Mob they hiile the litile giv'n. 
 
 I. 
 
 KiLMAftNocK Wabsters, fidge an* claw, 
 
 An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
 An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 
 
 Of a* denominations. 
 Switl: to the Laiyh Kirk, ane an' a*, 
 
 An" there tak up your stations j 
 Then aff to Beyhies in a raw, 
 
 An' pour divine libations 
 
 For joy this day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Curst Common- sense, that imp o' hell. 
 Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;* 
 
 But O aft made her yell, 
 
 An' R sair misca'd her ; 
 
 This day, M' takes the flail. 
 
 An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 
 
 • Alliitlmg to a scoffing baJlad which was made on 
 we admission of the late Reverend and wortlw Mr. L. 
 to tlMi Laifih Kirk- 
 
 He'll clap a shanyan on her tail, 
 An' set the bairns to daud her 
 
 Wi' dirt this day 
 
 IIL 
 
 Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 
 
 An' lilt wi' holy clangor; 
 O double verse come gie us four, 
 
 An' skirl up the Hangor : 
 This day the Kiik kicks up a stouie, 
 
 Na« mair the knaves shall wrang her 
 For heres-y is in her power. 
 
 And gloriously she'll whang her 
 
 Wi' pith this day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Come let a projicr text be read, 
 
 An' touch it alF v/'' viijour, 
 How graceless Ham • Ici.gh 3*. his Dad, 
 
 Which made Ciinaan a nige; • 
 Or P/iineasf drove the murdering b.ad% 
 
 Wi* whore-abliorriug rigour ; 
 Or Zipporah, \ the scaulding jade. 
 
 Was like a bluidy tiger 
 
 r the inn that d&r , 
 
 There, try liis mettle on the creed. 
 
 An' bind him down wi' caution. 
 That Stipend is a carnal weed. 
 
 He tuks but for the fashion ; 
 An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. 
 
 An' punish each transgression ; 
 Especial, rams that cross the breed, 
 
 Gie them sufficient threshin', 
 
 Spare them nae day. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 
 
 An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
 Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale 
 
 Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
 For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 
 
 Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 
 An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 
 
 No gi'en by way o' dainty. 
 
 But ilka day. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Nae mair by SabeVs streams we'll weep, 
 
 To think upon our Zion ; 
 An* hing our fiddles up to sleep, 
 
 Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
 Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' ci eep> 
 
 An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; 
 Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks whetp, 
 
 An' a like lamb-tails flyin' 
 
 Fu' fast this day. 
 
 VIII, 
 
 Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 
 Has shored the Kirk's undoin'. 
 
 • Genesis, ch. ix. vcr. 22. 
 t Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. 
 i Exodus, ch. iv. ver 25. 
 
14 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 
 
 Has proven to its ruin : 
 Our Patron, honest man ! Ghncairn, 
 
 He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
 An' like a godly elect bairn, 
 
 He's wal'd us out a true ane, 
 
 An* sound this day. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now R harangue nae inair, 
 
 But steek your gab for ever ; 
 Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 
 
 For there they'll think you clever ; 
 Or, nae reflection on your isar, 
 
 Ye may commence a shaver ; 
 Or to the Nitherton repair, 
 
 An' turn a carper weaver 
 
 Aff hand this day. 
 
 and you were just a match, 
 
 M — 
 
 We never had sic twa drones : 
 Auld Hiirnie did the Lni'p/i Kirk rt',-\tch, 
 
 Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
 An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 
 
 To fry them in his caudrons : 
 But now his honour maun detach, 
 
 Wi' a* his brimstone squadrons, 
 
 Fast, fast, this day. 
 
 XI. 
 
 See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes. 
 
 She's swingein' through the city; 
 liark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 
 
 I vow it's unco pretty : 
 There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 
 
 Grunts out some Latin ditty : 
 An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, 
 
 To mak to Jamie Heattie 
 
 Her plaint this day. 
 
 XIL 
 
 But there's Morality himsel', 
 
 Embracing a' o|)inions ; 
 Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 
 
 Between his twa companions ; 
 See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 
 
 As ane were pcelin' onions ! 
 Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 
 
 An' banish'd our dominions, 
 
 Henceforth tliis day 
 
 XIH. 
 O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 
 
 Come bouse about the porter ! 
 Morality's demure decoys 
 
 Shall here nae mair find quTte; : 
 M' , R , ar? the j^ys, 
 
 That heresy ca*' ortu.' . 
 They'll gie u •:' on a rupe a hoyse, 
 
 / -* cvwf iier mea.'<ure shorter 
 
 By the head some day. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Come bring the tither luatchkin in, 
 An here's for a conclusioii. 
 
 To every New Ligid * mother's ton. 
 From this time forth. Confusion : 
 
 If mair they deave us wi' their dia. 
 Or Patronage intrusion. 
 
 We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, 
 We'll riu them aff in fusion 
 
 Like oil, some day 
 
 THE CALF. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. 
 
 On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 9. ' And I'M? 
 shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of -he staii,- 
 
 Right Sir! your text I'll prove it trie. 
 
 Though Heretics may laugh ; 
 For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 
 
 God knows, an unco Calf I 
 
 An' should some Patron be so kind, 
 
 As bless you wi' a kirk, 
 I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, 
 
 Ye're still as great a Stirk. 
 
 But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 
 
 Shall ever be your lot. 
 Forbid it, every heavenly Power, 
 
 You e'er should be a Slot I 
 
 Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 
 
 Your but-and-ben adorns. 
 The like has been that you may wear 
 
 A noblo head of horns. 
 
 And in your lug, most reverend James, 
 
 To hear you roar and rowte. 
 Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
 
 To rank amang the nowte. 
 
 And when ye're numbcr'd wi' the dead, 
 
 Below a grassy hillock, 
 Wi' justice they may mark your head— 
 
 ' Here lies a famous Dulluck /' 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 
 
 O Prince! O Chief of many throned Power's, 
 Tliat led th' embattled Seraphim to war JlliUn. 
 
 O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
 
 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
 Wha in yn cavern grim an' sootie, 
 
 Clu ";! Ui del .tt^ S 
 6pairj,-es nbo'i.. *hs •••unstane cootie, 
 
 To sraud poor wretcLei 
 
 Hear me, auld Ilan/jie, for a wee, 
 An' let poor danmed bodies be ; 
 
 • Next' TAght is a cant phrase in the West of Sort. 
 laml, for those religious npininns wnich Dr. Taylor ot 
 Norwich has defended so strenuously. 
 

 — 
 
 ^OEMS. 'k 
 
 
 Vw sure sma' ijloasine it can gie. 
 
 Is instant made no worth a louse. 
 
 
 E'en to II (Itil, 
 
 Just at the bit. 
 
 
 To skclj) an' siauil poor dogs like me. 
 
 
 
 An' lioar us squt'cl ! 
 
 Vi'hon thowes dissolve the snawy hoort^ 
 An' float thejinglin' icy-boord. 
 
 
 Great is tliy powV, an' great tliy fame ; 
 
 Then Water-kclpies haunt the foord. 
 
 
 'ar ktiul and noted is thy name ; 
 
 By your direction, 
 
 
 An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hanie, 
 
 An' nighted Trav'llers are allured 
 
 
 Thou travels far ; 
 
 To their destruction. 
 
 
 An' faith ! tliou's neither la^ nor lame, 
 
 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur 
 
 An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkiet 
 Decoy the wight that late and drunk "s ; 
 
 
 Wliyh'S, ranffing hhe a roarin' lion^ 
 
 The bleezin', curst, mischievous nionkeyb 
 
 
 For prey, a' holes and corners trj in' ; 
 
 Delude his eyes. 
 
 
 Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin*, 
 
 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
 
 
 Tirling the kirks j 
 
 Ne'er mair to rise. 
 
 
 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 
 
 
 
 Unseen thou lurks. 
 
 When Masons' mystic u-ortl an' grip-. 
 In storms an' tempests raise you up. 
 
 
 I've heard my revi-rend Grattnie say. 
 
 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 
 
 
 In lanely glens you like to stray ; 
 
 Or, strange to tell .' 
 
 
 Or where auld ruiu'd castles gray, 
 
 The youngest Brother ye wail whip 
 
 
 Nod to the moon. 
 
 Atr straught to helj ' 
 
 
 -e fright the nightly wand'rer's way. 
 
 
 
 \Vi' eldritch croon. 
 
 Lang syne, in Eden's bonuie yard, 
 When yimthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
 
 
 WTien twilight did my Grannie summon. 
 
 An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 
 
 
 To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
 
 The ra])tur'd hour, 
 
 
 Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! 
 
 Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 
 
 
 \Vi' eerie drone ; 
 
 In shady bower : 
 
 
 Or, rustliu', thro' the boortries comin*, 
 
 
 
 \Vi' heavy groan. 
 
 Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! 
 Ye came to Paradise incog. 
 
 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
 
 An' played on man a cursed brogue, 
 
 
 The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
 
 ( Black be your fa' \j 
 
 
 Wi' you, rnysel', I gat a fright, 
 
 An' gied the infant world a shog. 
 
 
 Ayont the lough ; 
 
 'Maist ruined a' 
 
 
 Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 
 
 
 
 Wi waving sough. 
 
 D'ye mind that day, when in a biza, 
 Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz. 
 
 
 The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
 
 Ye did present your snioutie phiz 
 
 
 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 
 
 'J\!ang better folk, 
 
 
 'Vlicn wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick — 
 
 An' sklented on the man of Uz 
 
 
 Amang the springs, 
 
 Your sj)itefu' joke ? 
 
 
 Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 
 
 
 
 On whistling wings. 
 
 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall. 
 An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 
 
 
 Let Warh.chs grim, an' wither'd hags, 
 
 While scabs and blotches did him gall. 
 
 
 Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
 
 Wi' bitter claw. 
 
 
 They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags. 
 
 An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked ScawV 
 
 
 M'i' wicked speed ; 
 
 Was warst ava ? 
 
 
 And ia kirk-yards renew their leagues. 
 
 
 
 Owre howkit dead. 
 
 But a' your doings to rehearse. 
 Your wily snares an' fechtin' tierce. 
 
 
 Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. 
 
 Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce, 
 
 
 \l\y plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
 
 Down to this time. 
 
 
 For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 
 
 Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
 
 
 By witching skill ; 
 
 In prose or rhyme. 
 
 
 An' dawtlt, twal-pint Hawkies gane 
 
 
 
 As yell's the Bill. 
 
 An' now, auld Cloots, I ken » ..'re chinlria 
 
 
 
 V certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
 
 
 Thence mv«»ic kcr's mik great ab jse. 
 
 jou » \u<-i».e8s ..our «'ii; st-rd '"a. l'"V'u>*. 
 
 
 Ou youuf G-.am o, fo-.o, keeii, an' c.uuse ; 
 
 1 t }•"' O'V f J'V • 
 
 
 ^ *• 'L- vcs vaiK-iuine i' the house. 
 
 
 
 By cantrip wit, 
 
 - Vide Milton, book ti. 
 
 
 
 
iO 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 But, faltli ' l.e'll turn a corner, jinkin , 
 And clu-at you yet. 
 
 But, fare ye weel, aulil X!ch!e-len ! 
 
 wad ye tak a tliou2;1u f.nd men' ! 
 Ye aiblins mi;;ht — I diiini ken — 
 
 Stiil hae a stake — 
 
 1 m wae to think upon \ on i!eii, 
 
 Even for your sake ! 
 
 DEATH AND DYING WORDS 
 
 OF 
 
 POOR MAILIE, 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 
 AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 
 
 As Mailii, an' her lambs thegither, 
 Were ae day nibh'ing ou the tether, 
 Upon her cloot she coost a hiteh, 
 An' oivre she warsled in the ditch ; 
 There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
 When Huyhoc' he came doytin by. 
 
 Wi' glowrin* een, and lifted hau's, 
 Poor liughoc like a statue Stan's : 
 He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
 But, wae's my heart I he could na mend it ! 
 He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
 At length poor Mailie silence brak. 
 
 • O thou, whase lamentable face 
 Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
 My dying words attentive hear, 
 Kn bear them to my Master dear. 
 
 ' Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
 As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
 O, l.'id him never tie them mair 
 Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
 But ca' them out to park or hill. 
 An' let them wander at their will: 
 So may his flock inciease, an* grow 
 To scores o' lambs, ati' packs o' woo' ! 
 
 ' Tell him, he was a master kin*, 
 An* aye was guid to me an' mine: 
 An* now my dying charge 1 gie him, 
 My helpless lambs I trust them wi* him. 
 
 ' O bid him save their harmless lives, 
 Frae dogs, an* tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
 But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
 Till they be fit to fend thenisel ; 
 An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
 Wi' teats o' hay an' rij)3 o' corn. 
 
 ' An' may they never learn the gaets 
 Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! 
 To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' st-al, 
 At stacks o' pea^e, or stocks o' kail, 
 So may they, like their great forbean. 
 For muny a year come thro' the sheers: 
 So wives will gie them bits o' l.-read. 
 An' bairns greet for them when they'ie dead 
 
 ' My poor f'lO/) lamh, my son an' heir, 
 O bid hini breeil him up wi' caie ' 
 An' if he live to be a beast, 
 To pit some bavins in his breast ! 
 An' warn him, what I winna name. 
 To stay content wi' yowes at hauie ; 
 An' no to rin an* wear his cloots, 
 Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. 
 
 ' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
 Guid keep thee frae a tether strir-g ■ 
 O, may thou ne'er forgather -ij/ 
 Wi' ony blastit moorland toip : 
 But aye keep mind to moop an' raell 
 Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! 
 
 ' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breatfl, 
 I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
 An' when you think upo' your mither. 
 Mind to be kin' to aue auither. 
 
 ' Now, honest Hughoc, dinaa fail 
 To tell my master a' my tale ; 
 An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
 An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' 
 
 This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
 And closed her een aniang the dead. 
 
 * A nccbor heril-callan. 
 
 POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY 
 
 Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
 Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
 Our bardie's fate is at a close. 
 
 Past a' remead ; 
 The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 
 
 Poor Maine's dead ! 
 
 It's no the loss o' wail's gear. 
 That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
 Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 
 
 The mourning weed : 
 He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
 
 In Mailii dead. 
 
 . Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
 A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
 Wi' kindly bleat, when she did s])y him. 
 She ran wi' speed ; 
 A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh hina, 
 Than Mailie dead. 
 
 I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
 An' could l)ehave htrsel' wi' mense • 
 ril say't, she never brak a fence. 
 
 Thro' thiev" ih. greed 
 
rOEMS. 
 
 n 
 
 Ourhaidie, lanely, keeps tliospence 
 
 Sill' yjailie's dead. 
 
 Or, if hn wanilors up jlie howe, 
 Hei living imige in her i/owe, 
 Cc'inea bleating to iiini omto the knowe. 
 
 For liits ()' bread ; 
 An' down the briny |ie;ii Is mwe 
 
 For Alailie dead. 
 
 She n-as nae get o' moorland tips, 
 Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips: 
 For her forbears were bi'oiinht in ships 
 
 Frae yont tlie Tweed! 
 A bonnier^eCiA ne'er (•ro.--s'd the clips 
 
 Than Mailie dead. 
 
 Vae worth the man wha first did shape 
 That vile, wanch.ineie thing — a rape I 
 It niaks guid fellows girn an' gape, 
 
 Wi' chokin' dread ; 
 An' RohMs bonnet wave wi' crape. 
 
 For Mailie dead. 
 
 O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
 An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 
 Come, join the nielancholious croon 
 
 O' liihin's reed ! 
 His heart will never get ahoon 
 
 His Mailie dead. 
 
 TO J. S- 
 
 Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ' 
 Siveet'ner of life, and solder of society 1 
 I owe thee niucJi ! Ulair, 
 
 -, the sleest, paukie thief, 
 
 Dear S— _ 
 
 That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
 
 Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 
 
 Owre human hearts; 
 For ne';r a bosom yet was prief 
 
 Against your arts. 
 
 For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
 And every star that blirdis ahoon, 
 Ye've cost nie tweuty pair o' siioon, 
 
 Just gaun to see you : 
 And every ither pair that's done, 
 
 JVIair taen I'm wi' you. 
 
 That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
 To niak amends for serimpit stature, 
 She's tum'd you afF, a human creature 
 On liL-rJirsl plan, 
 And in her freaks, on every feature, 
 
 She s wrote, t/te Man. 
 
 Just now Fve tien the fit o' rhyme, 
 My barmie noddle's working prime, 
 My fiflcy yerkit up sublime 
 
 Wi' hasty summon ; 
 
 Ilae ye a leisure moment's time 
 
 To hear what's comin' ? 
 
 Some rhyme a ncebor's name to lash ; 
 Rome rhyme (vain thought!) for neeilfu' cafih, 
 Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 
 
 An' raise a <liu ; 
 For me an aim I never fash ; 
 
 I rhyme for fun. 
 
 The star that rules my luckless lot. 
 Has fated me the russet coat. 
 An' damned my fortune to the groat : 
 
 But in re(juit, 
 Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 
 
 O' countra wit. 
 
 This while my notion's taen a sk".etjt, 
 To try my fate in guid black preut ; 
 But still the mair I'm that way bent, 
 
 Something cries ' HooUq 
 I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 
 
 Ye'U shaw your folly, 
 
 ' There's ither poets, much your betters, 
 Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
 Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, 
 
 A' future ages ; 
 Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 
 
 Their unknown pages. 
 
 Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-ljoughs, 
 To garkuxl my poetic brows ! 
 Henceforth I'll rove whei'e busy ploughs 
 
 Are whistling thrang, 
 An teach the lanely heights an' howes 
 
 I\]y rustic sang. 
 
 I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
 How never-hdlling moments sj)eed, 
 Till fite shall snap the brittle thread ; 
 
 Then, all unknoun, 
 I'll lay me with tli' inglorious dead, 
 
 Forgot and gone ! 
 
 But why o' death begin a tale ? 
 Just now we're living, sound an' hale. 
 Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 
 
 Heave care o'er side 
 And 'argc, before enjoyment's gale. 
 
 Let's tak' the tide. 
 
 T^, is life, sae fu's I understand, 
 Is a' enchanted fairy land. 
 Where pleasure is the masic wand. 
 
 That, wielded right, 
 Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand. 
 
 Dance by fu' light. 
 
 The mngic-wand then let us wield ; 
 For ance tint five-an'- forty's speel'd, 
 See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 
 
 Wi' wrinkled face. 
 Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 
 Wi' creepin' pace. 
 
18 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Wlien ance life's daii nraws near the gloamin', 
 Then fciitwcel vacant careless roaniin' ; 
 Aii' farewee) rheerfu' tankards foam in', 
 
 An' social noise ; 
 An' farewcel dear deluding womatiy 
 
 The joy of jiiys ! 
 
 O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
 Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
 Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning. 
 
 We frisk away, 
 Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 
 
 To joy and play. 
 
 We wander there, we wander here, 
 We eye the rose upon the brier, 
 Unmindful that the thorn is near, 
 
 Amang the leaves : 
 And though the puny wound appear, 
 
 Short while it grieves. 
 
 Some, lucky, find a flowery spat, 
 For which they never toiled nor swat, 
 They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 
 
 But care or pain ; 
 And haply eye the barren hut 
 
 M'ith high disdain. 
 
 With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
 Keen hope ricies every sinew brace : 
 Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 
 
 An seize the prey : 
 Then cannie, in some cozie place. 
 
 They close the day 
 
 An' others like your humble servan', 
 Poor wights nae rules nor roads observin' ; 
 To right or left, eternal swervin', 
 
 They zig-zig on ; 
 Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'. 
 
 They aften groan. 
 
 Alas ! what bitter toil an' strainings 
 But truce with peevish poor com|ilaining ! 
 Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 
 
 E'en let h-r 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' 1 should wander terra o'er. 
 
 In ail her climes, 
 Grant me but this, I ask no more. 
 
 Aye rowth o' rhymes. 
 
 ' Gie drpeping roasts to countra lairds^ 
 Till icic!(!s hing frae their beards : 
 Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 
 
 An' maids of honovr ; 
 An' yiil an whisky gie to cairds, 
 
 Until they sconner. 
 
 • A title, Dempster merits it, 
 A 'jart'jr gie to WiUie Pilt ; 
 
 Gie wealth to some be-Iedger'd cit, 
 In cent, per cent 
 
 But give nie real, sterling wit, 
 
 An' I'm content. 
 
 ' ^Vlll1e ye are pleased to keep me bats^ 
 I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
 Be't water-brose or musliu-knil, 
 
 Wi' cheerfu' face, 
 As lang's the muses dinca fail 
 
 To say the grace.* 
 
 An anxious e'e I never throws 
 Behint my lug, or iiy my nose ; 
 I jouk beneath misfortvine's blows. 
 
 As weel's I may » 
 Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 
 
 I rhyme away. 
 
 O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
 Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
 Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 
 
 How much unlike ! 
 Your liearts are just a standing pool. 
 
 Your lives, a dyke ! 
 
 Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
 In your unletter'd nameless face-s ; 
 In arioso trills and graces 
 
 Ye never stray, 
 But gravissimo, solemn basses 
 
 Ye hum away 
 
 Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye"re uTtaSf 
 Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
 The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. 
 
 The rattlin* squad : 
 I see you upward cast your eyes — 
 
 — Ye ken the road.— 
 
 Whilst I — but I shall hand me there— 
 Wi' you I'll scarce gang any u/iere^ 
 Then, Jamie, I shall say nae m.iir. 
 
 But quat my sang, 
 Content wi' you to mak a jiaii', 
 
 Whare'er 1 gang. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Thoughts, words, and deeds, tlie statute blames vl'Jl 
 
 reason ; 
 But surely dreams were ne'er ir.dicted treason. 
 
 [On reading, in the public papers, tlic Laurrate's Odt, 
 with the other par^ide of June 4, \'>iG, the authof 
 was no sooner dro|it asleep, than he mianincd him. 
 eelf transpotted to the birth-day levee; and in ilS 
 dreaming fancy, made the following W<W/e«."i 
 
 I. 
 Guid-mornin' to your Majesty / 
 
 May heaven augment your blisses, 
 On every new birth-day ye see, 
 
 A humble poet wishes ! 
 My hardship here, at your levee, 
 
 On sic a day as this is, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 19 
 
 b siiro an uncniith sifjht fo see, 
 Aiiiaiijj t!ie biitli-d.iv divssus 
 
 Sue fije this day. 
 
 II. 
 I see ye're c-omplfrnentod thransj, 
 
 I5y niony a lord an' lady, 
 • Odd save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 
 
 That's unco easy said aye ; 
 The poe/s, too, a venal t^ang, 
 
 Wi" rhymes wtel turn'd an' ready, 
 Wad gar \oii trow ye ne'er do wrung. 
 
 Bat aye unerring .stcadv. 
 
 On sic a day. 
 
 III. 
 
 For me ! befoie a snonanh's face, 
 
 Ev'n l/icie I winna flatter ; 
 For neither i)ensiiin, ])()st, nor [dace, 
 
 Am I your humhle debtor: 
 So nae reflection on i/oiir grucc, 
 
 Your kingNhl]) to bespatter; 
 Tiiere's nioiiie wanr been o' the race, 
 
 Aq' aiblins ane been better 
 
 Tiian you this day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 
 ^ly skill may weel. be doubted : 
 But facts are chiels tliat wiuna ding, 
 
 An' dou-na be di^^puted : 
 Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 
 
 Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
 Kn now the third part o' the string. 
 An' less, will gang about it 
 
 Than did ae day. 
 
 V. 
 
 Far be't frae me that I aspire 
 
 To blame your legislation, 
 Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 
 
 To rule this miglity nation ! 
 But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 
 
 Ye've trusted ministration 
 To chaps, wha, in a barn or bvre. 
 
 Wad beUer fill'd tlitir station 
 
 Than courts yon day. 
 
 VI. 
 
 An' now ye've glen auld Britain peace. 
 
 Her broken shins to piaister ; 
 Your sair taxation does her fleece, 
 
 Till she has scarce a tester ; 
 for me, thank God, my life's a lease, 
 
 Nae barguiii wearing faster. 
 Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 
 
 I shortly boost to pasture 
 
 I' the craft some day 
 
 VII. 
 
 I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 
 
 \\ hen taxes he enlarges, 
 (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 
 
 A name not envy sjjairges), 
 Jiat be intends to oay your debt, 
 
 An' lessen a' your ciiarget ; 
 
 Hut, God-sake ! A't nae aaving fit 
 Abridge your bonnie liar>res 
 
 An' boats this day, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Adieu, my Lirge ! may freedom geek 
 
 Beneath your high protection ; 
 An' may ye rax Coiruption's neck. 
 
 An' gie her for dissection ! 
 But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 
 
 In loyal, liue allection, 
 To pay your Queen, with due respect, 
 
 My fealty an' subjection 
 
 This great birth-dajTi 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hail, Majesty! Most ExceUtrtt ! 
 
 While nobles strive to please ye. 
 Will ye accejit a coniplinierit 
 
 A simple poet gies ye ? 
 Thae bonnie bairntime, Ileav'n has lent, 
 
 Still higher may they lieeze ye. 
 In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 
 
 For ever to release ye 
 
 Frae care that day. 
 
 X. 
 
 For you, young potentate o' M'ales, 
 
 I tell your Highness fairly, 
 Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling g«ij% 
 
 I'm taidd ye'ie driving rarely ; 
 But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 
 
 An' curse your folly sairly. 
 That e'er ye biak Diana's pales, 
 
 Or rattled dice wi' Cltiiriie, 
 
 By night or day. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet aft a ragged co'xfe's been known 
 
 To mak a noble uiver : 
 So, )e may doucely fill a throne. 
 
 For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
 There, him • at Agincimrt wha shone. 
 
 Few better were or braver ; 
 An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,f 
 
 He was an unco shaver 
 
 For nionie a day 
 
 XII. 
 
 For you, right rev rend Omahrug, 
 
 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 ! an' get a wife to hug, 
 
 Or, trouth, ye'l! stain the mitre 
 
 Some luckless dajf. 
 
 XIII. 
 Voting royal Tarry Greeks, I leara, 
 Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
 
 • Kinp Ilenrv V. 
 
 t Sir John Kalstafi; vide Shakespcai*. 
 
20 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 A gloriots gnlleij* stem an stern, 
 Weel rio^g'd for Venus' barter ; 
 
 Bjt first haa'^ cut, that she'll discern 
 Your hymeneal diarter, 
 
 Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 
 An' large tpo' her quarter, 
 
 Gime full that day. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 
 
 Ye royal lasses dainty, 
 Meav'n niak you guid as weel as braw, 
 
 An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
 But sneer nae liritish hoy a awa', 
 
 For kings are unco scant aye; 
 An' German gentles are but sma'. 
 
 They're better just than wmit aye 
 On onie day. 
 
 XV. 
 
 God bless you a' ! consider now, 
 
 \''e're un(ro muckle dautet ; 
 But, ere the cr.urse o" life be thro'. 
 
 It miy be bitter sautet ; 
 Au' I h^e seen their cogyie fou, 
 
 That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
 But or the day was done, I trow, 
 
 The laggen they hae clautet 
 
 Fu' clean that d3> 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 DIIAN FIRST.| 
 
 The sun had closed the winter day, 
 Tlie curlers quat their roiiring pl.iy. 
 An' hunger'd raaukin t.i'en her way 
 
 To kail-yards gre<r 
 WTiile faithless snaws ilk step l)etray 
 
 Whare she has be». 
 
 The tliresher's weary flinpin-tree 
 The lee-lang day had tired nie : 
 And whan the day had closed his e'e. 
 
 Far i' the west, 
 Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 
 
 I gaed to rest. 
 
 There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
 I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
 That fiH'd wi' huast-provoking smeek. 
 
 The auld clay biggin" ^ 
 An' hoard the restless rattons s(pieak 
 About the riggiu'. 
 
 All in this mottle, misty clime, 
 I ijackward musM on wasted time, 
 How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 
 
 An' done nae-tliing. 
 
 • Alluding to the ncwspiper accijunt of a cwtain 
 royal sailor's amour. 
 
 * Dunn, a term of Ossinii's fur the (IKnrcnt divisions 
 of a digressive iH)em. itcc \iii Ciith-LuUa, vol. ■!. of 
 U'Pherwn's translaiiun. 
 
 But stringin' blethei s 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-sa»'V' 
 
 Is a' th' amount. 
 
 I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! c-/' 
 And heav'd on high my wauki*. ]<rJi, 
 To swear by a' yon starry rejf. 
 
 Or soTie ra"'.! a'.ib, 
 That I, henceforth, v,-o> id '.^e ;ni(.ne proi^' 
 
 Til) ,[i'j la-oi b.eatn-- 
 
 Wlien click ! tni* st-.n^ the sneck did dr»> 
 An* jee ! the dooi p'.ed to the wa* ; 
 An* by my ins''.i-' avz I saw, 
 
 ?'ow bleczin bright, 
 A tight jr .Ja .d" .h flizzie braw, 
 
 Come full in sight 
 
 Y's ree"^ vi daubt, I held my whisht 
 Tte i4if?.<it aith h il'.'-form'd was crush't ; 
 I g'jT r''" a'^ eerie's I'd been dusht 
 
 In some wild glen ; 
 f^cic I pwcit, like modest worth, she blnsh't, 
 
 And stei)ped ben. 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad hnUy-bovghs, 
 Were twisted gracefu' round her brows; 
 1 took her for some Scottish Muse, 
 
 By that same token ; 
 An' come to stop those reckless vows, 
 
 Would soon been broken. 
 
 A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' 
 Was strongly marked in her face; 
 A wildly-witty, rustic grace 
 
 Shone full upon her ; 
 Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 
 
 Beam'd keen with honoui 
 
 Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
 Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
 And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 
 
 Could only pear it ; 
 Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 
 Nanu else cam near it. 
 
 Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
 My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
 Deep lights and shaiJes, bold-mingling, threw 
 
 A lustre grand ; 
 And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 
 
 A well hnow.i Und. 
 
 Here, rivers in the sea were lost i 
 There, mnimtains to the skies were tost : 
 Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 
 
 Witli surging foam; 
 There, distant shone Art's lofty t)oast, 
 
 The lordly dome. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 21 
 
 iTeii. Donn I'd.irM down his tir-fetch'd flooils; 
 riure. \V(.'ll-fl(l Incinv r^t.itely tlnids : 
 Auld hermit Ayr st;i\v thro' his wiinds 
 
 On t(i tlie shore ; 
 And many a csser toiren' sciiils, 
 
 Vt'it'j Kti'iiiing mar. 
 
 Low, in a s;\ndy valley s[irca(I, 
 An anciont hormitik i'miM her head ; 
 Still, as in Scottish story read, 
 
 She luiiists a race, 
 To every nohler virtue hred, 
 
 And [Kilish'd grace. 
 
 By stately tow'r or p.ilaie fair, 
 Or ruins pemlcnt in the air, 
 Bold stems of heruos, here and there, 
 
 I eoidd discern ; 
 Some secm'd to muse, smne seein'd to dare. 
 
 With feature stern. 
 
 My heart did i;In\viiig transport feel, 
 To see a race * heroic wheel, 
 And brandish round thi' deep-dy'd st«el 
 
 In sturdy hlows ; 
 While bark-recoiling seem'd to reel 
 
 Tneir suthron foes. 
 
 His Country's Saviour, f mark him well ! 
 Bold Jiicliardtiiii's \ heroic swe!l ; 
 The chief on Sark § who glorious fell, 
 
 in high command ; 
 And he whom ruthles> fates expel 
 
 His native land. 
 
 There, where a sceptred Pictish shade || 
 Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
 I niark'd a maitial race pnurtray'd 
 
 In coloiirs strong ; 
 Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 
 
 They strode along. 
 
 Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ 
 Near many a hcrniit-faney'd cove, 
 (Fit haunts for friendship or for love 
 
 In musing mood). 
 An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 
 
 Dispensing good. 
 
 With deep-struck reverential awe,** 
 The learned sire aiul son I saw, 
 To Nature's God and Nature's law 
 
 Thev gave their lore. 
 
 • The Wal'aoes. i William Wallnco. 
 
 t Adam Wallace, of Richardtoii, cousin to the im- 
 mortal preserver of Seotlisli indeiicndf nee. 
 
 { Wall.-icc, Laird of Craii;ii', who wassc'cr:nd in mm- 
 inaiid, under r)oiii;las Karl of Ornioiu!, at the fairoiis 
 battle on the bank- of SarK, fought iinno HIS. That 
 glorious victory was |)riiici|iallv nwmf; to ihe jmlicioiis 
 conduct and intrepid valoi^r of the gallant 'Laird of 
 Cmigic, who lied of h s woi;nds after the action 
 
 i'Coilus, Kipgof the I'lets, from whom the district 
 of Kyle is stiid to tdsc its name, lies hinicd, as traili- 
 tion ^i\s, near the family-seat of the Moiitijomcries of 
 Coilsiield, where hi~ burial pl.icc is still shown. 
 
 ^ Barskimming, the seat ol tiie late Lord Justice. 
 Clerk. 
 
 •• fatrine, the s^it of th late Doctor, and present 
 ?rof#^sor .Stewart. 
 
 This, all its source and end to draw, 
 Tli.it, to adore. 
 
 Bri/tiiin'i brave ward • I well could spy, 
 Beneath old Scotia's smiling eve. 
 Who call'd on Fame, low stamiitig bv> 
 
 To hand him on, 
 Where .wny a patriot-name on hi:^'h. 
 
 And hero shone. 
 
 DUAN SF.CONI). 
 
 With musing-dec]), astonish'd stare, 
 I view'd the heav'nly-sceming /*«/;• ; 
 A whisp'ring thruh diil witness hear, 
 
 Of kindred sweet, 
 When with an elder si-tei's air 
 
 She did inc greet. 
 
 ' All hall ! my own insjjircd hard I 
 In me thy native muse regard ; 
 Nor longer mourn thy fite is hard, 
 
 Thus jiooily low, 
 I come to give thee such reward 
 
 As we bestow 
 
 ' Know, the great genius of this land 
 Has many a light, aerial band, 
 Who, all beneath his high command, 
 
 Harmoniouslv, 
 As arts or arras they understand, 
 
 Tlieir labours ply 
 
 ' They Scotius race among them share 5 
 Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
 Some rouse the patriot up to hare 
 
 Cornijjtion's heart ; 
 Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
 
 Tlie tuneful art. 
 
 ' 'Jlong swelling floods of reeking gor«, 
 They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
 Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 
 
 They, sightless, stand. 
 To mend the honest j)atriot-lore. 
 
 And grace the hand. 
 
 ' And when the I).ird, or hoarv sai-e. 
 Charm or instruct the future a"e, 
 Tliey bind tJie wild jioetic rage 
 
 In energy. 
 Or point the inconclusive page 
 
 Full on the PfC. 
 
 ' Hence Fullaifoii, the brave and ycuag; 
 Hence Dempstcr'g zeai-iiisplred tongue ; 
 licence sweet iiarmonimis Jie ittie sun" 
 
 His •' Minstrel lays;" 
 Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 
 
 Tiie scejitics bays. 
 
 ' To lower orders aie ass'gn'd 
 The humbler ranks of human-kind. 
 
 • Colone Fullanoa. 
 

 
 1 
 
 
 22 BURNS' ^VORKS 
 
 
 rhe rustic Bard, the lab'iincr Hind, 
 
 I taught thee how to pour in song. 
 
 
 The Arti>an ; 
 
 To soothe thy flame. 
 
 
 All choose, as various they're incliiiM, 
 
 
 
 The various man. 
 
 ' I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
 Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
 
 
 * WTien yellow waves the heavy .c;rain, 
 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 
 
 
 The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
 
 By Passion driven ; 
 
 
 Some teach to meliorate the ))'aiti, 
 
 But yet the liglit thut led astray 
 
 
 With tillage skill ; 
 
 M'as light from heaven 
 
 
 And some instruct the shepherd-train, 
 
 
 
 Blithe o'er the hill. 
 
 ' I taught thy manners-painting strains 
 The loves, the ways of simple swains 
 
 
 ' Some hint the lover's haimless wile ; 
 
 Till now, o'er all my wide domains 
 
 
 Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
 
 Thy fame extends ; 
 
 
 Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 
 
 For humble gains, 
 
 And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 
 
 
 Become thy friends. 
 
 
 And make his cottage scenes beguile 
 
 
 
 His cures and pains. 
 
 * Thou canst not learn, nor can I show 
 To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
 
 
 ' Some bounded to a district-space, 
 Explore at large man's infant race. 
 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 
 
 
 With Slienstone^s art ; 
 
 
 To mark the embryotic trace 
 
 Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
 
 
 Of rustic Sard ; 
 
 Warm on the heart. 
 
 
 And careful note each op'ning grace, 
 
 A guide and guard. 
 
 
 
 ' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
 
 
 The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 
 
 
 ' Of these am I — Ccih my name ; 
 
 Tho* large the forest's monarch throws 
 
 
 And this district as mine I claim, 
 
 His army shade. 
 
 
 Where once the Canijihells, chiefs of fame, 
 
 Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows. 
 
 
 Held ruling pow'r : 
 
 Adown the glade. 
 
 
 I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 
 
 
 
 Thy natal hour. 
 
 * Then never murmur nor repine ; 
 
 
 
 Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
 
 
 ' With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
 
 And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 
 
 
 Fond on thy little early way*, 
 
 Nor king's regard, 
 
 
 Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase. 
 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine. 
 
 
 In uncouth rhymes, 
 
 A rustic Hard. 
 
 
 Fired at the simple, artless lays 
 
 
 
 Of other times. 
 
 ' To give my counsels all in one, 
 Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
 
 
 « I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
 Delighted with the da-liing roar ; 
 
 Preserve the dignity of Man, 
 
 
 With soul erect ; 
 
 
 Or when the north his fleecy store 
 
 And trust the Universal plan 
 
 
 Drove thro' the sky, 
 
 Will all protect. 
 
 
 I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 
 
 
 
 Struck thy young eye. 
 
 * And wear thnn this,' — she solemn sitd 
 
 
 And bound the Holly round my head ; 
 
 
 ' Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
 
 The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 
 
 
 Warm chcrish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 
 
 Anil joy and music pouring forth 
 
 And, like a passing thought, she lied 
 
 
 In ev'ry grove. 
 
 In light away. 
 
 
 I saw thee eye the general mirth 
 
 
 
 With boundless love. 
 
 ' Wlien ripen'd fields, ami azure skies, 
 Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE UN'CO GUID 
 
 
 1 saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 
 
 
 
 And lonely stalk, 
 
 OR TMS 
 
 
 To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
 
 
 
 In pensive walk. 
 
 RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 
 
 
 • Whtti youthful love, warm-Idushing, strong, 
 Keen-shivering s'lot thy nerves along. 
 
 
 
 My son, these maxims make r n't*. 
 
 
 Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
 Th adored Name, 
 
 And lum|i ihem aye tlie^itl rj 
 
 
 Tlie Hi^iil Iiii:/ilf,iiis fi a fool. 
 ■J he U i,'.U /y ise uiiilUcr 1 
 
 
 ^ 
 
roEMS. as 
 
 'JTic ripnnest porn tliat e'er was dight 
 
 VII. 
 
 M.iy Mac »miu' pyli-s n" cair in ; 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man. 
 
 Sat- iieVr a I'lllow-orfatiire slight 
 
 For ramloni (its <>' ilaflin. — 
 
 Still gentler sister woman; 
 
 Sulumou. — Kcclc's. ch. vii. ver. 16. 
 
 Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, 
 To ste|) aside is human : 
 
 
 
 One point must still be greatly dark. 
 
 I. 
 
 The moving w/ii/ they do it ; 
 
 YK wha are sao £;iiiH yoursel, 
 
 And just as lanu-ly can ye mark, 
 
 Sae (lidus an' sae holy, 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
 Yo've ii(iui;lit to <lo l)iit miik ami tell 
 
 
 Your ncel)oiir's fauts and folly ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Wli.ise life is like i vveel tjaiin iiiill, 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis lie alone 
 
 Siip|)l; M wi' store o' water, 
 
 Decidedly can try us, 
 
 The heapit hamper's e!)l.inrj still, 
 
 He knows each chord — its various tone, 
 
 And still the clap ])lay3 clatter. 
 
 Each spring — its various bias : 
 
 
 Then at the balance let's be mute, 
 
 II. 
 
 We never can adjust it ; 
 
 Hear me, ye vpneiahle coie. 
 
 What's tiuiie we partly may compute. 
 
 As counsel for poor mortals. 
 
 But know not what's resi.sted. 
 
 That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 
 
 
 For glaikit Follv's portals ; 
 
 
 
 I, for their thoii;,'litless. careless sakes, 
 
 
 Woidd here propone detences, 
 
 TAM SAMSON'S* ELEG? 
 
 Their donsie tricks, their hl.ick mistakes, 
 Their failings and iiiischauces. 
 
 III. 
 
 
 An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Po;* 
 
 
 Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 
 
 Has nuhl K ',rrr\ tliii n,iil 1 
 
 
 An' shudder at the iiiffer. 
 
 Or great ]\1' f thrawn his heel? 
 
 But cast a moment's fair resjard, 
 
 Or R \ again grown weel 
 
 Wliat maks the mighty differ ? 
 
 To i)reach an' read ? 
 
 Discount what scant occasiou gave, 
 
 ' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel. 
 
 That purity ye pride in, 
 
 ' Tarn Siimsitns dead ! 
 
 An* (what's aft iii lir than a' the lave) 
 
 
 Your better art o' hiding. 
 
 K lang may grunt an' granc. 
 
 
 An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
 
 IV. 
 
 An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and weaa 
 
 Think, when your castigated pulse 
 
 In mourning weed ; 
 
 Gies now and then a wallop. 
 
 To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 
 
 What ragini;s must his veins convulse, 
 
 Taui Samson's dead 
 
 That still eterucd gallop : 
 
 
 Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 
 
 The brethren of the myotic level, 
 
 Right on ye scud your sea-way; 
 
 May hing their head in woefu' bevel. 
 
 But in the teeth o' haith to sail. 
 
 While by their nose the tears will revel, 
 
 It maks an unco lee-way. 
 
 Like ony bead ! 
 
 
 Death's gien the lodge an unco (level, 
 
 V. 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ' 
 
 See social life and glee sit down. 
 
 
 All joyous and unthinking. 
 
 When winter muffles up his cloak. 
 
 Till, quite tiansnM)L;rified, tliey're grows 
 
 And binds the nure like a roek ; 
 
 Dehauchery and ilrinking : 
 
 When to the loehs the curle-s Hock, 
 
 would they stay to calculate 
 
 Wi' gleesome speed ; 
 
 Th' eternal con>equences ; 
 
 Wha will they stat»(n at the oick 9 
 
 Or your more dreaded hell to state, 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 
 Damnation of expenses ' 
 
 He was the king o' a' the core, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 
 
 To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
 
 
 Ty'd u|) in godly laces, 
 Before ve gie \)inir fraHtij names. 
 
 • Wlien this worthy old sportsman went out last 
 
 muirfowl season, he supposed it was to he, in Ossiau'i 
 
 phrase, ' the last of his fielils !' and expressed an ar- 
 
 Suppose a change o' cases ; 
 
 dent wish to die and be buried in the niuirs On thit 
 
 A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 
 
 hhit the author composed liis elet;v aiid qi.taph. 
 t A cert:iin prcaelier, a RTcat favoiirile witli the mil- 
 
 A treacherous inclination — 
 
 lion, yide the Ordination, Stanza 1 L 
 
 But, let nie whisper i' ycmr lug, 
 ^'e're aibiius --u: tea;ptatiun. 
 
 X AnoiluT preaelier, an e(iual favourite with the fcir 
 
 who was al tltil time ailnig. For hnii see al^o Uic Or 
 
 Uuuuon blanza I.\.. 
 
24 
 
 BURXS' WORKS. 
 
 Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, 
 
 In time o' need ; 
 
 I)ut now he lags on (ieatli's horj-srore. 
 
 Tain Sanisun's dead ! 
 
 "Sow safe the stately sawniDnt sail, 
 And triiuts be',!ri)|)|)M wi' ciinison luill, 
 And eels weel kenn'd f(pr simple tail, 
 
 And geds far greed, 
 Since dark in dedth's Ji.sh-creel we wail, 
 
 Tain Samson dead ! 
 
 Rcioice, ye lilrrini; ])aitrieks s.' ; 
 Ve cootie raoori ocks, erouselv craw; 
 Ye niajkins, cock your fiid i'u' liniw, 
 
 VVilhouten dread ; 
 Your mortal fae is now awa*, 
 
 Tain Samson's dead • 
 
 That wacfu' morn he ever moiirnM, 
 Saw liim in shootin' i^raith acliirn'd, 
 \^'hi!e pointers rounil impatient hiirn'd, 
 
 Frae i-ouple'* treed ! 
 iiut, och ! he gaed and ne'er retiirii'd ! 
 
 Tarn Samson's dead I 
 
 In vain auld aj;e his body hafters ; 
 In vain the fjou't his ancles fetters ; 
 In vain the burns came down like waters, 
 
 An acre braid ! 
 Now cv'ry aiild wife, greetin', clatters, 
 
 Tam Samson's (lea( 
 
 Owre mony a weary haj; he lliiipit, 
 An' aye the tlther shot he thnnipit, 
 Till coward death behind him jumpit, 
 
 Wi" deadly felde ; 
 Now he proclaims wi" tout o' trumpet, 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 
 When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
 He reei'd his v.'oufed bottle-swa^ifjer, 
 but yet he drew tlie luiu-t.il triii'^er 
 
 ^\'i' weel-.iiiii'd lu\-d j 
 L — d, five 1' he cry'd, an' owre did staij^er 
 Tam Samson's deai! I 
 
 irlk hoary hunter moMrii'd a hrlt'ier ; 
 I7k spiiitsuuiii youth bi'inoan'd a fitlier ; 
 Y(ui auld grey staue, auian^ the heathei-, 
 Marks out his liead, 
 Whare Hums lias wrote, in rhyming l)lether, 
 TiiiH Salmon' s cleuil ! 
 
 There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
 Perhaps upon his mould'rintj breast 
 Some spiteiu' niuirfuwl bigs her nest, 
 
 To hatch an' breed 
 Alas ! nae mair Ik''!! them molest ! 
 
 Tam Samson's dead ! 
 
 "WTien August winds the heather wave, 
 ^nd sportsmen wauch-r by yon grave, 
 flax'e volleys let his mem'ry crave 
 
 O jiouther au' lead, 
 
 Till Echo answer frae her cave, 
 
 Tain Samson's dead ! 
 
 Ileav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be I 
 Is th' wish o' mony inae than me : 
 He had twa fauts, or may be three, 
 
 Yet what remead ? 
 A 8 social, honest man. want we : 
 
 Tam Samson's dead 
 
 THE EPITAPH 
 
 Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
 Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 
 
 If honest W(uth in heaven rise, 
 Ye'll mend or ye won near him. 
 
 PER CONTRA. 
 
 Go, Fame, an I cinfer like a filly 
 Thro' a' tlie streets an' neuks o' Killie,' 
 Tell every social, honest billie. 
 
 To cease his grievin 
 For yet nnskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 
 
 I'ain SaiDsun's livin 
 
 HALLOWEEN.! 
 
 [The foUowin!; poem will, by many renders, be wrB 
 enough understood ; but for the sake of tliose who 
 are unacquaiutcil with the manners anil trailitioiisoj 
 the country wliercthc scone is cast, notes are aililed, 
 to iiivc some airouiit of the prineipal eharma and 
 spells of that niglit, so bip with (iropheey to thepe»- 
 sanlry in the West of Sedlaiul. Tlie pas'sion of I'r^. 
 ill" into futurity makes astiikinf; part nf the history 
 of human nature in its ruile state, in all aqes and 
 nations : and it may he some entertainment to a 
 (ihilo-ophie mind, if any such should hnUDur the 
 author with a perusal, to see th;' remains of it a 
 mong the more uncnliyhiened in our own.] 
 
 ^'es ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
 The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, ci-n;jenial to my heart, 
 One iiali\c charm, tl'.an all the jjkts of art. 
 
 GaUismiik 
 
 I. 
 
 Urov that nit^ht, when fairies light, 
 On CkssHIh liownans \ dance. 
 
 Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 
 On sprightly coursers praiiceij 
 
 Or for Citlcun the roi;te is ta'en. 
 Beneath the moon's pale beams ! 
 
 • KWie is a phr.asc the country folks sometimes ust 
 for Kilmariioek. 
 
 t Is thonuht to he a nipht when wifehes, devils, and 
 other mischii'f-makiiiij bcnj;s, .ue all abroad on then 
 baneful midnipht errand^:' partieiilailv those ;!eriai 
 people, the Fairies, are saul on that night to hold a 
 grand anniversary. 
 
 t Certain little' romartie, rO' kv, Rrccn hills, in th» 
 nclirhbourliood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Tss- 
 ailis. 
 
AILCL KI^LILO'WS [E^^E. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 25 
 
 ri ere, up tlie cove,* to str.iy au' rove 
 AuMng tliu rucks iind stiear.is, 
 
 To siKut tliat night 
 
 11. 
 
 Aiiiang the honnie winding; banks 
 
 \\'licre iJoun rins, winiplin', dear, 
 Whi'ie BiucEf ance rul'd tlx' niai tial ranks, 
 
 An' ^huuk his Cunich spear, 
 Some n'.eiiT, friendly, countia iulks, 
 
 'i'ogetlier did eoincne, 
 To bum their nits, an' }iim their stocks, 
 
 Au' Laud their IhiU'nucn 
 
 l"ii' hliihe ihat night, 
 
 III. 
 
 The lasses feat, an' clean 'y neat, 
 
 iMair braw ihan vvlien their tine; 
 Their faces hhtlie, lu' sweetly kythe, 
 
 Hearts leal, au' wami, an' kin' : 
 The lads sae trig, \vi' wnoer-babs, 
 
 \\'e< 1 knotted un their garten. 
 Some unco b'ate, an' ^unie wx ga')s, 
 
 Gar lasses' liearts ganj' startin* 
 
 \Vh)ies fa>t at night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then fust and foremost, thro' the kail, 
 
 Tiieir sti^vks^ maun a' be sought aiice ; 
 They steek tiieir een, an' (jraip an' wale, 
 
 l*"or muckle anes and strauglit anes. 
 Poor hav'rel Wdl lell art' tiie drift. 
 
 An' wander'd thro' the b w-kuil, 
 An' pou't, lor want o' better shift, 
 
 A rtiiit was like a sow- tail, 
 
 Sae bow't that night. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then, strauglit or cruoked, yird or nane, 
 
 They roar an' cry a' thruu'ther ; 
 The vera wee thiiii^s, todliu', riu 
 
 N\'i' stocks uut-ovvre their shoiither ; 
 An gif tile cuntiii's sweet or suur, 
 
 Wr jiietelig-. they taste tlieni ; 
 Syne cuziely, .iboun the door, 
 
 Wi' cauuie (-are, they've jjlac'd them 
 I'o lie that night. 
 
 I 
 
 VI. 
 
 • A note<l cavern near Colean-honse, called 7 he 
 Cove of C'olean ; ivliicli, ;is C'assilis Downans, is fanuil 
 in country siory fur bi'iiiL' a favour ite haunt for fairies. 
 
 tThe famous family of llial naii.e, the aiUTSturs of 
 R'lBiatr, llie great deii'veier of his country, were Earls 
 of Carritk. 
 
 t llie (irst ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each 
 a .'!ocL; or plain of kail. They must go out, hand in 
 li.ind, with eyes slu.t, and (iiill the liist thei mcc; 
 wi:h ! Its beiiiy big or litile, straight, or ci<Joked, is 
 prophetic of the si/e aim shape of the griin I object of 
 \li their spells— tliL- husband or wife. If any yird, or 
 earth, stick to the loot, that is tuclier, or fortune; and 
 the tasie of the castuc, that is the heart of the stem, is 
 Indieativ* of the iiatutai temper and disposition. — 
 Lastly, tne stems, or, to gi\e she n their ordinary a))- 
 jicilation, the tunti, ac plai-eil s..me >here al)o^e the 
 head of the door; and tht iMirisiiaii names of ihe peo- 
 ple wluiin ihaiice brings into the house, are, aeiorduig 
 ty the priority of plaeint; tlie lUiUs, tJie names m Ques- 
 tion. 
 
 'The lasses staw frae 'inang tliein & 
 
 To pon tl'.eir itul/is o' curii ;' 
 Hut liab slips (Hit, anil jinks alout, 
 
 Ik'hiiit the muckle thorn : 
 He grijipet Nelly hard an' fast; 
 
 Lond skirl'd a' the lasses; 
 But her t(i/i-pick/e niaist was lost, 
 When kiiittliu' in the fiusc-house^ 
 
 \\i' him that uigLU 
 
 vn. 
 
 The anlil guidwife's weel-iioordet nitsi 
 
 Are round an' round divided, 
 And inonie lads and lasses' fates, 
 
 Are there that night decided : 
 Some kind'e, cuuthy, side by side, 
 
 An' burn thcgitiicr trimly ; 
 Some start awa' wi' saiicy pride. 
 
 An' jump out-owre the chimlie 
 
 Fu' high that nigbt> 
 
 VHI. 
 Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 
 
 Wha 'twas, she wadiia tell ; 
 But this is Jock, an' this is me, 
 
 She says in to liersci' : 
 He bleez'd owre her, and she owre liim 
 
 As they wad never mair part ; 
 Till fuff! he started up the liim. 
 
 An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 
 
 To tee't that night. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt. 
 
 Was brunt wi' priinsie Mallie ; 
 An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunty 
 
 To be coiiipar'd to Willie : 
 PJall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 
 
 .\n her ain lit it brunt it ; 
 While Willie lap, and swoor hyjinff, 
 
 'Twas just the way he wanted 
 
 To be that night. 
 
 X. 
 
 Nell had the fause-honse in her niin', 
 
 She pits hersel' au' Hob in ; 
 In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 
 
 Till white in ase they're sobbin' ; 
 Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 
 
 Slie whi-per'd Uob to look for't : 
 
 • They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at thre* 
 several times, a stalk of oiits. If the third '■'^m wanti 
 llie tup- pick e, that is, the grain at the top of Ihe stalk, 
 the jiany In qurstion will cuine to the marriage-bed 
 any thing but a maid- 
 
 t When the corn is in a d.wbtful state, by being too 
 green, or wet, the stack-buililer, by means of old tim- 
 ber, iVc. makes a large apailmeiic in his stack, with an 
 opening in the side whiih is faiiest exposed to the 
 v;iiid ; this he calls a fuuse linuse 
 
 J Uurniiig tlie nuts isa i'av. .iiriteeharjn. Tlicy iiains 
 tlie lad and la>s to each particular nut, as tlicy 1 ly theia 
 in the (ire, and aciordmgls as they burn quietly toge- 
 ther, or start from beside one anoiher, tlie coi'is* and 
 iaoue of the courtship will be. 
 
 I 
 
26 
 
 BURNS 
 
 ' WORKS. 
 
 Rol), sjawlins, prieM her honnie mou 
 
 9 
 
 The siiiuH-r had been canld an* wat. 
 
 Fu' cczie in the neuk fui "t, 
 
 
 An' stuff was uiu-o greeu ; 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
 Vn' AV- a rantin kirn we gat. 
 
 
 
 An' just on Halloween 
 
 XI. 
 
 
 It fell that nigh* 
 
 But Mcrr.-.n sat hehint their hacks, 
 
 
 
 Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
 
 
 XVI. 
 
 She lea'es them !5a>hia' at their cracli 
 
 s, 
 
 " Our stibblc-rig was Rah M'Grasn, 
 
 And sli|)s out by hersel' : 
 
 
 A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
 
 She thro' tlie yanl the nearest taks, 
 
 
 He's sin git Eppie Sim wi' wean, 
 
 An' to the kihi siie goes then, 
 
 
 That liv'd in Achmacall i : 
 
 An' darklins graipit fur the l)aiiks, 
 
 
 He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 
 
 And ia the blue c/ e* throws then 
 
 
 An' he made unco light o't ; 
 
 Right fear't that 
 
 night, 
 
 But niony a day was hi/ himael', 
 He was sae sairly frighted 
 
 XII. 
 
 
 That vera night.* 
 
 An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, 
 
 
 
 I wat she msJe nae juiikin ; 
 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Till sonuthir.s; liehl witliin the pat, 
 
 
 Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 
 
 Guid L — d ! but >he was quakin* ! 
 
 
 An' he swoor by his conscience, 
 
 But whether 'twas tlie Deil hiuisel', 
 
 
 That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 
 
 Or whether 'twas a hauk-en, 
 
 
 For it was a' but nonsense ! 
 
 Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 
 
 
 The auld guid- man raoght down the poc'a 
 
 She did na wait on talk in' 
 
 
 An' out a haiulfu' gled him ; 
 
 To sjiear that night. 
 
 Syne b.id him slip frae 'mang the folk. 
 
 
 
 Scmetinie when nae ane see'd him. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 
 An' tiy't that night 
 
 Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 
 
 
 
 " VvMll ye (JO wi' me, graunie? 
 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 l'l\ eat the apple f at the (/lass, 
 
 
 He marches thro' amang the stacks. 
 
 I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
 
 
 Tho' he was somtthing sturtin, 
 
 She f'uff't her |)i|je wi' sic a iunt. 
 
 
 The ffraip he for a harmw taks, 
 
 In wrath she was sae vap'riii', 
 
 
 An' haurls at his eurpin : 
 
 She uotic't na, an aizle biunt 
 
 
 An' ev'ry now an' then he says, 
 
 Her braw new worstt a|)ron 
 
 
 " Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
 
 Out thro' that night. | 
 
 An' her tliat is to be my l.iss. 
 
 
 
 Come after me, and draw thee, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 
 As fast this night." 
 
 " Ye little skelpie-linnner's face ! 
 
 
 
 How daur ye try ^!c sportin', 
 
 
 XIX. 
 
 As seek the foul Thief ony place. 
 
 
 He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 
 
 For him to sjjae your fortune ; 
 
 
 To keep his courage cheery ; 
 
 Nae doubt hut ye may get a siyht / 
 
 
 Altho' his hair began to at eh. 
 
 Great cause )e hae to fear it; 
 
 
 He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
 
 For mcmie a ane has gotten a fright, 
 
 
 Till presently he hears a squeak. 
 
 An' liv'd an' di'd d,leeret 
 
 
 An' then a grane an' gruiitle ; 
 
 On sic a night. 
 
 
 He by his shouther gae a keek, 
 Au' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 
 
 XV. 
 
 
 Out-owre that night 
 
 " Ae hairst afire the Sherra-moor, 
 
 
 
 I mind 't as weel's yesMeen, 
 
 
 XX. 
 
 I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 
 
 
 He roar'd a horrid niuider shout. 
 
 I was na past fyfteeo : 
 
 
 In dieadfu' despeiation ! 
 
 
 
 An' ynuiig an' auld cam rinnin' out. 
 To hear the sad narration . 
 
 
 
 • Whoever would, with siipccss, try this 
 •trictly (iliserve Ihisc iliieclioiis: S-eal out, 
 
 rrt f),0 M/ri till.) it.rl/li.i,. ,1.^.....;., ., lU,. .. 
 
 pell, must 
 all alone, | 
 
 
 ♦ .^f(>a] nut tllltl/imolfnit nilit cr»,tr -> Ii-ii,<trit1 ^f harynr\. 
 
 blue yarn ; wind it In ;i iiewdue olfrlic . Id one: and, 
 toward* tho latter end, s.imetliinn will hold the thread, 
 demand h/w /uiwls'r i. e. wlio hcilds,' an answer wjll 
 be returned <"roni the kdn-po', liv naming the Chris- 
 tian iiid sirname of your I'litiire sponse. 
 
 t Take a eandlo, and po alone to a lookinp-plass ; 
 Mt an apple hcfore it. and s, nic Irailitions s.iv, von 
 •liould cond) your hair all tlie limi': the face oV your 
 conjucsl oom)iaiicnii. In he, « i|| Lie «cen in the glass, as 
 if lieepiU); over your shouldor. 
 
 seed ; harrowin'^ it with any ihiiif; von can ennvcnieiit- 
 ly draw after you. Reprat iiow and then, • lltmp-sci'd 
 1 saw thee; heinp-secd 1 saw thee: a' d him |i>r litr) 
 that is to be my true-love, eome after me and |>ou 
 thee." I^ixiU over your \t"t ^hmilder, ai.d von wdl se« 
 the apiiearanee of the pemon invokeil, in the attitude 
 of pulhiif; hemp. .'Some tr ditions sav, ' eonie after 
 me, and shaw thee,' that is, show tliyself : in which 
 ca-e it simply appears, iithrr^ nniit the harrowing 
 and tay, ' coirie after me, ami h.irrow the*.' 
 
»OEMS. 
 
 27 
 
 [Ic swoiji- 't\ras hilcliiii JLVin IM'Crau', 
 Or I'loui'liie Merran Iliiiiijjliie, 
 
 Tii' stop ! she tiotttil thio' them a' ; 
 A V wha was it but (jriiwp/iie 
 
 AstCLT that night . 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Mog fiin wail to the ham hae gane, 
 
 To win three wec/its o' naethinc/ ; * 
 But for to nit'ft the (k'il her lane, 
 
 She ])at but little faith in : 
 She gies the herd a piikle nits, 
 
 An' twa reil chcekit ajiples, 
 To watch, while for the ham she sets, 
 
 In hopes to see Tain Ripples 
 
 That vera night. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 She turns the key wi' cannie thraw 
 
 An' owre the threshold ventures; 
 But first on Sawnie gies a c i". 
 
 Syne banldly in she enters ; 
 A Tatton rattled up the wa'. 
 
 An' she ciy'd, L — d preserve her ! 
 An' ran thro' niiddeu-liole an' a', 
 
 An' pray'd wi' ze.d and fervour, 
 
 Fu' la^t that n ght. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Thev hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 
 
 Then lieeht him some fine hraw ane ; 
 It ehane'd the stack \\\i fnililntnd thrice,f 
 
 Was tininier-prapl for thr.iwiu ; 
 He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 
 
 For some black, tirousome carlin ; 
 An' loot a wince, an' diew a stroke, 
 
 Till tkin in biypes cam haurlin' 
 
 All's nieves that night. 
 
 XXIV. 
 k wanton widow Leczie was, 
 
 As canty as a kittlen ; 
 But Oeh ! that nii^lit, ama'ig n shaws, 
 
 She got a feaifu' settlin' I 
 She thill' the wiuns, an' by the cairn. 
 
 An' owre the hdl gaed scrievin', 
 Whare three lairds' la/n.'s met at a burn,\ 
 
 To dip her left sark->leeve in. 
 
 Was bent that night. 
 
 » This charm must likewise be performeii unpcr- 
 feived, and alone. Vi>u rc to thi barn, and ojieii bot!i 
 doors, taknifi ijiem ort'ihc lunges, it' |io>.'iibles 'or lliee 
 is danger, that the lifiti/; ab.nit to appear, may Nhul 
 the doors, and do yon sonv.- mischief. Then take thai 
 instriimiiu nsecl in wjnnowniij the corn, which, in oiu 
 country dialei!t, we call a i;'cc/)<,a-id go through all ihc 
 ittiludes of letting down corn against the wiid. Re- 
 peal it three times: .inri the ihiTil time an apparitinn 
 will pass throi'gd the Itun, in at the windy door, and 
 out at the other, having boih the fignre in question, 
 and the appear.inc-. or letinue, m.;rk.ng the employ- 
 men!, or sliiiioi) in lit'j. 
 
 t 'I'ake an opponunity of going, unnoticed, to a 
 Detir.sl cl:, and i.nh'im it three iMnc> round. \l£ 
 last fathom of he last liiue you will catch in your 
 arms the appe* nice of your future conjugal yoke- 
 fellow. 
 
 t V ou ^i oi't, one or more, for this is .•» social pell, 
 (o a vinij, ■nimig sprii g it rivulet, where ' three 
 lairUi.-' iaiids meet, and dip your Lft shut sleeve. (Jo 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Whyles owre a linn the !)urnie plays, 
 
 As thro' the glen it winijd't ; 
 Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 
 
 Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
 
 Wi* bickeiing, dancing dazzle ; 
 Whyles cookit underneath the biacs, 
 
 Below the spreading hazel. 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Aniang the brackens, on the brae, 
 
 Between her an' the moon. 
 The deil, or else an cutler quey. 
 
 Gat up an' gae a croon : 
 Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 
 
 Ne'er lavrock-height she jumpit, 
 But mist a tit, an' in the 7;i;o/ 
 
 Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 
 
 Wi' a pluiige that niglib 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 
 
 The litpgies three' are ranged. 
 And ev'ry time great care is ta'cn, 
 
 To see them duly changed : 
 Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 
 
 Sin' iiLir's-t/ear did desire. 
 Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. 
 
 He heav'd them on the fire. 
 
 In wrath that night. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 
 
 I wat they did na weary ; 
 An' unco tales, and funnie jokes. 
 
 Their sports were cheap an' cheery : 
 Till hiitler'd so'ns,f wi' fragrant lunt. 
 
 Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
 Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 
 
 They parted alf careerin' 
 
 Fu' blithe that night. 
 
 to beil in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve 1)8- 
 forc it to dry. l.ie awake; and some time near mid- 
 night, an ajiparition, having the exact figure of the 
 grand object m ipiestion, will come and turn the sleeve 
 as if to dry the oiher side of it. 
 
 • Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul 
 water in another, leave the third empty ; blindfold a 
 person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishea 
 are ranged : lie (or shei dips the left hand : if by 
 chance in the cieaii water, the future hti^band or wife 
 will ooine 10 the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in tha 
 foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretil's, with 
 equal cer'ainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated 
 three times, and every time the arrangemei t of th« 
 dishes is abend. 
 
 t Sowcus, with butter instead of mill; Ic litem, ia 
 always the Ualluaetn Supper. 
 

 
 1 
 
 ?R BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 
 THE 
 
 \Mien thou was corn't, an' I was melloW, 
 We took the road aye like a swallow : 
 
 
 AULD FARMER'S 
 
 At Urooses thou 1-ad ne'er a fellow, 
 
 
 N>W-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 
 
 For pith an' speed ; 
 But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
 
 
 AULD MARE MAGGIE, 
 
 Whsre'er thcu gaed. 
 
 
 ON GIVING HER THE ACCL'STOMED RIPPOF CORN 
 
 The sma', droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
 
 
 TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
 But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle. 
 
 
 A Gtiid Nfw- Year I wish thee, INIagpit ! 
 
 An' gar't them whaizle : 
 
 
 Kae, there's a rijip to thy auld busTgie . 
 
 Nao whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
 
 
 Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 
 
 0' saugh or hazel. 
 
 
 I'vn seen the day, 
 
 
 
 Thou could liae gaen like onie stai;gie 
 
 Thou was a Tioh]e Jittie-!an', 
 
 
 Out-owre the lay. 
 
 As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 
 Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 
 
 
 Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
 
 On guid March weather, 
 
 
 An' tliy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
 
 Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 
 
 
 I've seen thee dapul't, sleek, an' glaizie. 
 
 Foi' days thegither. 
 
 
 A bonnie gray : 
 
 
 
 He should been tight that daur't to raize th3e, 
 
 Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit 
 
 
 Ance ia a day. 
 
 But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
 An' spread abreed thy weel tiU'd brisket, 
 
 
 Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
 
 Wi' pith an' pow'r. 
 
 
 A filli/ buirdly, stecve, an' swank, 
 
 Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' ri>ket, 
 
 
 An' set weel down a shapely shank 
 
 An' slypet owre. 
 
 
 As e'er tred yird ; 
 
 
 
 An' could hae flown out-owre a ^tank, 
 
 MTien frosts lay lang, au' snaws were deep, 
 
 
 Like onie bird. 
 
 An' threiiten'd labour back to keep, 
 I gied thy cop a wee bit heap 
 
 
 It's now some nine-an'-twi-nty year, 
 
 Aboon the timmer : 
 
 
 Sin' thou was my guid father's metre ; 
 
 I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 
 
 
 He gied me thee, o' tocher <;lear. 
 
 For that, or simmer. 
 
 
 An' fifty mark ; 
 
 
 
 Tho' it was suia', 'twa< weei-won gear, 
 
 In cart or car thou never recstit ; 
 
 
 An' thuu was stark. 
 
 The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
 Thou never lap, and sten t, and breastit, 
 
 
 When fir>it I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
 
 Then stood to blaw ; 
 
 
 Ve then was trottin* wi' your miiinie : 
 
 Out just thy step a wee thing hastit, 
 
 
 Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an* funnie, 
 
 Thou snoov't awa. 
 
 
 Ye ne'er was donsie, 
 
 
 
 Lut hamely, tawie, quiet, an' c^mriie. 
 
 Jly pleuf/h is now thy bairn-time a . 
 
 
 An' unco sonsie. 
 
 Four gallant bi utes as e'er did draw ; 
 Forbye sax niae, I've seli't awa. 
 
 
 That day, ye pranc'd wi' ir.uckle pride, 
 
 That thou hast nurst : 
 
 
 When ye buie hame my I onnie bride : 
 
 They drew me thretteen pui;d an' twa, 
 
 
 An" sweet an' giacefu' jhe did ride, 
 
 The vera warst. 
 
 
 Wi' maiden air ! 
 
 
 
 I\yh Stewart I could bragged wide, 
 
 Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought; 
 
 
 For sic a pair. 
 
 An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
 An' monie an anxious day, I thought 
 
 
 Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
 
 We wad be beat ! 
 
 
 An' wiutle like a samouiit-c oiile, 
 
 Yet here to crazy age we"re brought, 
 
 
 That day ye was a jiukei uol.le. 
 
 Wr simiuthing yet. 
 
 
 I'l.T heels an* win' ! 
 
 
 
 An' ran them till the\ a' did waulde. 
 
 And think na, my auld, trusty servan , 
 
 
 Far, fai bchin'. 
 
 That now perhaps tliuu's le>s deseivin', 
 An' thy auld days may end in starvia', 
 
 
 When tho'i an' I were young and skcigh. 
 
 Fur my last /<;«, 
 
 
 Au' stalple-M:eal> at fiiis weie dieigh. 
 
 A heapit stiinpart, I'll nscrve ane 
 
 
 How thou Wad prunce, an' >nore, an' skreigh. 
 
 Laid liy for you. 
 
 
 An' tak the road ! 
 
 
 
 Town's bodieu ran, an' stood abeigb, 
 
 We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
 
 
 Au' ca't, tlictt mad. 
 
 We'll toyte about wi' ane anither : 
 
 
 
 
POi£MS. 
 
 29 
 
 Wi' teiitie rare I'll flic thy tcflipr, 
 
 To Sdiiic li;iii:'(l rig, 
 Whare je may nobfy r.ix _>.nir It-.itlier, 
 
 \Vi' siiia' fatigue. 
 
 TO A I\IOUSE, 
 
 OV T'JRNINO HEa VV IN HER NF.ST WITH TH2 
 fLOUGH, NOVKJIUEII, 1785. 
 
 Wee, slceUit, cow'rin', tim'roiis beastie, 
 O, uOiat a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need lu* start awa sae ha^ty, 
 
 Vt'V bickering brattle ! 
 I wad be laitU to rin an' chase tUce, 
 
 \Vi' inurd'ring pattle I 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's doniiiiion 
 Has tjroken Natiiitt's social union, 
 An' just r,es that ill opinion 
 
 Which makes thee startle 
 At me, thy [loor eartli-born com[)anion 
 An' J'Llloic-niurtal ! 
 
 I (ioul)t na, whylcs, but thou may thieve ; 
 Vr'hat then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! 
 \ daiinen nlur in a throve 
 
 'S a sma' request : 
 I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. 
 
 An' never miss't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit hnusie, too, in ruin ! 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
 An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 
 
 O' f. 
 
 oirirajrc srreerj 
 
 Au' bleak December's wind^ eusuin', 
 
 Baith snell an' keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare an* waste. 
 An' weary winter comin' fast. 
 An' cozie here, beneath the I)last, 
 
 Thou thought to dv.'ell, 
 Till crash ! the cruel osulter past 
 
 Out thro" thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
 His cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 New thou's turn'd Jut, for a' thy trouble, 
 
 But house or hald, 
 F) thole tae winter's sleety dribble. 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld ! 
 
 But, Miinsie, thou art no thy lane, 
 In proving fonsiyht may be vain : 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an" men, 
 
 Gang aft agley. 
 An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, 
 
 For promis'd ioy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I 
 The jiTMenf « "Iv toiicheth thee : 
 
 n-.it, Och : I backward cast my ee 
 
 On prospects drear : 
 
 Au' forward, though i caana .sec, 
 
 I f)uess an' J'tar. 
 
 A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 Poor naked wrctclic;, wheresoo'er you are, 
 That l)iile the |)eltiii(,' of this pitiless storm ! 
 Iloiv sh:ill your houseless heads, auM loitVd sides 
 \uux looji'il a.'ul wiiiilowM rajjtje liiess, rtefeiid you 
 From seasons such as these i—S/iu/csepean. 
 
 When biting Jii reus, fell and dotire, 
 
 Sh irp shivers thr(uigh the leafless bow'r ; . 
 
 When P/iabus gi'es a short-liv'd glower 
 
 Far south the lift, 
 Diui-dark'ning through the flaky show'r 
 
 Or whirling drift : 
 
 Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
 Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
 While buriw, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, 
 
 Wild -eddying swirl, 
 Or through the mining outlet hocked, 
 
 Down heudlong hurl. 
 
 List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
 I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
 Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 
 
 O' winter war, 
 And through the drift, dcep-lairiug sprattle 
 
 Beneath a scar. 
 
 Ilk happing l.'iid, wee, helpless trsing, 
 That in the merry month o' sjiring. 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
 
 What comes o' thee ? 
 Whare wilt th'^u cow'r tiiy chitteiins; wing, 
 
 An' close tl 
 
 y e e : 
 
 Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'J, 
 Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
 The blood stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoir<i 
 
 My heart forgets, 
 While pitiless the teinjrest wild 
 
 Sore on you be.its. 
 
 Now P/icehe, in her midnight reign, 
 Dark muffled, view'd the dreaiy jdain ; 
 Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 
 
 Rose in my soul, 
 V/hen on my ear this plaintive strair. 
 
 Slow, solemn stoic — 
 
 ' Blow, blow, y wiiuls, with heavier gust 
 And (Veeze, ye b.tter-biting frost ; 
 Descend, ye chilly, sniotlieriug snows ; 
 Not all your rage, as now, united, shown 
 
 IMore hard uiikindncss, unrelenting. 
 
 Vengeful malice unrepeating, 
 
so 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 rhaa heaven-illumin'd man on brother man 
 bestows ! 
 See stern 0|)pression's iron ,?rip. 
 Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
 Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
 
 Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! 
 Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
 Truth, weepinfj, tells the mournful talc. 
 How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
 The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
 With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
 Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
 And eyes the simple rustic hind, 
 
 Whose toil upholds the giitt'ring show, 
 A creature of another kind, 
 Some courser substance, unrefined. 
 Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
 below. 
 AVhere, where is Love's fond, tender throe. 
 With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
 The powers you proudly own ? 
 Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
 Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 
 
 To bless himself alone ! 
 Mark maiden-innocence a prey 
 
 To love-pretending snares, 
 This boasting Honour turns away, 
 Shunning soft Pity's rising sway. 
 Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
 Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest. 
 She strains your infant to her joyless breast. 
 And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
 ing blast ! 
 Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
 Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
 riiink, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
 Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
 [11-satisfy'd keen Nature's clara'rous call, 
 
 Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
 sleep, 
 While thro* the rugged roof and chinky wall. 
 Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
 Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 
 Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
 Guilt, eriing man, relenting view ! 
 But shall thy legal rage pursue 
 The wretch, already crushed low 
 By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow? 
 Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
 A brother to relieve, how exquisite the 
 bliss !' 
 
 I beard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
 
 Sho<ik off the pouthery snaw. 
 And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
 
 A cottage-rousing cr"- . . 
 
 But deep this truth impressed my laind^ 
 
 Thro' all his works abroad. 
 The heart benevolent and kind 
 
 The most resembles God. 
 
 EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 
 
 A BROTHER rOET. 
 
 January 
 
 I. 
 
 While winds frae a!f Den-Lomond h\zv. 
 And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 
 
 And hing us owre the ingle, 
 I set me down to pass the time. 
 And spiu a verse or twa o' rhyme. 
 
 In hamely westlan' jingle. 
 While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 
 
 Ben to the chimla lug, 
 I grudge a wee the great folk's gift. 
 That live sae bien and snug : 
 I tent le.'s, and want less 
 Their roomy fireside ; 
 But hanker and canker. 
 To see their cursed pride. 
 
 IL 
 
 Its hardly in a body's pow'r 
 To keep at times frae being sour, 
 To see how things are shai'd ; 
 How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
 While coofs on countless thousands rant, 
 
 An' ken na how to wair't : 
 But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. 
 
 Tho' we hae little gear, 
 We're fit to win our daily bread, 
 As ling's we're hale and fier : 
 ' Mair speir na, nor fear na'-f- 
 Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
 The last o't, the warst o't, 
 Is only for to beg. 
 
 in. 
 
 To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
 
 When iianes are craz'd and bluid is thia, 
 
 Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
 Yet then, content could make us blest; 
 Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 
 
 Of truest happiness. 
 The honest heart that's free frae a' 
 
 Intended fraud or guile, 
 However fortune kick the ba'. 
 Has aye some cause to smile ; 
 And mind still, you'll find still, 
 
 A comfort this nae sma' : 
 Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
 Nae farther can we fa'. 
 
 IV. 
 
 \Miat though, like commoners of air. 
 We wander out we know not where. 
 
 But cither house or hall ? 
 Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
 The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 
 
 Are free alike to all. 
 In days when d.iisies deck the grounJ- 
 
 And bla .\birds whistle clear. 
 
 • David Sillar, nnp of the club at Tarboltoi), aarf 
 auttior of a volume of poems in tlic Scottish dia'ecK 
 t Kani^av. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 8J 
 
 With lione«t joy our licarts will bniiiid, 
 To sec the comiiuj year : 
 
 On hraes when we please, then, 
 We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
 Syne rhijme till't, we'll time till't, 
 And sing't when we hae done. 
 
 V. 
 It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
 Ft'n no in wealth like Lon'im bank, 
 
 To jmrch.ise peace and rest ; 
 It's no in inakiiitj inuckle viair : 
 It's no in bonks ; it's no in lear, 
 
 To niak us truly blest ! 
 If happiness hae not her seat 
 
 And centre in the breast, 
 We may b". wise, or rich, or great, 
 Hut never can be blest : 
 
 Nae treasures, no« pleasures. 
 
 Could make us '.appy lang ; 
 The heart ay'es the part aye, 
 That makes us right or wrang. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Think j'c that sic as you and I, 
 
 Wia drudge and drive through wet an' dry 
 
 Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
 Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
 Wlia scarcely tent us in their way, 
 
 As haidly worth their while? 
 Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 
 God's creatures they oppress ! 
 Or else, neglecting a' that's guid. 
 They riot in excess ? 
 
 Baith careless and fearless 
 
 Of either heav'n or hell ; 
 Esteeming and deeming 
 It's a' an idle tale ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; 
 Nur make our scanty pleasures less, 
 
 By pining at our state; 
 And, even should misfortunes come, 
 I here wha sit, hie met wi' some, 
 
 An's thankfu' for them yet. 
 They gie the wit of age to youth ; 
 They let us ken oursel'; 
 T'ney make us see the naked truth. 
 The real guid and ill. 
 Thu' losses and crosses, 
 
 15e lessons right severe. 
 There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
 Ye'll tiud uae other where. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
 
 ^To say aiii^ht else wad wrang the cartes. 
 
 And flatt'ry I detest) 
 This life has joys for you and I ; 
 And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 
 
 And joys the very best, 
 riiere's a' l/ic pleasures o' the heart. 
 
 The lover an' the frien' ; 
 Ye hae your Me(/, your dearest part. 
 
 And I my darling Jean I 
 
 It warms uic, it charms n.e. 
 To mention but her name ; 
 
 It heats me, it beets nie. 
 And sets me a' on flame! 
 
 IX. 
 
 O all ye Powers who rule above ! 
 O Thou whose very self art love t 
 
 Thou knowest my words sincere ! 
 The life-blood streaming thro* my heart« 
 Or my more dear immoital pait. 
 
 Is not more fondly dear ! 
 When heart-corroding care and giief 
 
 Deprive my soul of rest. 
 Her dear idea brings relief 
 And solace to my breast. 
 Thou Being, All-seeing, 
 
 O hear my fej vent piay'r ; 
 Still take her and make her 
 Thy most peculiar care ! 
 
 X. 
 
 All hail, ye tender feelings dear! 
 The smile of love, the friendly tear. 
 
 The sympathetic glow ; 
 Long since, this world's thorny ways 
 Had numbered out my weary days, 
 
 Had it not been for you ! 
 Fate still has blest me with a friend, 
 
 In every care and ill ; 
 And oft a more endearing band, 
 A tie more tender still. 
 It lightens, it brightens 
 The tenebrific scene. 
 To meet with, and greet with 
 My Davie or my Jean. 
 
 XI. 
 
 O, how that name inspires my style ! 
 The words come skelpin' rank and file, 
 
 Amaist before I ken ! 
 The ready measure rins as fine. 
 As Phccbus and the famous Nine 
 
 Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
 My spaviet Per/aaus will liiiij). 
 
 Till ance he's fairly het ; 
 And then he'll hiltcli, and stilt, and jimp^ 
 An' rin an' unco fit : 
 
 But lest then, the beast then. 
 Should rue his hasty ride, 
 I'll light now, and (light now 
 His sweaty wlzeti'd hide. 
 
 THE LAMENT, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THEU.'IKOUTIIN ATE ISSUK ;T k 
 friend's AMOL'R. 
 
 Alas I Jiow oft docs Goodness wound itself 
 
 And sweet Affection prove ihc spring of woe U-Somt- 
 
 I. 
 
 O THOU pale orb, that silent shines. 
 While care-uutroubled mortals sleep ' 
 

 
 
 82 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 w 
 
 Thou Fcest a wreti-h tliat inly pines, 
 
 Must wring my soul, ere Phcehus, low. 
 
 
 And wanrlers htTe to wail and weep ! 
 
 Shall kiss the distant, v.'esterr- main. 
 
 
 Witl. woe I nigl.'vly vigils ktej/, 
 
 
 
 Beneath thy wan unwaiming beam ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 
 K'aA mourn, in lamentatinn deep, 
 
 And when my nightly couch I try. 
 
 
 How life and Lve are all a dream. 
 
 Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
 3Iy toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 
 
 
 IT. 
 
 Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
 
 
 / joyless view thy rays adorn 
 
 The fiinily-marked distant hill : 
 
 I joyless view thy trembling horn, 
 Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
 
 Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 
 
 
 Heigns baggard-wdd, in sore aflright : 
 
 
 Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 
 
 
 From such a horror-breathing night. 
 
 
 Jly fondly-fluttering heart be still ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 
 Thou bu-^y povv-er. Remembrance, cease ! 
 
 ! thou bright queer, wl:o o'er t'l' expanse 
 Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 
 
 
 ^h I must the agonizing thrill 
 
 
 For ever bar returning peace ! 
 
 Oft has thy silent-marking ghince 
 
 Observ'd us, fondly wandering, stray : 
 
 
 III. 
 
 Tl'.e time, unheeded, sped away. 
 
 
 No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 
 
 While love's luxurious pulse beat hlgi, 
 
 
 My sad, love-lorn lanientings claim ; 
 
 Beneatli thy silver-gleaming ray, 
 
 
 No sheplierd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 
 
 To mark the mutual-kiadling eye. 
 
 
 N ) fabled tortures, quaint and tjuie : 
 
 
 
 1 p.e pligV. cd faith ; the niutiial flame; 
 
 X. 
 
 
 The oft-attested Powers above ; 
 
 Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance act ! 
 
 
 The protnised Fatlicr'a tairJer name ; 
 
 Scenes, never, never, to return ' 
 
 
 These were the pledges of my love ! 
 
 Scenes, if in stujjor I forget, 
 Again I feel, again I burn ! 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 Encircled in her clasping arms. 
 
 How have the raptur'd moments fiown ! 
 
 From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn. 
 
 
 Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
 
 
 And hopeless, comfortless, I'll moura 
 
 
 How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 
 
 A faithless woman's broken vow. 
 
 
 For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
 And must I tliink it? is she gone, 
 
 
 
 
 My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
 And does she heedless hear my groan .' 
 
 
 
 DESPONDENCY : 
 
 
 And is she ever, ever lost ! 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 
 
 I. 
 
 Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with call, 
 
 
 So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
 
 A burden more than I can bear, 
 
 
 As from the fondest lover ]iart. 
 
 I sit me down and sigh : 
 O life ! thou art a galling load, 
 
 
 Tl'.e plighted husband of her youth! 
 
 
 Alas! life's p,ith may be unsmooth ! 
 
 Along a rough, a weary road, 
 
 
 Her way may lie tliro' rough distress! 
 
 To wretches such as I ! 
 
 
 Then, who h.er )):in;;s and pains will sooth ? 
 
 Dim backward as I cast my view, 
 V.'hat sick'ning scenes ap;)ear ! 
 
 
 Her sorrows share and nrdie them less ? 
 
 
 
 What sorrows Jjet may pierce me thro', 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 Too justly I may fear ! 
 
 
 Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 
 
 Still caring, despairing. 
 
 
 Eniaplur'd mure, the nu)re enjoy 'd. 
 
 j\Iust be my bitter doom i 
 
 
 Your dear remembrance in my breast. 
 
 My woes here shaH close ne'er, 
 
 
 I\Jy fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'J. 
 
 Hut with the closing tomb ! 
 
 
 That breast, how dreary now, and void, 
 
 
 
 For her too scanty once of room ! 
 
 II. 
 
 
 Ev'n cv'ry ray ol hope de-troy'd. 
 
 Happy ye scms of busy life, 
 
 
 And nut a wish ta gild the gloom ! 
 
 Who, equal to the bustling strife, 
 No other view regard ! 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd. 
 
 
 Tlie morn that warns th' approaching day. 
 
 Yet while the busy yiiains are ply'd, 
 
 
 Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
 
 They bring their own reward : 
 
 
 I see the hours in long array. 
 
 Whilst I, a hope-abanJon'd wight, 
 
 
 That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
 
 Unfitted wirh an aim, 
 
 
 Full many a |)ing, and many a throe, 
 
 Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
 
 
 Keen recollection's direful train, 
 
 And joyless muru the same ; 
 
 
 .^ ' 
 
POEMS. 
 
 33 
 
 You, biistlini^, and justlin^, 
 rmgut each jziiff ami pain ; 
 
 I, liutK'sa, vft tf^tlf.''s. 
 Find ev'ry i)io>i)ect vain, 
 
 III. 
 Hniv blest the solitary's lot, 
 Wlio, uJl-fors^ettiii!;. ail-forgot, 
 
 Within liis liumlili' I'l'li, 
 The cavtrn wild »ith ran;;;iing roots, 
 Sits oVr his ciewiy-ir.itlier'il fruits, 
 
 I5esiile his crystal well ! 
 Or, haply, to his ev'riino; thought, 
 
 By uiifrcquetited strcatn. 
 The ways ut nion are distant brought, 
 A faint i-ullecteil dreani : 
 ^y}li^e praisini;, and raising 
 
 His thoughts to heav'a oa high. 
 As wand'rinr;, ineaiid'ring, 
 He views the suieiim sky. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tlian I, no lonely hermit placed 
 Where never hiuMan footstep traced. 
 
 Less fit to play the part ; 
 The lucky nionient to improve, 
 Am] just to stop, undjitst 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, 
 Whi^t I here must cry here, 
 At perfidy ingrate ! 
 
 Oh ! enviable, early days. 
 
 When dancing thoui^luless pleasure's maze, 
 
 To care, to guilt unknown ! 
 How ill-exchanged for riper times, 
 To feel the follies, or the crimes, 
 
 Of others, or my own ! 
 Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 
 
 Like linnets in the bush. 
 Ye little know the ills ye court, 
 When manhood is your wish ! 
 The losses, the crosses. 
 
 That active man engage! 
 The fears all, the tears all, 
 Of dim declining a(/c I 
 
 WINTER : 
 
 A niRCE. 
 
 L 
 
 Tbe ■wintry west extends his blast, 
 
 And hail and rain does blaw ; 
 Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 
 
 The blinding sleet anil snaw • 
 Whil>> tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 
 
 And roars frae bank to brae 3 
 
 And bird and beast in coven rest. 
 And pass the heartless day. 
 
 n. 
 
 " The sweeping blast, the sky o'ereast," • 
 
 The joyless winter-day. 
 Let others fear, to me nu>re dear 
 
 Than all the pride of May : 
 The tempest's howl, it sootlies my so\lV, 
 
 My griefs it swims to join, 
 The leafless trees my fancy please. 
 
 Their fate resembles mine ! 
 
 IIL 
 
 Thou Power Suprerne, whoso mighty schenM 
 
 These woes of mine fulfil. 
 Here, firm, I rest, they mu.%t be best, 
 
 Because they ave Thi/ Will ! 
 Then all I want (O, do thou grant 
 
 This one request of mine ! ). 
 Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 
 
 Assist me to resign. 
 
 COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO 11. AIKEN, ESQ. 
 
 Let not ambition niocl< their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys, ami destiny ob?ourf. 
 
 Nor prandeur hear, with a di^lainlvil smile, 
 The short and simple annals of tJie poor.— Crai/. 
 
 L 
 
 My lov'd, my honoui'd, much respected 
 friend ! 
 No mercenary bard his homige pays : 
 With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
 praise : 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
 
 The lowly train in life's secjuester'd scene ; 
 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless 
 
 ways ; [lieen ; 
 
 What Aitken in a cottage would hav« 
 
 Ah ! tho his worth unknown, far happier therni 
 
 I ween ! 
 
 n. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 
 The short'ning winter-iiay is near a close; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
 repose : 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
 
 This nlijit his weekly moil is at an end.; 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and hij 
 hoes, 
 Hoping the rnorn in case anil rest to spend, 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course Jooi 
 hameward bend. 
 
 * Dr. Young^. 
 
 12 
 
S4 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 III. 
 
 At length Ills lonely cot appears in vic\y, 
 
 Beneath, the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 TL' expectant u-ee things, toddlin, stacher 
 thro' [an' glee. 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichteria' noise 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
 
 His clem hearth-stane, his thriftie ivijies 
 smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 A id makes him quite forget his labour an' liis 
 toil. 
 
 IV. 
 Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun*. 
 Some ca* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
 rin 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
 grown, 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
 gown, 
 Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi* joy unfelgn'd brothers and sisters meet, 
 
 An' each for other's wcelfare kindly spiers : 
 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 
 
 fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
 
 The parents, partial, eye their h<ipeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
 new ; 
 1h.e father mixes a' wi* admonition due. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command. 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 And mind their labours wi' an eyedent hand. 
 
 And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
 * An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord ahvay ! 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
 
 Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
 They never sought in vain that sought the 
 Lord aright !' 
 
 vn. 
 
 But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door- ; 
 
 Jtninj, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lail cam o'er the moor. 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious fiame 
 
 Sparkle in Jemiy^s e'e, and flush lur cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
 name. 
 While Jenny halTlins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel plca.s'd the niotlvr liears it's nae wild, 
 worthless rake. 
 
 VIIL 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
 A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's eye; 
 Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
 kye. [joy 
 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can wael 
 behave ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' saa 
 grave ; 
 Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 
 the lave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 O happy love ! where love like t'nis is found ! 
 O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
 pare ! 
 I've paced much this weary mortal round. 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare—. 
 ' If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure 
 spare, 
 Oue cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
 ev'ning gale.' 
 
 Is there, in human form, that hears a heart— 
 A wretch! a villain ! los: to love and truth! 
 That can, with studied, siy, ensnaring arv. 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth / 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth! 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ? 
 Is there no pity, no relenfing ruth, 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
 child ! 
 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac* 
 tion wild? 
 
 XL 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple 
 board, 
 The halesome/)«rri7cA. chief o'i'co^ifj's food: 
 The sowpe their only Haw/tie does afford. 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
 coed : 
 The dame brings forth in c<.mpiimental moo(l, 
 To srrace the lad, her weel- haiu'd kebbuck 
 
 fell. 
 An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
 The frugal wilie, garrulous, will tell. 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
 belh 
 
 xn. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wP serious hco-. 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patrlaichal grace, 
 Tlie big ha'-Iiible, ance liis father's pride . 
 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing tl.in an' bare j 
 
 Those strains that once did sweet u< Zioa 
 glide, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 3d 
 
 I 
 
 rie wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And ' Let us u-orMp God !' he says, with 
 solemn air. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noldest 
 
 aim : ' [,ise ; 
 
 Perhaps Dundee s wild warbling measures 
 
 Or plaintive Marti/rs, worthy of the name ; 
 
 Or noble EU/in beets the heav'u-ward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Tlie priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 How Abram was thv friend o/'God on high; 
 Or, Moaes baile eternal warfare wage 
 
 AVith Amaltk's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the rni/al burd dtti groaning lie [ire ; 
 Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging 
 Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic tire; 
 Or Giher holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian vnhime is the theme, 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
 
 shed ; [name, 
 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
 
 How his first followers ahd servants sped ; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
 How Ae, who lone in /'afmos banished, [laud : 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by 
 Heaven's command. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal 
 
 King, [prays: 
 
 The saint, the father, and the hiisbiiiid 
 
 Hope ' sjirings exulting on triumphant wiiig,» 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future 
 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days : 
 
 No mo:e to sigh or shed the bitter tear'. 
 Together liymning their Creator's praise, 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal 
 sphere. 
 
 XVII. 
 Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 When men display to c'>"gregations wide. 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
 The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 But hapiy, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 Way hear, well-pleased, the language of the 
 soul ; 
 
 Ab'J :q his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 •^ III 
 
 • lope's Windsor I oresf 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 
 
 1 lie youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent pair tlielr secrtt homage pav. 
 
 And prciffer u]) to Heaven the warm request, 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the Illy fair in flow'ry piide, 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
 
 For them and fur tlu'ir little ones provide; 
 But chiefly in their hearts with yrace divine 
 preside. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
 
 springs, 
 
 That makes her loved at home, revered 
 abroad ; 
 Princes and lorfts are but the breath of kings, 
 " An honest man's the noblest work ot 
 Gon!" 
 And certcs, it ^r virtue's heav'nly road, 
 
 The cottage (eaves the palace far behind ; 
 What is a lordllng's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ' 
 
 XX. 
 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven ii 
 sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
 content ! 
 And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- 
 vent 
 From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile . 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 A virtuous jjopuiace may rise the whUe, 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much> 
 loved Isle. 
 
 XXL 
 
 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide. 
 That stream'd thro' Wallace's undauatM 
 heart ; 
 
 MTio dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
 (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward.) 
 O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
 But still the patriot and the patriot bard, 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
 guard ! 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN* 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 Made fields and forests bare, 
 
 One ev'nlng, a" I wander'd forth 
 Along the banks ol Ayr, 
 
\- 
 
 
 S6 BURNS 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 I spy' J a man, wbise aged step 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Seem'd weary, worn with care; 
 
 See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wigb^ 
 
 Ills face was funow'd o'er with years, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile, 
 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 
 11. 
 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 Young stranger, whither wand'rcst thou ? 
 
 The poor petftion spurn. 
 
 Began the rev'rend sage ; 
 
 Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 
 
 Does thirst of weahh thy step constraiEj 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
 
 
 Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Too soon thou ha«t began 
 
 If I'm design'd yon lordling's s1aT&i» ■ 
 
 To wander forth, with nie, to mourn 
 
 By Nature's law design'd, 
 
 The miseries of man ! 
 
 Wh;, was an independent wish 
 
 
 E'er planted in my mind ? 
 
 III. 
 
 If not, why am I subject to 
 
 The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
 
 Out-spreading far and wide, 
 Where hundreds labour to support 
 
 His cruelty or scorn ? 
 
 Or why has man the will and pow'r 
 
 To make his fellow mourn ? 
 
 A haughty lordling's pride ; 
 
 X. 
 
 I've seen yon weary winter-suu 
 Twice foity times return ; 
 
 And ev'ry time has added proofs, 
 That man was mide to mourn. 
 
 Yet, let not this too much, my son, 
 
 Disturb thy youthful breast : 
 
 This partial view of human-kind 
 
 
 Is surely not the last ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man. 
 
 Had never, sure, been born. 
 
 man ! while in tliy early years, 
 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 To comfort those that mourn ! 
 
 Hew prodigal of time ! 
 
 Mis-spending all thy precious hours ; 
 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Alternate follies take the sway ; 
 
 Death ! the poor man's dearest friei s* 
 
 Licentious passions burn ; 
 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 
 Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 
 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
 Are laid with thee at rest ! 
 
 That man was made to mouru. 
 
 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy bloV 
 
 V. 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prmie. 
 
 But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 
 
 Or manhood's active might ; 
 
 That, wearv-laden, mourn ! 
 
 Msn then is useful to his kind. 
 
 ' 
 
 Supported is his right : 
 But see him on the edgu of life, 
 
 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn, 
 
 
 Then age and want. Oh ! il!-match'd pair 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 VI. 
 
 IN THE TROSPECT OF DEATH. 
 
 A few seem favourites of fate, 
 
 
 In pleasure's lap carest ; 
 
 I. 
 
 THOU unknown, Almighty Cause 
 
 Of all my hope and fear ! 
 In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 
 
 Yet, think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 
 But, Oh ! what crowds in every land. 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn ; 
 . Thro* weary life this lesson learn, 
 
 Perhaps I mu*t appear ! 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 IL 
 
 
 If I have wander'd in those patirt 
 
 vn. 
 
 Of life I ought to shun ; 
 
 Many and sharp the num'rous ills. 
 
 As snmttlting, loudly, in my breast, 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 
 Remonstrates 1 have dune ; 
 
 Mote pointed still we make ourselves, 
 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
 
 in. 
 
 And man, whose heav'n-erected face 
 
 Thou know'st that Thou hast formed tat 
 
 The Kniilcs of love adorn, 
 
 M'itli passions wilil ami strong ; 
 
 Man's inhumatiity to man 
 
 And list'ning to their witching voice 
 
 Mokes countless thousands mouru 
 
 Has often led me wrong. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 y 
 
 IV. 
 
 Whete human ireaknens has come short, 
 
 Or Jrailti/ stout .iside. 
 Do thou, All Giiid! for such tliou ait, 
 
 la shades of darkness hide. 
 
 V. 
 
 Where with ihtentinn I have crr'd. 
 
 No otlier jilea I have, 
 But, Thou art gnod ; aud goodness still 
 
 Delisrbteth to forijive. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 
 Have I .«o found it lull of pleasing charms? 
 Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
 tween : 
 Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 
 storms : 
 Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; 
 
 Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
 For guilt, for guili, my terrors are in arms ; 
 I tremble to approach an angry God, 
 An41 justly smart beneath his sin-averjging rod. 
 
 Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' 
 
 Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
 But, should my Author health again dis- 
 pense, 
 Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
 Again in folly's path might go astray ; 
 
 .\gain exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
 Thjn how shon'id I for heavenly mercy pray, 
 Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
 Who sin so oft have moura'd, yet to temptation 
 ran ? 
 
 Thou, great Governor of all below ! 
 
 If 1 may dare a lilted eye to Thee, 
 Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
 blow. 
 Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
 With that coiitroliiiig pow'r as:.i>t ev'n me. 
 Those headlong furious passions to con- 
 fine ; 
 For all unfit I feel my pou'rs to be. 
 
 To rule their torrent m th' allowed line ! 
 «id me with thy lielp, Omnipotence Divine I 
 
 IflSG AT A REVEREND FUIENd's HOUSE ONE 
 MGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 
 I. 
 
 THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 
 I know thou wilt me hear. 
 
 ^^^!en for this scone of peace anrl ove, 
 I make my ])rayer sincere. 
 
 II. 
 The hoary sire — the mortal stn ke, 
 
 Long, long be itleased to spai'e, 
 To bless his little filial flock. 
 
 And show what good men an, 
 
 III. 
 
 She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
 
 With tender hopes and fears, 
 O bless her with a mother's joys. 
 
 But spare a mother's tears ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Their hope, their stay, their darling ^outhi 
 In manhood's dawning blush ; 
 
 Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 
 Up to a parent's wish ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 
 
 With earnest tears I pray. 
 Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 
 
 Guide thou their sttps alway ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 When soon or late they reach that coas^ 
 
 O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 
 May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
 
 A family in Heav'n ! 
 
 THE FIRST PSALM. 
 
 The man, in life wherever placed. 
 
 Hath happiness in store. 
 Who walks not in the wicked's way, 
 
 Nor learns their guilty lore ! 
 
 Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
 
 Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
 But with humility and awe 
 
 Still walks before his God. 
 
 That man shall flourish like the trees 
 Which by the streamlets grow ; 
 
 The fruitful top is spread ou high. 
 And firm the rout below. 
 
 But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
 Shall to the ground be cast. 
 
 And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
 Before the sweeping blast. 
 
 For why? that God the good adore 
 Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 
 
 But hath decreed that wicked men 
 Shall ne'er be truly blest. 
 
S8 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 A PRAYER, 
 
 mZK, THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGL'ISII. 
 
 Tlfou Great Being ! what thou srt 
 Surpasses me to know : 
 vt sure am I, that known to thee 
 A.re all thy works below. 
 
 rhjr creature here before thee stands, 
 
 All wretched and distrest ; 
 Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
 
 Obey thy high behest. 
 
 Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 
 
 From cruelty or wrath ! 
 O, free my weary eyes from tears, 
 
 Or close them fast in death ! 
 
 But if I must afflicted be, 
 
 To suit some wise design ; 
 Then man my soul with firm resolves. 
 
 To bear and not repine. 
 
 THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF 
 
 THE NINETIETH PSALM. 
 
 O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend 
 
 Of all the human ra-.-e ! 
 Whose strong right hand has ever been 
 
 Their stay and dwelling place ! 
 
 Before the nx)untains heav'd their heads 
 
 Bcueath thy forming hand, 
 Before this pond'rous globe itself 
 
 Arose at thy command ; 
 
 That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 
 
 This universal frame, 
 From countless, uabeginning time, 
 
 Was ever still the same. 
 
 Those mighty periods of years, 
 
 Which seem to us so vast. 
 Appear no more before th) sight. 
 
 Than yesterday that's past. 
 
 Tliou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man, 
 
 Is to e.MNtence brought : 
 Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men, 
 
 Return ye into nought !' 
 
 Thou layest them, with all their cares. 
 
 In cverla-ting sleep ; 
 As with a flood tium tuk'st them off 
 
 With overwhelniing sweep. 
 
 They flourish like the morning flow'r. 
 
 In bciufy's pride ai ray'd ; 
 But long ere nigiit iiit down, it lie* 
 
 All witlier'd and decay 'd. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TCKNING ONE DOWN WITH THE rLVTOB} tX 
 APRIL, 1786. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem ; 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
 The bonny Lark, companion meet , 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spieckl'd breast, 
 When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting nurth 
 Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
 But thou beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stdi»e. 
 Adorns the his tie stiihle-Jidd, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the ahare ufirears thy bed. 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
 Sweet Jloweret ot 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'^ rough ocean luckless starr'd, 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Oi ]>rii(hnt lorci 
 Till billows rage, and !;ales blow hard. 
 
 And whelm him o'er • 
 
 Such fate to svffering u-nrth is giv'n, 
 Who long with wints and woes has striv D, 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To UMs'ry's blink. 
 Till wrench'd of eve-y ^t.iy but Heaven, 
 lie, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
 Ev'n tlion wild niourn'>t the Daisy j fat<!. 
 That Jute is titiiie — no ^ll^taut ilate : 
 
POEMS. 
 
 SB 
 
 Sttrn Rui-"'* f lough-share drive's, cl;ite, 
 Full on rliy l)l()oin, 
 
 Fill crush ] beneath the furrow's weight, 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 TO RUIN. 
 I. 
 
 Al.r, hail ! iiiexniahlt hird ! 
 
 At whose destriuti(in-l)reatliing; word, 
 
 The mightiest ein|iires fall ! 
 Thy cruel, woe-ilelighred train. 
 The ministers of grief and pain, 
 
 A sullen weleiiMie, all ! 
 With stem resolv'd, despairing eye, 
 
 I see each aiiUL-d dait ; 
 For one has eut my deiirest tie, 
 And quivers in my heart. 
 Then low rini;, and pouring, 
 
 The s/orm no more I dread ; 
 Tho' thiek'niiiir and bl lekn'in'r. 
 Round my devoted head. 
 
 11. 
 
 And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
 While life a pleasure can afford, 
 Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 
 No more I shrink anpaiTd, afraid ; 
 I court, I beg rhy frienrlly aid. 
 To close this scene of care ! 
 When shall my scjul, in silent peace, 
 
 Resign \\fe\j()i/(iss diy ; 
 My weary heart its throl.bings cease. 
 Cold moulilering in the ciay ? 
 No fear more, no tear more, 
 To sta'n my lifeless lace; 
 Enclasped, and grisped 
 V/ithin niv cold embrace ! 
 
 TO MISS L- 
 
 WITH beaU'e's i'oe.ms, as a new-year's gift, 
 JAN. 1, 1787. 
 
 Again the silent wheels of time 
 
 Their annual round have driv'n, 
 And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime. 
 
 Art so much nearer lleav'n. 
 
 No gifts hav< I from IniVan coasts 
 
 The inlar t year to h lil ; 
 I send you n )re tli in India boasts 
 
 In Edu-iyi ; simple tale. 
 
 Our sex with guile and fiitl.Iess lore 
 
 Is chiirg'd, peril ip^, too true; 
 3ut may, lipir maid, each lover prove 
 
 An Edwin still to vou ! 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND 
 
 17S6. 
 
 I LA NO hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, 
 
 A sonii thing to have sent yon, 
 Tho' it should serve iiae other end 
 
 Than ju-t a kind memento ; 
 But how the suhject-thenie may gang, 
 
 Let time and chance determine ; 
 Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 
 Pel haps turn out a sermon. 
 
 IL 
 
 Ye'II try the warld soon, my lad, 
 
 And, Anitrew dear, believe me, 
 Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 
 
 And mnckle they miy grieve ye : 
 For care ami tiouhle set your thought, 
 
 E'en when your end's attained ; 
 An a' your views may come to nou'^ht, 
 
 \Vhere ev'ry nerve is strained. 
 
 III. 
 
 I'll no say, men are villains :i' ; 
 
 The real, harden'd wickcil, 
 Wha hae nae check hut human law, 
 
 Are to a iew restricted : 
 But och, niinkinl are unco weak. 
 
 An' little to be trusted ; 
 If seethe wavering balance shake, 
 
 Its rarely right adjusted ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet they wha fa' in fortime's strife 
 
 Their fate we shunld na censure, 
 For still th' ini/)ortiiiit end of life 
 
 They e(|ually m&v answer ; 
 A man may hae an honest heart, 
 
 Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
 A man may tak a neebor's part. 
 
 Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 
 
 Aye free aif ban' your story tell, 
 
 When wi' a bosom cionv ; 
 But still keep somelhing to yoursel* 
 
 Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
 CoiU'eal ynursel' as weel'g ye can 
 
 Fiae critical dissection ; 
 Bi;t keek thro' every other man, 
 
 Wi' bharpen'd sly inspection. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The siicred lowe o' weei-plac'd tovt) 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
 But never tempt th' illicit rove, 
 
 Tho' naething should divulge it 
 I wave the quantum o' the sin. 
 
 The hazard of concealing ; 
 But och ! it hardens a' within. 
 
 And petrifies the feeling ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 To catch dame Fortunes golden iau]% 
 Assiduous wait upon her; 
 
40 
 
 And gather fjear liy ev'ry wil* 
 That's jiistitii'd liy honour ; 
 
 Not for to hiile it in a hedge, 
 Nor for a train-attendant; 
 
 But for the ghn ious privilege 
 Of being incltjjendcnt. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 
 
 To hand the wretch in order ; 
 But where ye feel \i)ur honour grip, 
 
 Let that aye he your border : 
 Its slightest touches, instant pause — 
 
 Dehar a' side pretences ; 
 And resolutely l<eep its laws, 
 
 Uncai ing consequences. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The great Creator to revere, 
 
 Must sure become the creature i 
 But still the preaching cant forbear. 
 
 And ev'n the rigiil feature: 
 Vet ne'er with wits profane to range, 
 
 Be complaisance extended ; 
 An Atheist's laui^h's a poor exchange 
 
 For Deity oifeuded ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Wlien lanting round in pleasure's ring, 
 
 Religion ni;iy be Idinded ; 
 Or, if she gie a riindom stinp, 
 
 It may be little minded: 
 But when on life we're tenipest-dri>''n, 
 
 A conscience but a canker — 
 A coriespondcnce fix'd wi' Heav'n, 
 
 la sure a noble anchor. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 
 
 Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
 Mav prudence, fortitude, and truth, 
 
 Erect your brow undaunting ! 
 In plon;,'lMn;in phrase, ' God send you spe"<l, 
 
 Still daily to glow wiser ; 
 And may you better reck the rede. 
 
 Than ever did th' adviser ! 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 ON A SCOTCH BARD, 
 
 CONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 
 
 A' TE wha live by soups o* drh.'\-, 
 A' ye wha live by crandiO-dink, 
 A' ye wha live and never thirds, 
 
 Come mourn wi' me ! 
 Oar hillie's gi'vn us a' a jink. 
 
 An' owre tlic sea. 
 
 Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
 Wha deaily like a random-spliMC, 
 Nfte inair he'll join the iiierrii rorr, 
 lu Social key ; 
 
 For now he's ta'en anither shnrp, 
 
 An' jwre thi <8& 
 
 The honnie lassies weel mjiy wiss him, 
 And in their dear petitions plait hini ; 
 The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 
 
 Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
 For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him. 
 That's oAvre the sea. 
 
 O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble 
 Iladst thou ta'en all sjme drows\ bumnieS, 
 \\'ha can do nought but fyke ;in' fumble, 
 'Twad been nae plea 
 But he was gleg as ony wuiuble, 
 
 That's owre the sea. 
 
 Auld, cantie Ki/Ie may vecpers wear. 
 An' stain them wi' the s.iut, saut tear; 
 Tuill niak' her poor auld lie.ii t, 1 fear, 
 
 In flinders tlee ; 
 He was her lavreat monie a year, 
 
 That's owre the sea 
 
 He saw misfortune's cauld nor-wast 
 Lang mustering up a bitti'r blast ; 
 A jillet brak' his heart at last, 
 
 111 may she be ! 
 So, took a birth afore the mast. 
 
 An' owre the sea 
 
 To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
 On scarce a bellyfu' o' drumiiioik, 
 Wi' his proud, independent st.miach 
 
 C(udd ill agree ; 
 So, row't his hurdles in a hiunimick, 
 An' owre the sea. 
 
 He ne er was gi'en to great niisguidilig 
 Yet coin his u?uches wai' na hide in ; 
 Wi' hir. it ne'er was undir hidinr; ; 
 
 He dealt it fiee : 
 The must was a' that he took pride in. 
 
 That's owre the sea. 
 
 Jiimaica bodies, use him weel. 
 An' luip him in a cozie biel ; 
 Ye'll find him aye a dainty cliiel. 
 
 And fu' o' glee: 
 He wadna wrmg'd the veradeil. 
 
 That's owre the sea. 
 
 Farewcel, my rhj/mc-composing hilliet 
 Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
 But may ye flourish like a li y. 
 
 Now bonnilie ; 
 ril toast ye in my hindnuist gillie, 
 
 Tho' owre the Bea. 
 
 TO A HAGGIS. 
 
 I Fa IK fa' your honest, sonsie fice. 
 Great chieftain o' the puddiu-race .' 
 
POEMS. 
 
 4,: 
 
 Aboon thorn a' ye t.ik your place, 
 
 I'aiiiuli, tripe, or thainn : 
 Weel are ye wordy of a yrnce 
 
 As lung's my arm. 
 
 The £;rn,ininq: trenchiT there ye fill, 
 Your liiirdies like n distant hill. 
 Your pin wad help to mend a mill 
 
 In time o' need, 
 While thro' your pores the dews distil 
 Like aiiiher head. 
 
 Ilis knife sec rustic laI)our liight, 
 An' cut you up ui' ready slij;ht. 
 Trenching your t;ii<hin_;; entrails hriglit. 
 
 Like oiiie diteh ; 
 And then, O what a (glorious sifjht, 
 
 Warni-reekin', rieh ! 
 
 Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
 Deil tak the hiMtlmost, on tliey drive. 
 Till a' their weelswall'd kytes belyve 
 
 Are iieiit like drums ; 
 Then auld guidman, niai^t like to ryve, 
 Uct/iun/tit hums. 
 
 Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
 Or olio that wad xtaw a sow, 
 Orfiicassce wad niak her sjiew 
 
 ^\'i' perfect sponner, 
 Looks down wi' sneerin;;, scornfu' view, 
 Ou sic a dinner ? 
 
 Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
 As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
 His 8,iindle-shaiik a j;jid whip-hsh, 
 
 His nieve a nit ; 
 Thro' bloody flood or lii Id to dash, 
 
 O how ur.tt ! 
 
 But mark the rustic, hngrjis-fed. 
 The trenddinir earth resounds his tread, 
 Clap in his walle nieve a hlaile, 
 
 He'll make it whissle ; 
 An' legs, an' arms, an heail, will sned. 
 Like taps o' thrissle 
 
 Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
 And dish them out tlieii bill o" fare, 
 Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware 
 
 That jaups in . 
 But, if ye wljh her gratefu" pray'r, 
 
 Cjie her a Hag (j is I 
 
 A DEDICATION. 
 
 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 
 
 Expect na, Sir. in (his narration, 
 .\ fl^echin, (letli'Mn dediearion. 
 To rooze you up, an c,i' you sjnid. 
 An' sprung o' i;re^t an' nol.le hluiil, 
 Because ve're surii inied like lits grace, 
 Perhaps relalc' to the race ; 
 
 Tlien when I'm tiicd — and sac ure ye, 
 Wi' mony a fulsoi.ie, sinfu' lie. 
 Set up a face, hi w stop sliort, 
 For fear your modesty be hui t. 
 
 This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' th^ai wti 
 Maun please the great folk for a wamefii' j 
 For me ! sae laigh I neediia bow, 
 For, Lord he thinkit, [cm /)li>urjh; 
 And when I downa yoke a n lig, 
 Then, Lord he tl.ankit, I ecu biq ; 
 Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'iin', 
 It's just sic pott an' sic patron. 
 
 The Poet, some giiiu ingel help hini, 
 Or t'se, I fear some ill a.ie skelp him • 
 He may do weel for a' he's done )(■• ' 
 But only he's uo ju-t begun yet. 
 
 "The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
 I winna lie, come what will o' nie) 
 On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, 
 He's just — nae better than he should be. 
 
 I readily and freely grant, 
 He dowua see a poor man want ; 
 What's no his ain he winiia tak it. 
 What ance he says he wiima break it ; 
 Ought he can lend he'll no refuse 
 Till aft his goodness is al)use<l ; 
 And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
 Ev'n thiit, he does iia mind it lang ; 
 As master, landlord, hu-baud, father 
 He does na fail his part in either. 
 
 But tlien, nae thanks to him for a' that j 
 Nae godly sgmptom ye can ca' that ; 
 It's naething hut a miMer featuie, 
 Of our poor, sinfu' coirupt nature: 
 Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
 Or hunters wild on Ponntuxi, 
 Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
 That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
 The gentleman ia word and deed. 
 It's no thra' terror of damnation ; 
 It's just a carnal inclination. 
 
 Jlorality, thou deadly bane, 
 Thy tens o' thousands tli;iu hast slain . 
 Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust il 
 In moral mercy, truth, and justice • 
 
 No — stretch a point to catch a plaek ; 
 Abuse a brother t,) his bick ; 
 Steal thro' a winwicit frae a wh-re, 
 But point the rake that tak^ the <l,or : 
 Be to the ])oor like oiiIl- whunstane. 
 And baud their nosus to tbe giuustane • 
 Ply ev'ry art o' le-inl tliievin:,' ; 
 No matter, stick to sound bdieving. 
 
 Learn three mile jjrayVs, an' half-mile givsa^ 
 Wr weel-spread loDves, an lang wry f,ces ; 
 Grunt up a solemn, len-then'd groan, 
 And daiua a' parties but your uwu ; 
 
12 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 r'l t(M;ant then, ye're 5ne deceiver, 
 A steadv, sturdy, staunch believer. 
 
 ye wlia leave the sj)i'ings of Calvin, 
 For gumlie ditlis of your ain delvin ! 
 
 Ye sons of heresy and error, 
 Ye'U some diiy squetl in qu.iking terror ! 
 When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
 And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
 When ruin, with hi-; sweejiing hesum. 
 Just frets till Heav'n commission gies hioi : 
 While o'er the /c/r/j p.ile Misery moans, 
 And strikes the ever-detp'ning tones, 
 Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 
 
 Your pnrdon. Sir, for this digression, 
 I maist forgat my dedication ; 
 Rut when <livinity comes cross me, 
 Wy readers still are sure to lose me. 
 
 So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
 But I n-.atiire'y thoiiglit it proper, 
 When a' my works 1 did review. 
 To dedicate them. Sir, to You : 
 Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
 I thought them something like yoursel*. 
 
 Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
 Ami your petitioner shall ever — 
 I had amai>t said tvtr pray. 
 But that's a word I need na sav : 
 For prayin* I hae little skill o't ; 
 I'm haith dead-sweer. an* wretched ill o't ; 
 But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
 That kens or heats aliout you, Sir — 
 
 " May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
 Howl thro* the dwelling o' the Clerk! 
 May ne'er his geii'roiis. hone-t heart, 
 Fur that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
 
 May K 's far honoiir'd name 
 
 Lang lieet his hyiiieiieal flame. 
 
 Till H s, at lea-t a dizen, 
 
 Are frae her nuptial liliotirs risen: 
 Five hiiiinle lasses round their taUle, 
 And seven liriw fellows, sfnut an' able 
 To serve their V\n\i and country weel, 
 By word, or pen, oi pointed steel ! 
 ]May hejlth auil peace, with mutual rays, 
 Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
 Till his wee cuilie Juliii x ier-oe, 
 When elihiiig life iiae m.ir shall flow, 
 The last, sad, mournful lites bestow!'' 
 
 1 will not wind a lang conclusion, 
 Wi' complimentary clfuHiuii ; 
 
 But vvhl-t your wishes and etideavours 
 Are blest with Fmtune'* siiiilis and favours 
 I am, dear Sir, with zeal iixist fei vent, 
 Your much iiidchtvd, huiiilde servant. 
 
 But if ( ivhuh Povv'tM ihnve prevent !) 
 That iruu-hcaitci/ call. \V,ii,t, 
 Attetiilcd in Ins i;rim advance-:, 
 By sad tnistukc*. and bhik uiiiithances, 
 
 ^Vliile hopes, and joys, and pleasures fiy hitn. 
 
 Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
 
 Your humble servant the:i no more; 
 
 Fur who would humbly serve the poor I 
 
 But, by a poor man's hopes in Heavea ' 
 
 While recollection's power is given. 
 
 If, in the vale of humble life. 
 
 The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
 
 I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
 
 Should recognize my master dear, 
 
 If friendless, low, we meet together, 
 
 Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and hrotker 
 
 TO A LOUSE 
 
 ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNET A 
 CHURCH. 
 
 Ha ! whare ye gaun, j-e crowlin' lerlie ? 
 Your impudence protects you sairly : 
 I canaa say but ye strunt rarely, 
 
 Owre gauze and lace; 
 Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 
 
 On sic a place. 
 
 Y" ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 
 Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
 How dare you set your tit upon her, 
 
 Sae fine a lady ! 
 Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 
 
 On some poor body. 
 
 Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
 Theie ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
 Wi* ither kindred, juntpin' cattle. 
 
 In shoals anil nations ; 
 AMiare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 
 
 Your thick plantatioDS. 
 
 Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. 
 Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : 
 Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be light 
 
 Till ye've got on it, 
 The vera tapmost, tow'ritig height 
 
 O' Jtliss's bonnet. 
 
 My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nos' r;i^ 
 As ])lump and grey as ony grozet ; 
 
 lur some rank, mercurial lozet, 
 
 Or fell, red sineddunc, 
 I'd gi'e ycu sic a heaity dose o't. 
 
 Wad dress your drod'' im , 
 
 1 wad na been surprised to spy 
 You on an auld wife's fl.innen toy ; 
 Or aiblins some bit iluddie boy, 
 
 On's wyiiecoat ; 
 But Miss's fine Lunnrdit ! tie, 
 
 How date ye do't ! 
 
 O, Jenny, dinna tos« your head, 
 An' set )our beauties a' al'read ! 
 Ye little ken what cursed speed 
 
 The blastie's makia'l 
 
POEMS. 
 
 43 
 
 Tl.a3 trtnks -dnA Jiiiprr-enrl'), I dread, 
 Arc notice takiu' ! 
 
 O wad .•iome power tlie giftie gie us 
 To see oiirsels as ol/wrs see us ! 
 It wad fr.ic inonic a hliiiidcr free us, 
 
 And foolish notion : 
 What airs in dress an' pa it wad lea'e us, 
 
 And ev'n Devotion ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 
 
 I. 
 
 Edin.v ! Scotin^s d irlinsj seat ! 
 
 Ail tiail thy palaces and towers, 
 Wheie once beneath a monarch's feet 
 
 S.it lc;;i«l.iti()n's sovereign pow'rs ! 
 From iiiirkinsj wildiy-scitter'd llow'rs, 
 
 As on the l)aiiks of Ayr I stray'd, 
 And siii'j;iti!^, lone, the hnt^'rin? hours, 
 
 I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 
 
 II. 
 Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 
 
 As hii*y trade his lahours plies ; 
 There archirectiire's nol)le pride 
 
 Bids elejjaiice and splendiiur rise ; 
 Here justice, from her native skies. 
 
 High wields her balance and her rod; 
 There learning, with his eagle eyes, 
 
 Seeks science in her cuy abode. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Thy sons. Edin.v, social, liind. 
 
 With o|ien aims the stranger hail ; 
 Their views enlarged, their liberal luind, 
 
 Abi.ve the narrow, rural vale; 
 Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 
 
 Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
 And never may their soorces fail ! 
 
 And uever envy blot their name. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 
 
 fiay as the gilded Mimnitr sky, 
 Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 
 
 Dear as the r.iptiired thrdi of joy ! 
 Fair Dtrnet srrikes tli' adoring eye. 
 
 Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine : 
 1 See t\kK sire itf l,,ve on hhih. 
 
 And own his work indeed divine ! 
 
 V. 
 
 There, watching high the least alarms, 
 
 Thy rough ruile fortre.-s gleams afir ; 
 Like some liold vetiian. giev m anus, 
 
 And iiiiik'd with ni tuv a seamy scar: 
 The piin'drous wall and massy U.ir, 
 
 Grim-rising o'er the i uggeil rock ; 
 Have oft withstood a>^uding war. 
 
 And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 
 
 VT. 
 
 With awe-struck thought, and pitying tearsj 
 
 I view that noble, stately di r.ie, 
 Where Scotia's kings of other years. 
 
 Famed heroes, had theu royal home. 
 Alas ! how changed the times to come ' 
 
 Their royal name low in the dust ! 
 Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roata ! 
 
 Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
 
 Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
 Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
 
 Old Scotiii's bloody lion bore • 
 E'en /who sing in rustic lore, 
 
 Haply mi/ sires have \i'^^. Cr.wr shed, 
 And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 
 
 Bold-following where yaur fathers led 1 
 
 VTII. 
 EniNA ! Scotia's darling seat ! 
 
 All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
 Where once beneath a monarch's feet 
 
 Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
 From maiking wiliilv-scatter'd flow'rs, 
 
 As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd, 
 And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
 
 I shelter'd in thv honour'd shade. 
 
 EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 
 
 AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1 St, I7S5 
 
 While briers an' woodbines building gretn, 
 An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
 An' niurning poussie whiddin seen. 
 
 Inspire my muse, 
 This freedom in an unknown frien' 
 
 I pray excuse. 
 
 On fasten-een we had a rockin' 
 To ra' the crack and weave our stockia ; 
 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, 
 .\boou them a' it pleased me best. 
 That some kind husband had addicst 
 
 To some sweet wife : 
 It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the Lriai^ 
 
 A to the life. 
 
 I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
 What gen'ruus, maiiiy bosoms feel ; 
 Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, 
 
 iie Heattie's wark ?* 
 They tald me 'twas an oild kind chiel 
 
 Al)out JJiiirkirk. 
 
 It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
 And sae about hiiu there I s;)icrt, 
 
ti 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 ITien a' that keu't him round declarea 
 
 lie had inr/ine, 
 That nane excell'd it few cam r.eai't, 
 
 It was sae fine. 
 
 That set him to a pint of ale, 
 Au' either dnuce or mciry tale, 
 Or rhymes au' saiigs he'd made himsel'. 
 
 Or wittv catches, 
 Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 
 
 He had few uiatches 
 
 Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
 T'qo' I should pawn my plough an' graith, 
 Or die a cadger pownie's death, 
 
 At some dyke back, 
 A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 
 
 To hear your crack. 
 
 But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
 Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 I to the crambo-jinyle fell, 
 
 Tho' rude and rough, 
 Yet crooning to a body's sel' 
 
 Does weel eneugh. 
 
 I am nae pnct, in a sense, 
 But )ust a rliyiner, hke, by chance. 
 An' hae to learning nae pretence, 
 
 Yet, what the matter ? 
 Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
 
 I jingle at her. 
 
 Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
 And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
 You wiia ken hardly verse fiae prose, 
 To ni.ik a sang ?' 
 But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
 
 Ye're may be wrang 
 
 Uliat's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
 /our Latin names for horns an stools ; 
 If honest nature made you //o/.s. 
 
 What saii»* your grammars? 
 Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 
 
 Or kuappin-hammers. 
 
 A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
 Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
 They (/a?t</ in stirks, and come nut asses. 
 
 Plain truth to speak ; 
 An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
 
 By dint o' Greek ! 
 
 Gie me ae spark o' Nature'ii fire ! 
 Th:it's a' the learning I desire ; 
 Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an* mire 
 
 At ])leugh or cart. 
 My muEC, though hanrcly in attire, 
 
 May tuucl; the heart. 
 
 O for a spunk o* AlUui's glee, 
 Or Fer<insim's, the lijuld and slee. 
 Or bright Z,<ijfaik's. my iVietid to be, 
 
 If I can hit it ' I 
 
 That would be lear eneugh for me ? 
 If I could get it. 
 
 Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
 Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few, 
 Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 
 
 I'se no insist. 
 Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true, 
 
 I'm on. your list. 
 
 I winna bliw lirout 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 nionie still 
 
 As far abuse me. 
 
 Tliere's ae wee f ant they whyles lay to me, 
 I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
 For monie a plaek they wheedle frae nie. 
 
 At dance or fair ; 
 Alay be some itlier thing they gie me 
 
 They weel can spare. 
 
 But UfaiiMine race, or Mavchline fair, 
 I should be proud to meet you there ; 
 We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 
 
 If we foigather, 
 An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware 
 
 Wi' aue anither 
 
 The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
 An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
 Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. 
 
 To cheer our heart ; 
 An' faith we'se be acquainted bettei 
 
 Before we part. 
 
 Awa ye selfish warly race, 
 Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, 
 Ev'n love and friendship, should give ])lace 
 
 To catch the plack ! 
 I dinna like to see your face, 
 
 Is'or hear your crack. 
 
 But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
 Whose hearts the tide of kindness warm)., 
 Who hola your being on the terms, 
 
 ' Each aid the othere,' 
 Come to my bowl, come to my wrms, 
 
 My frienuB, my brother* . 
 
 But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
 As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
 Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 
 
 Who am, most fervent. 
 While I can either sing, or whissle. 
 
 Your friend and servant 
 
PuEMS. 
 
 4^ 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 APRIL 21, IT^S. 
 
 Wirn E new-ca'il ky« rout at the stake, 
 An' [Knvnifs rock in pleiigli or lirake, 
 This hour on e'cnin's e<igc' I take, 
 
 To own I'm debtor 
 to honcst-Iieai'tcd aiild Lit/raik 
 
 For his kind letter. 
 
 Forje-ket sair, with weary legs, 
 Ratthii' the corn oiit-owre the rigs, 
 Or dealing thro' anians; tlie nai^s 
 
 Thfir ten hours bite, 
 My awkart muse sair pleads and Legs, 
 
 I would na write. 
 
 The tajjctless ramfeczl'd hizzle. 
 She's salt at best, and something lazy. 
 Quo' sLii. • Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 
 This month an' mair, 
 That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 
 An' something sair.* 
 
 Ilcr dowIT excuses pat me mad ; 
 ' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! 
 I'll write, au' that a hearty blaud. 
 
 This vera night ; 
 So dinna ye affront your trade, 
 
 liut rhyme it right. 
 
 ' Shall baiild Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
 Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
 Iloose yi u sae weel for your deserts, 
 
 In terms sae friendly, 
 ifet ye'U neglect to shaw your parts, 
 
 An' thank him kindly !' 
 
 Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
 An' down gaed stunipie 'm the ink: 
 Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, 
 
 I vow I'll close it; 
 An' if ye winna mak' it clltd<. 
 
 By Jove I'll prose it!' 
 
 Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
 In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
 Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 
 
 Let time mak proof; 
 But I shall scribble down some blether 
 
 Just cleao aff loof. 
 
 My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp 
 Tho' fortune use you hard an' shaip ; 
 Come, kittle up your mnnrland harp 
 
 Wi' glees'ime touch ! 
 Ne'er mind how Fortune icaft and warp ; 
 
 She's but a b-tch. 
 
 She's gien me inonie a jirt and fleg. 
 Sin I could striddle owre a rig ; 
 Bu^ by the L — d, tho' I should beg, 
 Wi' lyart Jiow, 
 
 I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg. 
 As laiig's I dow ' 
 
 Now comes the sax and twentieth simaiei, 
 I've seen the bud u|)o' the timir.er, 
 Still persecuted by the limmer, 
 
 I'^ae year to yccr ; 
 But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 
 
 I, liiib, am here 
 
 Do ye envy the city Gettt, 
 Rehint a ki^t to lie ;uid sklent. 
 Or purse-proud, big wi" cent. u<t cent. 
 And muclde waiae, 
 In some bit brugh to represent 
 
 A liii'.lits name ? 
 
 Or is't the paughty feudal tliane, 
 Wi' ruffleil sark and glancin' cane, 
 Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, 
 
 But lordly stalks. 
 While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, 
 
 As by he walks ? 
 
 ' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
 Gie ine o' wit and sense a lift. 
 Then turn me, if Tudu please, adrift 
 
 Thro' Scotland wide < 
 Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 
 
 In a' their pride !' 
 
 Were this the charter of our state, 
 * On ))ain o' hell be rich and great,' 
 Damnation then would be our fate. 
 
 Beyond lemead ; 
 But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the ga^ 
 
 Me learn our creed. 
 
 For thus the royal mandate ran, 
 MTien first the human race began, 
 ' The social, friendly, hone>t man, 
 
 Whate'er he i;e, 
 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's j.htn. 
 
 An' none but lie P 
 
 O mandate glorious and divine ! 
 The ragged followers o' the Nine, 
 Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet miy sliine 
 
 In glorious ii'^lit. 
 While sordid sons of Mammon's line 
 
 Ai-e dark as night. 
 
 TIto' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' (jrowl, 
 Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
 May in some future carcase howl 
 
 The forest's fright ; 
 Or in some day>dctesting owl 
 
 May shun the light 
 
 Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
 
 To reach their native, kindred skies. 
 And i/«// their jileasures, hopes, and joys, 
 
 In some mild sphere. 
 Still closer knit in fricn(lshi|)'s ties, 
 
 Each pas^sing year. 
 
16 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 
 TO \V. S N, 
 
 We'll gir our streams ann Lurnies sltine 
 Up wi' the best. 
 
 
 OCHILTREE. 
 
 We'll sing auld Collars plains au' fells, 
 
 
 May 1785. 
 
 He- moors red- brown wi' heather bells. 
 
 
 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie : 
 
 Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 
 
 
 Wi' Ejratefu' heait I thank you brawlie ; 
 
 W^here glorious Wallact 
 
 
 Tho' I uuiun siiy't, I wad be silly, 
 
 Aft bure the gree, as story tells. 
 
 
 An' unco vain, 
 
 Frae southern billies. 
 
 
 Should I believe, my coasLn' billie, 
 
 
 
 Your fiat-teiin' strala. 
 
 At Wallace^ name what Scottish blood 
 But boils up in a spring- tide flood ! 
 
 
 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it. 
 
 Oft have our fearless fathers strode 
 
 
 I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
 
 By Wallace' side, 
 
 
 Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 
 
 Still pressing onward, red-wat shod. 
 
 
 On my poor musie ; 
 
 Or glorious died. 
 
 
 Tho' in kIc phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 
 
 
 
 I scarce excuse ye. 
 
 sweet are Coila s haughs an' woods, 
 When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
 
 
 My senses wad be iu a creel, 
 
 An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids. 
 
 
 Should I but dare a hope to sneel, 
 
 Their loves enjoy. 
 
 
 Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfidd, 
 
 While thro' the braes the cushat crooda 
 
 
 The braes of fame ; 
 
 With wailfu' cry ! 
 
 
 Or Ferguson, the writer chiel. 
 
 
 
 A deathless name. 
 
 Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
 When winds rave thro' the naked tree; 
 
 
 (0 Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
 
 Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 
 
 
 Ifl suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
 
 Are hoary grey ; 
 
 
 My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 
 
 Or blindmg drifts wild-furious flee. 
 
 
 Ye E'librugh Gentry ! 
 
 Dark'ning the day ! 
 
 
 The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes. 
 
 
 
 Wad stow'd his pantry !) 
 
 O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
 To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
 
 
 Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
 
 Whetlier the summer kindly warms 
 
 ■ 
 
 Or lasses gie my heart a screed. 
 
 Wi' life an' light, 
 
 
 As whyies they're like to be my dead, 
 
 Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 
 
 
 (0 sad disease !) 
 
 The lang, dark night 5 
 
 
 T kittle up my rustic reed ; 
 
 
 
 It gies me ease. 
 
 The Muse, rae poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel he learn'd to wander. 
 
 
 Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
 
 Adown some trotting burn's meander, 
 
 
 She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
 
 An' no think lang ; 
 
 
 Chiels wha their chanters winna hain. 
 
 sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 
 
 
 But tune their lays. 
 
 A heartfelt sang ! 
 
 
 Till echoes a' resound again 
 
 
 
 Her weel-sung praise. 
 
 The warly race may drudge and drive, 
 Kog-shouther. jiiudie, stietch, an' strive, 
 
 
 Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
 
 Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 
 
 
 To set her name in measured style ; 
 
 And I, wi' pleasure. 
 
 
 She lay like some unkenned of isle 
 
 Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 
 
 
 Bes'.dc New- Holland, 
 
 Bum o'er their treasure* 
 
 
 Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 
 
 
 
 Besouth Magellan. 
 
 Farewcel, ' my rhyme-composing britherl 
 We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
 
 
 Rmnsaij an' famous Ferguson 
 
 Now let us lay our heads thegithcr, 
 
 
 Gici Forth an' Tag a lift aboon ; 
 
 In love fraternal : 
 
 
 Yarrow an' Tweed to nionie a tunc, 
 
 May Envy wallop in a tethir. 
 
 
 Owre Scotland rings. 
 
 Black Oend, iafemkl ! 
 
 
 Whil? Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, on' Doon, 
 
 
 
 Kae body sings. 
 
 Whiic I',igli!andmpn hate tolls and taxes ; 
 While moorian' herds like guid fat braxie« ; 
 
 
 Th' Jllssus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
 
 While ten a fiima on her axis 
 
 
 Gliile sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
 
 Diurnal turns, 
 
 
 But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 
 
 Count OQ a friead. in faith and practice. 
 
 
 An" cock your crctt, 
 
 Ik Hubert Burns. 
 
 
POEMS. 
 
 47 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Mr memory's no worth a prees j 
 
 I hud aniai^t f;)ri;()ttoa dean, 
 
 Ye bade me write you what they mean 
 
 Hy this neio-liglit, * 
 
 Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 
 
 Maist Hke to fight. 
 
 In days when mankind were but callaus 
 At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
 They took nae [isius their speech to balance, 
 
 Or rules to gi'e, 
 But spak their thoucihts in plain braid lallans, 
 
 Like you or me. 
 
 In thae au.d times, they thought the mooru, 
 Inst like a sark, or pair o* shoon, 
 Wore by degrees, til! her last roon, 
 
 Gaed past their viewing, 
 An* shortly after she was done, 
 
 They gat a new ane. 
 
 This past for certain, undisputed ; 
 It ni'er cam i' thei.- heads to doubt it, 
 Tdl chiels gat up an' wad confute it. 
 
 An* ca*d it wrang ; 
 An muckle din there was about it, 
 
 Baith toud an' lang. 
 
 Some herds, weel learn 'd upo* the beuk, 
 Wad threap auld fulk the thing misteuk ; 
 For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 
 
 An* out o' sight. 
 An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 
 
 She grew Dcair bright 
 
 This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
 The herds and kissels were alarm'd ; 
 The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storra'd, 
 
 That beardless laddies 
 Should think they better were inform'd 
 
 Than their auld daddies, 
 
 Frae less to tnair it gaed to sticks ; 
 Frae words an' aith» to clours an' nicks j 
 An' nionie a fiUow gat bis licks, 
 
 Wi' hearty crunt ; 
 An' some, to learn them for tlieir tricks, 
 
 Were hang'd an' biunt. 
 
 This g:^me was play'd in monie lands. 
 An avld-Uylit caddies bure sic hands, 
 That faith, the youngsters took the sands, 
 
 Wi' nimble shanks, 
 Till lairds forbade, by strict comraamls. 
 Sic bluidy pranks. 
 
 But new-light herds gat sic a cowt. 
 Folk thou<;iit theni ruin'd stick-an'-stowe. 
 Till now aiziist on cv'ry knowe, 
 
 Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
 
 An' some, theii new-light fair avow, 
 
 Just quite burefac'd. 
 
 Nae doubt the auld-Ught fluchs are bleatis' j 
 Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
 AJysel, I've even seen them greetin" 
 
 W'V girnin' s])ite. 
 To hear the moon sae sadly He'd on 
 
 By word an' write. 
 
 But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
 Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
 Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 
 
 To ta'k' a flight. 
 An' stay a month amang the moons 
 
 An' se« them right. 
 
 Guid observation they will gie them ; 
 An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e then, 
 The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' theoi, 
 
 Just i' their pouch. 
 An* 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' dall prose- folk Latin splatter 
 
 In logic tuhie, 
 I hope, we bardies ken some better 
 
 Than mind sic brulzie. 
 
 • See Note, p. 11 
 
 EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE. 
 
 ENCLOSING SOME I'OEMS. 
 
 O ROUOH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
 The wale o' cocks for fun and diinkin' ! 
 There's mony godly folks are thiukin'. 
 
 Your dreams * an* trickj 
 Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'. 
 
 Straight to auid Nick'». 
 
 Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants 
 And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
 Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, 
 
 An' fill them fou ; 
 And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
 
 Are a' scon thru'. 
 
 Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
 That lioly robe, O dinna tear it ! 
 Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it. 
 
 The lads in blach ! 
 But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 
 Rives't aff their back. 
 
 Think, wicked sinner, wha ye' re skaithing 
 It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
 O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naethicg 
 To ken them bv, 
 
 . • A certain humorous dream cf his was then n»Jf 
 ing a noise in the country-eide. 
 
€8 
 
 BURNS WORKS 
 
 Frae ony unrcgencrate ncathen 
 
 Like yuu or I. 
 
 I've sent you Tiere snine rhyinii::g ware, 
 A that I bargainM for an' inair ; 
 Sae, when you hae ;in hour to spare, 
 
 I will expect 
 Yon sanff,* ye'll sen't \vi' eunnie care. 
 
 And no neglect. 
 
 Tho' faith, sma' heart liae I to sin;^ ! 
 My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
 I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. 
 
 An' diinc'd my fill ! 
 I'd better gaea and eair'd the king 
 
 At Bunkers Hill. 
 
 *Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
 
 I gaed a roving wi' t!ie gun. 
 
 An' brought a paitriek to the grun, ' 
 
 A bonnie hen, 
 And, as the twilight w".s begun, 
 
 T'nought nane wad ken. 
 
 Tlie poor wee thing wks Tttle huit ; 
 I straikit it a v/ee for sjwrt. 
 Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 
 
 B-.it, deii-ma care I 
 Somebody tells the pmicfier-roiirt 
 
 The hale affair. 
 
 Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
 That sic a hen had got a shut ; 
 I was suspected for the plot ; 
 
 1 scorn 'd to lie ; 
 So gat the whiasle o' my groat, 
 
 Aa' pay't the fee. 
 
 But, }>y my gun, o' guns the wale, 
 An' by my pouther an' my hail. 
 An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 
 
 I vow an' swear ! 
 The game shall pay o'er moor aa' dale, 
 
 For this, niest year. 
 
 As soon's the clorkin' time is by, 
 An' the woe pouts begun to cry, 
 L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. 
 
 For my gnwd guinea : 
 Tho' I should herd the hnckskiii kye 
 
 For't, in Virginia. 
 
 Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
 'Twas neitlier broken wing nor limb, 
 But twa-three draps about the wame, 
 
 Scarce thro' the fes'Aero ; 
 \n' biitli a yellow George to claim, 
 
 An' tliule their blethers ! 
 
 It ](its nie aye as mad's a hare ; 
 So I can rhyme nor write nae mair. 
 But jientit/wort/is again is fair, 
 
 When time's expedient : 
 Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 
 
 Your most obedient. 
 
 • A icr:ig he had i)romiiie<l the Author. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 
 
 FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE* 
 
 OM NITH-SIDE. 
 
 Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
 Be tlum clad in russet weed. 
 Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
 Grave these counsels on tliy soul. 
 
 Life is but a day at most. 
 Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
 IIo])e not sunshine every hour, 
 Fear not clouds will always lour. 
 
 As youth and love with sprightly dancs, 
 Beneath thy morning star advance, 
 Pleasure with her siren air 
 May deluile the thoughtless pair; 
 Let prudence bless enjoyment's rup. 
 Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 
 
 As thy day grows warm and Lig'n, 
 Life's meridian flaming riigh, 
 Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
 Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
 Check thy climbing ste]), elate, 
 Kvi's lurk in felon wait : 
 Dangers, e.igle-pinion'd, bold, 
 Soar around each cliffy hohl, 
 While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
 Chants the lowly dells among. 
 
 As the shades of ev'ning close, 
 Beck'ning thee to long repose: 
 As life it>e!f becomes disease. 
 Seek the ehimney-ncuk of ease, 
 There ruminate with sober thought. 
 On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrougi 
 And teach the sportive younker's routid, 
 Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
 Say, man's true, genuine estiniats, 
 The g^and criterion of bis fate. 
 Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
 Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
 Did many talents gild thy span ? 
 Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
 Tell them, and press it on their raind^ 
 As thou thyself must shortly find. 
 The smile or frcrrn of ^wfu! Hea?'^, 
 To virtue or to vice !» iiv'n. 
 ^l-AV, 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 tliou shalt ne'er awake.. 
 Night, where dawn shall never breaa^ 
 Till future life, future no more, 
 To light and joy the good restore, 
 To light and joy unknown before. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 49 
 
 Stranf;or, po ! Iloav'n ho tliy jjuiilc^ 
 Qtiod t'lf bt'uilsiiiaii (if Nitli-siile. 
 
 ODE, 
 
 SACRED TO THE MKMOKY OK MRS. OK 
 
 DvvF.i.i.Kii in ynti (liiiifrt'on dark, 
 }laii;;man of cro itiim ! iiiatk 
 Wiio ill widow-M-ocds aiPijears, 
 LadiMi with iiiihonomi'd years, 
 >i'i«»in>j; with (Mix- a. hurstinsj purse, 
 Halted with many a deadly cuisl' I 
 
 STKOI'IIE. 
 
 View the witherM lielil.itii's face — 
 
 Can thy keen iiispe'/tioii trace 
 
 Aiiylit of hinnaiilty's sweet melting gract? 
 
 Not that eye, 'tis rluMmi o'erflows, 
 
 Pity's flood there never rose 
 
 See tluise hand>, ne'er stretch 'd to save. 
 
 Hands that took — hut never iiave. 
 
 Kee])er of .Mauunon's iron chest, 
 
 Lo, there she goes, uiipitied. and imhiest ; 
 
 She i^oes. hut not to realms of everli-.ting rest ! 
 
 ASTISTIIOPIIE. 
 
 I'iunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
 
 (A vliil'i <orbear, ye tort'rini.' fieni!s\ 
 
 Sees- thou wnose sre]) unwi.iing nirner necjs ? 
 
 No '"alien angel, hurl'd from uj);)er skies ; 
 
 Ti>. thv trusty rjuntidinn mute, 
 
 Dtiom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
 
 Slie, tardy, hell-ward plies. 
 
 EPODE. 
 
 And are they of no more avail. 
 Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-ycar ? 
 In other worlds can Mannnon fail, 
 Omnipotent as lie is here ? 
 O, hitter mock'ry of the jioriipous bier, 
 Wiiile down the wretched vitul part is driv'n ! 
 Tlic cave-lodg'd heggar, with a conscience clear, 
 Eapires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'u. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON 
 
 CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 
 
 A CENTI.F.MAV WHO MFI.n TIIK PATENT FOR 
 HIS IIOSOIII'.S IMMKn'AXtLV FROM A I.- 
 SlIGHTy GOD ! 
 
 But now his raitiant course Is run, 
 ror Matlliew's coiiric w.is brif^ht; 
 
 His soul was like the );lnrioiis sun, 
 A matchless, ilea\''iiiy lifjlil! 
 
 Death ! ;l.;.u tyrant fell and bloody; 
 T";* meikle devil wi a woodie 
 
 Haul 1 thee liame to his lilack smiddie. 
 
 O'er liiircheon hideOy 
 
 And like stock-fish come o'er his stinldie 
 Wi' thv auld sides ! 
 
 He's gane, lie's gaiie ! he's frac us tore, 
 The ae best fcliiiw e'er was horn ! 
 Thee, Matthew, Nature's sd >hall mourn 
 
 I5y wood and wild, 
 Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 
 
 Frae man exil'd. 
 
 Ye hills, near ncebors o' the Jtarns, 
 That proudly cock voiir cresting cairns ! 
 Ye clilis, the luuiits of sailing yearns. 
 
 Where echo slumbers f 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest h.iiins, 
 
 My wailing numl>ers; 
 
 Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens! 
 Ye haz'llv shaws and briery dens ! 
 Ye hurnies, wimplin down your glens, 
 
 Wi' toddlin' din. 
 Or foaming Strang, wi' liasty stens, 
 
 Frae lln to hn. 
 
 Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
 Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see; 
 Ye Woodbines, hanging Ixmnllie 
 
 In scented bow're ; 
 Ye roses on your thorny tiec. 
 
 The first o' pKiw'rs. 
 
 At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blad" 
 Droops with a diamond at his head. 
 At ev'n, when beans their fragiance shrd 
 
 I' th' rustling gale, 
 Ye maukins whiddin thio' the glade, 
 
 Come join my waiL 
 
 Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
 Ye grouse that crap the heather biul ; 
 Ye curlews calling thru' a cliid ; 
 
 Ye whistling ])lover ; 
 And mourn, ye whirring paitiick brood ; 
 
 He's gane for ever ! 
 
 Mourn, sooty coots, and sjteckled teals; 
 Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
 Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 
 
 Circling the lake ; 
 Ye bitterns, till the (piagmire reels, 
 
 Uair for his sake. 
 
 iMourn, clam'ring cralks at cKiso o' dayi 
 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
 And when ye wing your annual way 
 
 Frae our cauld shore, 
 Tell thac far v.'iulils, wha lies in clay. 
 
 Wliani we deplore. 
 
 Ye houlets, frae yo'jr ivy bow'r. 
 In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
 What time the moon, wi' silent glow r. 
 Sets up her horn. 
 
1 
 
 &0 BURNS 
 
 WORKS 
 
 Wall tLro' the dreary midnight hour 
 
 Here lies u ha wetl had ron thy prait*. 
 
 Till waukrile morn ! 
 
 For Matthew was a bright man 
 
 O rivers, fDrcsts, hll's, and plains ! 
 
 If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 
 
 Oft nave jv heard my cauty strains : 
 
 Vi'ad life itself resign, man : 
 
 But now, what else for me reraairis 
 
 Thy sympathetic tear maun f&'. 
 
 But t^iles of woe ; 
 
 For iMatthew was a kind man. 
 
 An' frae my een the drappin^ rains 
 
 
 Maun ever flow. 
 
 If thou art staunch without a stain. 
 
 
 Like the unchanging blue, man ; 
 
 Mourn, sprinj, thou darlings of the year ! 
 
 This was a kinsman o' thy ain. 
 
 Ilk cowslip cu]) shall kep a tear: 
 
 For IMatthew was a true man. 
 
 Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
 
 
 Shoots up its iiead, 
 
 If thon hast wit, and fun, an<l fire, 
 
 Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear. 
 
 And ne er guid wine did fear, man , 
 
 For hira that's dead . 
 
 This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
 
 
 For IMatthew was a queer man. 
 
 Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
 
 
 In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
 
 If ony whiggish whingin sot. 
 
 Thou, winter, hurlinq: thro' the air 
 
 To blame poor Matthew dare, man 
 
 The roaring blast, 
 
 Jlay dool and sorrov/ be his lot, 
 
 Wide o'er the naked world declare 
 
 For IMatthew was a rare man. 
 
 The worlh we've lost I 
 Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
 
 
 
 Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
 And you, ye twinklin? starnies bright, 
 
 LAMENT OF MARY QUEFS 
 
 My Matthew mourn ! 
 
 OF SCOTS, 
 
 For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 
 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 O Henderson ! the man, the brother ! 
 
 Now Nature hangs her mantle green 
 
 And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
 
 On every blooming tree. 
 
 And hast thou cross'd that unknown river. 
 
 And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 
 
 Life's dreary l)ound ! 
 
 Out o'er the grxssy lea : 
 
 Like thee, where shall I find another, 
 
 Now Phcehus cheers the crystal streams, 
 
 The world around ! 
 
 And glads the azure skies ; 
 
 
 But nought can glad the weary wight 
 
 Go to your scnlptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
 
 That fast in durance hcs. 
 
 In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
 
 
 But by the honest turf I'll wait, 
 
 No^v lav'rocks wake the merry morn. 
 
 Thou man of worth ! 
 
 Aloft on dewy wing ; 
 
 And weep the ae best fellow's fate 
 
 E'er lay in earth 
 
 The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 
 
 M ikes woodland echoes rino; ; 
 
 
 The mavis mild wi' many a note. 
 
 
 Sings drowsy day to rest : 
 In love and freedom they rejoice, 
 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Wi' caie nor thrall o])i)rest. 
 
 Stot, passenger ! my story's In lef 
 
 Now blooms the lily by the hank. 
 
 And truth I shall relate, man : 
 
 The primiose down the brae ; 
 
 I tell nae common tale o' grief. 
 
 The hawthoi n's budding in the gleu 
 
 For Matthew was a great man. 
 
 And milk-white is the slae : 
 
 
 The meanest hind in fair Scotlani, 
 
 If thou uncommon merit hast. 
 
 May rove their sweets auiang ; 
 
 Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; ; 
 
 Ihit 1, the Queen of a' Scotland, 
 
 A look of pity hither cast, 
 
 Maun lie in prison Strang. 
 
 For JVhitthew was a jxior man. 
 
 
 
 I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 
 
 If tliou a ni.ble sodger art. 
 
 V.'here lia])jiy I hne been ; 
 
 'Mi.it p.isvi'st by this grave, man ; 
 
 Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 
 
 Tlirie iiiiiuldcrs here a gallant heart, 
 
 As blithe lay down at e'en : 
 
 For Ahittliew was a bt ive man. 
 
 And I'm the sovereign of Scotlaoi?, 
 
 
 And mony a traitor ther** • 
 
 > If thou on men, their works and ways^ 
 
 Yet here I lie in foreiij^n bands, 
 
 Canst throw uncommon light, man , 
 
 And never ending care. 
 
 J 
 
POEMS. 
 
 But as for tlu-e, thru f.ilse woman. 
 
 My sifter and my fae, 
 GiinJ von'^eance, yet, shall whet a sword 
 
 Tliat thio' thy soul shall ijae : 
 The \vi'i'|)ing olood in woman's breast 
 
 Was never known to thee ; 
 Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 
 
 Frae woman's pitying e'e. 
 
 Mv son ! my son ! may kinder stars 
 
 Upon thy fortune shine ; 
 An<l may those pleasures gild thy reign, 
 
 That neer wad blink on mine ! 
 Goil keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 
 
 Or turn tlieir hearts to thee ; 
 And where thou nieet"st thy mother's friend, 
 
 Remember him for me I 
 
 O ! soon, to me, mav svimmer-suas 
 
 Nae mair light up the morn ! 
 Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 
 
 Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
 And in the narrow house o' death 
 
 Let wmter round me rave ; 
 And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 
 
 Bloom on my peaceful grave. 
 
 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 
 
 OF FINTRA. 
 
 Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
 
 Al)out to bog a pass for leave to heg ; 
 
 Dull, listless, teas'd, dejeited, and deprest, 
 
 (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest^ ; 
 
 Will generous Graham list to his jioet's wail ? 
 
 (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 
 
 tale), 
 And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd, 
 And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 
 
 Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
 Of thy capr-ce maternal I complain. 
 The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
 One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 
 
 ground : 
 rhou giv'st the ass his hide, the snoil his shell, 
 Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
 Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
 In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
 Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
 The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
 Toads with their poison, doctors with their 
 
 <hug, [snug. 
 
 The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are 
 Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [dart*. 
 Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 
 
 But 0\ ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. 
 To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
 A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
 And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
 No heels to bear him from the opening dun 
 No claws to dig, his hated siglit to shun ; 
 
 No horns, hut those by luckless Hymerj woru, 
 .\nd thiise, alas! not .\matthea's horn : 
 No tierves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, 
 Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
 In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
 ■Jlii bears tli* ii'ibroken blast from every side: 
 Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
 And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 
 
 Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, 
 Those cut-thro It bandits in the paths of fame; 
 Bloody dissectors, worse than ten .Monn)es ; 
 He hacks to teach, they mangle to e.\pose. 
 
 His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung. 
 By l)!ockheads' diriiig into madness stuiig ; 
 His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
 By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 
 
 wear ; 
 Foil'd, bleeiling, tortur'd. in the unequal strife 
 The hapless poei floimders on through life, 
 Till II m1 each hope tiiat once his bosom fired, 
 .And tied eich muse that glorious once inspired. 
 Low sunk in squalid, unptotected age, 
 Dead, even resentment, for his injured 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 fimine wore to skin and bone. 
 Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 
 
 dulnes-; ! poi tion of the truly blest ! 
 Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
 
 Thy sons ne'er ma<iden in the fierce extremes 
 Of fortune's polar fro-t, or torrid beams. 
 If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
 With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve. 
 Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
 They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve. 
 The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
 .Aiid thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
 Wlien (lis appointment snips the clue of hope, 
 .•\iid thro' di-a^truus night tliey darkling grope, 
 With deaf endurance sluggi^hly they bear, 
 .\nd jjist conclude ' that fouls are fortune's KVe.' 
 So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
 Strong on the sign- post stands the stupid ox. 
 
 No' so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
 Not such the workings of their moon-struck 
 
 brain ; 
 In eauanimity they never dwell, 
 By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 
 
 1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
 With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear; 
 Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
 Glc!iC(tir7i, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
 (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noun appears, 
 And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
 
 O ! he.ir ii,y ardent, grateful, selfish prav'rl 
 Fintra, my other stay, long bless anil spare ! 
 
.. 
 
 
 >2 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 Hirn' a long life his hopes aid wislies crown, 
 
 " Awake thy last sad voice, my harj ! 
 
 \n(l briifht in clouiilt'ss skies liis sun go down ! 
 
 The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
 
 Uay bliss domestic sniootii his privute path ; 
 
 Aivake, resound thy latest iay. 
 
 Give enersry to life; and soothe his latest breath, 
 
 Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
 
 ft'ith nianv a filial tear circling the bed ol' 
 
 And thou, my last, best, only frienu, 
 
 death ! 
 
 That fillest an untimely tomb, 
 
 
 Accept this tribute from the bard 
 
 Thou brought from fortune's mirkest glooa 
 
 
 LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL 
 
 
 OF GLENCAIRN. 
 
 " In poverty's low barren vale. 
 
 Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
 
 
 The wind Mew hollow frae the hills, 
 
 Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye. 
 
 By fits the sun's departing beam 
 
 Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
 
 Look'd on the fadinc^ yellow woods 
 
 Thnu found'st me like the morning sun 
 
 That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
 
 That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
 
 Beneath a craigy steep, a bani, 
 
 The friendless bard and rustic song, 
 
 Laden with years and nieikle pain, 
 
 Became alike thy fo-tering cai-e. 
 
 [n loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
 
 
 Whom death had ail untimely ta'en. 
 
 " ! why has worth so short a date ? 
 
 While villains ripen grey with time ! 
 
 lie lean'd him to an ancient aik, 
 
 Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 
 
 Whose trunk was niould'ring down with 
 
 Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
 
 y«ars ; 
 
 Wliy did I live to see that day? 
 
 His locks were bleached white wi* time, 
 
 A day to me so full of woe ! 
 
 His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
 
 ! had I met the mortal shaft 
 
 And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 
 
 Which laid my benefactor low ! 
 
 And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
 
 
 The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 
 
 " The bridegroom may forget the bride 
 
 To echo bore the notes alang. 
 
 Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
 
 
 The monarch may forget the crown 
 
 " Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 
 
 That on his head an hour has been ; 
 
 The relies of the vernal quire! 
 
 The mother may forget the child 
 
 V'e woods that shed on a' the winds 
 
 That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
 
 The honours of the ai'ed year ! 
 
 But I'll remend)er thee, Glencairn, 
 
 A few short months, and glad and gav. 
 
 And a' that thou hast done for me I" 
 
 Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
 But nocht in all revolving time 
 
 
 
 Can "lad.uess brin-.^ airain to me. 
 
 
 D O i5 
 
 LINES, 
 
 " I am a bending aged tree. 
 
 SENT TO SIR JOTIN WIIITEFORD, OF WHITEFORB, 
 
 That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
 
 BAUT. WITH THE lOKEGOING POEM. 
 
 But now lijs come a Ci uel Mast, 
 
 
 And my last hald of earth is gane : 
 
 Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. 
 
 Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the sjiring. 
 
 Who, save thy mind's rcprtxich, nought earthlj 
 
 Nae simmer sun esalt my bloom ; 
 
 fear'st, 
 
 But I maun lie before tiie storm. 
 
 To thee this votive offeiing I impart. 
 
 And ithers plant them in my room. 
 
 " The tearful tribute of a broken heart." 
 
 
 The friend thou vahied'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
 
 " I've seen sac mony changefu' years, 
 
 His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
 
 On earth I am a strai-.ger grown ; 
 
 We'll nu)urn till we too go as he is gone, 
 
 I wander in the waw of men, 
 
 And tread the dreary path to that dark wsnd 
 
 .\like unkiu)wing and unknown ; 
 
 unknown. 
 
 Unheard, im]>itied, unrelieved, 
 I bear alane my laile o' care. 
 
 
 
 .""or silent, hiw, on beds of dust. 
 
 
 Lie a' that would my sorrows sharek 
 
 TAM 0' SHANTER: 
 
 " And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).' 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 My noble master lies in cl.iy ; 
 llie flow'r auiatig our barons bold, 
 
 
 
 His country's pride, his country's stay: 
 111 weary being now I pine. 
 For a' the life of life is <iend, 
 
 Of Crownyis .iml of Uogihs full is tills Hi kc. 
 
 
 
 And iiope has left my aged ken. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the street, 
 
 On forward wing for ever fled. 
 
 Ami drouthy necbors, -actbors meet. 
 
 
 

 1 
 
 POEMS. 5S 
 
 Aj martiet-d.iys arc woariiij; late, 
 
 Or like tlic borcalis race, 
 
 All' folk bi'gin to tak tlic ijate ; 
 
 That flit ere you can point tlieir place; 
 
 Wliile ue sit Ixiusiiifi; at the nappy, 
 
 Or like the r.iiiihow's lovelv form 
 
 An' j^'ottiii' I'ou am! uiii'o li:ippy. 
 
 Kvanishing amid the storm 
 
 \Vf tliink na on the lin;^ Sints miles. 
 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, ami stik's, 
 
 The hour apiuoiches Tarn maun ride ; 
 
 That lie between us ami <iur hanie, 
 
 That hour, o' nij;ht's biack arch the key-»Mna, 
 
 Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
 
 Gathering her lirciws like gathering stoim, 
 
 And sic a night he taks the road in, 
 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
 
 .■^s ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 
 This truth fanii honest Tain o' Shaiitcr, 
 
 The wind blew as 'f.vad blawn its last ; 
 
 As he frae Ayr ae nij;ht did cinter. 
 
 The rattliii' showers rose on the blast : 
 
 (Aulil Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
 
 For houest men aud bonny lasses). 
 
 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; 
 
 
 That ni^ht, a child might understand. 
 
 O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
 
 The deil had business oii his hand. 
 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
 
 
 She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
 
 Weel monnteil on his grey mare, Meg^ 
 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
 
 A better never lifted leg — 
 
 That Crae Novcndier tiii October, 
 
 Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
 
 Ae market-day tliou was na sober ; 
 
 Despising wind, and rain, and lire ; 
 
 That ilka meliler, wi' the miller, 
 
 Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; 
 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
 
 That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
 
 Whiles glow'riiig round wi' prudeut cares, 
 
 The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
 
 That at the I — d's house, ev'n on Sundav, 
 
 kirk-Allowat/ was drawing nigh. 
 
 Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till .Monday. 
 
 Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry — 
 
 She prophesy 'd, that late or soon. 
 
 Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
 
 
 By this time he was cross the ford. 
 
 Or cateh'd wi' warlocks in t'le mirk, 
 
 Whaie in the sn iw the chapman smoor'd ; 
 
 By AUvway's auld haunted knk. 
 
 And past the biiks and meikle stanc. 
 
 Whare drunken Cliailie bnk 's neck-bane; 
 
 Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, 
 
 And thro' the whins, aud by the cali'n. 
 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 
 Wliare hunters fand the muider'd bairn; 
 
 How nic.ny kngthen'd sage advices, 
 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
 
 The husband frae the wife despises ! 
 
 Whare Mantid's niither hanged hersel.— 
 
 1 
 
 F?efore him Do n pours all his floo<is ; 
 
 But to our tale : Ae market night, 
 
 The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
 
 Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
 
 The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely. 
 
 Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
 
 V'i' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
 
 When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
 
 .\nd at his elbow, soiiter Johnny, 
 
 Kirh-Alloicit'j seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 
 His ancient, trusty, droiithy crony ; 
 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were alancinsr. 
 
 Tarn lo'ed him like a vera hrither ; 
 
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing— 
 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
 The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
 
 
 Inspirinjf bold Ji.hn Jiarleycorn ! 
 
 And aye the ale was growing better : 
 
 What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
 
 The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
 
 Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
 
 Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
 
 Wi' uscpiebae we'll fu'e the devil 
 
 The souter taulil his queerest stories ; 
 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tanimits noddlt. 
 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
 
 Fair play, he cared n a deils a boddle. 
 
 The storm without might rair and rustle. 
 
 But Mnyri'te stood right sair astouish'd. 
 
 Tain did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 Fill, by the heel and hand adnionish'd, 
 
 
 She ventured forward on the light ; 
 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
 
 And, vow ! Titm saw an unco sight I 
 
 E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
 
 As l)ees flee hame wi' lades o' treasuie. 
 
 Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
 
 The minutes wiii.;'d their way wi' pleasure: 
 
 Hut hornpipes, jigs, str.ithspcys, and reels, 
 
 Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
 
 I'ut life anil mettle m their heel.i. 
 
 •J'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 
 
 A winiiock-bunker in the east. 
 
 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
 
 A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
 
 Von seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ! 
 
 To gie them niu^ic was his charge : 
 
 Or like the snow-falls in the river. 
 
 He si-rew'il his pipes and gart them skirL 
 
 \ moment wil■^J' — then melt- for ever; 
 
 L_ \ 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dlrL— • 
 
 
b* 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Coflins stnnd rnund like open presses. 
 That sliawM tliy <leail in their list dresses ; 
 And liy some devilish cantrip siip;ht, 
 Each in its cauld h;md held a light, — 
 By which heroic Tarn was able 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unehristen'd bairus : 
 A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
 Wi' his last g isp his gab did gape ; 
 Five tomahawks, wi' bliide rcd-riisted ; 
 Five sevmltars 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 vet stack to the heft ; 
 V/i' niair o' hoirible and awfu' 
 Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, 
 The mirth and fun grew fist and furious : 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
 Thev reel'd, thev set, they cross'd, tl-.ey cleekit, 
 Till ilka carlin swat and leekit. 
 And ciiost her duddies to the wark, 
 And linket at it in her sark ! 
 
 ^mv Tarn, O Tnm ! had they been queans 
 A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
 Been snaw- white seventeen hnniler bnen ' 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my (miy pair, 
 That ance were plush, o' giiid blue hair, 
 I wad hae gi'en them aff my luirdies ! 
 For ae blink o' tiie bonnie burdi-es ! 
 
 B\it witberM beldams, auld and droll, 
 Rig wood ie hags wad spean a foal, 
 Low|)iiig and flinging on a crunimock, 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Turn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlle, 
 There was ae winsume wenidi and walie, 
 That niijlit enl sted in the core, 
 (Lang after kenn'd on Currick shore ! 
 For mony a heust to dead she shot, 
 And perlsh'd niony a bonnie boat. 
 And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
 And kept the countty side in fear), 
 Her cutty-sarii, o' Paisley ham, 
 That whi'e a Ijssie she had worn. 
 In longitude though sorely scanty. 
 It was her best, and she w^'S vauntie. — • 
 Ah ! little kenn'rl thy reverend grannie, 
 That sark she coft for her wee Nwinic, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots, ('tw.is a' her riches), 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 
 
 Hut nere my muse her wing matin cour ; 
 fs'r llit^ht-* are l.ir beyond her pow'r ; 
 To sing how I\'ii7iiiii- lap and H irig, 
 (A souplt? i irle she was and Strang) 
 And how Tiim stooil, like uiie bewitch 'd, 
 Knd thought his Very een enricli'd • 
 
 Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and maia . 
 Till first ae caper, syne anitl.er. 
 Tarn tint his reason a' thegither. 
 And roars out. " Weel done, Cutty-sara ! 
 And in an instant all was dark ; 
 And scarcely had he Maagie rallied, 
 Wh.en out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees hizz out wi' angry fyke, 
 When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
 As open pussie's mortal foes, 
 When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
 As eager runs the market crowd. 
 When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ( 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 Wi' r.ionie an eldritch screech and hollovr. 
 
 Ah, Tarn' Ah, Tarn! thon'll get thy fa'ri* 
 In hell tl'.ey'll roast thee like a herrin ; 
 In vain thy Kdte awaits thy comin ! 
 Ktite soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 And win the key-stane * of the brig , 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they dare na crass. 
 But ere the key-stane she could make. 
 The fient a tale she had to shake ' 
 For Nannie, far before the rest. 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
 And flew at T(un wi' furious ettle , 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle^ 
 Ae spring brousjlit aff her master hale. 
 But left behind her ain grey tail : 
 The carlin claught her by the rump. 
 And left poor Maggie scaice a stump. 
 
 Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
 Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
 Whene'er to diink you are inclin'd. 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
 Remember Tain o' S/iantcrs mare. 
 
 ON SEEING A WOUNDED 
 HARE LIMP BY ME, 
 
 WHICH A FELLOW HAD J U.ST SHOT AT. 
 
 Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous ait. 
 And blasted be thy murdi'i-ainiing eye : 
 IMay never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 
 
 Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 
 
 Go live, poiM- wanilerer of the wood and field. 
 The bitter little that of hfe remains : 
 
 • It is a •ell known fact, that witches, or any evi" 
 pri<'its, h.wv no power f() fnlhuv a poor »^'iRht aiiv fir 
 thcr than tl\e nii.lille of the next ruMiiliiij stream. — It 
 may l)e proper likewise in menlinn to the heiiiRhlcd 
 traveller, that wliin he tails in with l'iii.'/f<, wl 4tivei 
 danijer may li • in his (joiiii; torwatd, tiiere is nm;:S 
 more hazard in tuniiii)^ Ijack. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 5a 
 
 No more tlie tliickcniiig lir.ikes and verumt 
 plains. 
 To tLce sliall home, or food, or p i-tinie yield. 
 
 Seek, inanglod u-rotcli, s:)nie place of wonted 
 rc'<t, 
 
 No nuire of rest, lint now tliy rlyins; bed ! 
 
 The slu'lteiing rnslu's whistliMg oVr thy head, 
 The cold i-ai th with thy hlooily bosom prest. 
 
 Oft a>i by winding Nllh, 1 mnsinsr wait 
 T!r' sober eve, or h lil the elu'erf'ul d.nvn, 
 I'll miss tliee sjiiiitinir o'er the dewy l.iwn, 
 
 And curse the ruffiiu's aim, and inuuni thy 
 hapless fate. 
 
 ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 
 
 Dki.ow thir stanes lie Jamie's b.mes : 
 
 O Death, its my opinion, 
 Thmi ne'er took ^.UL•h a bletli'rin bitch 
 
 Into thy dark doiuinioa ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE 
 OF THOMSON, 
 
 ON CROWNINT. HIS B'JST AT F.llSAM, ROX- 
 BUKGUSHIILE, WITH BAVS. 
 
 While virgin Spring, by Eden's (lood, 
 Unfolds iier tenlei- mintle green, 
 
 Or pranks the sod in frolic m"od. 
 Or tuues Eohiin strains between : 
 
 \Vliile Summer, witli a matron grace. 
 Retreats to Drylui. gli's cooling shade, 
 
 Yet (,ft, (ielighred. sfops to trace 
 Tiie progress of the spiky blade ; 
 
 While Autumn, I)enefactor kind, 
 
 By Tweed erects his aged head, 
 And sees, with self-approving mind, 
 
 liach creature on his bounty feed: 
 
 While maniac \Vin;>r rises o'er 
 
 The bills whence classii- Yarrow flows, 
 
 Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
 
 Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 
 
 &•) long, sweet Poet of the year. 
 
 Shall bloom that wreath thon well hast won ; 
 While Scotia, wirli exulting t.-ar, 
 
 Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 ON A CELEBRATED RULING 
 ELDER. 
 
 Here sok'er John iti death does icep ; 
 
 To hi-:l, if he's ij.iiie thither, 
 8atin, ^le him thy '^lar to keep, 
 
 He'll baud it weel thegitjer. 
 
 ON WEE JOHNNY. 
 
 Uicjacet wee Johnny, 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, O re-nler, know. 
 That death has murder'd Johnny ! 
 
 An' here his bi.dij lies fu' low 
 
 For saul, he ne'er had ony. 
 
 FOR THE AUTHOR S FATHER 
 
 O YE whose cheek the tear of pitv 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 ahine a foe ; 
 
 " For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue'* 
 side."* 
 
 FOR R. A. Esq. 
 
 Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
 Of this much lov'd, much honjur'd nxxrn 
 (For none that knew him need he to'd) 
 A warmer heait death ne'er made cold. 
 
 FOR G. H. Esq. 
 
 The ])oor man we?ps — heie G n slcep«, 
 
 W)om canting wretches blam'd : 
 
 But witli audi lis he, where'er he be, 
 May I be saved or / d f 
 
 A BARD'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Is tliere a whim-inspired fool, 
 Owie fast for thought, owre hot for ru'e, 
 Owj e blate to seek, owre jiroud to snool, 
 
 Let him diaw near ; 
 And owre this grasgy heap sing dool, 
 
 And drap a tear. 
 
 Is there a barti of rustic song. 
 Who, noteless, steals the crowcFs among, 
 
 • Goldsmith. 
 
56 
 
 BURNS' WORIvS. 
 
 Tbat weekly this area throng, 
 
 O, pass not by ! 
 
 But, with a fratei-feeliiig strong, 
 
 Here heave a sigh. 
 
 la there a man, whose jurlgment clear, 
 Cm nthers teai-h the couise to steer, 
 Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 
 
 Vild as the wave ; 
 litre pause — and, through the starting tear, 
 Survey this grave. 
 
 Tlie poor inhabitant below. 
 Was <)iiiik to learn and wise to know, 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
 
 ^nd nofter fume, 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low. 
 
 And stain'd his name ! 
 
 Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
 Soars fancy's flights beyond the pule, 
 Or darkling gru!)S this earthly hole, 
 
 In low pursuit ; 
 Know, prudent, cautious, self-control. 
 
 Is wisdom's root. 
 
 ON THE LATE 
 
 CAPTAIN GROSE'a 
 
 PEREGRINATIONS THKO'UOH SCOTLAND, COL- 
 LECTING THE ANTIUL'ITIES OF THAT K1NGU0.-.L 
 
 Heau, Land o' Cakes, and brither Siots, 
 Fiae Maidenkiik to Johnny Groat's ; 
 If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
 
 I rede you tent it : 
 A chield's amang you, taking note*. 
 
 And, faith, he'll prent it. 
 
 If in vnur biunds ye chance to light 
 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 ami keel. 
 
 Bv some aiild, houlet-haunted biggin," 
 Or kirk, dLsertnl by its liggin. 
 It's ten to ane ye'll liiid Inm snug in 
 
 Some eldritch part, 
 Wi' deils, they say, L— d safe's ! colleaguin' 
 
 At some black art. — 
 
 Ilk ghaist that haunts auld hi* or chamer, 
 Ye gip-ey-gang tluit deal in glamor. 
 And you die[i -read in hell's black grammar, 
 
 W'.iilocks and witcbcs ; 
 Ye'll qiia];e at his conjuiing hammer, 
 
 Ye mlcliiight bitches. 
 
 It's tauid h.c was a siidgpr bred. 
 And ane w,id rather fa'ii than fleil ; 
 
 But now be'* quat the sjiurtle blada, 
 
 And ilog-skin wall**, 
 
 And ta'en the — Afiti'i'inrian trade, 
 
 I think they call it. 
 
 He has a fouth o' auM nick nackets : 
 Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
 Wdd had the Lothians three in ta.kets, 
 
 A towmont guiil : 
 And parritch pats, and auld sjut-ba.-keta, 
 Before the Flood. 
 
 Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
 Auld Tubal Cain's tire->hool and fender ; 
 That which distinguished the gender 
 
 C Halaiui's ass ; 
 A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 
 
 Weel shod wi" brass. 
 
 Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
 The cut of Adam's pliililn-g ; 
 The knife that uicket Abel's craig. 
 
 He'll prove you fully, 
 It was a faulding jocteleg. 
 
 Or lang-kail gullie.— 
 
 But wad ye see him in his glee, 
 For meikle glee and fun has he, 
 Then set him down, and twa or three 
 
 Guid fellows wi' hjin , 
 And port, O port ! Shine thou a wee. 
 
 And then ye'll see him j 
 
 Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
 Thou art a dainty chiel, O (Jiose . — 
 Whae'er o' thee shall ill su])pose. 
 
 They salt misca' thee; 
 I'd take the rascal bv the nose, 
 
 'Wad sav, Shame fa' thee ! 
 
 • ViJc his Anlin lilies of Scoiliiid. 
 
 TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 
 
 A VJUV YOUNG LADY, WUITTHNON THE BlANl 
 LEAF OK A BOOK, l-KEsENTZl) lO HER Bl 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Beauttous rose-bud, young and gay, 
 
 lilooming on thy early .May, 
 
 Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
 
 Cliilly shrink in sleety show'r : 
 
 Never Boreas* hoary patli, 
 
 Never Euru-.' pois'nou> breath, 
 
 Never baleful stellar li;;ht->. 
 
 Taint thee with untimely blights! 
 
 Never, never reptde thiet 
 
 Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
 
 Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
 
 Thy bosuin blushing still with dew ' 
 
 May'st thou long, sweet crimson gera, 
 Richly deck thy native stem ; 
 
 • ViJo his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapon* 
 
POEBIS. 
 
 6-? 
 
 rill •'ome ev'ninsr siilior, csim, 
 |)Tii]iliiiii; (li'u-^, .uni oiciitliiiii; balm, 
 W'liilo all aiiHiml till' wiiocll, 111(1 lings, 
 Ami t'v'iy l:iiil thy I'Mjiiiriii sings; 
 Tlioii, iiiitiil tile (lii'^t'tiil sound, 
 Slicd tliy ilyini; hutiDiirs rotiiHl, 
 Anil ifsiilii ti) |)an'iit eaitli 
 '1 lit' lovfliot foiiii she u'lt gave birth. 
 
 ON RKAIUNO IN A N KUSPA PKR, THE DEATH OF 
 
 JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 
 
 BKOTIIr.ll TO A VOIINO I.AnV, A PAKTICULAK 
 KRIK.M) OKTUl': AUTHOtt's. 
 
 Sad tliv talc, tliiui idle page, 
 
 And iiii'I'id tliy aianns : 
 Death tears the liiotiier of her love 
 
 From Isabella's arms. 
 
 Sivcelly deek'd with pearly dew 
 
 The moriiiii;; rii^e iniy liKnv ; 
 Diit, cdlil siieecsvive nunntide blasts 
 
 M.iy lay its beauties low. 
 
 Fiiir Oil Isabel 'a's morn 
 
 The sun propitious siiiliM ; 
 But, hmg ere nnoti, succeeding clouds 
 
 Suceeeiling hupes beguil'd. 
 
 Fate oft tears the bosom i-hords 
 
 That nature Hnest sirunjr : 
 So Isabella's heai t was fonu'd, 
 
 And bO that heart was rung. 
 
 Dread Oinnipotenee, alone, 
 
 Can heal the Wdiirid he gave ; 
 Can [Point the biinitiil grief-worn eyes 
 
 To scenes beyond the grave. 
 
 Virtuous blossoms there shall blow. 
 
 And fear no withering blast ; 
 There Isabella's spotless worth 
 
 Shall liappy be at last. 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF 
 BliUAR-WATER.* 
 
 TO THE NOLLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 
 
 Mr Lord, I kriov>' ycmr noble ear 
 
 ^^oe ne'er a-sai|s in vain ; 
 Endiuhlen'd thus. I beg you'll hear 
 
 Your humble slave complain, 
 ilow saiicy I'hu'biis' sciirchitig beams, 
 
 III f.aming suniiner-pride, 
 
 • nniar Falls, iy Athole, arecxcerilingly picturesque 
 snd tjcautii'iil ; bi.i ihcir elU-ci. isinuch mi|iaire(l by lIio 
 wuit of trees auii shrubs. 
 
 Dry-withering, waste niy foaiTiing s^rcanil. 
 Anil drink my crystal tide 
 
 The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, 
 
 That thro' my waters play. 
 If, in their random, w.intoii spouts. 
 
 They near the margin stray ; 
 If, hapless chance ! tli.'y linger lang, 
 
 I'm scorching up so shallow, 
 They le left the whitening staiies amixtg. 
 
 In gasping death to walow. 
 
 Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 
 
 As poet B came by, 
 
 That, to a bard I should be seen, 
 
 Wi' half my channel dry : 
 A jianegyric rhyme, I ween. 
 
 Even as I was he slu'i'd me: 
 But had I in my glory been, 
 
 He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 
 
 Ilcro, foaming down the slulvy rocks, 
 
 In twisting strength I rio ; 
 There, high my boiling tin rent smokee, 
 
 Wdd-roaring o'er a linn : 
 Enjoying large each spring and well 
 
 As nature gave them me, 
 I am, although I say't mysel. 
 
 Worth gaun a mile to see. 
 
 Would then my noble master please 
 
 To grant my highest wis!;es. 
 He'll shade my banks wi' fow'ring trees 
 
 And boni-.ie spieadiiig bushes ; 
 Delighted doubly then, mv Lord, 
 
 \'ou'll wander on my banks, 
 And listen mony a gratel'nl bird 
 
 Return you tuneful thanks. 
 
 Tiie sober laverock, waibling wild, 
 
 Shall to the skies aspire ; 
 The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 
 
 Shall sweetly join the choir : 
 The blackbird strong, the lintv,'hite clear. 
 
 The mavis wild and mellow ; 
 The robin pensive autumn cheer, 
 
 In all her locks of jellow. 
 
 This too, a covert shall ensure, 
 
 To shield them from the storm ; 
 And coward niaukin sleep secure. 
 
 Low in her gras-^y form. 
 Here shall the shepheid make his seat, 
 
 To weave his crown of (lowers ; 
 Or find a shelt'iing sale retreat, 
 
 From prone descending showers. 
 
 And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 
 
 Shall meet the lovitig pair, 
 Despising worlds with all their wealth 
 
 As empty idle care : 
 The flow'rs shall vie in all their charmi 
 
 The hour of heav'n to grace, 
 And birks extend their fru^r:int arms 
 
 To screen the dear embrace. 
 
 ja 
 
 J 
 
»8 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Here, haply ton, at vernal d.iwn. 
 
 Some musiag bird may stray. 
 And eye the sm()king,'dewy lawn, 
 
 And misty mduiit.ila, grey ; 
 Or, l)y the reaper's nightly beam, 
 
 Mild fhequeririj; through the trees, 
 Rave to my d irkly dashing stream, 
 
 Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 
 
 Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 
 
 My lowly banks oVrspread, 
 And view, deep-bending in the pool, 
 
 Their sh;idows' watery bed ! 
 Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 
 
 Mv craggy cliffs adorn ; 
 And, for the little simgster's nest, 
 
 The close embow'ring thorn. 
 
 So may old Scotia's darling Lope, 
 
 Your little angel band. 
 Spring, like their fithers, up to prop 
 
 Their hnnour'd native land ! 
 So may thru' Aliiion's farthest ken, 
 
 To social-Hciwuig glasses. 
 The grace i)e — ■' Athole's honest men, 
 
 And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 
 
 ON SCARING SOME WATER- 
 FOWL, 
 
 IN LOCH-TUKIT ; 
 
 A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
 OCHTEKTVRE. 
 
 Why, ye tenints of the lake. 
 For me your waturv haunt forsake? 
 Tell me, fi'llow-cre.ituies, why 
 At my presence thus you fly ? 
 Why disturb your social joys. 
 Parent, filial, kindred ties i~— 
 Common fri..'nd to you and me, 
 Nature's gifrs to ail are free : 
 Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
 Busy feed, or wanton I ive ; 
 Or, beneath the slu-lt. ring rock, 
 Cide the surging bilio.v's shock. 
 
 Conscious, blushing for our race, 
 Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
 Man, your prou'l usurping foe, 
 Would be lord of all below ; 
 Plumes himst'if lu Freedom's prlJe, 
 Tyrant st<'rn to all In-side. 
 
 The eagle, from the cliflfy lirow, 
 Ikfarking you his prey below, 
 In his breast no pit) dwells, 
 Strong neces-itv ciiiii]iels. 
 liut man. I<> vi houi a'ooe is giv'a 
 A ray direct fi^'m |iit\'ni; heav'n, 
 3I0110UH in his litM?t liuuiane — 
 nd creatures for iiiit pleasure slain> 
 
 In these savage, liquid plains. 
 Only known to wand'ring swiins, 
 Wiere the mossy riv'let strays ; 
 Far from human haunts and ways ; 
 All on nacure you depend. 
 And life's poor season peaeefu] ^pend. 
 
 Or, if man's superior might. 
 Dare invade your native rijht, 
 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. 
 
 ^VRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 
 
 jveh the chimney-piece ix the parloub 
 of the inn at kenmoue, taymouth, 
 
 Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
 These nojthern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
 O'er many a winding da'e and painful steep, 
 Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep. 
 My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
 Till fam'd Breadalbane ojjens to my view — 
 The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
 The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 
 
 sides ; 
 Th' outstretching lake, einbosom'd 'mong the 
 
 hills. 
 The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
 The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
 The palace rising on his verdant side. 
 The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; 
 The hillocks diopt in Nature's careless haste ! 
 The arches striding o'er the new-born stream 
 The village, glittering in the moontide beam- 
 Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
 Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
 The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
 The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
 
 floods — 
 
 Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
 And look through nature with crejtive fire; 
 Here, to the wrongs of fite half lecoricil'd, 
 Misfortune'f lighten'd steps might wandel 
 
 wild ; 
 And di-appoiufment, in 'hese lonely bounds, 
 Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds 
 Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ware 
 
 stretch her scan. 
 And injur'd worth forget ar-' nardon man. 
 
FORMS. 
 ^KITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 
 
 STANDING UV THE FAI.l. OF KVEKS, N KA 11 
 LOCll-NESS. 
 
 59 
 
 Among tlie heatiiy hills ami raijgeJ woods 
 The roiiring Fytrs pmirs his m()>sy flouds ; 
 Fdl t'lill he ilaslies on the rocky mounds, 
 Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream 
 resounds. 
 
 As hii;li in air the bursting torrents flow, 
 As deep recoiling surges fuam below, 
 Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
 scends, 
 And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
 Dim-seen, through rising niisti and ceaseless 
 
 showers, 
 The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers, 
 Stil. rnro toe gap tlie strug^liiiij river toils. 
 Anil still below, the horrid caldron boils — 
 
 ox THE PIUTI! OF A 
 
 POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 
 
 BOKN IN PECUI.IAIl CIRCUJISTANCES OF 
 FAJULY DISTRESS. 
 
 Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 
 
 And ward o' nioiiy a prayer, 
 What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
 
 Sae lielj)less, sweet, and fair ! 
 
 November hirples o'er the lea, 
 
 Chill on thy lovely iorni ; 
 And gme, alas! the >helt"i'ing tree, 
 
 Should shield thee trae the storm. 
 
 May He who gives the rain to pour. 
 
 And wings the blast to blaw, 
 Protect thee frae the driving shower^ 
 
 The bitter frost and suaw ! 
 
 May IIe, the friend of woe and want, 
 AVho heals life's varioiis stounds. 
 
 Protect and guaril the imither 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, 
 
 UDshelter'd and foilorn. 
 
 Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gaci, 
 
 Unscath'd liy ruffian hand! 
 And from thee many a parent stem 
 
 Arise to deck our land ! 
 
 THE WHISTLE 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 As tlic authentic ;)rn.tc history of tlic Whistle Is CB- 
 tioiis, I shall here Rive it. — In tlie train nf \ iiic o( 
 Dcnniark, when she viw.e to Scotl.inil wicli oiir J:inip« 
 the •'ixlh, tluie came over also a Danish ^eiulcmaii of 
 pipantu' stature and great prowess, and a inatchUvis 
 ihanipion of Haii'hus. lie had a little elxiiiy Whi-iie 
 whuh at the CDininenceincnt of the orjji s he laid on 
 the table, aiut whoever was last able to blow It, every 
 body else beiiip; ilisaliled by the luitency of the bniilc, 
 was to carry nfl' ihe Whistle as a trojibv of viciory. 
 The Dane produeid crt'deiitials of his victories withoul 
 a siii;;le <lrfeat, at the courts of Oipcnhaijeii, Sioi'k- 
 holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several <if the petty 
 courts in Germany; and ehnllcnj;cd ihe Scots I5i;ciha- 
 naliaiis to the aUcnialive of trying his prowess, or el>c 
 of aeUnowlcilijinij their infeiiority. After in.iiiy over- 
 throws on the part of the Scots, ilic n.aiie was eiiei>im- 
 tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Si ixwcUon, ancestor of 
 tlx" present worthy baronet of tli.it name; r.ho, jifter 
 tliree days and three iiichts' h.ird contest, left the 
 Scandinavian under the table. 
 
 And bten on the }yhisltf hit requiem thrill. 
 
 Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mon'ioned, af. 
 tcrwards lost the Whistle to Waller Riddel, of Clin, 
 riddel, who had iiirirried a sister of ."sir U a.'i r's. — Oi 
 Friday, the lC:h of October I7;*l). at Kriars-Carse, the 
 Whittle vvas once more eontemled for, as relaiid in the 
 ballad, by the present Sir Itobert I.awrie of M.ixwil. 
 ton; Robert Ridilel, Ksq. of ('ilenriildel, liacal de- 
 seciidant ami representative of W.ilter Riddel, who 
 won the Whistle, and ill whose family it h.id eonii- 
 iiiied ; and .•\lexaiidcr Kergusoii, Ksi]. of t'raiudMrroeh, 
 likewise descended of the great Sir Ro'xTt; vvhie'i ;.asl 
 gentleman carried oft' the hard- won .'lonmirsof me field. 
 
 I SING of a \Vhistle, a H'histl' of worth, 
 I sing of a Whistle, the uride of the Norfli, 
 Was brought to tlie court of our good t^cottisb 
 
 king, 
 And loUjj; with this Whistle a'l Scotland shal. 
 
 ring. 
 
 Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fing.i], 
 The god of the bottle sends down from his 
 
 hall— 
 " This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland 
 
 get o'er, 
 And drink them to hell. Sir ' or ne'er see roe 
 
 more !" 
 
 Old poets have sung, and old chroniclei tell 
 What champions veutur'd, whit champions 
 
 fell ; 
 The son of great Loda was comnieior still, 
 And blew on the Wlii.stle his reijuiem shrill. 
 
 Till Robert, the lord of the Caitn and tlu 
 SiMur, 
 I'nmatch'd at the bottle, imconqner'd in war, 
 He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea. 
 No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than 1 e. 
 
 Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy Lai 
 gain'd ; 
 Which now in his house has lir ages remain'd 
 
60 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Till three noWc chieftains, and all of his blood, 
 The jovial contest again have lenew'd. 
 
 Three ioyous good fellows, with hearts clear 
 
 of fi.wv ; 
 Craigdanoch, bo famous for wit, worth, and 
 
 law ; 
 4nd trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
 \nii gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 
 
 Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 
 as oil, 
 Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
 Or el>e he would muster the heads of the clan. 
 And once more, in claret, try which was the 
 man. 
 
 " By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel 
 
 rejiHes, 
 " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
 I'll ccinjure the ghost of the great Roiie More,' 
 And bun. per his horn with him twenty tmies 
 
 o er. 
 
 Sir Robert, a soldier, ao speech would pre- 
 tend, 
 
 But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
 friend. 
 
 Said, Toss down the \^Tiistle, the prize of the 
 field. 
 
 And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or lie'd yield. 
 
 To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
 So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
 But for \vU\f and for welcome not more know:i 
 
 to fame, 
 Than the sertse, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovelv 
 
 dunie. 
 
 A bard was -elected to witness the fray, 
 And tell future ages the feats of tlie day ; 
 A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
 And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard hail 
 been. 
 
 The dinner being over, the claret they jdy. 
 And every new cork is a new spring ot joy ; 
 In the bands of old friendship and kindred sc 
 
 set. 
 And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
 weie wet. 
 
 Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
 Bright I'hu'lms ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
 And vowed that to leave them he was quiti 
 
 forlorn. 
 Till Cynthia liinteil he'd sec them next morn. 
 
 Six bottles a-piece had well wore out tli. 
 ni^ht, 
 WTjen gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
 
 • See Johnsou'i Tout to llie Hebrides. 
 
 Turn'd o'er in one bumper a battle of red, 
 And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor* 
 did. 
 
 Then worthy GlenrldJel, so cautious and 
 sage, 
 No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
 A high-rulinr JJder to wallow in wine I 
 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 con- 
 tend ? 
 
 Though fate said— a hero should perish in light ; 
 
 So uprose blight Phttbus — and down fell the 
 knight. 
 
 Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 
 drink : — 
 " Craigdarroch, thou'It soar when creation 
 
 shall sink ; 
 But if thou would flourish immort<il in rhyme, 
 Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
 lime ! 
 
 " 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 luust won, by yon bright god of 
 
 day I" 
 
 SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 
 
 A BROTHER rOET. f 
 A'.ir.n NEFBOR, 
 
 I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
 l^ir your auld-far rent, frien'ly letter ; 
 I'ho' I maun say't, I doubt ye Hatter, 
 
 Ye speak so fair : 
 For my puir, silly, rhymm' clatter. 
 
 Some less maun sair. 
 
 Hale be your heart, hile be your fidiUe ; 
 Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
 Co cheer you through the weary widdle 
 
 O' war'ly cares, 
 rill bairns' bairns kindly ciuldlc 
 
 Your auld grey hairs. 
 
 But Davie, lad, I'm red ye'ie glaikit ; 
 I'm taulfl the Muse ye bae uei!;leckit ; 
 An' gif it's sae, ye sod lie lickit 
 
 Until ye fyke ; 
 Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit. 
 
 Be hain't wha like. 
 
 t lliis is jirofixeil to llic poems of David Sillar, pu> 
 lishcil at Kiliiiariiofk, 1 .S|), and lias U( t l<clore apiieir 
 ud ui our author's pnuted poems. 
 

 r-'T.^s 
 
 m 
 
 /■'■■■ 
 
 
 
 V >., I 
 
POEMS. 
 
 61 
 
 Pii me, 'm on Parnassus brink, 
 
 Rivin' tr ; worils to £:;ar tlu'iii clJiik ; 
 
 Wlivlc^i il ic7.'t vvi' love, wtiyli's dacz't wi' I'link 
 
 M'i' j ids or masons ; 
 All' wliyles, hut aye ovvie late, I think, 
 
 Braw sober lessons. 
 
 'K"a' the fhou!;litles<i sons o' man, 
 (.'onimen' me to the bardic clan; 
 Except It be some idle plan 
 
 O' rhymin' clink. 
 The devil-haet, that I siui ban, 
 
 They ever think. 
 
 Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ; 
 ^iaj cares to gie us joy or jjrieviu' : 
 But just the pouchie put the nievc in. 
 
 An' while ought's ther?, 
 Then, hihie, skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 
 
 An' fash nae niair. 
 
 Lvt-ze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
 My chief, amaist my oidy pleasure, 
 At hame, a-fiel', at waik or leisure. 
 
 The Muse, poor hizzie! 
 Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 
 
 She's seldom lazy. 
 
 Hau.l to tlie Mus.;, my dainty Davie : 
 'I'he war!' may play you mony a shavie ; 
 But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 
 
 Tho' e'er sae poor, 
 Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the sjjuvie 
 
 Frae door tac Goor. 
 
 ON MY EARLY DAYS. 
 I. 
 
 I MIND it wcel in early date. 
 
 When I was beardless, young, and blate, 
 
 An' first could thresh the barn. 
 Or hand a y(]kin o' the pleugh. 
 An' tho' furfnughten sair eneugh, 
 
 Yet unco proud to learn — 
 Wh^n first amang the yellow corn 
 
 A man I reikon'd was. 
 And wi' the lave ilk merry ir.crn 
 Could rank my rig and lass- 
 Still shearing, and clearing 
 The tither stooked raw, 
 Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
 Wearing the day awa. 
 
 II. 
 
 E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
 A wish that to my latest hour 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast, 
 Th? ■ I for poor auld Scotland's sake. 
 Some usefu' plan or book could make, 
 
 Or sing a sang, at least. 
 The rough burr-thistle, spreading vi'J* 
 
 Amaiv^ the beardnl bear. 
 
 I tiirn'd the woi'rhr vlips it-side, 
 An' spirrd the syinhul dear; 
 So nation, no stafion. 
 
 My envy e'er could raisei 
 A Scot still, but blot still, 
 1 knew nae higher praise. 
 
 III. 
 
 Rut still the elements o' sung 
 
 In formless jumble, right an' rang, 
 
 Wild floated in mv brain : 
 'Till on that har'bt I said before, 
 -My partner in the merry core, 
 
 She lous'd the forming strain • 
 I see her yet, the sonsie (juean. 
 
 That lighted up l;er jingle. 
 Her witching smile, her jiauky e'en 
 Tl; It g II t my heart-strings tingle » 
 I filed, inspiied, 
 
 .'\t every kindling keck, 
 But bashing, and dashing, 
 I feared aye to sj)e,ik.* 
 
 ON THE DE.\TH OK 
 
 SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR 
 
 The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 
 Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave, 
 
 Th' ii'.constaut blast howl'd thro' the darkeuing 
 air. 
 And hullow whistled in the rocky cave. 
 
 Lo'it as I wander'd by each cliflfand dell, 
 
 OiiCe the loved haunts of Scotia's royal 
 train;! 
 Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd 
 well.t 
 Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. § 
 
 Th* increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 
 rocks. 
 The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry 
 sky. 
 The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 
 And shooting meteors caught thii startled eye- 
 
 The paly moon rose in the livid east. 
 
 And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately fjrnx. 
 
 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 tiophicd shield I view'il * 
 Her form majestic droo;)'d in pensive woe. 
 The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 
 
 • 'Itie reader will find some explanation of tlii* 
 poem in p. viii. 
 
 t Tlic Kinij's F'ark at Ilolyrood-houje. 
 ± St. Anthony's Well. 
 I St. Aniiioiiv's Cliaiiul. 
 
62 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, 
 
 Reelii:ed tliat binner, erst in fields iinfurl'd, 
 
 That like a deatliful meU'or gleam'd afar, 
 
 And braved the mighty raonarchs of the 
 world. — 
 
 " My pitriot son fills an untimely grave !'* 
 
 With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
 " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
 save, 
 Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
 pride ! 
 
 * A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 
 The helpless poor mix with theoi-phan's cry ; 
 
 The drooping arts around their patron's bier, 
 And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 
 
 " I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 
 
 I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
 But, ah ! how hope is born hut to e.xpirc ! 
 
 Relentless fate has lai^ the guardian low 
 
 " IVIy patriot fails, but shall he lie unsung, 
 Wh'.le empty greatness saves a worthless 
 name ! 
 
 No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
 And future ages hear bis growing fame. 
 
 " And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
 Thro' future times to make his virtues ]:t«t, 
 
 That distant years may boast of other Blairs" 
 
 She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
 blast. 
 
 WRITTEN 
 
 ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, 
 fRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN 
 SIAttRIEB.* 
 
 Once Tondly lov'd, and still remeraber'd dear, 
 Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 
 
 Accept this mark of fi iendship, warm, sincere. 
 Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty aow allows. — 
 
 And when you read the sim])!e artless rhymes, 
 Ooe friendly sigh for him, he asks no more. 
 
 Who flistant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
 C.< haiily lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 
 
 THE JOLLY BEGGARS: 
 
 A CANTATA. 
 
 HECITATIVO. 
 
 VViiEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird. 
 
 Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird.f 
 
 liedini cauld Borexs* blast ; 
 
 Thcpirl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore, 
 i The old .ScotcJ iiunie lor tlic 3at. 
 
 Wien hailstaiies d.ive wi' bitter skytCt 
 And infant frosts begin to bite. 
 In boat y crarueuch drest ; 
 Ae night at e'en a merry core, 
 O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
 In Poosie-Niuisie's held the splore, 
 To diink their orra duddies : 
 Wi' quaffing and laughing, 
 
 They ranted and they sing ; 
 Wr jiunping and thumpiug, 
 The very girdle rang. 
 
 First, niest the fire, in aidd red rags, 
 Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 
 
 And knapsack a' in order; 
 Ris doxy lay within his asm, 
 Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- 
 She blinket on her sodser : 
 An aye he gies the tousie drab 
 
 The tither skelpin' kiss. 
 While she held up her greedy gab 
 Just like an a'mmis dish. 
 Ilk smack did crack still, 
 
 Just like a cadger's whip, 
 Then staggering and swaggerJEg 
 He roar'd this ditty up — 
 
 AlK. 
 
 Tunc— " Soldiefi Joj. ' 
 
 I. 
 
 I AM a son of Mars who have been in 
 
 mscf 
 
 And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
 This here was for a wench, and that other in a 
 
 trench. 
 When welcoming the French at the sound of 
 
 the drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle. Sec. 
 
 IT. 
 My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 
 
 breath'd his last, 
 Wl-.en the bloody die v.-as cast on the heights of 
 
 Abram ; 
 I served out my trade when the gallant game 
 
 was play'd. 
 And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 
 
 drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, &c. 
 
 III. 
 
 I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 
 
 batt'ries, 
 And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
 Yet let my countiy need me, with Elliot to 
 
 head me, 
 Fd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
 Lai de daudle, &c. 
 
 IV, 
 
 And now tho' I must beg «-ith a wooden aria 
 
 and leg. 
 And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bun 
 
POEMS. 
 
 63 
 
 Tm u happy with iry wallet, my i ottlo and 
 
 my cdUot, 
 K* when I usM in scarlot to follow a drum. 
 Lai cle daud.e, &c. 
 
 Vl.at tho' with hnaiy lucks, I must stand the 
 
 Winter shocks, 
 beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 
 
 home, 
 Wicu the totlipr bag I sell, and the tother 
 
 hottle tL'll, 
 1 tould meet a trsop of hell, at the soimd of 
 
 the drum. 
 
 Lai de daudlc, &c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 
 
 Aboon the chorus roar ; 
 ■While frighted rattans backward leuk, f 
 
 Ami seek the benmost bore ; 
 A fiiry fiddler frae the neuk, 
 
 He skirl'd out encore ! 
 But up arose the martial chuck, 
 
 And laid the loud uproar, 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Tunt—" Soldier Laddie." 
 
 I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
 And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
 Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
 No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 
 
 n. 
 
 The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
 To rattle the thundering drum was his traile ; 
 His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 
 
 ruddy, 
 1 ransporttd 1 was with my sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
 
 in. 
 
 Rut the godly old chaplain left him in the Vnrch, 
 The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
 He venttir'd the >:onl, and I risked the botli/, 
 TwMs then 1 prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
 Tiie regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
 Fro:n tlie gilded spontooii to the fife I was 
 
 ready. 
 ^ asked r.o uKjre but a sodger laddie. 
 
 Sinsr, Lal de lal, &c. 
 
 V. 
 
 H^!t the peice it ri-duc'd me to l)eg in despair, 
 T\\\ I met iin' uiii l).)v at Cunningham fair ; 
 
 His rdii reffi menial they flntter'd so gaudy, 
 ?ily heart it rejoic'd at my sodger l.iddie. 
 - ■ ■ • lal, &c. 
 
 Sing, Lal lie 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now I havt liv'n — I know not liow long. 
 
 Anil still I can join in a cup or a snng ; 
 
 Ihit whilst with both hands I can hold the glisc 
 
 steady. 
 Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lal de lal, &c 
 
 KECITATIVO. 
 
 Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
 \Mia kent sae weel to cleek the sterling 
 For monie a pur&ie she had hooked. 
 And had in mony a well been ducked. 
 Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
 I?ut weary fa' the waefu' woodic ! 
 Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
 To wail her bruw John Highlandraaa. 
 
 A I It. 
 
 T^jie " O an' ye were dead, GudeauB." 
 
 I, 
 
 A HIGH I. AND lad my love was born. 
 
 The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; ^ 
 
 liut he still was faithfu* to his clan, 
 
 IVIy gallant braw John Highlaudmaa. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sing, hey my braw John Highlandmaa I 
 Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman! 
 There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
 Vas match for my John Highlandmaa. 
 
 n. 
 
 With his philibeg an* tartan plaid. 
 An' gude claymore down by liis side, 
 The ladies hearts he did trepan. 
 My galla'-t braw John Highlandman. 
 Sing, hey, kc. 
 
 in. 
 
 We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
 An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
 F(U- a Lalland face he feared none, 
 My gallant braw John Highlandmaa. 
 Sing, hey, kc. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
 Hut ere the bud was on the tree, 
 Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
 Embracing my John Highlandman. 
 Sing hty, &c. 
 
 V. 
 
 B'lt, oh ! they fatch'd him at the last, 
 And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
 
64 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 TMy ?ur8e tipon them eveiy one, 
 rhey've liaug'J my hnnv John Iliglandnian. 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 VI, 
 
 And now a widnw, T must mourn 
 The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
 No comfort but a Iie.irty c.in. 
 When I think on John Mighlandman, 
 Sing, hey, &c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 * pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 
 
 Wha us'd at trysts atid fairs to driddle, 
 
 Her strappiu hnib and gaiisy middle 
 
 lie reach'd uae higher, 
 ^aCl hoi'd his heartie hke a riddle. 
 
 An' blawn't on fire. 
 
 Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e. 
 He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three. 
 Then in an Arioso key, 
 
 Tl;e wee Apollo 
 Set off wi' Allegretto glee 
 
 His giga solo. 
 
 Air 
 
 IVn#— " Whist! owre the lave o't," 
 
 I. 
 
 Let me ryke up to d!i;lit that tear, 
 An' go wi me to be my dear, 
 An' then your every cire and fear 
 Way whistle owre the lave o't. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 I am a fiddler to my trade, 
 An' a' the tunes that e'er I pliy'd. 
 The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
 Was whittle owre the lave o't. 
 
 H. 
 
 At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
 An' ! sae nicelj's we will fare; 
 We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
 Sings wliistle owie the lave o't. 
 I am, he, 
 
 HI. 
 
 Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 
 An' sun oursels about the dyke, 
 An' at our leisure, when we like, 
 We'll wliistle owre the lave o't. 
 1 am, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms 
 And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
 Hunger, cauld, an a sick harms, 
 May whistle owre the lave o't. 
 I am, &:c. 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 Her charms had struck a iiturd) Cair^ 
 
 As wcel as poor Guts>.raper i 
 He taku the fid<ller by the beard, 
 
 And draws a rusty rapier — 
 He swoor by a' was swearing worth> 
 
 To speet him like a pliver, 
 Unless he would from that time forth. 
 
 Relinquish her for ever. 
 
 Wi' ghastly e'e, poor twccdle dee 
 
 Upon his hunkers bend;»d, 
 And pray'd for grace wi' r.iefu' face. 
 
 And sae the quarrel end.-d. 
 But though his littl; hea:t dici grl&ve, 
 
 When round the tinkler jirest her, 
 He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve. 
 
 When thus the caird address'd her 
 
 Tunt—" Clout the Caldron." 
 
 I, 
 
 iMv bnnnie lass, I work in brass, 
 
 A tinkler is mv station ; 
 I've traveli'd round all Christian groucd 
 
 In this my occupation. 
 I've ta'eu the gold, I've been enroll'J 
 
 In many a noble squadron : 
 But vain they search'd, when off I march'fc 
 
 To go and clout the cauldron. 
 
 I've ta'ec the gold, &>•, 
 
 II. 
 D.^spise that shrimp, ti'.at wither'd imp, 
 
 Wi' a his noise an' ca])rin', 
 An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 
 
 The budget an' the ajinnt. 
 An' li!/ that stowp, my faith and houp, 
 
 An' b>/ that dear Keilbagie,* 
 If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 
 
 ]\lay I ne'er weet my craigie. 
 
 An' by thai stowp fee 
 
 RECITATIVO. 
 
 The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 
 
 In his embraces sunk, 
 Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 
 
 An' partly she was druuk. 
 Sir Violino, with an air 
 
 Th it show'd a man of spunk, 
 Wish'd tniison between the pair, 
 
 Aa' made the bottle clunk 
 
 To their health that nigit 
 
 But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 
 
 That play'd a dame a shavie. 
 The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, 
 
 Behint the chicken cavie. 
 Her lord, a wight o' Hornet's * firaft, 
 
 Tho' limping with the spavie, 
 
 • A jipailiarsort of whisky so called, agrcat favour- 
 ite with I'oosicNancic's iliibs. 
 
 * Homer U allowed to be the oldest balled-singer uB 
 recurU. 
 

 " 
 
 
 6:, 
 
 
 ni hirpl'd »]), and 1 1|) WU: ditt, 
 
 They toom'd their pock-*, an' pawn'd t'u;."'' dudi. 
 
 
 An* sUor'd thcin D.iiiitie D.ivie 
 
 They scarcely left »o uo'er their fuds, 
 
 
 boot that night. 
 
 To quench tneir lowan diouth. 
 
 
 He \v,is a carc-dtfying I)laile 
 
 Then nwre again, tlie jovial thrang. 
 
 
 As I'ViT Hai'ctuis listed, 
 
 The poet (lid reipiest, 
 
 
 Tliouyli Foitutic siir ii|M)n liim laid, 
 
 To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
 
 
 His heart she ever inis^M it. 
 
 A 1) iHad o' the best : 
 
 
 He l\ail III) wlsli but — tn be glad, 
 
 He rising, it'ioicing. 
 
 
 Niir want but — when lie thirsted ; 
 
 Between his twa Dvhornlit, 
 
 
 He hated nmip;ht but — to be sad, 
 
 Looks round bin., an' found thein 
 
 
 And thus the JMuse siig,'ested. 
 
 Impatient for the chorus. 
 
 
 His sung that night. 
 
 AlK. 
 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your GlaM*. 
 
 
 Tune—" For »' that, an' a' that." 
 
 I 
 
 See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
 
 
 I. 
 
 
 I AM a baid of no rejjaid. 
 
 Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
 
 
 Wi' {•etitle fdllis, an' a' tliat ; 
 
 Round and round take up the chorus, 
 And in raptures let us sing. 
 
 
 But Hmiur-like, tlie gliuvian byke. 
 
 
 Frae town to town 1 liiaw that. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 A fig for those by law protected' 
 
 
 For a' that, an' a that ; 
 
 Liberty's a glorious least ! 
 
 
 An' twice as nieikle's a' that ; 
 
 Courts for cowards were erected, 
 
 
 I've lost luit ane, I've t'.va hehia", 
 
 Cbundies built to please the priest 
 
 
 I've wife enoujrh for a' that. 
 
 
 
 O 
 
 IL 
 
 
 II. 
 
 What is title ? what is treasure ? 
 
 
 I never drank the Muse's stank. 
 
 What is reputation's care ? 
 
 
 Cavtalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
 
 If we lead a life of pleasure. 
 
 
 But tliere it streams, and richly reams, 
 
 'Tis no matter how or where ! 
 
 
 Wy Hdicon I ca' that. 
 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 
 Tor a' that, fee. 
 
 in. 
 
 
 III. 
 
 With the ready trick and fable, 
 
 
 Great love I bear to a' the fair. 
 
 Round we wander all the day ; 
 
 
 Tlieir humble slave, an' a' that ; 
 
 And at night, in barn or srable. 
 
 
 Hut lordly will, I ho!d it still 
 
 Hug our doxies on the hay. 
 
 
 .\ mortal sin to thraw that. 
 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 
 For a' that, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 Does the train-attended carriage 
 
 
 In raptures sweet, this lionr we meet, 
 
 Through the country lighter rove ? 
 
 
 Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 
 
 Does the sober bed of marriage 
 
 
 But for how lang the Jfie ma^ stang. 
 
 Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
 
 
 Let inclination law that. 
 
 A fig. &c. 
 
 
 For a' that, &c. 
 
 V. 
 
 
 V. 
 
 Life is all a variorum, 
 
 
 Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 
 
 We regard not how it goes ; 
 
 
 They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 
 
 Let them cant about decorum 
 
 
 But clear your decks, ar.ii here's the sex 1 
 
 Who have characteis to lose. 
 
 
 I like the jads I'or a* that. 
 
 A fig, &c. 
 
 
 " For a' that, an' a' that. 
 
 VI. 
 
 
 • An" twice a< nieikle's a' that; 
 
 Here's to the bmlgets, bags, and waJIets* 
 
 
 My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
 
 Here's to all the wandering train ! 
 
 
 They're welcome till't for a' that. 
 
 Here's our ragged hrals and culltts 1 
 One and all cry out. Amen ! 
 
 
 RECITATIVa 
 
 A fig for those by law protected ! 
 
 
 So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
 
 Libei .y's a glorious feist ' 
 
 
 Shook with a thunder of applause, 
 
 Courts for cowards were erected. 
 
 
 Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
 
 Churches built to please the p''<«t. 
 
 
 
 
6b BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 THE KIRK'S ALARM:* 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 Ortiioiiox, orthodox, wlia believe in Julin 
 Knox, 
 Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
 There's a heretic h'ast lias been blawn in the 
 wasf, 
 That what is no sense must be nonsense. 
 
 Dr. Mac, f Dr. Mac, you siiould stretch on a 
 rack, 
 
 To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
 To jiiin faith and scn-^e upon ony pretence, 
 
 Is heretic, daninaljje en or. 
 
 Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
 clare, 
 
 To meddle wl' mischief a-brcwing ; 
 Prov()^t John is still deaf to the church's relief. 
 
 And orator Dob \ is its ruin. 
 
 D'rymjde mild, § D'ryniple mild, tho* your 
 heart's like a child, 
 And your life like the new driven snaw, 
 Y<:t that wlnna save ye, auld Satan must have 
 ye, 
 For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 
 
 Rumble John,^ Rumble John, mount the steps 
 wi' a groan, 
 Crv the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
 Then hi," out vour ladl-*, deal brimstone like 
 adle, 
 And roar every note of the damn'd. 
 
 Sim])er James, || Simper James, leave the fair 
 Killie danu-s. 
 There's a holier chace in your view ; 
 I'll lav on vour head, that the pack ye'll sooa 
 lead, 
 For puppies like you there's but few. 
 
 Singct Sawney,*' Singet Sawney, are ye herd- 
 ing the ])cnny, 
 
 IIncon>icious what evils await ; 
 Wi' a juiii]), yi'li, and liowl, alarm every soul. 
 
 For the foul thief is just at your gate. 
 
 Daddy Aulil.f f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
 the fluid, 
 A tod melkle waur th in the clerk ; 
 Tho' ye can do little .rkaith, ye'll be in at tlic 
 
 death. 
 And if ve canna bite vc mav bark. 
 
 • This ivicm w.ns written a short time after the piib- 
 iczlton of Mr. M'dill i E!is;iy. 
 
 \ M.. M' U. 1 l( 1 A n. 
 
 f Dr. I) - e. •! Mr. R- 11. 
 
 i( .Ml. M- V. •• Mr. M y. 
 
 i| Mr. A d. 
 
 Davie Bluster,' Davie Bluster, if for a Mint 
 ye do muster, 
 The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
 Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye mighj 
 boast. 
 If the ass was the king of the brutes. 
 
 Jamie Goose,-}- Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but 
 toom roose, 
 In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
 But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d'» 
 haly ark ; 
 He has cooper'd and cav.-d a wrang pin in t. 
 
 Poet Willie, \ Poet Willie, gie the Doctor » 
 volley, 
 
 Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
 O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride, 
 
 Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 
 
 Andro Gouk, *i 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' snia' value. 
 
 Barr Steenie, || Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? 
 what mean ye ? 
 
 If ye'll meddle nae inair wi' the matter. 
 Ye may ha'e some pretence to bavins and sense, 
 
 AVi' people wlia ken ye nae better. 
 
 Irvine side,'* Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock 
 pride. 
 Of niiinliood but sma' is your share ; 
 Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes wiB 
 allow, 
 And your friends they dare grant you nae 
 niair. 
 
 Muirland Jock, -j-f IMuirland Jock, when the 
 L — d makes a rock 
 
 To crush Common Sense for her sins. 
 If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 
 
 'i'o confound the poor Doctor at aiice. 
 
 Hi>ly Will, \\ Holy Will, there was wit i' you." 
 skull. 
 When ye pilfer'd tlie alms o' the poor ; 
 The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'eii for J 
 saint, 
 M'ha should swing in a rape for an hour. 
 
 Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual 
 guns. 
 Ammunition yc never can need ; 
 Your hearts are the stuff, will be jiowther 
 enough, 
 And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 
 
 • >Tr. O , O c. \ Mr. V R, C K. 
 
 J Mr. I' s, :\-r. H Dr. .\. M 11. 
 
 II Mr. .'' S' , U— r. ••Mr, S li, t; n. 
 
 ft Mr. b il. - - 
 
POEMS. 
 
 6^ 
 
 Poet BitmH, Pi'Pt Burns, vn' yciir pricst-sla'!])- 
 iiig turns, 
 
 Why ilfsiTt VL' yiiiir ,■ ulj native shire ; 
 Ymir must' is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tip-io, 
 
 She coulJ ea' us luio waur thiin we are. 
 
 'JHE TWA HERDS.* 
 
 a' ye pious godly flocks, 
 Weci fed on pasture's oitliodox, 
 Wha now will keep you iVae the fox, 
 
 Or wotryiiiir tykes, 
 Or wlia will tent the wail's aiul cnieks, 
 
 About tiie dykes ? 
 
 The twa best Iierds in a' the wast, 
 Tiiat e'er ga'e g:o^pel horn a blast. 
 These five-and-tweiitv sinimei-s past, 
 
 6 ! noul to tell, 
 Ha'e had a bitter blaek out-cast 
 
 Atweeu themsel. 
 
 O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, 
 
 How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
 Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 
 
 An' think it fine ! 
 The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 
 
 Sin' I ha'e min'. 
 
 O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 
 
 Your duty ye wad sae negletkit. 
 
 Ye wha \Yt:ie ne'er by laird respeckit, 
 
 To wear the plaid, 
 Dut by the 'unites themselves eleckit. 
 
 To be their guide. 
 
 What flock wi" M y's flock could rank, 
 
 Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
 Nae poisun'd soor Arminian stank. 
 
 He let them taste, 
 Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, 
 
 O sic a feast ! 
 
 The thummart, wil'-cat, lirock, and tod, 
 Weel kend his voice tliio' a the wood. 
 He smelt their ilka hole and road, 
 
 Baith out and in. 
 And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. 
 
 And sell their skin. 
 
 WTiat herd like R 11 tell'd his t^Je, 
 
 His voice was heard thro' muir and dale. 
 He keud 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. 
 
 Thi« piece was among the first of our Author's pro- 
 ductions which he subiniitod lo the |iubiic; and was 
 oc(-nsionc<l by a dispute between two eerfivmen, near 
 »ulma«nock. 
 
 Aad new-light herds cowlil nicely drub. 
 Or pay their skin; 
 
 Could shake them o'er the burning dub, 
 Or heave them ia. 
 
 Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
 Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
 An' names, like villain, hy|)ocrite. 
 
 Ilk ither gl'en, 
 VHiile new-light herds wi' lau!;liin' spice, 
 
 Siy neither's lieiw' ! 
 
 A' ye wha tent the gos[)el faiiUi, 
 
 There's D n, deep, and P s, shauly 
 
 But chiefly thou, ajxistle A — d 
 
 Vv'e trust in thee. 
 
 That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 
 Till they agieiw 
 
 Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
 There's siaree a new herd that we get, 
 But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 
 
 I wiiina name, 
 I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 
 
 In liery flame. 
 
 D e has been lansj our fae, 
 
 M' II has wr.iught us meikle wae. 
 
 And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e. 
 
 And baith the S B, 
 
 That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 
 
 Wi' veugefu' paws. 
 
 Aul.l W w lang has hatch'd mischief. 
 
 We thou;;ht aye death wad hring relief. 
 But he ho-s gotten, to our grief, 
 
 Ane to succeed hira, 
 A chield wha'll soundly buif our beef; 
 
 I meikle dread hini. 
 
 And mony a ane that I could tell, 
 Wha fain would openly rebel, 
 Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 
 
 There S — h for anCi 
 I djubt he's but a grey nick quill. 
 
 And that ye'il fin'. 
 
 O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' tho hills. 
 
 By mosses, me allows, moors, and fells. 
 
 Come join your counsel and your skills. 
 
 To cow the lairds. 
 And get the brutes the power themsels. 
 
 To choose their lierd» 
 
 Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
 
 And leari>ing in a woody dance, 
 
 And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 
 
 That Ijites sae sair, 
 Be banbh'd o'er the sea to France : 
 
 Let liiin bark t'ticre. 
 
 Then Shaw's and Doliymple's eloquence, 
 i^P U's close nervous excellence. 
 
68 
 
 JI'Q — e's pathetic manly sense, 
 
 And guid iSI'- 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 -h, 
 
 Wi S — th, wta iLro' the lieait can glance, 
 JNIay a' pack ait 
 
 THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 
 
 Cuks'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
 The crouching vii.'^sal to the tyrant wife, 
 Who has no w ill but by her high permission ; 
 "Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
 Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
 Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
 Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
 I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
 I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
 I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h 
 
 ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788, 
 
 For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
 
 E'en let them die — for th.it they're born ! 
 
 But, (di, prodigious to reflect, 
 
 A Tvwiiiont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
 
 O Ei(iltt7j-ei'j)it. in thy sma* space 
 
 What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
 
 Of what enjovments thou hast reft us .' 
 
 In what a pickle tliou hasf lett us ! 
 
 The Spanish empire's tint uhead. 
 An' my auld teetldcss Bawtle's dead ; 
 The to'olzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
 An' our guiihvift's wee birdy cocks ; 
 The taiie is game, a bhiidy devil. 
 But to the hen-Lirfls unco civd ; 
 The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
 But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! 
 
 Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, 
 An' cry till ye be heaise an' rupit ; 
 For E'KjIity-iujht he wish'd you weel. 
 An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
 E'en mony a plack, an' mimy a peck, 
 Ye ken yoursels, for l.ttle feck ! 
 
 Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, 
 For some o' you hae tint a fiien' : 
 In Eliihty-dylit, ye ken, was ta'en 
 \\'hat ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. 
 
 0')servc the very nowt an' sheep. 
 How dowtf an' dowie now tliey creep t 
 Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. 
 For Einbio' wells are grutten dry. 
 
 O Eiyhfij-uine thou's but a liairn. 
 An' no owre auld, 1 hope, to leain ! 
 Tliou beanlless boy, 1 piuy tak' care. 
 Thou now has got thv daddy's chair. 
 
 Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-stackl'd Regenti 
 But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
 Be sure ye follow out the plan 
 Nae waur than he did, honest man ' 
 As meikle better as you can. 
 January 1, 1"S9. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A WINnOW OF THE INN AT 
 CARRON. 
 
 We cam na here to view your warks 
 
 In hopes to be mair wise, 
 But oidy, lest we gang to hell, 
 
 It may be nae surprise : 
 But when we tirl'd at your door, 
 
 Your porter dought na hear us ; 
 Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 
 
 Your billy Satan sair us ! 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 
 
 WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K N 
 
 AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME- 
 riATELV AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. 
 
 IIe who of R — k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, 
 And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
 Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 
 
 At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers. 
 held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's 
 victory. April l.th 17>i2, Bcrns was called upon 
 for a Song, instead of which he delivered tlie follow, 
 ing Lines: 
 
 Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. 
 Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 
 
 we lost ; — 
 That we lost, did I say, nay, by heiv'n ! that we 
 
 found. 
 For their fame it shall last while the world goes 
 
 round. 
 The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
 Whoe'er would betray him im high may he swing 
 And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
 tution, 
 As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
 And longer with P.ditics not to i)e cramm'd, 
 lie Anarchy cursM, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
 Anil who would to Liiierty e'er ))rove disloyal. 
 May his son be a hangman, and he Lis firtt trial 
 

 
 1 
 
 
 POEMS. 69 
 
 
 STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 
 
 The stream adown its hazelly path, 
 Was iu>hiiig by the riiin'd w I's, 
 
 
 Viii:kest niglit o'cihangs my duelling ! 
 
 Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* 
 
 
 Ilinvling tenipests o'er ine rave ! 
 
 Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 
 
 
 Turbid torrents, wintry s\vellin£j, 
 
 
 
 Still siirrouud my lonely cave ! 
 
 The cauhl blue north was streaming forth 
 Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 
 
 
 Crystal streamlets fjently flowing, 
 
 Athort the lilt they start and shift, 
 Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 
 
 
 Hu-v haunts of ba-^e mankind. 
 
 
 VVestern breezes, softly bbwing, 
 
 
 
 Suit not my di>tracted mind. 
 
 By heedless ehirire I tnrn'd mine eves,-!" 
 And, by the moon-beam, shook, to MK 
 
 
 In the cause of right engaged, 
 
 A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
 
 
 Wrongs injurious to redress, 
 
 Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 
 
 
 Honour's war we strongly waged. 
 
 
 
 But the heavens deny'd success. 
 
 Had I a statue been 0' st;ine, 
 
 His darin look had daunted me ; 
 
 
 Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
 
 And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
 
 
 Not a hope that dare attend, 
 
 The sacred posie — Liberty ! 
 
 
 The wide world is all before us— 
 
 
 
 But a world without a friend !• 
 
 And frae his harp sic strains did flew. 
 
 Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear) 
 
 But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
 As ever met a Briton's ear ! 
 
 
 
 CLARINUA. 
 
 He sang wi* joy his former day, 
 
 He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 
 
 
 Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 
 
 But what he said it was nae play, 
 
 
 The measur'd time is run ! 
 
 I winna ventur't in my rhymes.^ 
 
 
 The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
 
 
 So marks his latest sua. 
 To what dark cave of frozen night 
 
 
 
 
 Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
 
 COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 
 
 
 Depriv'd of thte, his life and light. 
 
 
 
 The sun of all his joy. 
 
 TO 
 
 
 We part, — but by these precious drops, 
 
 MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 
 
 
 That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
 
 
 
 No oiher light shall guide my steps, 
 
 WITH THE PKKSENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. 
 
 
 Till thy bright beams arise. 
 
 Revered defender of beauteous .^Itiiart, 
 
 
 She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
 
 Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
 
 
 His blest my gloi ious day : 
 
 A name, which to love was the mark of a tru» 
 
 
 And shall a glimmering planet fix 
 
 heart. 
 
 
 My worship to its ray ? 
 
 But now 'tis despised and neglected : 
 
 • f^iriatinn. To join yon river on the Strath. 
 
 
 
 
 f Variation, Now lonl<ini; over firth ami fauld. 
 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Her horn the pale-faced Cvnthia rcar'd; 
 When, lo, in furm of minstrel atild, 
 A stern and stalwart phaist appcarM. 
 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower, 
 
 i Thi'i poem, an imiierfeet eopy of whieh was print 
 
 
 Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air. 
 
 e<i in Johnson's Museum, is here civen from the poet'j 
 M.S. with h's last eorrcetiiois. The scenery so tinclv 
 
 
 Wliere th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 
 
 de.seribed is taken from nature. The piwt is siipposcil 
 
 
 And tells the midnight moon her care. 
 
 to be musinc by niijht on the banks of the river Clu. 
 
 
 
 den, and by the ruins of LiniKiden-Aobey, founded in 
 the tweiftli century, in the rci^n of Maleoin IV 01 
 
 
 The winds were laid, the air was still, 
 
 whose present situation the reader may find some ac- 
 
 
 The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
 The fox was howling on the hill, 
 
 count in Pennant's Tour n .Scotland, or Orose's Anti- 
 qnities c f that division of the island. Such a time and 
 
 
 sueh a place aie well fiticd for holding converse with 
 
 
 And the distant echoing glens reply. 
 
 aerial being's. Though this poem has a political bias, 
 
 
 yet it mav be prcsiiin d that no rca<KT ot taste, what- 
 ever his opinions may be, would forgive it Ix'iiig omit. 
 
 
 
 • Strathall.in, it U presumed, was one of the follow- 
 
 ted. Our poet's prudrnce suppressed the song of Li- 
 
 
 ers of the ycniiig Clievalier, aii.l !■* siip|ii>seil to Ik- lyi'K 
 
 hertij, perhaps fortunately for his repatation. It may 
 
 
 eoiieealfil in some eaie of ihe Higlihincl«, after tlie 
 
 be (picstioncd wliether, even in the resources of hii 
 
 
 biittlc of t'uUoJen This song was written before the 
 
 genius, a str.iiii of poetry (■.■ii!,| h; e been found A-or- 
 
 
 war 173s 
 
 thy Oi' the grandeur and stleinn/*" of this pre atioa 
 
 
 
 
•) 
 
 70 BURN'S" WORKS. 
 
 Tho' somi'tliing 7ike moisture conglobea in my 
 
 To ken what French mistjiief was brewm , 
 
 eye, 
 
 Or what the diumlie Dutch were rioia' ; 
 
 Let no one misilcem me disloyal ; 
 
 That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
 
 A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
 
 If Venus yet had got his n:ise off; 
 
 sigh, 
 
 Or how the collies-hankie works 
 
 Still more, if that wand'rer v/ere ro\ al. 
 
 Atvi een the Russian and the Tuiks ; 
 
 
 Or if the Swede, before he halt. 
 
 My fathers, that nnme have rever'd on a throne ; 
 
 Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! 
 
 My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
 
 If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 
 
 Those fathers would spurn tlieir degenerate son, 
 
 Or Poland, wna had now the tack o't ; 
 
 That name should he scoffingly slight it. 
 
 How cut-throat Prussian blades wtte hlngia 
 
 
 How libbet Italy was singin ; 
 
 Still in prayers for King George I most heartily 
 
 If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
 
 join, 
 
 Were saying or takin ought amiss: 
 
 The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
 
 Or how our merry lads at hame. 
 
 Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
 
 In Britain's court kept up the game ; 
 
 mine ; 
 
 How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er lisa' 
 
 Their title's avow'd by the country. 
 
 Was managing St. Stejihen's quorum ; 
 
 
 If sleekit Chatham Will was livm. 
 
 But why of that epochi make such a fuss, 
 
 Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
 
 
 How daddie Burke the plea was cookin. 
 
 
 If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 
 
 
 Hov.' cesses, stents, and fees were raxed. 
 
 
 Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; 
 
 But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous groimd, 
 
 The news o' princes, duics, and earls. 
 
 Who knows how the fasliions may alter, 
 
 Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and npera-glris. 
 
 The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
 
 If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 
 
 To-morrow may bring u« a halter. 
 
 M'as threshin still at hizzies' tails. 
 
 
 Or if he was growin o\ightlins douser. 
 
 I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
 
 And no a perfect kintra cooser 
 
 A tride scarce worthy your care ; 
 
 A' this and mair I never heard of; 
 
 But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 
 
 And, but for you, 1 might despair'd of. 
 
 Sincere .is a saint's dying prayer. 
 
 So giatefu', back your news I send you, 
 
 
 And pray, a' guid things may attend you I 
 
 Now life's cliilly evening dim shadas on your 
 eye, 
 
 
 Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1730. 
 
 And ushers the long dreary night : 
 
 
 But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 
 Your course to the latest is blight. 
 
 
 
 My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- 
 
 POEM. 
 
 ner on me, and I have not got again into her 
 
 
 good graces. Do me the justice to believe me 
 
 ON pastorai, poetry. 
 
 sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many 
 
 
 civilities you have honoured me v. ith since I 
 
 Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 
 
 came to Ediiibur>;h, and in assuring you that I 
 
 have the honour to be. 
 
 In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 
 
 Revered Sir, 
 
 Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 
 
 Your obliged and very humble Servant, 
 
 11. BURNS. 
 
 '>Iang heaps o' clavers^ 
 
 And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved. 
 
 EUINBURGH, 1787. 
 
 'Mid a' thy favours ! 
 
 
 Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
 While li^l the trump's heroic dang, 
 
 
 
 And sock or buskin skelp aling 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM 
 
 To death or marriage ; 
 
 
 Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 
 
 WAS WIUTTEN TO A CKNTt-EMAN WHO HAD 
 
 But wi' miscarriage' 
 
 SEMT HIM A NF.WSPArEll, AN» 01'K£H.E0 
 
 
 TO CONTINUR IT IRKE OF EXPENSE. 
 
 fn Homer's craft Jo( k .Milton thrives ; 
 
 
 Esihylus' pen Wdl Sluikc-ipeire drives; 
 
 Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 
 
 Wee Pope, the kuuilin, 'till him rives 
 
 And faitl'., to nie, 'twas reallv new ! 
 
 Hiirati in fame ; 
 
 I!,fiw gocKsid ye. sir, what iniisr I wanted? 
 
 In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 
 
 This mony a <iay I've f;raiii'd and gauutcil 
 
 Even Sappho's flam* 
 
 ^ J 
 
POEMh. 
 
 n 
 
 Hilt t)\n, TMcocntiis. wha matches? 
 TIci'y're no IutiI's li.ill.its. Miro's cati-lies ; 
 Siiiiiii- PojR' liiit bii'<k-i his •^kiiilm patfhcs 
 
 (V heatluTi tatters ; 
 I pass liy luiiulers, nairieless wretclu-s, 
 
 That aja- their betters. 
 
 In this braw ap;o o' wit an lear. 
 
 Will naiie the Shepherd's whistle mair 
 
 !J.'aw sweetly in its native air 
 
 And niial E^race ; 
 And wi' tiie far-famed Greeian share 
 
 A rival 
 
 place 
 
 • ? 
 
 Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! 
 There's ane ; coine forrit, hune.-t Allan ! 
 Tliou need na jouk hehint the hallaii, 
 
 A ehiel so eiever ; 
 Tiie teeth o' time may gnaw T.initailan, 
 
 But tluiii's for ever. 
 
 Thou paints ati1d nature to the nines, 
 
 In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 
 
 Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 
 
 Where i'hilomel, 
 While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 
 
 Her griefs will tell ! 
 
 In j^owany glens thy burnie stravs. 
 Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes ; 
 Or trot'j by hazelly shaws or braes, 
 
 Wi" hauthiirns grav. 
 Where blackbirds join the shepheid'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 sjiell 
 
 O* witchiu' love. 
 That charm tliat can the strongest quell, 
 
 The sternest move. 
 
 SKETCH. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 TO MRS. DL'NLOP. 
 
 This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
 To run the twelvemonths' length again , 
 I see the old bald-pated fellow. 
 With ardent eyes, com|)lexion sallow, 
 Adjust the uninipair'd machine. 
 To wheel the equal, dull routine. 
 
 The absent lover, minor heir. 
 
 In vain assail him with their jirayer. 
 
 Deaf as my friend he sees them press, 
 
 N<ir makes the K'Uir one inonient less. 
 
 Wdl you (the Major's with the hounds. 
 
 The happy tenants share his rouniis ; 
 
 Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* 
 
 And blijoining Keith's engaged with Gray); 
 
 * T!iis yoens '•t'V was drawing a picture of Coila 
 fi'ini ihe V:M()n. see iwge fi9. 
 
 Vvnn housewife caiosa tT..niitc borraw— . 
 
 — That grandchild's cap will do to-nHiir,» r- 
 
 And join with me a nioraiiziri',^. 
 
 This day's ])ropitioiis to be wise in. 
 
 First, what dill yesternight deliver ; 
 
 " Another year is gone for e\er." 
 
 And what is this day's strong sng,'cstion ? 
 
 " 'Ihe passi'n; moment's all we rest on !" 
 
 Rest an — for what ! What do we here? 
 
 Or why rcgiid the passing year? 
 
 Wdl tiniu, amiis'd with proverb'il lore, 
 
 A<ld to our date one minute more ? 
 
 A few days may — a few years must — 
 
 Repose us in the silent du^t. 
 
 Tlien, is it wise to damp m r bliss ! 
 
 Yes, all such reasonings arc anuss ! 
 
 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, 
 
 H.mg matters of eternal weight ; 
 
 That future-life in woi ids unknowr. 
 
 Must tike its hue from tliis alone : 
 
 Whether as heaverdy glory bright, 
 
 Or dark as misery's woeful night — 
 
 Since then, my hononr'd fiist of friendo, 
 
 On this poor being all depends : 
 
 Let us th' important now emplov, 
 
 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 ])ale envy to convulse) 
 
 Others now claim your chief regard— 
 
 Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 
 
 EXTEMPORE, 
 
 ON TIIE LATE 
 
 MR. WILLIAM S.MELLIE,* 
 
 /. I'TIIOR OF THK rilll.OSOPIIY OF NATUIi At HI* 
 TilKV, AM) MEMUF.R OF THE ANTlCiJARIAk 
 AND KUVaL societies OF EDlNllUKGH. 
 
 To Crochallan came 
 riie old cock'd hat, tlie grey surtout, the same : 
 His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
 'Twas four long nights and days to slaving 
 
 night, 
 His uncombed grizzly locks «ild - staring, 
 
 thatch'd, 
 A head for thought profound and clear, ua- 
 
 niatch <1 ; 
 Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. 
 His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 
 
 » Mr. Smellic, and our poet, were boili mcniljorsoj 
 f. elubin Edinburgh, under the name of CrucliallaP 
 i'cnciblei. 
 
72 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 POETICAL INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOP. 
 
 AN ALTAR TO IXDEPENDENCE, 
 
 AT KERROUCIITRy, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON- 
 WIUTTEN IN SU.M.MER, 1795. 
 
 TiTou of an inilependent mind. 
 
 With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 
 
 Prepared power's proudest frown to bravet 
 
 Wiio wilt not 1)6, nor hive a slave ; 
 
 Virtue alone wlio dost revere, 
 
 Thy own reproach a!one dost fear, 
 
 Approach this siirine, and worship here. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 ON 
 
 THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. 
 
 No more, yi warhiers of the wood, no more, 
 Nor pou) your descant grating on my ear: 
 Thou yoiiniT-eyed Spring thy charms I can- 
 not bear ; 
 More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- 
 est roar. 
 
 How can ve please, ye flowers, with all your 
 ilies . 
 Ye blosv upon "he sod that wraps my fiiend : 
 How can I to fhe tuneful strain attend ? 
 That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
 where Uidiiel lies.* 
 
 Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
 Auil soothe the Virtues weeping im this bier ; 
 The .Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 
 
 Is in his ' nairow house' for ever darkly low 
 
 Tliee, Sprinr;. aj^-ain with joy shall others greet ; 
 We, uiem'ry of uiy loss will oidy meet. 
 
 MONODY 
 
 A LADY FAMED FOU HER CAPRICE. 
 
 How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd. 
 How pale is that check where the rouge late- 
 ly glisfeii'd ; 
 How silent that t(Migue which the echoes oft 
 tired. 
 How (lull is that ear which to flattery so 
 listened. 
 
 If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 
 
 From friendship ami dearest atftctioa re 
 moved ; 
 
 How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 
 
 Thou diedst unwept, as tli"u livedst unlcvad 
 
 Loves, graces, and virtues. I call not on you ; 
 
 So shy, grave, and distant, ye slied not I 
 tear : 
 But come, all ye (iffspring of follv so true. 
 
 And flowers let us cull for Eliza's ce.i bier. 
 
 We'll search tlirough the garden for each silly 
 flower, 
 We'll roam througli the forest for each idle 
 weed ; 
 But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 
 
 For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
 rash deed. 
 
 We'll pculjjture the marble, we'll measure the 
 lay ; 
 Here Vanity strums on her idiot !\Te ; 
 There keen iniiiguation shall dart on her prey. 
 Which sjiiirning contempt shall redeem from 
 his ire. 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglivt. 
 What once was a butterfly gay in life! 
 beam : 
 
 Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
 Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 
 
 ANSWER TO A MANDATE 
 
 SENT BV THE SIMIVEVOR OK THE WINDOWS, 
 
 CARKIAGES, &C. TO EACH KAR.MER, OKIIER- 
 
 ING HI.M TO SEND A SIC.NEU LIST OF HIS 
 
 HORSES, SERVANTS, WH E.E1.-CA RRl AGKS, &C. 
 
 AND WHETHER HE WAS A MAKHIEJ) MAN 
 
 OR A BACHEl.Oa, AND WHAT CHlLUKSk 
 THEV HAD. 
 
 Sir, as your mamlate illd request, 
 
 1 send you here a fajihfu' li^t, 
 
 My horses, servants, carts, aiul graith. 
 
 To which I'm free to tak my aith. 
 
 Imjjrimis, then, for carri lu'e cattle, 
 
 I hae four brutes o" gall int mettle, 
 
 As ever drew before a pettle. 
 
 i\Iy luuid-iif re,' a guid auld has been, 
 
 And wight aiid wiU'u' a' his d.iys seen ; 
 
 My h(i>id-ii-liin,\ a guiil brown filly, 
 
 Wha art has borne me safe frae Killie •,\ 
 
 • RoIktI Hiildol, K«|. of Friar's C'arsc. a very wor. I 
 fh> eharaciiT, riid unc to whom our bard tnoujjhtj 
 bunself uiiJ'.-r many ubli^atioiLs. j 
 
 • The fore-tiorse mi the lori.h:m(t, in tlie ploui?^ 
 t Tlir liiniliiiost on lliu lell-h.ui>l, ni Uie plough. 
 i Kilnuunoeiv. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 73 
 
 kni vntir aiilil lini-oiijjh mony a tirnei 
 In d;iv> wlii'u I idiiiif wis ii;ie crime : 
 ^]v fur-a-/iin,' a ;;iiiil, l^i'i-y IkmsI, 
 As fV-r ill tiisj or U>\v «ms tiMcciI : 
 TIr' fi) mil, a Ili^'liliinl D.iMilil hasty, 
 A rl-iim'il rfii-wiid, KiltmiiiiL' hlastlt, 
 Fiir-i y a cciHti', nt' cmvlos ilie \i".lle, 
 As I'vcr r,m lieron- a tail ; 
 All* he l>f s[i:ucil to he a lieast, 
 Ile'l. draw me lil'teeii puiid at least. 
 
 Wiieel carriages I hae Imt few, 
 Three carts, and twa are feckly new, 
 An atild wh;el-l)arii)w, iiiair for token, 
 4e U'jj and b.iith the trams are broken J 
 ( made a |)(iker o' the spindh-, 
 \nd my aiiM mither hriint the trundle. 
 F<ir men, I've three iriisidiievous boys, 
 Riin-deiK for raiitin and for noise; 
 \ ijadsman atie, a tiire^her t'other, 
 Wee D.ivoc hands the nowt in fother. 
 { ride their, as I oni^lit, discreetly, 
 ir.d often ahonr them compl-'tely, 
 Vnd aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
 \ on the (|uestioii> taiifje them tightly, 
 'Till, fiith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
 (Tho' >c:irccly laiiijer than mv leg) 
 He'll screed yni ,M iffntnul cutting, 
 As fast as ony in the dwalling. 
 
 I've pane in female servant station. 
 Lord keej) me aje fiae a' temptation ! 
 I lue nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
 And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
 Flit wtMiis I'm inair thin weel contented, 
 ll'jiVen sent me aiie mair than I wanted : 
 My sonsie, siiiirkiiii;, dear-bought Bess, 
 She St. ires the dad. lie ui her face, 
 Enough of ought ye like but grace, 
 liut hei , mv biiiiny. sweet, wee lady, 
 I've said enough for her already. 
 And i( ye t.ix her i;r her mither, 
 IJy the L — d )e'.-e get them a' ihcgither ! 
 
 And nnw, remember, ]\Ir. Aiken, 
 
 N.ie kind of license out Tin taking. 
 
 Thro' diit ami club fur life I'll paidle, 
 
 Eix- I sae dear jiay f u- a saddle ; 
 
 I'vt sturdy stiiiii|)s. the Lord be thankit ! 
 
 And a' my gates on h>iit I'll shank it. 
 
 This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
 riie d ly anil date i» under nntet ; 
 Then km 'V all ye whom it concerns, 
 Subscripsi liuic, 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 • 'jilt hindmist on the right-.'iand, in the plough. 
 
 IMPROMPTU^ 
 
 ON MUS 
 
 S lilllTII-DAY, 
 
 •1th November, I79.X 
 
 Oi.n Winter with his frosty beard. 
 Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
 " What have I done of all the vear. 
 To bear this h ited doom severe ? 
 My cheerless sons no jiJcisiiie know; 
 Xiglit's hoi rid car ilra;;-. ibeirv, slinv : 
 My dismal month-, no joys are crowning, 
 But sjileeny English hanging, drowning. 
 
 Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 
 
 To counterbal ince all this evil ; 
 
 Give me, and I've no more to say. 
 
 Give me Maria's n.ital day ! 
 
 That brilliant gift will so enrich nic. 
 
 Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot iii.itrh me :* 
 
 " 'Tis done !" says Jnve ; so ends my story. 
 
 And Winter oace itjoiced in glory. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A LADY. 
 
 Oh wert thou in the caiiM bl.ist, 
 
 On yimder lea, on voniler lea, 
 .My plaidie to the ani^ry alrt, 
 
 I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; 
 Or did misfortunes bitter storms 
 
 Around thee blaw, around thee biaw, 
 Thy bield should be my bosom. 
 
 To share it a', to share it a'. 
 
 and bare. 
 
 Or were I in the wildest waste, 
 
 Sae black and bare, s,n; Id u k 
 The desert were a paradise. 
 
 If thou wert tiiere. if tluMi wert tiiere. 
 Or were 1 -nonarch o' the globe, 
 
 M'i' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
 The brightest jewel in my crown 
 
 Wad be my ijueen, wad be my queen 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 MISS JESSV L- 
 
 , OF DUMFUIES ; 
 
 WITH BOOKS WHICH THE llAlll; PKESENIED HKI. 
 
 Thine be the volumes. Jessy fair, 
 And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
 That fate may in her f.iirest p'^e, 
 With every kindliist, best presage 
 Of future bliss, enrol tby name : 
 With native worth, and sputJess fame, 
 And wakeful caution, still aware 
 Of ill — but chief, man's felnn snare; 
 All blameless joys on earth we find. 
 
 And all the treasures of the mind 
 
 These be thy giiaidian ,ind irwaid , 
 So prays thy faithf al friend, tha bxrd. 
 
u 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 WRITTEN OS IHE 25tH JANUARY, 179.3 THE 
 illUTH-DAY OK THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A 
 THU'ISH SING IN A JIORNING WALK. 
 
 Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless Lough, 
 Sing on, su'tet biril, I listen to thy strain, 
 See agetl Winter 'mid his surly reign, 
 
 At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. 
 
 60 in lone poverty's dominion drear, 
 
 Sits meek content with light unanxious heart. 
 Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 
 
 Nor asks if tlicy bring aught to hope or fear. 
 
 I thank thee. Author of this opening day ! 
 
 Tliou whose bright sun now gilds von orient 
 skies ! 
 
 Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
 What wealth could never give nor take away ! 
 
 Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. 
 The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with 
 thee I'll share. 
 
 EXTEMPORE, 
 
 TO MR. S E; 
 
 OK KETUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- 
 ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIEST OF COM- 
 PANY, AMI THE KIRST OF COOKERY, 17th 
 DECEMBER, 1795. 
 
 No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
 And cookery tiie tiist in the nation ; 
 
 Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. 
 Is proof to all other temptation. 
 
 TO MR. S— E. 
 
 WITH A PRESENT OF A HOZEN OF PORTER. 
 
 O HAD the malt thy strength of mind^ 
 
 Or iiops the (l.ivoui of tliy wit ; 
 Twere ihiiik for first of human kind, 
 A gift that e'en for S — e were fit. 
 
 ifssusAi.niii Tavern, Dumfries. 
 
 I, modestly, fu' fain wad nint it, 
 That one pound one, I sairly want it; 
 If wi' the hizzie down ye send it. 
 
 It would be kind ; 
 And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 
 
 I'd bcar't in mind. 
 
 So may the auld year gang out moaning 
 To see the new come laden, groaning, 
 Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning 
 
 To thee and thine ; 
 Domestic peace and comforts crowning 
 
 The hail desiirn. 
 
 o 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Ye've heard this while how I've been licket 
 And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
 Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. 
 
 And sair me sheuk ; 
 But, by guid luck, I Ij)) a wicket, 
 
 And turn'd a neuk. 
 
 But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
 And by that life I'm promised 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. 
 
 SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WIIOJI HE HAD 
 OFFENDED. 
 
 Thp. friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
 The fumes of wine infui iate send ; 
 
 (Not moony madness more astray) 
 
 Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 
 
 Wine was th' insensate frenzieil part, 
 Ah why should I such scenes outlive! 
 
 Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 
 
 POEM, 
 
 audhessed TO MIX. MiTCHii.r,, roLLECTOK. 01 
 
 EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 
 
 ruiEND of the iJO>t, tried and leal, 
 Wha, wantii.g thee, n.iglit bi>g or steal ; 
 Alake, alakc, the meilJi' dell, 
 
 ^\'I' a' liis witches 
 4re at h, skelpin' ! ji.; and nel, 
 
 In mv pool pouches. 
 
 POEM ON LIFE, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PETSIK*, 
 DUMFRIES, IyOG. 
 
 My honoured colonvl, deep I feel 
 
 Your iatrrest in the poet's weal ; 
 
 I All ! how sma' heart Lie J to specl 
 
 The steep Parnassut, 
 Surrounded thus by IkiIus pill, 
 
 And potion glasses. 
 
 O what a canty world were it, 
 
 Woulil p.un and cue, aucl sickness spare it t 
 
 And fortune, fav(jur, worth, and merit, 
 
 As thi-y di sei ve ; 
 (And aye a* rowth, roa-t bee and claret ; 
 
 Syne wha would sta'^e); 
 
POEMS. 
 
 U 
 
 Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick lier, 
 Anil in piste pein-; anil fiippeiy deck her; 
 Oh ! flickering, feel)le, ami unsicker 
 
 I've fimnd her still, 
 Ave \vaverii}g like tlie willow wicker, 
 
 'Tween good and ill. 
 
 Then that curst oarmasjnole, auld Satan, 
 Watclies like baudrcins by a rattan, 
 Our siiifu' saul to get a cl.uit on 
 
 Wi' felon ire ; 
 Syne, whip ! bis tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on, 
 
 He's aif like fire. 
 
 Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
 Fir^t showing us the tempting ware, 
 Bright wines auu honnie l.isses rare. 
 To put us d.ift ; 
 Syne weave unseen thy s))idir's snare 
 
 hell s danin'd waft. 
 
 Poor man, the flie, aft hizzes hy. 
 And uft as chance he conies thee nigh. 
 Thy aiild danin'd elbow yenks wi' joy. 
 
 An I hellish pleasure ; 
 Already in thy fancy's eye. 
 
 Thy sicker treasure. 
 
 Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
 And like a slieep-4iead on a tan;js, 
 Tliy girning laugh enjoys his pings 
 
 And iiiiiiiiering wrestle, 
 As dangling in the wind he hangs 
 
 A gibbet's tassel 
 
 But lest you think I am uncivil. 
 
 To plague you with this drauiiting drivel, 
 
 Abjuring a' inteatiims evil, 
 
 1 ipiat my pen ; 
 The Lord preserve us Irae the devil ! 
 
 Amen ! amen ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 
 
 Mr curse upon your venom'd stang, 
 That shoots niv tortur'd gums alang ; 
 And thru' my lugs gifs muny a twang, 
 
 Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
 Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 
 
 Like racking engines ! 
 
 When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
 Rheumatics gnaw, or chnlic s()ueezes ; 
 Our neighbour's sympathy m ly ease us, 
 
 \Vi' pitying moan ; 
 But thee — thou hell o' a" diseases, 
 
 Aye mocks our groan ! 
 
 Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
 I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle, 
 .\3 round the fire the giglets keckle, 
 
 To see me loup ; 
 While raving mad, 1 wi-h a heckle 
 
 Were in their doup. 
 
 O' a' the num'rous hjman dools, 
 
 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stooh. 
 
 Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 
 
 S.id sight to sec ! 
 The tricks o' knaves or fash o* fouls. 
 
 Thou bear'st the gre«. 
 
 Where'er that place be, priests ca* hell, 
 Wlience a* the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
 And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 
 
 In dreadfii' raw. 
 Thou, TooTii-ACllE, surely bear'st the hcH, 
 
 Amang them a' ! 
 
 O thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
 That gars the notes o' discord Kijneel, 
 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 
 
 In gore a shoe-thick ;— 
 Gie a' the faes o' Scori.ASD's wecl 
 
 A towmond's Tooth- Aciia 
 
 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esu 
 
 OF IINTIIV, 
 ON IlECLIVING A FAVOUR. 
 
 I CALi, no goddess to inspire my strains, 
 A fabled Mu^e may suit a bard th it feigns ; 
 P'riend of my life ! my ardent spirit bunig. 
 And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
 For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
 The gift still deader as the giver you. 
 
 Thou orb of day ! thou other ])aler light ! 
 And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
 If anght that giver fniin my mind efface j 
 If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
 Tl^n roll to me, along your wandering sphereSk 
 Only to number out a villain's years! 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FPJEND. 
 
 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 yuutli : 
 Few hearts like his, with virtue warm 'J, 
 Vi:\v heads with kmiwltdge s.> inform'd : 
 If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
 If there is nunc, he made the best of this. 
 
 A GRACE BEFORE DINNER 
 
 O Tnoii, who kindly dost ]irovide 
 
 For ev'ry creature's want ! 
 We bUs> tlico, God of nature w'de. 
 
 For ail thy goodness leut ; 
 
76 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 And if it please tliee, heavenly guide, 
 Miiy nc'VLT worse be sent ; 
 
 But A'hether granted, or denied, 
 Lord bless us with content ! 
 Amen ! 
 
 TO MY DEAR AKl) MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 
 
 MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, 
 
 ON SENSIBILITY. 
 
 Sensibility liow charming, 
 
 Thau, my friend^ canst truly tell ; 
 
 But distress, with horrors arminj^. 
 Thou hast also known too well ! 
 
 Fairest flower, beliold the lily, 
 
 Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
 Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. 
 
 See it prostrate ou the clay. 
 
 Hear the wood-lark charm the f'lil^ 
 Telling o'er his little joys : 
 
 Ha|)less bira ! a prey the sure»5, 
 To each pirate of the skies. 
 
 Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
 Finer feelings can bestow ; 
 
 Chiirds that vibrate sweetest pleasujyj, 
 Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 
 
 A VERSE, 
 
 COMPOSED AND REPEAtEia BY BURNS, TO THB 
 MAST2R OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEATl 
 AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS VVHERK UK 
 HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 
 
 When death's dark stream 1 ferry o'l 
 
 A time that surely shall come ; 
 In heaven itself, I'll ask no more. 
 
 Than just a Highland welcome. 
 
 er; 
 
 ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY, 
 
 From the Reliques, Published in 1808, 
 
 BY MR. CRO.AIEK. 
 
 The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that sele-'tion became a duty, and ai 
 ])ut aside several interesting pieces both in prose and verse, which would have done honour to 
 the Poet 8 memory : But besides these there were other pieces extant, which did not come 
 under the Doctoi's notice: All of them, both of the rejected and iTiscuvered description, have 
 since been collected and published by Mr. Cromck, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and 
 generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additiona] 
 pieces of iioutry so collected and published by Cromek, are given here. The additional songs 
 and correspondence, tiken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, " Select Scot- 
 tish Songs," will each appear in the proper place.] 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 OK 
 
 MR. "WILLIAM CREECH, 
 
 BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 
 I. 
 
 Ari.D chuekie Reekie's • sair distrest, 
 Down droojis her ance weel burnish't crest, 
 Kae joy her bonie bii»kit nest 
 
 Can yirld .iva, 
 Her dirling bird that bhe lue's best, 
 
 Willie's dwa ! 
 
 • Edintiureh. 
 
 IL 
 
 O Willie was a wittv wight. 
 
 And had o' things an unco' slight; 
 
 Auld Reekie ay he kee;)it tight. 
 
 And trig an* braw; 
 But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
 Willie's awa ' 
 
 in. 
 
 The stlffest o' them a' he bow'd. 
 The bauldest o' thtMU a' hecow'd ; 
 They durst nae nialr than he allow'd, 
 That was a law : 
 We've lost » biikie wecl woi'h gowd, 
 Willie's awa ' 
 
POEMS. 
 
 77 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now gawlxic'S, taw pies, gowks and fuols, 
 Frao r(i!l<'i;;os and Ixj.inlinc; .-I'lmols, 
 May sprout like simmer piuldoi-k- stools 
 
 In glen or shaw ; 
 He wha cimld brush them flown to mools 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 The hrefli'ren o' the Coinmerce-Chaumer * 
 May muiiin their lo'^s wi" doolfu* clamjur ; 
 He was adictionar and grammar 
 
 Amatig tliem a' ; 
 I fear they'll now mak mony a st immer 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Nae niair we see his levee door 
 Pliilos,)j)lieis and Poets poiir,f 
 And toothy critics by the score 
 
 In bloody raw ! 
 The adjutant o' a' tlie core 
 
 Willie's awa ' 
 
 Now worthy G— 
 
 T r's and G- 
 
 M'K e, S — 
 
 VII. 
 
 -y's latin face, 
 
 's m<i<lest grace ; 
 
 -t, such a brace 
 As Rome ne'er saw ; 
 They a' maun meet some ither place, 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
 He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
 Scar'd frae it's miunie and the deckia 
 By hoodie-craw ; 
 Criers gicn his heart aa unco kickin', 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now ev'ry sour-mou'<l grinin' blellum. 
 And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
 And self-conceited critic skellum 
 
 His quill m-iy draw ; 
 He wha could brawlie ward their helium 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
 And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
 And Ettrick banks now roaring red 
 
 While tempests blaw ; 
 Rut every joy and pleasure's fled 
 
 Willie's awa ! 
 
 XL 
 May I be slander's common speech ; 
 A text for infamy to preach ; 
 
 And lastly, streekit out to bleach 
 
 In winter snaw ; 
 WI.ou I f„iget tiiee I V.'ii.i.i/i Cukkoh, 
 Tho' far awa ' 
 
 XII. 
 
 I\Iay never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
 May never wicked men 1) nnlHiozle him ' 
 Untd a ])ow as auld's iMetliusalem ! 
 
 He canty claw ! 
 Then to the blessed, New Joiusalem 
 
 Fleet wing awal 
 
 ELEG\ 
 
 OS 
 
 PEG NICHOLSON.* 
 
 Pkg Nicholson was a good bav mare. 
 As ever trode on airn ; 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 And past the iNIouth o' Cairn. 
 
 Peg Nicholson wa^ a good b;iy mare, 
 And rode thro' thick and thin ; 
 But now she's lloating down tlie Nitb, 
 And wanting even the skin. 
 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
 And anoe she bore :i priest ; 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 For Sol way lish a feast. 
 
 Peg NichoNon was a good bay mare, 
 Anil the priest he rode her sair : 
 And much op|)ressed and bruised she waa i 
 —As priest-rid cattle are, &c. Sec. 
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 (Imperfict). 
 
 [In a letter to Mrs. Dwnlop, the poet s.iys:— The sutv 
 jcct is iiuKiti V : Vou know, my hoiioiirt-il fr enii 
 how dear the iheme is to me. 1 ilcsi^i) it an iiieiiii 
 lar Oiie for Ceneral Washington's biilli-day. Auel 
 having mcntioneil theilcijciieracy of other kingdoms 
 1 come to Scotland thus] : 
 
 Thee, Caledonia, thy w-ild heaths among, 
 Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 
 
 To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
 Where is that soul of freedom (led ?' 
 Immingled with the mi:;lity dead ! 
 
 Beneath that hallowed turf wnere WaL«-ACK 
 lies ! 
 
 • Marporct Nicholson, flic maniac, whose visitationi 
 very much alarmed fieorKC the Tliiril for his life. In 
 
 • The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh of which 
 
 Mr. C. was Secretary *i.ry imicii aiarmeu i.eorKC tlie riiir<l for his life. In 
 
 t Many literary Rcntlemen were accustomed to meet na-Jiig their steels, ,he ,,oet and his friend Nicol sec " 
 
 at Mr. Creech's house at breaknist. Hums often met to have had a ,.r ference, in ihL- w.,v of d,.in.' lu iioVr 
 
 with them there, when he c-vled. and hence the name of course, for the worthies who hadused freedom witl-' 
 
 a Levee. boih jinest ami kum 
 
r8 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 H<;ar it not, WAi.tAcr, in t>iy hod of death ! 
 
 Ye babblin'j winds, in silence sweep ; 
 
 Disriirl) not ye the hero's sleep, 
 Nor i^'ive the coward secret bre;ith. — 
 
 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, 
 That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 
 
 Biaved ii>^urpation's boldest daring ! 
 One quenched in dirkness like the sinking star, 
 And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 
 aue. 
 
 A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS. 
 
 O THOU Great Being ! what thou art 
 
 Surpasses me to know ; 
 Yet sure I *m, that known to thee 
 
 Are aJl thy works below. 
 
 Thv creature here before thee stands, 
 
 All wretched and distrest ; 
 Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
 
 Obey thy high behest. 
 
 Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 
 
 From cruelty or wrath ; 
 O, free my weary eyes from tears. 
 
 Or close them fast in death ! 
 
 But if I must afflicted bo, 
 
 To suit some wise design ; 
 riien man mv soal with firm resolves 
 
 To bear and not rejjme ! 
 
 A PRAYER, 
 
 Do Thou, AH Good ! for such Thou art 
 In shades of larkness hide. 
 
 Where with intention I ha^'e err'd, 
 
 No other plea I have, 
 But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 
 
 Delighteth to forgive. 
 
 WHEN FAINTING KITS. AND OTIIEll ALARMING 
 SYMPTOMS OF A I'LKUI'.ISY OR SOME OTHER 
 DANGEROITS nlSORIM:!l, WHICH INDEED 
 STII.I. THREATENS JIE, FKiST VUT NATURE 
 ON THE ALARM. 
 
 O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause 
 
 Of all mv hope and fear ! 
 In v/liose dread presence, ere an hour, 
 
 Perhaps I nmst appear. 
 
 If I hav<" "-"ndcr'd in those patlis 
 
 Of liie I oup:ht to shun ; 
 AS something, loudly, in my breast, 
 
 Remonstrates 1 have dime ; 
 
 Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 
 
 M'iih passions wild and strong ; 
 And list'ning to their witching voice 
 
 Ii;is often led ine wrong. 
 
 VtHioro human n-eiiimess has come short, 
 Or fruilCg stept aside, 
 
 DESPONDENCY: 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 Wiir am I loth to leave this earthly scene 
 
 Have 1 so found it full ci pleasing charms '. 
 Some drops of joy with draughts of ill b*s 
 tween : 
 
 Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
 storms : 
 Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? 
 
 Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
 For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
 
 1 tremble to approach an angry God, 
 And justly smart neatli his sin-avenging rod. 
 
 Fain would I say, * Forgive my foul offence !' 
 
 Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
 But, should my author health again dispense, 
 
 Again I mij.-ht 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, 
 
 Whi act so counter heavenly i.iercy's plan ? 
 Wlio sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptatioc 
 ran ? 
 
 O Thou, great governor of all below ! 
 
 If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
 Tliv nod can make the tenijjest cease to blow, 
 
 Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
 With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me. 
 
 Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
 For all unfit I feel my fiowers to be. 
 
 To rule their torrent in th' allowed line, 
 O, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine I 
 
 LINES ON RELIGION. 
 
 " 'Tis this, my frienl, 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 ])ursue; 
 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
 Di'^anns affliction, or repels its dart : 
 Witipin the brent bids purest raptures rise, 
 ni<ls smiling conscience spread her cloudlcRS 
 
 skies " 
 
?OEMS. 
 
 79 
 
 EPISTLES IN VERSE 
 
 TO J. LAPllAIK. 
 
 Sept. \:lth, \7S:>. 
 
 flvn speed an' furrier to you Joliny, 
 
 fiuiil liealtli, hale luiti's, an' weather bony ; 
 Now ivhen ye" re nickan down fii' canny 
 
 The staff o' bread, 
 May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany 
 
 To clear your head. 
 
 May TJoreas never thresh your rigs, 
 Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
 Seiulin' the stuff o'er niui:s an' haggs 
 
 Like drivin' wrack ; 
 But may the tapmast grain that wags 
 
 Come to the sack. 
 
 I'm bizzie too, an' skelpiri' at it. 
 
 But bitter, daudin showers hue wat it, 
 
 Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 
 
 Wi' muekle wark, 
 An' took my jocteleg » a:i' whatt it, 
 
 Like ony claik. 
 
 It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
 For vour braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
 Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 
 
 On hiilv men. 
 While deil a hair yoursel ye' re better. 
 
 But mair profane. 
 
 But let the kirk-folk ring their beils, 
 Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
 We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 
 
 To help, or roose us. 
 But browster wives f an whisky stills, 
 
 Thet/ are the muses. 
 
 Ymir friendship Sir, I winna quat it. 
 
 An' if ye niak' objections at it. 
 
 Then ban' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 
 
 An' witness take, 
 An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it 
 
 It wiuna break. 
 
 But if the bca«t and branks he fpar'd 
 Till kve be gaun without the herd, 
 An' a' the vittel in the yard. 
 
 An' theekit right, 
 I mean your ingle-side to guard 
 
 Ae winter night. 
 
 Then mu«e-inspirin' aqua-vita; 
 
 Shall make u> baith sae blythe an' witty, 
 
 Till ye forget ye" re auld an' gatty. 
 
 An' be as canty 
 A» ye were nine year less than thretty, 
 
 Sweet ane-an'-twentv. 
 
 But stooks are cow()et * Tvi' the blast, 
 Au' now the sinn keeks vn the wot 
 Then 1 maun rin amang the rest 
 
 An' quat my chanter; 
 Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 
 
 Your's, Rab the Ranter. 
 
 • Jnctt!ec — a knife. 
 ♦ B'owslfr uives — Alehouse wives. 
 
 REV. JOHN M'-AIATH, 
 
 INCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WII.LIK's HI A VE B. 
 WHICH Uli HAD llEUUESTEI). 
 
 Sept. Mth, 1785. 
 WuiLE at the stook the shearers cow'r 
 To shun the bitter blaudiu' show'r. 
 Or in gulravagef rinnin scow'r 
 
 To pass the time, 
 To you I dedicate the hour 
 
 I.i idle rhyme. 
 
 IMy musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 
 
 On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet. 
 
 Is grown right eerie now she's done it. 
 
 Lest they shou'd blame her, 
 An' rouse their holy thunder on it 
 
 And aiiathem her. 
 
 I own 'tv.-as rash, an' rather hardy. 
 That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
 Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 
 
 Wha, if 'hey ken me. 
 Can easy, wi' a single wordie. 
 
 Louse h-11 upou me. 
 
 But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
 
 Their sighan, cantan, gra^e-proud faces, 
 
 Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces, 
 
 Their raxan conscience, 
 Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 
 
 Waur nor their nonsense. 
 
 There's Guiin, \ miska't waur than a beast, 
 Wha has mair honor in his breast 
 Than mony scores as guid's the pi iest 
 
 Wha sae abiis't him. 
 Aa' may a bard no crack his je>t 
 
 What way they've use't hini> 
 
 See him, |i the poor man's friend in need, 
 The gentleman in word an' deed. 
 An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 
 
 By worthless skellunos. 
 An' not a muse erect her l.»ad 
 
 To cowe the blellums . 
 
 • Cmt'pet — Tuml)Iei1 over. 
 
 t Vn-'rcia^f — Iluniiinii in a confused, disorderly 
 manner, like boys when leaving school. 
 
 t r.avin Hamilton, Kscj. 
 
 II '(lie )ioet lias iiitrotliiced the two first lines of thit 
 stanza inio the detlieaUon of tiis woriis to Mr. Haniil 
 luiu 
 
80 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
 To g.e the rascals their deserts, 
 I'd rip their rotten, huliow iiearts, 
 
 An' tell aloud 
 Their jugglin' hocus pocus arts 
 
 To c'leat the crowd. 
 
 God knows, I'm no the thing I shnu'd be, 
 Nor am I ev'n the thing I cou'd i)e. 
 But twenty times, I rather wuu'd be 
 
 An atheist clean, 
 Than under gospel colours hid be 
 
 Just lor a screen. 
 
 An honest man may like a glass, 
 An honest man ni..y like a lass, 
 But mean revenge, an' malice fause 
 
 He'll still disdain, 
 An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 
 
 Like some we ken. 
 
 They take religion in their mouth ; 
 They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. 
 For what ? to gie their malace skouth 
 
 On some ]iuir wight, 
 An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 
 
 To ruin streight. 
 
 All hail, religion ! maid divine! 
 Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
 Who in her rough imperfect line 
 
 Thus daurs to name thee ; 
 To stigmatize false friends of thine 
 
 Can ne'er defame thee. 
 
 Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' monv a stain. 
 
 An' far urnvortliy of thy train. 
 
 With trembling voice I tune my strain 
 
 To join with those, 
 Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 
 
 In spite of foes : 
 
 In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
 In spite of unciermining jobs, 
 In spite o' dark banditti stabs 
 
 At woi th an' merit, 
 By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 
 
 But hellish spirit. 
 
 O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
 Within thy presbyterial bound 
 A candid liberal band is found 
 
 Of public teachers. 
 As men, as Christians too renown'd 
 
 An* manly preachers. 
 
 Sir, in that circ'c you are nam'd ; 
 Sir, in that circle you are fain'd ; 
 An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 
 
 (Which gies you honor) 
 Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 
 
 An' winuing-nianner. 
 
 Pardon this freedom I have ti'en, 
 An' if inipertiucut I've been 
 
 Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 
 
 Wha^e heart ne'er wrang'd fn 
 But to l»s utmost would befriend 
 
 Ought that belang'd J J. 
 
 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa 
 
 .MAt;CIll,lNfc. 
 
 (recommending a buv). 
 
 Moxgaville, Matj 3, I79G. 
 I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty 
 To warn you how that Master Tootie, 
 
 Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
 Was hero to hire yon lad away 
 'Bout whom ye spak the tithcr day. 
 
 An' wad hae don't aff han' ' 
 But lest he learn the callan tricks, 
 
 As faith I nnickle doubt him. 
 Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks. 
 An' tellin' lies about them ; 
 As lieve thcri I'd have then, 
 
 Your clerkship he should sair, 
 If sae be, ye may be 
 Not 6ttud otherwhere. 
 
 Altlio' I say't, he's gleg enough. 
 
 An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough. 
 
 The boy inight learn to $iceat 
 But then wi' j/oit, he'll be sae tauyht. 
 An' get sic fair ejrnihjile straught, 
 
 I hae na ony fear, 
 Ye'll cateidiise him every quiik, 
 
 An' shore him weel wi' hell ; 
 
 An' gar him follow to the kirk 
 
 — Ay 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 WarldCs wona ; 
 To try to get the twa to gree. 
 An' name the airles f an' the fee. 
 
 In legal mode an' form : 
 I ken he weel a Snic/t can draw, 
 
 When simple bodies let him ; 
 An' if a Devil be at a', 
 
 In faith he's sure to get hilT^ 
 To ])hrase you an' praise you. 
 
 Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
 The pray'r still, you share still, 
 Of grateful iMinstkkl Bukns. 
 
 • Master Tootle then lived in Maucliliiie; a dealer 
 In Cows. It was his cDmiiiiin iiraeliee to rut the oiekj 
 or markings from tin- hums uf f.mle, to ili»i,niise iheir 
 aKC. — He was an artful iripk-eoiiirivuig character; 
 hence he is called a S'i'uk-ilr,iurr. In the iMX't'i 
 *■ Address to th.' Ihil^' lie styles tliat august persouagt 
 an anid, suick-drdwiii); do^j ! 
 
 t The Airles — luirnest niouev. 
 
POEMS 
 
 TO MR. IM'ADAiVI, My goose-qulU too mdi' is t o tt-ll al] your good- 
 
 or C 11 A K". K X-O I I.LA N, 
 
 IN ANSWKIl TO AN OIlI.IC I NO LETTEIl HE StNT 
 IN THE CO.MJlENCt.MEST OF >IY POETIC 
 
 C AliKEll. 
 
 ■SlR; e'er a pill I g.it yoiir cinl, 
 
 I trow it luado me |>i<iu(l ; 
 See « iia tiks ti(iti<'e o' tlii.' biird ! 
 
 I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 
 
 Now dcil-nia care about tbeir jaw, 
 
 The senseless, pawky iiiillion ; 
 I'll cock my nose ahoi.u thcin a', 
 
 I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 
 
 'Twas noble, Sir, 'twas like yoursel, 
 
 To graut youi lii;;li protection : 
 A great man's smile, ye ken In' well, 
 
 Is ay a blest iufectiou. 
 
 Thu', by bis o Iwnes wlia in a tub 
 
 Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
 On my uin 1l'l;s tliro' dirt and dub, 
 
 I indepenilent stand ay 
 
 And wlien those legs to gud;, warm kailj 
 
 Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
 A Ice dvke-side, a sybmv-tail, 
 
 And barley-scone shall cheer me. 
 
 Heaven spare you lang to kiss tlic breath 
 
 O' inony flow'ry simmers ! 
 And bless your bonie la>s-es baith, 
 
 I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! 
 
 And God h\e:-? young Dunaskin's laird, 
 
 The blossoiii of our gentry ! 
 And may he wear an auld man's beard, 
 
 A credit to his countiy. 
 
 TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 
 
 GLENRlllDhL, 
 (extempore LINES ON RETURING A 
 
 newspaper). 
 
 EUhlaiid, Monday Evening. 
 Your news and review. Sir, I've read tlirough 
 and through, Sir, 
 With little admiring or blaming : 
 Tlie papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 
 ^^o murders or rapes worth the naming. 
 
 Oir friends the reviewers, those chippcrs and 
 hewers, 
 
 Are judges of mortar and storie. Sir ; 
 But of meet, or unniett, in a. fabric comphfe^ 
 
 I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 
 
 IJestowed on your servant, the Poet ; 
 Would to Ciod I had one like a beam of the 8un, 
 And then all the worM, Sir, should know itl 
 
 TO TERRAUGIITY,* 
 
 ON HIS BIRTM-DAV. 
 
 Hkai.tm to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
 Health, ay unsour'd by can? or grief; 
 Insj)ir'd, 1 turn'd Tate's sybil leaf, 
 
 'lljis natal morn, 
 I see thy life is stuff o' priet. 
 
 Scarce ijuite lialf wc 0.-« 
 
 This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
 And 1 can tell that bouiitemis llcavea 
 (The second sight, ye ken, is piven 
 
 To ilka Poet) 
 Oa thee a tack o' seven times seven 
 
 Will )et bestow it. 
 
 If envious buckles view wi' sorrow 
 
 Thy Itngthen'd days on this l>le~t morro'je, 
 
 ftiay desolation's laiig-teuth'd harrow, 
 
 Nine mdes an hour, 
 Rake them, like Sodom and (joinuirali, 
 
 In brunstane st'iure— 
 
 But for thy friends, and they are inony, 
 H.iith honest men and lasses biinie, 
 i\Iay couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 
 
 In social glee, 
 Wi' mornings biytlie and c'euings funny 
 
 Bless them aiid thee. 
 
 Farweel, auld liirkie ! Lord be near ye, 
 And then the Deii he daurna steer ye 
 Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye. 
 
 For me, shame fa' mc, 
 If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 
 
 While Burns they ca m« 
 
 • Diogenps. 
 
 THE VOWELS: 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong 
 are ply'd. 
 The noisy (hiniicile of pe<lant pride ; 
 Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 
 .\nd crueltv directs the tlnckening blows; 
 
 • Mr. Maxwell, of TcrrauRhty, near Dionfrie* 
 This is the J. I*, who, at the Kxeiso Coiirts, e.illfd Ibi 
 Burns'* reports : tliey »heiviil thai Ac, «hile he aete4 
 U|) to the law, cimlil remiii'ilc his duly »:lh liiillUiUlt 
 tv- ' Aitho' an fclxi'iseinaii he hail a liearl.' 
 tv ^ 
 
82 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Upon a time, Sir Ahecf ilie great, 
 
 In all his ])c'ila?o>;ic powers elate, 
 
 His awAil cl'.air of state re>olvcs to mount, 
 
 And call the trtuihling vowels to account. — 
 
 First cnterM A, a 2:raYC, broad, solemn wight, 
 But ah ! defi rniM, dishonest to the sii;ht ! 
 iiis twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
 And flagrant fioiii the scourge he grunted ai I 
 
 Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
 The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
 That name, that well-worn came, and all his 
 
 own. 
 Pale he suuenders at the tyrant's throne.' 
 The pcdact stifles keen the Roman sound, 
 Not all his monjrel diphthongs can compound ; 
 And next the title following close behind, 
 Ut to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 
 
 The cobweb'd gothic dome rosnurdcd, Y ! 
 In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
 The jiedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
 And kuock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 
 
 In rueful apprehension cnter'd O, 
 Tne wailing minstrel of despairing woe; 
 Th' Inquisitor of Sjiain, the most expert. 
 Might there have learnt new my-teries of hi« art: 
 So grim, deforni'd, with horrors entering U, 
 His dearest friend and biother scarcely knew ! 
 
 As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
 The pedant in hi* left hand clutchM him fist, 
 In heljiless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
 Baptiz'd him ew, and kick'd bim from his sight. 
 
 Is it some blast that gathers in the north, 
 Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r' 
 
 Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, 
 And leaves thee h.ere, unshclterM and forlorn ? 
 
 Or fear that winter will thy nest Invade ? 
 Or friendless melancholy bids thee mouiu r 
 
 Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd tra'.o, 
 To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom 
 
 No friend to pity when thou dost complain. 
 Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home 
 
 Sins 
 
 ad mourner ! I will bless thy strain, 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 A LlTTl.E, upright, pert, tirt, tripping wight, 
 And still his precious self his dear delight . 
 Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
 Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. 
 .A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
 Learn'd rice la brii/nitHe, ct vivc V aminir ; 
 So travell'd nionkics their grimace improve, 
 Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love. 
 >Juch specious lore but little understood ; 
 Finceriiig oft outshlucs the solid wood : 
 His solid sen.-ie — liy inches you must t»ll, 
 But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 
 His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
 Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 
 
 TO THE OWL: 
 
 BY JOHN m'CIIEDDIE, 
 
 Sao bird of night, wh.it sorrow calU thee forth. 
 To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight 
 hour •■ 
 
 And pleas'd in sorrow listen m thy song 
 Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complain, 
 While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 
 
 Is beauty less, when down the glowing chf-elt 
 Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 
 
 Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break.' 
 Less hajipy he who lists to pity's call ? 
 
 Ah no, sad owl ' nor is thy voice less sweet. 
 That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there; 
 
 That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst 
 repeat ; 
 That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : 
 
 Nor that the treble songsters of the day. 
 
 Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
 thee ; 
 
 Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray. 
 When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.— 
 
 From some old tow'r, thy melanc'nnly dome, 
 While the gray walls and desalt solitudes 
 
 Return each note, responsive to ine gloom 
 Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; 
 
 There hooting; I will list more pleas'd to the«, 
 Than ever lover to the nightingale ; 
 
 Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, 
 Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 
 
 EXTEMPORE, 
 
 IK THE COURT OF SESSlOtf. 
 
 TufW — " Gillicrankie." 
 
 Lord Advocate, Robert Dunda>. 
 
 He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. 
 
 He quoted and he hinted, 
 Till in a declamation-mis% 
 
 His argument he tint it : 
 He ga];c(l for't, he graped for't, 
 
 He faiid it was awa, man ; 
 But what his common sense came short* 
 
 He eked out wi' law, man. 
 
£OEMS. 
 
 V.R. riKNIlY ErsKINK. 
 
 CoIli'Cti'd riariy stood auve, 
 
 Then (ipen'd out liis arm, man ; 
 His lordship sat \vi' niefu' c'e, 
 
 And cy'd the £;atherin<r storm, mam 
 Liko wind-driv'n hail it did assail. 
 
 Or torrents owre a lia, man ; 
 The nenc/i sae wise lift uj) their eyes, 
 
 Ilulf-wauken'd wi" the din, man. 
 
 BS 
 
 Then let us fi<jht about, Dumourier ; 
 
 Then let us fij^ht about, Dumourier; 
 
 Then let us fi^rl,t al,„„t, 
 
 'Till freedom's spark is out, 
 
 Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumouner • 
 
 ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN 
 THE REV. DR. B 's VERV LOOKS. 
 
 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. 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 
 
 (a PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIIl). 
 
 Vou're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
 
 You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier 
 
 How does Danipiere do ? 
 Aye, and Bournonville too? 
 Why did they not come along with you, Du- 
 mourier? 
 
 I will fiirlit France with you, Dumourier, 
 
 I will fight France with you, Dumourier : 
 
 I will fight France with you, 
 1 will take my chance with you ; 
 Bj my soul I'll dance a dauce with you, Dumou- 
 r . 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS. 
 
 [The Poet paid a visit on horseback to Cnrlislo: whi. 
 lie was at table hn steed was turned out to Rraze in 
 nil enelosiire, but wandeved, probably in iiiiest oj 
 better pasture, into an adJDiiiin;; one: it was Im. 
 pounded by order of the Mayor— whose tern of of- 
 fiec expired next day :_rhe Muse thus delivered 
 licrselt on the oceasion] : 
 
 Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, 
 The m;:;*^ fbuiik — the horse committed ; 
 Puir harmless beas, ; takf thei naj care, 
 Thou'it he a horse, when he's nae mair-(mayoi'^ 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 %V1TH A POUND OF SNUFF. 
 
 O could I give thee India's wealth, 
 
 As I this trifle send ; 
 Wliy then the joy of both would be, 
 
 To share it with ^ friend. 
 
 But golden sands ne'er yet have graced 
 
 The Heliconian stream ; 
 Then take what gold can never buy, 
 
 An honest Baid's esteem. 
 
 « It is almost needless to observe that the Rem. of 
 H:^in Ail.it \ begins thus :— ' 
 
 Vou're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair; 
 
 \ oil re welcome to I'axton, Robin Aaair 
 
 How does J,.bnnv Mackerel! do? 
 Aye, and Luke Gardener too? 
 V\ hy did tb»y not come along with vow «tobin 
 Adaiv? 
 
f^ 
 
 ESSAY 
 
 UPON 
 
 SCOTTISH POETRY, 
 
 INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, 
 
 BY DR. CURRIE 
 
 9 
 
 That Burns hiM not the advanta^^es of a d.is- 
 sieal educatinn, or of any ilfgree of acijuaiiitance 
 with the Gieek or Roman writers in thfir oii- 
 l^inal dress, has appeared in the history of liis 
 life. He acquired itideeil some knowledjje of the 
 Freiieli lanfruacje, hut it does not appear that he 
 was ever much conversant in French literature, 
 nnr is there any evidence of his having; deriveil 
 any of his poetical stories from that source. 
 With the English classics he became well ac- 
 quainted in the course of his life, and the eff^'cts 
 of this acquaintance are ohservalJe in his latter 
 prodnctioos ; liut the character ami stv'e of his 
 poetry were formed very early, and the moilel 
 which he followed, in as far as he can lie said to 
 have had one, is to be sought for in the works 
 of the poets who have written in the Sc{)ttish 
 dialect — in the works of such of them more es- 
 pecially, as are familiar to the peasantrv of Scot- 
 land. Some obseivations on these may form a 
 proper iutniduction to a more ])artlcular exami- 
 nation of the poetry of Burns. Tlie studies of 
 the editor in this direction are indeed verv re- 
 cent and very imperfect. It woulil have i)een 
 imprudent for him to have entered on this sub- 
 ject at all, but for the kinilness of Rlr. Uamsav 
 of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to 
 acknowledge, and to whom the reailcr must as- 
 <rribe whatever is of any value in the folluv.'iiig 
 im|)ertect sketch of literary coinpusitijiis in the 
 Scottish idiom. 
 
 It is a circumstance not a little curious, ami 
 which does not seem to be satisfactorily explain- 
 ed, that in the thirteenth century the laiiyuag:' 
 of the two British nations, if at all different, 
 differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, 
 like the Welch and Armoric in the ether, being 
 conlineil to the moimtainotis districts.* The 
 English under the Edwards, and the Scots under 
 Wallace and Kruce. sjioke the same language. 
 We may observe also, that in Scotland the his- 
 tory ascends to a jieriod nearly as remote as in 
 England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the 
 First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who liv- 
 
 • HUto'-ical Esuys on Scottish Son^, p. "0, by .Mr. 
 Ritson. 
 
 ed in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sisteewth c«a- 
 tiiries, were coeval with the fathers of poetry il 
 England ; and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton, 
 not inferior to them in genius or in composition. 
 Tlough the language of the two countries gra- 
 dually deviated from each other during this pe- 
 riod, yet the difference on the whole was not 
 considerable ; nor perhaps greater than between 
 the different dialects of the different parts oi 
 England in our own time. 
 
 At the death of James the Fifth, in 15 i2, the 
 language of Scotliml was in a flourishing condi- 
 tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to thoji' 
 in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the 
 whole, operated to prevent this. The first was 
 tlie passion of t!;e Scots for composition in Li- 
 lin ; and the second, the accession of James the 
 Sixth to the Eiislish throne. It may easily b« 
 imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his ad- 
 mirable talents, even in |)art, to the cultivation of 
 his native tongue, aa was done by the revivers of 
 letters in Italy, he would have left compositions 
 in that langu iL;e which might have exciteil other 
 men of genius to have foili.wed lus example.f 
 and give dui.itinn to the l.uiguage itself. The 
 union of the two crowns in the person of James, 
 overthrew all reasonable exjiectation of this kind. 
 That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
 would mi h)i«er be addressed in the rude dia- 
 lect in whi. h the Scotti-h <leigy had so often 
 insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or 
 Eiigl.sh iiiily, both of which be prided himself 
 cm wr.ting with purity, though he himself never 
 could acquire the English pronunciation, but 
 spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to 
 the last. Scotsmen of talents declineil writing ia 
 their native language, which they knew was not 
 accejitible to their learned and pedantic mo- 
 naich ; and at a time whe'i national prejudic* 
 and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they dis- 
 d. lined to study the nicities oi'tlie Engliih tongue, 
 though of so much easier acquisition than a 
 dead language. Lord Stirling and DrummonJ 
 of llawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wiota 
 
 t '■ C- The -^uthurseTtUc Vflicice I'oelarum Scuta 
 rum. Ac. 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 85 
 
 pootrv in tliose times, were exceptions. Tlioy 
 jtiidli'il tl.c lanjjiia^'e nf En;,'l.inil, ami i-oinixifiiMl 
 in it with pri'i-iNion ami elejj.ince, Tlu'V \v«ie 
 liinvevfr the last <if lliiir countrymen w!io de- 
 soi-vcil ti) he c'onsiiieied as pnets in th it century. 
 The muses of Scotlai;(l sunk iito silonre, anil 
 dill not asjiiin raise thoir voices tor a p'-riotl of 
 fif;lity years. 
 
 To what causes arc wc to attribute this ex- 
 treme depression amonjj a people comparatively 
 »?arneii, enter]. rising, and ingenious? Shall 
 sre impute it ti the fanatiei^ni of the covenan- 
 tors, vf to the ivranny of the house of Stuart 
 after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- 
 U*9 these causes o|'eratcd, hut they seem un- 
 fqiial tn account fi;i tlie effect. In England si- 
 milar distractions and oppressions took place, yet 
 poetrv flourished there in a remarkable degree. 
 During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and 
 Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of un- 
 paralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
 mentioned, another must be added, in account- 
 ing fur the torpor of Scottish literature — the 
 want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to 
 emidoy. The civil wars had frightened away 
 the Latin muses, and no standard had been es- 
 tablished of the Scottish tongue, whieh was de- 
 viating 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 
 171.5. The nations being finally incorporated, 
 it was cleajly seen that their tongues must in 
 the end incorporate aJso ; or rather indeed that 
 the Scottish language must degenerate iuto a 
 provincial idiom, to be avoided by tliose who 
 would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to 
 eminence in the united legislature.* 
 
 Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
 peared, 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 com|)ijsition late- 
 ly presented to them by the writers of the reign 
 uf Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical 
 papers published by Steele, Ad lison, and their 
 associated friends, which circulated widely 
 through Scotland, and diffused every where a 
 taste for |)urity of style and sentiment, and for 
 r"itical disquisition. At length, the Scottish 
 ivritt-rs succeeded in English composition, anil a 
 Ui;ioii was formed of the literary talents, as well 
 83 of the legi-<Iatures of the two nations. On 
 thii occasion the poets took the lead. While 
 Henry Home,' Dr. Wallace, and their learned 
 a.'isociates, were only laying in their intellectual 
 ttores. and studying to 'dear themselves of their 
 Scottish iihoms, Thomson, Mallet, and Haniil- 
 lon of Bangour, hail made their appearance be- 
 fore the public, and been enrolled on the list of 
 English poets. The writers in prose followed 
 — a numtrous and powerful band, and poured 
 their ample stores into the genera! stream of Bri- 
 
 • I»rrt Kaim« 
 
 tish iiteritinc. Scotland possessed her fon.' unu 
 veisities before the aceessitin of James to the 
 English tlinnie. In.mediately before the union, 
 she ncnuiied her |)aniehial s< hools. These e»- 
 tabHshmeiits combining happily together, made 
 the elements of knowledge of easy acipiisition 
 and presented a direct path, by which the ar- 
 dent student might be carrieil along into the re- 
 cesses of science or Icarniiuj. As civil broils 
 ceased, and faction and jnejiidice gradually died 
 away, a wider field was opeiieil to literary ambi- 
 tion, and the iiiiluence of the Scottish institu 
 tions for instruction, on the pi'odiiclions of the 
 press, became mote and more apparent. 
 
 It seems indeed piobable, that the establish- 
 ment of the par-ochial schools produced effectn 
 on the rural muse of Scotlanil also, which have 
 not hitherto been suspected, and which, though 
 less s])lendid in trieir nature, arc not however 
 to be iTgarded as trivial, whether we consider 
 the happiness or the morals of the peopA;. 
 
 There is some reason to believe, that the 
 original inhabitants of the British isles posses^itl 
 a peculiar and interesting species of music, 
 which being banished from the plains by the 
 successive invasions of the Saxons, D ines, and 
 Normans, was preserved with the native race, 
 in the wilds of Iiel.md and in the mountains of 
 Scotland and Wales. The Iri>h, the Scottish, 
 and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each 
 other, but the ililference in iv be considered as 
 in dialect only, and ])ro!)ilily produced by th.e 
 influence of time, like the difl"crent dialects of 
 their common language. If this coi.jecture be 
 true, the Scottish music must be more imme- 
 diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland 
 tunes, though now of a character somewhat dis- 
 tinct, must have descended from the mountains 
 in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
 to conjectures, evidently involved in great nn- 
 certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- 
 tish peasantry have been long in posses-ion of a 
 nuinber 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 simple inhabitants, and in 
 the succession of time varied probably as the 
 condition of society varied. During the sepa- 
 ration and the hosti.ity of tiie two nations, these 
 songs and ballads, as far as our impert'ect docu- 
 ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; 
 such as the Ilutitis of Clieviut, and the liutlle 
 nf Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns 
 when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity 
 took place, the lural muse of Scotland breathed 
 in softer accents. " In the want of real evi- 
 dence respecting the history of our songs," says 
 Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had 
 to conjecture. One woiilil be dis])osed to think, 
 that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunea 
 were clothed with new words after the union 
 of the crowns. The inhabit ir.ts of the border*, 
 who had fiuinerly been warriors from choice, 
 and husbandmen fiom necessity, cither quitted 
 the country, or were tratisronned iato real .shep- 
 
dG 
 
 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 Leriis, easy in their c rcumi>-tances, and satisfied 
 with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of 
 chivalry for which they are celebrated by Frois- 
 fcart, remained suflicient to ins|)ire elevation of 
 sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. 
 The familiarity and kindness which had long 
 Bubsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
 could not all at once be obliterated, and this 
 :onnexi(in tended to sweeten rural life. In this 
 state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of 
 jjiiad, 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 on^-e to rouse the borderers like the 
 trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the 
 Lei^islature (1579), classed with rogues and va- 
 gabonds, and attempted tu be sujipiessed. Knox 
 And his discij)les influenced the Scottish parlia- 
 ment, but contended in vain with her rural 
 nmse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably 
 on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri- 
 butary streams, one or more original geniuses 
 may have arisen who were destined to give a 
 «ew turn to the taite of their countrymen. 
 They would see that the events and pursuits 
 which chequer private life were the proper sub- 
 jects f . r popular poetry. Love, which had for- 
 merly held a divided sway with gloiy and am- 
 bition, became now the masrer-passion ot the 
 foul. To |iortray in lively and delicate colours, 
 thiiUgh with a hasty hand, the hojies and fears 
 that agitate the breast of the h.ve-suk swain, 
 or forlorn maiden, alford ample scope to the 
 rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus 
 himself would not have been ashamed, might 
 he composed bv an uneducated rustic with a 
 tlight tincture of letters; or if in these songs 
 the character of the lustic be sometimes assum- 
 ed, the truth of character, and tlie language of 
 nature, are preserved. With niiatfected sim- 
 plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
 likely to soften the heart of a cruel ai;il coy 
 mistress, or to regain a tickle lover. Even in 
 such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
 breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled 
 gloom which characterizes the swee'.ist ot tlie 
 Highland luiiiaiji, or vocal airs. Nor are tlie>e 
 songs all jilaintive ; many of them are lively 
 and bumorous-, and some appear to us coarse 
 and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine 
 descrijitions of the manners of an energetic and 
 Bequestered people in their hours of mirth and 
 festiv ty, though in their portraits some objects 
 are brought into o|)en view, whieli more fasti- 
 dious painters would have thrown into sh.ide. 
 
 " As those nuai poets Ming tor amusLiuent, 
 n:t for gain, their eliusions sehlimi exceeded a 
 lov?-song, or a billad of satire or hiimour, 
 whitl., like the words of the elder minstre s, 
 were seldom coramitied to writing, but tiea- 
 tured up in the memory of tht^ir friend, and 
 aeighl.o jrs. Neither known to the learne(i nor 
 patii'iilzeil by tlie great, tlie-e ru>lic bards lived 
 »ud Jied 111 obscurity ; aud by a sti.(nge latahty, 
 
 their story, and even their very rwrnes havi 
 been forgotten. When proper models for pas- 
 toral songs were produced, there would be nc 
 want of imitators. To succeed in this specie! 
 of composition, soundness of understanding and 
 sensibility of heart were more requisite thas 
 flights of imagination or pomp of numl>e:-v 
 Great changes have certainly taken place 13 
 Scottish song- writing, though we cannot tracs 
 the steps of this chant;e ; and few of the pieces 
 admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be 
 discovered in modern collections. It is possible, 
 though not proiiahle, that the music may have 
 remained neaily the same, though the words to 
 the tunes were entirely new-modelled." 
 
 These conjectures are highly ingenious. Ic 
 cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of 
 ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay 
 took place among the Scottish peasantry iniine- 
 diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed 
 during the greater part of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, 
 was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the 
 religious petsecutions which succeeded each 
 other in that disastrous period ; it was not til) 
 after the revolution in IGSS, and the subsequent 
 establishment of their beloved form of church 
 government, that the peasantry of the Lowlandi 
 enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that 
 period that a great number of the most admireij 
 ."Scottish songs have been produced, though tht 
 tunes to which they are sung, are in general of 
 n:uch greater antiquity. It is not unreasonab'e 
 to suppose, that the jieace and security derived 
 from the Revolution, and the Union, produced 
 a favourable change on the rustic poetry of 
 Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that 
 the institution of parish schools in 1696, by 
 which a certain degree of instruction was dif- 
 fused universally among the peasantry, contii- 
 buted to this happy cH'ect. 
 
 Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the 
 S>-ottish Theociitus. He was born on the high 
 mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- 
 dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Gleni,'o- 
 uar, a stieam which descends i .to the Clyde. 
 The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the 
 inquir.ng traveller. He was the son of a pea- 
 sant, and piob lb y received such instruction as 
 Ins parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of 
 his parents admitted. Ramsay ma .e his ap- 
 pearance in Edii. burgh, in the beginning of the 
 present century, in tlie humble character of an 
 apprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or 
 litteen years of age. By degrees he acquired 
 notice for his social disposition, and his tal'.-ct 
 I for the composition of verses in the Scot'ish 
 idiom ; anil, changing his profession for that of 
 a bookseller, he became i.timate with many of 
 the literarv, as well as the gay and fashionable 
 characters' of his time.* Hiving published a 
 
 • " He was coeval wilh Joseiili Mitchell, luvl hn 
 club of '"►« wits, who, alioii i7 9, |ui'.ih»!Hil a verj 
 l.oor miSLLllaiii, to wlu-»^ Dr Yoiin;j, tl- •utlloi ul 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 rotiime of poems of liis own ii\ 1751, wliicli 
 K'as f.ivoiiralilv ivi-oivL-il, he iindLTtonli to make 
 t (•(illcctioii of iiiicioiit Scottish poems, iitider the 
 title of tlie Ercr-dretii, and was afterwards 
 >m'imra;^'.il to pieseiit to tile world a oolleetioii 
 of Scc.rti-h siiiii;s. " From what soiiices he 
 proriirrd tliein," says Ramsay of Oihteityre, 
 " whither from tradition or maiiuscii)it, is iin- 
 rertiiti. As in the I^twr- Green he made some 
 pi-h attempts to improve on the originals of his 
 aneieiit |)oems. he iiLohahly used still [greater 
 freedom with the sontjs and hallaiis. The truth 
 cannot, however, he known on tlils jioint, till 
 niamiseripts of the son;;s piinted hy him, more 
 sne'ent tli in the present eentury, shall be pro- 
 d leeii, or aceess lie oiitained to his own papers, 
 if they are sti I in existence. To several tunes 
 whieh either wanted words, or had words that 
 weie impro| er or iinperlect, he or his friends 
 adaptfil verses worthy of the melodies they ac- 
 ronipanied, wi'itliy indeed of the sjolden ii<re. 
 These verses were perfectly intellii^ihle to everv 
 rustic, yet justly admired hy jiersons of taste, 
 who regarded them as the fienuine otFspriiig of 
 the pastoral muse. In some respects Ranisav 
 liad advintaifcs not possessed hy poets writini; 
 in the Scottish dl ilect in our davs. Songs in 
 the dialect of Cunihcrland or Lancasliiie, could 
 never iie popular, liecinse these dialects hive 
 never l.'cen s|i()keii hy persons of fashion. But 
 till the middle of the present century, every 
 Scotsman, from the peer to the jieasant, spnke 
 a truly Doric iani^uage. It is true the English 
 moralists and pnefs were hy this time read hv 
 every person of condition, ami considered as the 
 standards for polite composition, iiut, us na- 
 tional prejuilices were still strong, the hi:sv, the 
 learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak 
 their native dialect, and that with an elegance 
 and poignancy of whieh Scotsmen of the present 
 day can h.ive no jiist notion. I am (dd enough 
 to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Lenchat, 
 a schol.ir and a man of fashion, wlio survived 
 a!i the menihers of the I'nic ii Parliament, in 
 which he had a seat. His pronuiiciation and 
 phraseidogy differed as mueli fiiiiii tlie common 
 dialect, as the language of St. James's fr<mi that 
 ijf Thames Street. Had we letained a court 
 and parliament of our own, the tongues of the 
 two sister kingdoms would indeed lune diifered 
 like the Castilian and Portuguese ; hut each 
 would have its own c'assics, not in a siugle 
 branch, hut in the whole circle of literature. 
 
 " Ran\say associated with the men of wit 
 and fashion of his dav, and several of tliem at- 
 tempted to write poetry in his manner. Per- 
 rons too idle oi too dissipatid to think of com- 
 positions that required mu.h cXirtion, succeeded 
 vciy h.ippily in miikini; tender sonnets to fa- 
 vourite tunes in conipliiiupt to their mistresses, 
 «nd transfoiming tl.einsei\es into impassioned 
 
 shepherds, cauglit the language o. .ne chnractc;' 
 they assnmed. Thus, ahont the year I7."il, 
 Kohert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote tlf 
 morlern song of Tircflxii/e,' whieh has heer 
 so much admired. In 1713, Sir (iilhert Klliot, 
 the first of our liwyeis who both spoke and 
 wrote English ehgantly, composed, in the cha- 
 racter ot a love- sick swain, a beautiful song, 
 beginning, jyji/ sla<ep I veijlcctcil, I lust inif 
 fliii'f)-lini,k, on the inarria_'e (d" his mislress, 
 Miss Foihcs, with Ron dd Crawfurd. And 
 ahont twilve years aftei wards, tit sister of Sir 
 (iilheit wrote the uiicicnt words to the tune oi 
 the I'liiwers (^f the FtTC^t.-f and supposed to al- 
 lude to the battle of Fluwilen. In spite of tlio 
 liouhle rhyme, it is a sweet, and tiiongh in some 
 parts allegorical, a natural expression of national 
 sorrow. The more nhilir/i words to the same 
 tune, beginning, I liave scm the xmUiiifj iffr- 
 tiiiie ii-(jiiilijif/, w ere written long before by Mrs. 
 Cockhuin, i Woman of great wit, who outlived 
 all the first group vi literati .if the present cen- 
 ttiiy, all of whom were very fond of her. I was 
 flelighted with her company, tiiougn when I saw 
 her, she was very old. iMu.h did she know 
 that is now lost. " 
 
 In addition to these instrnees of Scoitish 
 songs, produced in tlie earlier pait of the pie- 
 sent century, may he menti.'iied the ballad ol 
 Iliirilikniitt, by Lady Wanilaw ; the ballad o( 
 WiUinm (intl Margarit ; and the song entitled 
 the Jiiiks iif Invermrnj, by Mallet; the love- 
 song, beginning, Fi.r tver. Fortune, wilt tlimt 
 pnivt; jirodiiced hy the youthful muse of Thom- 
 son ; and the ex(|nisite pathetic ball, id, tltt JJnus 
 of Yarrow, by Hamilton of H.ingour. On tlie 
 revival of letters in Seotlauil, sul^eijuerit to tii6 
 Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- 
 vailed for the national songs and music. " For 
 many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing 
 of songs was tlie great delight of the higher and 
 middle order of tlie |)eojile, as well as of the 
 peasantry ; and tin. ugh a taste for It.ilian mus c 
 has intertercd with this amusement, it is still 
 very prevalent. Between forty and fjt'ty vears 
 ago, tlie common people weie not only exceed- 
 ingly fond of songs aiid baihids. hut ol metrical 
 h. story. Olten have 1, in mv eheerhil inoin of 
 youth, listened to tliem with deli-l.t, win n 
 leading or reciting the exploits of U'.dUee and 
 Bruce agiiust the Suiit/iruus. Lord Haile.« 
 was woiit to call Blind H.iriy their Il.'li/e, he 
 being their great fav..uiite next the Scriptuies. 
 When, therefore, one in the v.de of life felt the 
 first emotion of t.enius, he wanted not niodeU 
 siii ginerii. But though the .secd.s of jvietry 
 were scattered with a pleniifiil hand a:i;( iig tlie 
 Scottish peasantry, the ])r (hict was pndiahiy 
 like that of pears and apples — of a thousand 
 that sjirung up, nine Iiui.divd and fifty are sa 
 bad as to set the teeth on edge ; foity-iive oi 
 
 r/zo /:,'//,'.■», prefixed o copy of verses." 
 fa Itl'.trf om Mr liamaay oj Ochtcrli/t : 
 itur. 
 
 * Be/jinnin?, \W>at beauliex dees Flora disclose 
 t Begji ling, I have heard a lilting at ou-J cwn* 
 mil/c'iije 
 
88 
 
 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 Hiore S-'e passsMe and ii'^eful ; and tKe re«t of 
 an exquisite fl.ivnur. Allan Rams;iy and Birns 
 are tfildiiips of t\us ]a.st dcsfriijtion. They hud 
 the example of the elder Scotti'^h poets ; they 
 were not without the aid of ^he bist English 
 writers ; and, what \\ as of still more import- 
 ance, they were no strangers to the book of na- 
 ture, and to the book of God," 
 
 From this general view, it is apparent that 
 Allin Riims.iy may be considered as in a great 
 measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
 countiy. His collection of ancient Scottish 
 poems under the name of Tlie £cer-);recn, his 
 collection cf Scottish pcn,;;s, and his own poems, 
 the principal of which is the Gentle S/tep/ierd, 
 have been universally read among the peasantry 
 of his country, and have in some degiee super- 
 seded the adventures of I3ruce and Wallace, as 
 recorded by Bart)our and Blind Harry. Bums 
 was well acquainted with all of these. He had 
 a'.so before him the poems of Fergusson in the 
 ftcottisli dialect, which have been produced in 
 our own times, and of which it will be neces- 
 sary 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 societv. From a 
 Well written and app irently authentic account 
 of his life, we learn that he spent six years at 
 tile schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se- 
 veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and 
 St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one 
 time destined for the Scottish church ; but as 
 he advanced towards manhood, he renounced 
 that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the 
 oftice of an attorney, Fergiisson hail sensibility 
 of mind, a waim and generous heart, and ta- 
 lents for society, of the most attractive kind. 
 To such a man no situati(m could be more ilan- 
 gerous than that in wliich he was placed. The 
 excesses into which he was led, impaired his 
 feeble coiisti'iition, and he sunk uniler tlieni in 
 the month of October, 1774, in his '2:3d or24tli 
 year. Burns was not acipiaiiited with the 
 jsocms of tlii> yonthfiil genius when he himself 
 began to write jioetry ; and when he first sav>- 
 them, he had renounced the nnises. But while 
 he resided in tlie town of Irvine, meeting with 
 Ferrpissim^s Scottish Paems, he informs us that 
 he " strung liis lyre anew with enuila'ing vi- 
 gour. Tdiiched by the svnipathv originating 
 in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si- 
 milar fortune, Buri'.s regarded Fergusson with 
 a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over; 
 his grave he erected a monument, as has al- 
 ready been inentioni-d ; and his poems he has 
 in sever.J instances nude the subjects of his 
 imitation. 
 
 I'roni this aci ount of the Scottish poems 
 Vn<iwn to Ihirns, those who are acipiainted 
 with them will see they are chiefly hiiiUMrous 
 or jiatbetic ; and under one or oilier of these 
 ■ii'scriptions mo>-t of his own ))oems will cla-s. 
 Let UA comuiire him with his predecessors un- 
 
 der each of th.-M points of view, an^ dose om 
 examination with a few general observations. 
 
 It has frequently been observed, that Scot. 
 land has produced, cumparatively sjieaking, f.-w 
 writers who have excelled in humour. But tliis 
 observation is true only when a]iplied to those 
 wlio have continued to reside in their own coun- 
 try, and have confined themselves to coinposi- 
 tion in pure English ; and in thest circuirs~ 
 stances it admits of an easy explanation. The 
 Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
 of Scotland, havt been at all times remarkable 
 for dwelling on subjects of humour, in \"liii;h 
 indeed some of them have excelled. It would 
 be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
 having beciinie provincial, is now scarcely suit- 
 ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
 may believe that the poem of CItristh Kirk i.j 
 the Grene was written by James the F.rst of 
 Scotland, tliis acc(uiipH>hed monarch, who had 
 received an Engli>h education under Henry the 
 Fourth, 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 bad been formed Chiistis 
 Kiik of the GreTie was leprinted by Ramsay, 
 somevvhat nuuiernized in the orthography, and 
 two cantos were added by hiin, in which he at- 
 tempts to carry on the design. Hence the |)oeni 
 of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's 
 works. The royal bard describes, in the first 
 canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a cimten- 
 tion in archery, ending in an aft'iay. Ramsay 
 relates the restoration of concord, and the re- 
 newal of the rural s)iorts with the humours of a 
 countiy wedding. Though e.ich of the poets 
 describes the mannt is of his respective age, yet 
 in the whole piece there is a very sufSeiei.t uni- 
 formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha- 
 racter ill the Scottisli ])easantry at the two pe- 
 riods, distant from each other three hundied 
 ycar>. It is an hotiourable distinction to this 
 liody of men, that their character and manneis, 
 veiy little enibellisli'il, have been fiund to he 
 susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe- 
 cies of (loetiy ; and it must appear not a little 
 curious, that the single n.i>-iot. of modern Eu- 
 rope which possesses an tiriginal poetry, should 
 have received the model, followed by their rus- 
 tic liards, fi'oni the monarch on the throne. 
 
 The two additional cantos to Christ/s hirk 
 of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
 jectionable in [loint of delicacy, are among the 
 hajipiest of his productions. H:s duet excel- 
 lence indeed, lay in the descr ption of rural cha- 
 racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not 
 possess any very high jiowers either of iniagiuA. 
 tion or of understanding. He was well ac- 
 quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their 
 lives and opinions. The subject was in a great 
 measure new ; his talents were etjual to the 
 subject, and he has shown thai it may >e hai*- 
 pily ail ipted to pa^tor.il poetry. In his GtiDtU 
 Shtjihcrd, the characters are delineations from 
 nature, the descriptive parts are in the geuMin* 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 Kty'o of licautifiii simplicity, the jia«^iot.s ami 
 siK-i (ii [in I't riiial I'tt.' :;ro hndy liortnyril, ;ii:(l 
 till' lie It is iileiniiiifjlv intiTfstcil in the li.i| pi- 
 revs ih it is hisrwc' on iMmc-ence and virtue. 
 TliKHiii'mut tlie u h !e there is iiii air of reality 
 n li cli t!ie iiidst carele s reader cannot hut jier- 
 fr'vi- ; a^ul in laet no pooiii ever perhaps ac- 
 q-jirid -u hiih a r, putation, in v.hieii tiulli le- 
 c.'ivtti Ml Itt'e enilii llishnieiit fnmi the iii:a;;ina- 
 tism. la liis |)ivti)ral M)n!;s, and liis rural ta es. 
 H inisiy app ais to less advantage, indeed, hut 
 etill wltli Cdiisiihralilc attraetiou. Tlie stiiry ol 
 the J\l(iiik unit the JMille.r's II {/'', tluniuh siiine- 
 \v#Mt lieeiit:ous, may raid< with the hap]iiest 
 jirodui tiiins ot I'rinr or Li Funt.iine. Cut when 
 he attempts suhjeets from Inghef hfe, and aims 
 at pure English eonipusitioii, hf is feel.le and 
 iinintere>tini;, and seldimi even reaches meilio- 
 ciity. Meither are I'.is f.milli.ir epistles and 
 elegies in the Scutti-h dialect entltle<i to much 
 ai)(iri)l)atii;u. Thnugh Fergus>on had higher 
 powers of imagination than Hanis:iy, his <;enius 
 was nnt of the higliest order ; nor did his learn- 
 ing, which was consideiahle, improve his ge- 
 nius. His poems written in pure Kngli^h, in 
 wliich he olten tollows classical models, though 
 K'jpiriir to t!ie I'.n.lish poem- (.1" Ramsay, sel- 
 dom rise aliove nudiocrity ; l)ut in those com- 
 posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
 successful. He was, in general^ however, less 
 hap|iy th.in R.inisay in the suhjects of his muse 
 A> he sjient the greater part ot his life in Edin- 
 tiurgli, and wrote for his amusement in the in- 
 tervals oi Inisiiiess or dissipation, his Scottish 
 poems aie ehieliy founded on the incidents of a 
 town life, wnicli, tho\igh they are not suscepti- 
 hle of huuiour, do not ailiuit of those delinea- 
 tions of scenery and manneis, which vivify tlie 
 rural jjoetry of U.inisay, and which so agreeably 
 amuse the fancy and mterest the heart. The 
 town eclogues of Fuigusson, it we may so deno- 
 minate them, are hov.ever faitliful to nature, 
 and often distinguished hy a very happy vein of 
 Luniour. Ills poems entitied '1 lie JUuft Days. 
 'I lie lini/'s lliitli-dny in Kdintxirgh, LellU 
 liiues, and Tlie Uuihiw Fair, v.il! justify this 
 character. In tliese. particularly in the last, he 
 iniit.iied Christis Kirk of the. iiTtne, as Uam- 
 Kay had done htfore him. His AddTess to the 
 TiDii-kiik Ucl is an cMjni-ite puce of humour, 
 which Huiui has scarcely excelled. In ajipre- 
 ciating tilt genius of Fcrgu.sson, it ought to be 
 rtcoilected, that his poems are the careless effu- 
 sions of au irregular thuu;,-h amiable young man, 
 who wrote for tiie periodical papers of the day, 
 ai.d who died ill early jou'h. Had his life been 
 prolonged undir happier Lircuuistances of for- 
 tune, he wuulil jirob.ibly h.ive risen to much 
 ciglM r reputation. He might have excelled in 
 rur.il poetrv, tor though his professed pastorals 
 CD the estal.lished Sicilian model, are stale and 
 *niutiTesxin^, J he Fanner's Inyte,' which 
 
 • The fat mer's Sre-sidei 
 
 mav be cousiilered a« a Scottish pastnial, i.s (.ht 
 happiest cf all his productiins, iind ctrtiin'y 
 w,is the aichetj-|)e of the Ciillri's Saturdaf 
 Aiyht. Fergusscn, and more espicia'lv Durni, 
 have shown, that the character mid m.itiners (>< 
 the jieas.mtry of Scotland, i.f tlie present times, 
 are as well adapted to poetry, as in the diys of 
 Kamsay, or vif the author of Chritis Kirk aj 
 the limif. 
 
 The hoinonr of l^iirns is of a richer vein than 
 that of IJ.aiisav or Feigusson, bi.tli of whom, s.\ 
 lie himself iutnims us, he had " freipu ntly in hif 
 eye, but ratlur with a view to kindle at their 
 iLiine, than to sei vile imitation." His ilescriiK 
 tive powers, whether the objects on which they 
 ire employeil be comic or serious, animate, or 
 inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe- 
 liorilv of th.s kind is e«senti.il to every species 
 of poetical excelli nee. In one of h;s earl. el 
 poems liis plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson 
 (if contentment on the lower classes of society, 
 by showing that their superiors are neituer 
 much better nor happier than them-elves ; and 
 this he cliooses to execute in the form of a ilia- 
 logue between two dogs. He introduces thii 
 di.ilogue by an aecnnnt of the persons and clia- 
 racteis of the speakers. The hrst, whom he 
 has named Coisar, is a dog ol coniiition : — 
 
 " His locked, lettir'i, biaw brass collar, 
 Showed him the gentleman and scholar." 
 
 Iligh-bied though he is, he is however full J. 
 condescension : 
 
 " At kitk or market, mill or smiddie, 
 N.ie tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duililie, 
 IJut he wail stan't, as glad to see Inm, 
 Aii" straaii't on .stanes aii ItM.cks w'l fihn." 
 
 The other, Liiath. is a " plougman's- collie." 
 hut a cur of a good heart and a sound uuder- 
 standing. 
 
 " His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
 Aye gat him frienrls in ilka |ilace ; 
 His breast was white, his towsie bjck 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 IJis gawcie tad, wi' upward curl, 
 lluny o'er his hurdles wi' a swirL" 
 
 Never were tira days so exquisitely delineat- 
 ed. Their gambols, belore they sit down to 
 moralize, are desciilted with an equal degree ol 
 h.i])piness ; and through the whole di,ilo.;ne, 
 the character, as well as the dil'erLiit condition 
 of the two speakers, i- kept in view. The 
 speech of Luath, in which he enumerates tlae 
 comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
 count of their merriment ou the first day uf tht 
 year : 
 
 " That merry day the year begins. 
 They bar the duui on .rostj winds. 
 
90 
 
 ESSAY UPON^ SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 The t.;'p]>V ii'ck-! « i' m^intling ream, 
 And il.fds a he.iit-iMS|iirin' stiMiii ; 
 The ..intiii |)i|ie, and siieeshiu" mill. 
 Are handed round «i' riy;':.t ijiii'l-will ; 
 The canty auld fulks crackin' crou-se. 
 The young anes rantin' thro' tht- hduse — 
 Mv heart lias heen sae fiin to we them, 
 Thai I f'"' j<"J /"'« iarkit wi' i/:ein." 
 
 Of al! the animals who have inora'ized on hu- 
 man afFairs since the days of A'ls.-p, the dog 
 seems lie-t entitled to this privile,:re. as well from 
 his superior s.igacitv, as from his hein;:, more 
 than any other, the friend and associate of man. 
 The do:is of Ijurns, e.vceptin;j; in their talent for 
 moralizing, are ilou-nright dogs. The " twa 
 dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, and 
 the contnist between their form and character 
 as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, 
 heightens the humour, and deepens the impiei- 
 sion of the poet's satire. Tliongh in tliis poem 
 the chief excellence may he <'onsidered as hu- 
 raour, vet great talents are disjdayed in its com- 
 position ; the hajipiest jiowers of descript on 
 and the deepest insight into the human heart. 
 It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns .,,.(^..,ondeiates 
 
 appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of ,, „ "_ 
 
 his sensibility fiequently impels him to intro 
 duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten. 
 
 l-'reedom and WlihJiy ging the^Ither, 
 Tak affyojr diana !" 
 
 Df this union of humour, with the liighe. 
 powers of imagination, instances may be found 
 in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Horuboi.k, 
 and in almost every stanzi of the Address tt 
 the Dtil, one of the happiest of his productions. 
 After reproaching this terrible being with all 
 his "doings" and misileeds, in the course of 
 which he passes through a series of Scottish 
 superstitions, anil ri>es at times into a high 
 strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, de- 
 livered in a tone of great fimiliarity, nut alto- 
 gether unmixed with ajipiehension, in the fol. 
 lowing words ; 
 
 " But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ' 
 O wail ye tak a thought an' men' • 
 Ye aiblins might — I ilinna ken — 
 
 Still ha'e a stake — 
 I'm wae to think upo' yon den 
 
 Ev'n for your sake ! 
 
 Humour and tenderness are here so happ'.l-/ 
 intermixed, that it is impossible to say wliict 
 
 Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
 Causeway am\ the Plainst .nts,* of Edinburgh 
 This probably suggested to liurns his (lialoa:u» 
 
 derness or of pity ; and, where occasion admit<, ^^^^^.^^^ ^^-le Old and New Bridge over the river 
 he is sometiuiLS earned on to exert the higher, ^._ rj,,^^ ^^^^^^.^ „f g^^,.], subjects requires that 
 powers of iniaginatiiui. In such instances he j ^j^ ^j^^„ ^^ ^^.^.^j^^j i„„„orously, and Fergusson 
 leaves the society of R.msay and of Fergusson, j^^^ attempted nothing bevond this. Though 
 
 and associates himself with the masters of Eng 
 lish poetry, whose language he frequently as. 
 sumes. 
 
 Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- 
 
 the Causticay and the Plaiiutmies talk to- 
 gether, no attempt is made to personify the 
 speakers. 
 
 In the dialogue between the Briqs of A)/r, 
 
 amjiles may be found in The Death au'JDi/n.;/ ^.^^ .. .^''^^,;| , ^.^;.^._„ ^,,. .. i^.^pHed "by 
 
 Wards "fpo T Millie, in The aidd Farmer's 
 Ntw- Yi-ar's Moraiiii/ Sulutaliori tu his Mare 
 M'lqgie, and in many other of his ])oeuis. The 
 praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
 Burns. To this he dedicates his i)oem of 
 Sc'ilch Drink. After mentioning its cheering 
 ii.fliience in a variety of situations, he describes, 
 with singular liveiiuess and power of fancy, it.s 
 Etimulating effects on the blacksmith working 
 at his forge : 
 
 ' Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
 The brawnie, hiinie, ploughman chiel. 
 Brings hard owre-hip, wi" sturdy wheel. 
 
 The strong lore-hammer, 
 Till !)lock an* stu.lilie ring and reel 
 
 Wi' diusome clamour." 
 
 Again, however, he sinks into humour, and 
 toncludes the poem with the tVllowlng most 
 Uughdble, but must irreverent apostrophe; 
 
 "* Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
 yiiiMigh 'vhyles yt •.^ol^t;'y V"J'' le.ilher, 
 "I'ili where j'ou sit, on er.ips o' heatJiur, 
 Ye tine your dam 
 
 whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
 and wandered out a!one in the darkness anil so- 
 litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the 
 river, where tlie stillness was interrupted only 
 by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. 
 It was after miilnight. The Di.tigeoii-clock 
 had struck two, ami the sound had heen re- 
 peated by Wallace Tower. All eUe was husheiL 
 The moon shone brightly, and 
 
 " The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
 Crept, gently-crusting, o'er theglittering stream." 
 
 In this situation, the listening bard hears the 
 " clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
 air, and spi-eilily he perceives two be iigs. reaied, 
 tlie one on the Old, the other on the New liriilge, 
 whose form and attire he describes, and whos« 
 conveisation with each other he reheaiseii. 
 These genii cuter into a comp.irlsoa of the re- 
 spective edifices over wh'ch they preside, and af- 
 terwards, as is usual bi'tween the old and young, 
 compare modern characters and maiir.ers with 
 
 th-jse of •'i.-t t.mes. 
 
 The 
 
 liliei 
 
 l>e <:i- 
 
 • I'UiiiiS 3 a'.— iilc-iiavuiueiit. 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 9i 
 
 pci'ted, ami ts4Jt and scold each otlior in liroad 
 8i-(iti-h. Tliis c'onver-atlon, whlcli is corfaiiily 
 hui;;cirou5, may l)t' consldciLiI as a propL'r l)rl^i- 
 ness of the poein. As the debate i iiii<! hitjh, and 
 tiireateiis serious cdiisocjueiiccs, all at once it is 
 interrupted by a new scene of wonders : 
 
 ;ill before their si;;ht 
 
 A fiii V train appcar'd in order bri;fht ; 
 Arlown the !;litterin!; stream they fiMtly danced ; 
 Firiiiht to the moon thoir vaiioiis dres<es glanced ; 
 ThfV 'iKiti'd o'er the wat'ry i;I.iss so neat, 
 The inf int ice scarce l)Liit beneath thuir feet ; 
 Willie arts of minstrelsy anions; them rung, 
 Ami siiul-ennoliled Bards heroic, ditties sung," 
 
 * The Genius of the Strciim in front appears, 
 A venerable chief, advMnce(l in years; 
 Ills lio.irv head wltli water-lilies crown'd. 
 Ills manly 'eg with girter tan^de bound." 
 
 Next follow a number of other allegorical be- 
 ings, among whom are the four seasons, Rural 
 Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 
 
 " Benevolence, with mllil Iienignaiit air, 
 A female form, c ime from the tow'is of Stair : 
 Learnin;j and Worth in etjual measures trode, 
 Fiom simple Catrine, theU' iong-luved abode: 
 Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazci 
 
 wreath. 
 To rustle Agriculture did befpieath 
 The broken iron in^ti iimenr of Death ; 
 At sight of whom our Sprites forgit their kin- 
 
 dlmg wrath." 
 
 This poem, iriegul ir and imperfect as it is, 
 displays various and powerful talents, and may 
 gerve to illustrate th.euenius of Burns. In par- 
 ticular, it affords a striking instance of his being 
 carried beyond bis original purpose by the pow- 
 ets of imaglnaticm. 
 
 In Fergnsson's poem, the Pluhisianes and 
 Caiisewny contrast the churrctei's of the rilffer- 
 ent persons who walked upon them Burns 
 probably conceived, that, by a dlah'gue lictween 
 the Old anil New Bridge, he might form a hu- 
 morous contrast between ancient and modern 
 manners in the town of Avr. Such a dialogue 
 could only be sujiposed to pass in the stillness of 
 nlgiit ; and this led our poet into a description 
 of a midnight scene, which excited in a high 
 degree the powers of his imagination. During 
 tl.o whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
 fancy, and at length it sug.;ests to him a fairy 
 dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the 
 noon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the 
 Briijs of Ayr is appeased. 
 
 Incongruous as the different parts of this poem 
 are, it is not an incom.;ruity that displeises ; and 
 «'e have only to regret tiia' tne poet did not be- 
 Uow a little pains in making the figures more 
 correct, and in smoothing the veisitidtiim. 
 
 The ei^istlei* of Burns, in which may be in- 
 
 cludeil his Dcilicnt'ion to G. H. Hs:^ discover 
 like his other writings, the powers of i superiol 
 understanding. Tliey display deep insight into 
 human nature, a gay ami happy strain of rellec- 
 turn, great indepenLence of sentiment, and ge- 
 nerosity of heart. The Jlul/owcen of linnis i] 
 free from every objecti in. It is interesting n^it 
 merely from its humorous description of miniiers, 
 but as it records the spells and charms used oa 
 the celebration of a festival, now, even in Scot- 
 land, filling into neglect, but which was once 
 observed over the greater jiart of ]?ritain and 
 Irelanil. These charms are siip))oscd to alT.ini 
 an insight into futurity, especially on the sub- 
 ject of marriage, the most interesting event of 
 rural life. In the Hnllmucen, a female, in |)er- 
 forminr one of the spells, has occasion to go out 
 by mnonllght to dip her shift-slccve into a stieain 
 rniinitKj townril.-i the South. It was not ne- 
 cessary 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 it admitted ; and the teinj)- 
 tatlon to describe so beautiful a natural object 
 by moonlight, was not to be resisted — 
 
 " Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
 As through the glen it wimpi't ; 
 Wliyles round the rocky scar it strays; 
 
 \VliyIes in a wlel it diuipl't ; 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
 
 \Vi' bickering ilincing (hizzle ; 
 Whyles cookit unilerneith the braes, 
 Beneath the spreading hazel. 
 
 Unseen that nigl'.t. 
 
 Those who understand tlie Scottish dialect 
 will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
 of description which the records of poetry atF():d. 
 In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, In 
 rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled 
 eqii..*y as i:i that of a humorMus kind, and, using 
 less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, 
 be becomes moie generally intelligible It is dif- 
 ficult to decide whether the .idJic^s to a Muuse 
 whose nest was turned up with //ieju/o'//,//, should 
 be considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
 it may, the pnein is one of the ha 'piest anl 
 most finished of his productions. If we smile 
 at the '• bickering brattle" of this little flying 
 aniiiial, it is a smile of tendei iiess and pity. 
 The descriptive part is admirable : tlie iiioi jl re- 
 flections beautiful, and aiising dliectly out of the 
 
 'occasion; and iri the cuncluslmi there is a deep 
 
 ■ melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, 
 that arises to the suliliine. The A<l,ircss to a 
 
 I Jiloiiiit'iin Dnisy, turned il'iK'n with the pfouiih, 
 is a poem of the same nature, tlioi,,li somewhat 
 inferior in poiiit of originality, as well as in the 
 interest produced. To extract our of incideiiU 
 so common, and .seemingly so trivial as thi-se, 
 >.o tine J tran; of M;i:*imei:* <trid iuiagcry. i> th« 
 surest proof, as well as the nnst brilliant triumph, 
 of origin il genius. The Vision, in two tanto-i 
 
 , from which a beautiful e.vtract ii taken bv .Mr 
 
92 
 
 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 Mackenzie, '/n the 9''tli numbcT of tlie Latinner, 
 is a pnein of gre.it anil various excelli-nce. The 
 orienin<j, in which the poet describes his own 
 stiti; of minil, retiriiis; ia the evening, wearied, 
 from the labours of the day, to moralize on his 
 conduct and prospects, is truly interestins;. The 
 ch:inil)er, if we may so term it, in which he sits 
 down to muse, is an exqui-ite painting: — 
 
 " ll:cre, lanely. by tlie infjJe cheek, 
 I sat and eyed the spewinLj reek. 
 That fill'd wi' hoasr-prov king sme k 
 
 That auld clay biggin ; 
 An' heard the restless rations squeak 
 
 About the riggiu. " 
 
 To reconcile to our imagination the entrance 
 of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
 required the powers of Burns — he, however, suc- 
 ceeds. Coi'.a enters, and her countenance, atti- 
 tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual 
 oeings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting 
 Dn her mantle, on which is depicted the most 
 strikitig scenery, as well as the nu)>t distinguished 
 cliariclt-rs, of his nttive country, some exceptions 
 may be mide. The mantle of Coda, like the cup 
 of Tiiyrsis, * and the shield of Achilles, is too 
 murli crowded with figures, and some of the ob- 
 jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, 
 according to the principles of design. The ge- 
 nerous temperament of Burns led him into these 
 exulicrances. In his second edition he enlarged 
 the nuiidier of figures originally introduced, that 
 he might include objects to wiiiih he was at- 
 tached by senf. meats of affection, giit tude, (U' 
 pati iotisin. The second Diian, or canto of this 
 poem, in which Coila describes her own nature 
 and occupations, pai ticularly her superintendence 
 of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles 
 him to the character of a bard, is un elevated and 
 solenm strain ol poetry, ranking in all respects, 
 excepting the harmony of nuud»ers, with the 
 higher productim.s of tlie English muse. The 
 concluding stauz.i, comp ired with that already 
 quoteii, will show to what a height Burns rises 
 in this puein, from the uoint at wliich he set 
 out — 
 
 " And irear thmi thi^ — she solemn said, 
 And bound the holly round my head ; 
 The poli.sh'd leaves, and berries red, 
 
 iJld rustling play ; 
 And, like a passing thougnt, she fled 
 
 Id light away." 
 
 In various poems Burns has exhibited the pic- 
 
 ture of a mind 
 
 th. 
 
 e deep impressKMis of 
 
 real sorrow. Tlic I.iiinenf, the O'le to Jiniti, 
 Drxjmndtiirii, .ind Winter, a Dinje, are of this 
 character. In the first of these poems the eighth 
 *tanz.i, which describes a Bleepless night from 
 ftiinuisli (.f mind, is particularly striking. Burns 
 often indulgui in those luelancliolv views of the 
 
 • Sec the lirtt hli/Hlum of Theocritus. I 
 
 nature anil condition of man, which are so ron. 
 genial to the temperament of sensibility. Th» 
 ])oeni entitled Munu-as made to Movrn, a/Totdt 
 an instance of this kind, and The Wnler Niuht 
 is of the same description. The laii ; is highly 
 characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and 
 of the condition of Burns. It begins with a 
 descri])tion of a dreiidful stiuni on a niglit in 
 v.'in'er. The poet represents himself as lying in 
 bed, and listening to its howling. In this situ- 
 atiun, he naturally turns his thoughts to lh« 
 nurie * Cuttle, dnd the mlli/f S/ieep. exposed to 
 all the violence uf the tempest. Having lament- 
 ed their fate, he proceeds in thi; following : — 
 
 " Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! 
 That in the mei ry months o' spring, 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
 
 What coines o' thee ."' 
 Wharc wilt thou cow'r thy chittei ing wing, 
 
 An' close thy e'e ? 
 
 Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
 his mind ; and as the midnight moon, " muf- 
 fled with clouds," casts her dreary light on his 
 window, thoughts of a darker and moie me- 
 lundiidy nature crowd upon hlni. In this state 
 of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the 
 gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of reflec- 
 tion. The mourner compares the fury of the 
 elements v.'ith that of man to his brotht r ma"l, 
 and finds the former light in the balance. 
 
 " See stern Oppressicm's iron gitp, 
 
 Or ma<l Ainbitiou's gory hand. 
 Sending, like bluoil-houiids from the slip. 
 
 Woe, want, and inuider, o'er the laud." 
 
 He pursues this train of reflection through £ 
 vaiiity of )) irtiiulars, in the course uf which he 
 introduces the following animated apostrophe :— - 
 
 " O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 
 
 Feel not a want but what yourselves create. 
 
 Think, for a moiiient, on his wretched fate, 
 
 Whom friends and ftirtiine quite disown ! 
 Ill-satisfy'd keen Niiture's dain'rous call, 
 
 Strett h'd on his straw be lays him down tc 
 sleep, 
 While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wail. 
 
 Chill o'er his sluinbeis jiiles the drifty heap.* 
 
 The strain of sentiment which runs through 
 this poem is noble, thounh the execution is un- 
 equal, and the versification is defective. 
 
 Among the serious poems of Burns, Tf'i 
 Ciittcr'x Satiirdai/ Nit/fil is perhaps entitled to 
 the first rank. 77/e I'urnier's /n;,le of Feigui 
 son evidently suggested the plan of this poem, 
 as has been already mentioui rl ; but alter the 
 ))l.in was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his 
 
 • Oi.ijc, out-lying. Ourif Cd///r, Cattle that arc un. 
 housed all wniter. 
 
 1 Sill;/ is in ilus, as ir olnor pheei, a term of con* 
 passion and eiiileariiu'nL 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 92 
 
 own jinwcrs for flie t-xociitioii. !■"( rpjiKsoii's 
 ]ioi'iii is i-iTtainlv very licMiitifiil. It lias all tlie 
 Ehatiiis wliiih Hepi'inl on rural cliaractrrs and 
 inainiLTS liappily portrayed, and exhibited under 
 ciii'unistiiiiees highly £);rateful to the imagination. 
 Tlia Ftirnur'a Ini/le liegins with describing the 
 return of evening. The toils of the day are over, 
 and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire- 
 giJe. The reception which he and his men-ser- 
 vants receive from the carefid hotise-wife, is 
 jileasiiigly described. After *heir supper is over, 
 they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 
 
 " 'Rout kirk and market eke tlieir tales gae on, 
 How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 
 
 And there how Marian for a bastard son, 
 l^pon the cutty-f-tool was forced to ride. 
 
 The waefu' scauld o' our Jilcss John to bide. 
 
 The " Guidamc" is next introduced as forming 
 a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand- 
 children, and while she spins from the rock, 
 and the spindle ]ilays on btr " russet lap," she 
 is relating to the ) oung ones tales of witches and 
 ghosts. The poet exclaims, 
 
 *' O mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn. 
 Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
 
 VVi' eild our idle fancies a' return. 
 
 And dim our dolef':' days wi' bairnly foar ; 
 
 The mind's aye cradl'd when the grave is near." 
 
 In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the 
 fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length 
 on the sett!e, a sort of rustic couch, which ex- 
 tends on one side of the fire, and the cat and 
 house-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses. 
 Here, resting at his ease, he gives liis directions 
 to his men-servants for the succeeding day. 
 The house-wife follows his example, and gives 
 her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil 
 in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; 
 bleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move 
 off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet 
 concludes by bestowing his blessing on the 
 " h'jsbandman and all his tribe." 
 
 This is an original and truly interesting pas- 
 toral. It possesses every thing required in this 
 species of composition. We might have perhaps 
 eaid, every thing that it admits, had not Bums 
 written his Cotter's Saturday N'lylit. 
 
 The cottager returning fiom his labours, has 
 ao servants to accompany him, to partake of liis 
 fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle 
 wliich le joins, is composed of his wife and chil- 
 dren only ; and if it admits of less variety, it af- 
 fortls an opportunity for representing scenes that 
 more strongly interest the affections. The 
 roungcr children running to meet him, and 
 llanibering round his knee ; the elder, returning 
 from their weekly labours with the neighbouring 
 fanners, dutifully depositing their little gains 
 hlth their parents, and receiving theii fatlier's 
 Dlessing and instructions ; the incidents of \he 
 courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughce! , " wo- 
 
 man grown," are circuiustapces of the most in, 
 terestiiig kind, w hicli are most ha))pily di-lijieat- 
 ed ; and after their fi i)(^,il supper, the represeri- 
 tati.in of these humbler cottagers foruiing a wider 
 circle round their litirth, and uniting in the 
 worship of God, is a picture the mo^t dceiily af- 
 fecting of any which the rural muse has ever 
 presented to the view. Burns was admiiably 
 adapted to this delineation. Like all men of 
 genius he was of the tenipeiament of devotion, 
 and the powers of memory co-o|)eraied in thi» 
 instance with the sensibility of his heart, and 
 the fervour of his iniagination. The Colter's 
 Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is so- 
 lemn and devotional, and rises at length in a 
 strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
 Iioetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments 
 of patriotism with which it concludes, corres- 
 pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or 
 country have the pastoral muses breathed such 
 elevittd accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- 
 cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form onlv. 
 It is to he regretted that Burns did nut em])loy 
 his genius on other subjects of the same nature, 
 which the manners and customs of the Scottish 
 peasantry would have amiily su])])Iied. Such 
 poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of 
 pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into 
 the heart, and is calculated, fir beyond any otluT 
 human means, for giving ]iermanenre to the 
 scenes and the chaiactets it so exiiulsitcly de- 
 sciibes. 
 
 Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- 
 fer a few observations on the lyric proiluctions 
 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 character and moral infiiience of 
 which, some observations have ulreadv been of- 
 fered. We may hazard a few moie ]iarticular 
 remarks. 
 
 Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland 
 it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where 
 imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, 
 since in this species of composition, from its ad- 
 mitting the more' terrible, as well as the softer 
 graces of poetry, he was eminently (pialilicd to 
 have excelled. The Scottish songs which ser- 
 ved as a model to Burns, are almost without 
 exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of 
 them as are comic, fiequently treat of a rustic 
 courtship, or a country wedding; or they de- 
 scribe the differences of opinion which arise in 
 married life. Burns has imitated this species, 
 and surpassed his models. The song beginning 
 " Husband, husband, cease your strife," may !« 
 cited in support of this observation. * His other 
 
 » The (lialo£jurs between husbands anil their wives 
 wliieli form tlie subjects of the Scotlisli sonj^s, are al 
 most all ludicrous and s;itirjcal, and in llicse ci>iitest« 
 the lady is generjlly viclorious. From the <'ollcetioni 
 of Mr. Pnikerton, we finil that tlieioinie muse of Scot' 
 land ilcli^htcd in such reiirescntations from very early 
 times, in her rude dramatic eli'orts, as well as'inhel 
 rustic son^s. 
 
i)4 
 
 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 comic soni^s are of equal merit. In the rural 
 songs of Scotland, whether humorous or ten- 
 der, the sentiments are given to particular cha- 
 racters, and very generally, the incidents are 
 referred to particular scenery. This last cir- 
 cumstance may be considered as a distinguish- 
 ing feature of the Scottish scngs, and on it a 
 cousiHerable part of their attraction depends. 
 On all occasions the sentiments, of whatever 
 nature, are delivered in the character of the per- 
 son ])rincipa.ly interested. If love be described, 
 it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt; and 
 the passion is delineated under a particular as- 
 pect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de- 
 sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode 
 of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ; 
 but those gentler emotions of tenrlerness and af- 
 fect'on, which do not entirely absorb the lover; 
 but permit him to associate his emotions with 
 the charms of external nature, and breathe the 
 accents of purity and innocence, as well as of 
 love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot- 
 land are honourably di^tinguished from the 
 most admired classical compositions of the same 
 kiml ; and by such associations, a variety as 
 well as Iivelines.s, is given to the representation 
 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 mistresses. On such occasions 
 a degree of interest and realily is given to the 
 Reiitiment, by the spot destined to these happy 
 interviews being particularized. The lovers 
 perhaps meet at the liunh aboon. Traquair, or 
 on the Slinks of Elirick ; the nymphs are in- 
 voice:! to wander among the wilds of Jioslin or 
 trie Woofls of Invcrmay. Nor is the spot mere- 
 ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described 
 as well as the character, so as to represent a 
 complete picture to the fancy. * Thus the 
 
 » One or two examples may illustrate this observa- 
 tion. A Scottish song, wriiten about a hundred years 
 ago, begins thus: — 
 
 " On Ettrick Banks, on a summer's night 
 At gluaiiiing, when the sheep drove harne 
 1 met iTiy lassie, braw and tiplH, 
 Come wading baretbot a' her lane. 
 
 Mv Heart prow lisht, I ran, T flang 
 
 My .irms about her Ijly-neck, 
 All! kissed and ela-ipcd there fu' lang— 
 
 .My words they were na mouy feck." 
 
 The lover, who is a Highlander, Roes on to relate 
 the language he employrd with his Lowland maid to 
 win her hrart, and to persuade her to fly with him to 
 Ihf lligl laud hills Ihire to share his fortune. The 
 sc'iriinents are in thMnsehcs beaiiiiiul. U;it we feel 
 tluni "lib double force, while we coneiive ijiat they 
 Wire ;iildre>sed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
 ■iifjt all alniic- on a summer's evening, by the banks of 
 a beautiful stream, which some of us have nciiirdly 
 Been, and which all of us can paint to our hr.aglnaiion. 
 Let u~ take annilier exauijile. It is now a nymph that 
 ipeaks. Mere how she expresses herself— 
 
 " How hlyihe each mom was I to sec ' 
 Mv twain come o'er thi- lull I 
 
 maxim of Horace, ut pi'cfurri pnesix, is faithfnt> 
 ly observed by these rustic bards, who are guid- 
 ed by the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
 which influenced the fatliLT of epic poetry, on 
 whose example the precept of the Roman post 
 was perhaps founded. Bv this means the ima- 
 gination is employed to interest tluj feelingn. 
 When v.'e do not conceive distinctly, we do not 
 sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and 
 we conceive nothing in th.e abstract. Abstrac- 
 tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in 
 science, mu^t be ab.indoned when the heart is 
 to be 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 voice of 
 poets, whose learning overpov/ers their genius ; 
 of poets of a relined and scientific age. 
 
 The dramatic style which prevails so much 
 in the Scottish songs, whne it contributes great- 
 ly to the interest they excite, also shows that 
 they have originated among a people in the ear» 
 lier stages of society. Where this form of com- 
 position appears in songs of a modern date, it 
 indicates that they have been written after the 
 ancient model. * 
 
 The Scottish songs are of verv unequal poe 
 tical merit, and this inequality often extends to 
 the different parts of the same song. Those that 
 are humorous, or characteristic of manners, 
 have in general the merit of copying nature ; 
 those that are serious are tender and often 
 sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit luL^h 
 powers of imagination, which indeed do nut 
 
 He skipt the bum, and flew to me, 
 I met him with good will." 
 
 Here is another picture drav.Ti by the pencil of Na- 
 ture. \V see a shepherdess standing by the side of a 
 brook, watching her lover, .as he deseenils the opposite 
 hill. He bounds lighly along; he appro -chs nearer 
 and nearer; he leaps tlie brook, and flies into her 
 arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the 
 surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair 
 mourner, and she bursts into the following exclama- 
 tion :— 
 
 " O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom. 
 The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! 
 I wish I were with mv dear swain, 
 Witli his pipe and his ewes;" 
 
 Thus the individual spot of this happy interview i> 
 pointed out, and the picture is completed, 
 
 * Tliat the dramatic form of writing charactrrizci 
 productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, 
 of a rude st.ige of society, may be illustrated by a re- 
 ference to the most ancient coiniiositions that wc know 
 of, the Hebrew scriptures, and ihe writings of Homer. 
 The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish 
 ballads, even in nariation, whi nwcr Ihe situations do. 
 scribed become interes;ing This sometimes pnxliiios 
 a very striking ctlcet, of which an instance may be 
 given from the ballad of Edoiit o' Conion, a compor.i- 
 tion aiirarently of the sixteenih eeutiirv. The s;o:y 
 of t":c ballad is shortly this:— Ihe Cxstle of liholts 
 in tie absence of its lord, is aiiaeked by the robber 
 I'llom Gordon. 1 he lady stands in her deltuce, beats 
 oil' the assailants, and wounds liordon, wlio in his ra.;e 
 orders the ciistle to be set on fire. Tli;it his orders are 
 CMiried into eti'eet, we learn from the expostulation ol 
 Uiu Luly, uIk> is reprck'Utud as stajidini; on the lulllti 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 95 
 
 easily finil a pl.ire in this species of composition. 
 The alliance of the Wdiils of the Scottish soiijjs 
 witii the iiuisic has in some inst.incos sjiven to 
 the fiiiiier a pi)piil;irity, which otherwise they 
 would iiev'cr h;ive obtained. 
 
 Tl'.e a;<sociation of the words and the music 
 of these songs with the more beaiitiful parts of 
 the scenery of Scotland, contrihutes to the same 
 I'ffi'ct. It lias 1,'iven them not merely popularity, 
 but pormineiice ; it has imparted to tlie works 
 of mm some portion of the durability of the 
 works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- 
 rience of the ])ast, we may judge with any con- 
 fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- 
 scription are of all others the least likely to die. 
 In the changes of language they may no doubt 
 Bufler change ; but the associated strain of sen- 
 timent and of music will perhaps survive, while 
 the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- 
 1 o\v, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden- 
 Knowes. 
 
 The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
 were not very successful. His habitual inatten- 
 tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har- 
 mony of numbers, arising probably from the 
 models on which his versification was formtd, 
 were fiults likely to appear to moie advantage 
 ill this species of composition, than in any 
 other ; and we may al>o remark, that the 
 strength of his imagination, and the exuberance 
 of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained 
 within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and 
 tenderne-s, which seem to be assitrned to the 
 love-songs of his nation. Burns was better 
 adapted iiy nature fur following in such compo- 
 sitions the model of the Grecian than of the 
 Scottish muse. By study and practice he how- 
 ever surmounted all these obstacles. In his 
 earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this 
 gra<lually 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, while in the elo- 
 ijueiice of sensibility they surpass them all. 
 
 The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- 
 lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for 
 the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of 
 rural nature are eveiy where associated with 
 the passions and emotions of the mind, Dis- 
 
 ments an I remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in- 
 terruptcil — 
 
 " O tlicn bcspake hnr little son, 
 
 !^ate on his nooricc knee; 
 Says ' [iiitlier Juar, ^i' owre this house, 
 
 Kor tlie reik it smiihers me.' 
 " I wail Kie .a' my go»d, my childc, 
 
 Sae wad I .V my tee, 
 Fir ae hla^l o' the «cstlin wind. 
 
 To bldw the re-jk Irae thee." 
 
 The rircnmstaiitiality of the Scottish love-songs, 
 ^nd thcdr.iiT'.atie form wliich pre^ailss<) generally in 
 them, prulxibl) arises from their btiiiji thedesCtmlaiiLs 
 and suft<.SM)rb of tlie aiicieni ballads. In the beautiful 
 modern sung of Mary of CasVeCary, ilie dramatic 
 form has h very happy effect. Tlie same mav l)e said 
 3t Uututid and Flaiu, ;md Cmne under my Ptuidie, by 
 the s*ije iiuilior, .Mr. Maemel. 
 
 daining to copy the works of others, he has no», 
 like some poets of great name, admitted into his 
 descri|)tions exotic imagery. The landscapes 
 he has painted, and the objects witli which they 
 are embellished, are, in every single instancir, 
 such as are to be found in his own country. la 
 a mountainous region, especially when it is 
 comjiaratively rude and naked, the most beauti- 
 ful scenery will always be found in the valley*, 
 and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such 
 scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close of a 
 summer day. As we advance northwards, the 
 number of the days of summer, indeed, dimi- 
 nishes ; but from this cause, as well as from t\:i 
 mildness of the temperature, the attraction in- 
 creases, and the suminer night becomes still 
 more beautiful. The greater obli(iuity of the 
 sun's path in 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 Scot- 
 land, as may be eKpected, associate in their 
 songs the expression 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. 
 
 To all these adventitious circuinstanccs, on 
 which so much of the effect of poetry depends, 
 great attention is paid by Burns. There is 
 scarcely a single song of his in which particnl ii 
 scenery is not described, or allusious maHe tr 
 natural objects, remarkable for beauty or inte- 
 rest ; and though 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 thi^ 
 might 'oe quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland 
 Mary, the Soldier's Return, Lugan Water, 
 from that beautiful pastoral, Ronnie Jean, and 
 a great number of others. Occasionally the 
 force of his genius carries him beyond the usjal 
 boundaries of Scottish song, and the naturil 
 objects introduced have more of the charactef 
 of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no- 
 ticed by Mr. Syme, and many otheis might be 
 adduced. 
 
 " Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
 Where the winds howl to the wave'a dashioj 
 roar ; 
 There would I weep my woes. 
 There seek my lost repose, 
 Till grief my eyes should close 
 Ne'er to wake more." 
 
 In one song, the scene of which is laid in a 
 winter night, the " wan moou" is described at 
 " setting behind the white waves ;" in another, 
 the " storms" are apostrophized, and command- 
 ed to " rest in the cave of their slumbers." On 
 several occasions, the genius of Burns loses si"ht 
 entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain 
 of uniform sub imity. Instances of this kind 
 appear in L'Mrti/, a Vision, and in Lis two 
 
96 
 
 ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY 
 
 irar-snntjs, Urtice to his troups, and the So>^(f 
 of Dentil. The-se last are of a description of 
 whieh we have no other in our lan^.iaf^e. The 
 martial snngs of our nation are not military, but 
 naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 
 these soni^s of Burns with others of a similar 
 nature, we must have recoiiise to the poetry of 
 ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 
 
 Burns has made an important addition to the 
 gongs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
 poetry equals an<l sometimes surpasses the mu- 
 sic He has enlarged the poetical scenery erf his 
 country. Many of her rivers and mountains, 
 formerly unknown to the muse, are now conse- 
 crated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the 
 Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluilen, will 
 in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
 Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their 
 borders will be trode 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 composed while 
 walking in the open air. M'hen engaged in 
 writing these songs, his favourite walks were 
 in the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
 partirularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; 
 and this beautiful scenery he has very happily 
 describeil under various aspects, as it a[ipears 
 durmg the softness and serenity of evening, and 
 (luring the stillness and solemnity of the moon- 
 light night. 
 
 There is no species of poetry, the productions 
 of the drama not excepted, so much calculated 
 to influence the moials, as well as the happiness 
 of a people, as those popular verses v,li;ch are 
 associated with the national airs, and which 
 being learnt in the years of infmcy, make a 
 deep impression on the heart before tlie evolu- 
 .ion of the powers ol the understanding. The 
 composilicuis of Burns, of this kind, now pre- 
 sented in a collected form to the world, mike a 
 most important addition to the popular songs of 
 his nation. Like all his other writings, they 
 exhibit independence if sentiment ; they are 
 peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which 
 bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to 
 the domestic circle of their infancy : and to 
 cherish those sensibilities which, under due re- 
 striction, form the purest happiness of our na- 
 ture. If in his unguarded moments he com- 
 posed some songs on which this praise cannot 
 be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily 
 be hiigotten. In several instances, where Scot- 
 tish aira were allied to words objectionable in 
 Doint of delicacy, Burns has substituted others 
 of a purer character-. On such occasions, %vith- 
 DWl changing tlie subject, he has changed the 
 seui.imeuts. A proof of this may be seen in the 
 »lr of Jolin Aitilerson my Joe, whicl. is now 
 united to words that breatlie a strain of conjugal 
 teridernes'", that is as highly moral as it is ex- 
 quisitely urtcctiiig. 
 
 Vu'v circumk'iucea could uflfurd a more strik- 
 
 ing proof of the strength of Burns's gcr.ins, that 
 the general circulation of his poems in England, 
 notwithstanding the dialect in whic'- the great- 
 er part are written, and which miiju be sup- 
 posed to render them here uncouth or obscure. 
 In some instances he has used this dialect on 
 subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general be 
 confines it to sentiments or description of a 
 tender or humorous kind ; and, where he rises 
 into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer 
 English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
 sessed of mingling in the same poem humorous 
 sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a 
 sublime and terrific nature, enabled biin to use 
 this variety of dialect on some occasions with 
 striking effect. His poem of Tnm 6" Shanter 
 alTords an instance of this. There he passes 
 from a scene of the lowest hunr.our, 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 u?.e of the Scottish 
 dialect enables him to add two additional notes 
 to the bottom of his sca'e. 
 
 Great efforts liave been made by the inli.ibi- 
 tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
 proximate in their speech to the pure English 
 standard ; and this has made it difficult to write 
 in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them 
 som.e feelings of di-gust, which in England are 
 scarcely felt. An l:^ng!islmian who understand* 
 the meaning of the Scottish words, is not af- 
 fended, nay, on certain sutijects, he is perhaps 
 pleased with the rustic dialect, za Im an?\- \is 
 with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. 
 
 But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coub- 
 try, if a man of education, and more especially 
 if a literary character, has banis-lied such words 
 from his writings, and has attempted to banish 
 them from his s])cech ; and being accusionied 
 to hear them finm the vulgar daily, does not 
 easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- 
 quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dis- 
 like of this kind is, however, accidental, not na- 
 tural. 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 leally young and 
 beautiful, a little habit will enalile us to over- 
 come. A lady wlio assumes such a dress putj 
 her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
 jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fa- 
 shion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of 
 L'legant and flowing drapery ; but her native 
 charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, be- 
 cause the less adorned ; and to these she tiusti 
 for fixing her emjiire on those afl'rctlons over 
 which fashion has no sway. If sl.e succeeds, a 
 new association arises. The dress of the beau- 
 tiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and estab- 
 lishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. 
 And when, in after ages, the contemplative ob- 
 server shidi view lier picture in the gallery thai 
 contains the portraits of the beauties of succes- 
 sive centuries, each in the dress of her respec- 
 tive day, her drapery Mill not deviate, mor* 
 than that of her rivals, fr )in the fitundaid of hk 
 
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 97 
 
 teste, anil lie will tjii'e flie |),ilni to her who ex- 
 Cb>!r in tlic lineiiiiiLMits of n.iturc. 
 
 liurns wrote iM-ofesscdly for the peasantry of 
 hi* coiiiiti V, anil by them their native dialect is 
 universally reli'^heil. To a numerous class of 
 the natives of Scotland of another desrrijjtion, 
 it may nUo I.e eon-^idered as attractive in a dif- 
 ferent point of view. Estranged from their 
 native soil, and sjiread over foreii^n lands, the 
 idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
 ments and the descripticms on which it is em- 
 plovtNl, to recall to their minds the interestinp; 
 scenes of infaiicv anil youth — to awaken many 
 pleasinc;, niaiiy tender recollections. Literary 
 men, residing at Edinbnrt;h or Aberdeen, can- 
 not jiidf{e on this point for one hundred and 
 fil'tv thousand of their expatriated countrymen. 
 
 To the u>e of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
 cies of poetrv, tlie 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 tiie copiousness and exactness 
 of its terms for natural objects ; and in pastoral 
 or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which 
 is very generallv approved. Neither does the 
 regret seem well founded which some persons of 
 taste have expressed, that ISurns used this dia- 
 lect in so many other of his compositions. His 
 declared purpose was to jjaint the manners of 
 rustic life aniiuig his " humble compeers," and 
 it is not easy to conceive, that this could have 
 been done with eipial humour and effect, if he 
 had not adopted their idiom. There are some, 
 indeed, who will think the suliject too low for 
 poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find 
 their delicacies con>ulted in many a polite and 
 learned author; let them not seek for gratifica- 
 tion in the rough and vigorous lines, in the ua- 
 l)ridled humour, or in the overpowering sensi- 
 bility of this bard of nature. 
 
 To determine the comparative merit of Burns 
 would be no easy task. Many persons after- 
 warils distinguished in literature, have been 
 from in as humble a situation of life ; but it 
 r9u.d be difBcu-t to &utl auy other who while 
 
 earning his subsistence by daily ia>"'.ir, has 
 writteu verses which have attracted tod re- 
 tained universal attention, and which are likely 
 to give the author a perniatient .and distinguish- 
 ed place among the followers of the muses. I| 
 he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for 
 case as well as energy ; and these are indica- 
 tions of the higher order of genius. The father 
 of epic poetry exhibits ime of his heroes as ex- 
 celling in strength, another in swiftness — to 
 form his perfect warrior, these atfiibutes ire 
 cond)ined. Every species o' intellectual supe- 
 riority admits, perhaps, of a limil.ir arrange- 
 ment. One writer excels in torci.' — 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 Acliil 
 les, he sur))asses his competitors iu mobility as 
 well as strength. 
 
 The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
 understanding, and in the sei.sibilitv 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 .sen- 
 sibility had an uncommon range. He was a- 
 live to every species of emotion. He is one 
 of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
 have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
 and in sublimity ; a pr.iise iiiiUiunvn to the an- 
 cients, and which in modern times is only dun 
 to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Vol. 
 taire. To compare the writings of the Scottish 
 peasant with tlie works of these giants in liter- 
 ature, might appear presumiifiions ; yet it may 
 be asserted that he has dispLiyeil the font <J 
 Hercules. How near be might have approach- 
 ed them by proper culture, with lengthened 
 years, and under happier auspices, it is nut for 
 us to calcul.ite. 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 tlie records of his mind, it ii 
 easy to see, that out of such matei iaU ha"e bt-en 
 reared the fairest and the Uiint durable of tlM 
 tCr^numeats cf geniuii 
 
»d 
 
 THE SONGS. 
 
 The poetry of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which 
 prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning 
 to be disrontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral connnunication ; 
 and an obvious consequence of tliat state jf the public taste was, that the 
 Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive as many of them are, were 
 not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of Ina 
 poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived 
 the use of their native tongue in their own country, but gave it a cur- 
 rency in the polite world generally : an effect which was greatly assisted by 
 Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede- 
 cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the Ivrical effusions of the 
 olden time, and became a diligent collector of the ancient words, as well 
 as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon 
 the se\cral songs, are amusing and instructive; and where there were 
 blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this^ 
 find at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ; 
 and so well has it been executed, that in place of forming the amusement 
 and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken 
 the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the 
 British dominions. It is because of their intrinsic worth, as a branch of 
 elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two 
 distinct parts : — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with tlie 
 remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them. — The second 
 pa/t is formed of his own songs, and which are now Jirought together, in 
 place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as hereto- 
 fore — The whole forming a complete collection of select Scolhsh Sotu/s, 
 such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of good taste, and inno- 
 cent amusement in every country. 
 
100 
 
 SELECT 
 
 SCOTTISH SONGS. 
 
 TxK poet thus writes to Mrs. Diinlnp : — • I 
 cad an old grand- uncle, with whom my mo- 
 ther lived awhile 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 Tht Life and Age of Man.' The 
 song, as here given, was taken down from the 
 recitation of the puet's mother, who had 
 never seen a printed copy of it, — and had 
 learned it from Imr mother in early youth.] 
 
 THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN : 
 
 Oil, 
 
 A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE 
 
 AND FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE 
 
 MONTHS OF THE YSAR. 
 
 ruM— "UleofKell." 
 
 Upon the sixteen hunder year, 
 
 of God arici tifty three, 
 Frae Chii>t was horn, that bought us deaii 
 
 as writings testitie ; 
 On January the sixteenth day, 
 
 as I did ly alone. 
 With many a sigh and sob did say. 
 
 Ah ! Miu is made tu moan. 
 
 Dame Natur, that excellent bride, 
 
 did stand up me before. 
 And said to me, thou must provide 
 
 this life for to abhor : 
 Thou seeit what things are gone before, 
 
 experience teaches thee ; 
 Yet do not miss to remember this, 
 
 that one day thiiu must die. 
 
 Of all the creatures hearing life 
 
 recall back to thy mind, 
 Consider liow they ehh and flow, 
 
 each thing in their own kind ; 
 Ifet few of tiiem h ive such a strain, 
 
 at God hath given to thee ; 
 Therefore thi> lesson keep in mind,— 
 
 lemcmber man tu die. 
 
 Man's course on earth ' will repcrb 
 
 if I have time and space ; 
 It may be long, it may be short, 
 
 as God hath giv'n him grace. 
 Ilis natur to the herbs compare, 
 
 that in the ground ly dead ; 
 And to each month add five year, 
 
 and so we will procede. 
 
 The first five years then of man's life 
 
 compare to Januar ; 
 In all that time but sturt and strife, 
 
 he can but greet and roar. 
 So is the fields of flowers all bare, 
 
 by reason of the frnst ; 
 Kept in the ground both safe and 80ua&. 
 
 not one of them is lost. 
 
 So to years ten I shall speak then 
 
 of Februar but lack ; 
 The child is meek and weak of spir't, 
 
 nothing can unclert;d<e: 
 So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs, 
 
 no springing up can make, 
 Yet birds do sing and praise their king, 
 
 and each one choose their inat«. 
 
 Then in comes March, tliat noble area, 
 
 with wholesome s|)ring and air, 
 The child doth spring to years fifteen, 
 
 with visage fine and fair ; 
 So do the flow'rs with softening show'r* 
 
 ay spring up as .ve see ; 
 Yet nevertheless remember this, 
 
 that one day we must die. 
 
 Then brave April doth sweetly sraLft 
 
 the flow'rs do fair appear, 
 The child is then become a man, 
 
 to the age of twenty year ; 
 If he be kind and well imdin'd, 
 
 and brought up at the school, 
 Tlien men may know if he foreshow 
 
 a wise maa or a fool. 
 
 Then cometh Miy, gallant and gay, 
 when frao'ant flow'rs do thrive. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 101 
 
 The child is then become a map, 
 
 ot'aije twunty and five ; 
 And for hir* life dcith sock a wife, 
 
 liis life and yeais to sjjL-iid ; 
 Christ, from above send peare and love, 
 
 and grace unto the end ! 
 
 Then Cometh June with pleasant tune, 
 
 when fields with flow'rs are clad, 
 And I'luelms briu^lit is at his height, 
 
 all creatures then are ^lad : 
 Then he appears of thretty years, 
 
 with courage hold and stout ; 
 His nature so makes him to go, 
 
 of death he hath no doubt. 
 
 Then July comes with his hot climes, 
 
 and constant in his kind, 
 The man doth thrive to thirty-five, 
 
 and sober grows in mind ; 
 His children small do on him call, 
 
 and bi'eed lum stuit aud strife; 
 
 Then August old, both stout and bold, 
 
 when flow'rs do stoutly stand ; 
 So man appears to forty years, 
 
 with wisdom and command ; 
 And doth provide his house to guide, 
 
 children and familie; 
 Yet do not miss t' remember this, 
 
 that one day thou must die. 
 
 September then comes with his train, 
 
 and makes the flow'rs to fade ; 
 Thtn man belyve is forty-five, 
 
 grave, constant, wise, and staid. 
 When he looks on, how youth is gone, 
 
 and shall it no more see ; 
 Then may he say, both night and da •, 
 
 have mercy. Lord, on me ! 
 
 October's blast comes in with boast, 
 
 and makes the flow'rs to fall ; 
 Then man appears to fifty years, 
 
 old age doth on him call : 
 The almond tree doth flourish hie, 
 
 and pale grows man we see ; 
 Then it is time to use this line, 
 
 remember, man, to die. 
 
 November air maketh fields bare 
 
 •if flow'rs, of gra«s, and corn ; 
 Then man arrives tu fifty-five, 
 
 and sick both e'en and morn : 
 Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, 
 
 makes him to sigh and say. 
 Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, 
 
 and learn me for to die ! 
 
 December fell baith sharp and snell, 
 makes flow'rs creep in the ground ; 
 
 Then man's threescore, both sick aud sore, 
 no soundness in him fouud. 
 
 His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane, 
 
 all these now do him fiil ; 
 Then may he say, both night and d.iy, 
 
 that death shall him assail. 
 
 And if there be, thru* natur stout, 
 
 some that live ten years more ; 
 Or if he eieepeth up and down, 
 
 till he comes to fourscore ; 
 Vet all this time is but a line, 
 
 no pleasure can be see : 
 Then may he say, both night and day, 
 
 have mercy, Lord, on me ! 
 
 Thus have I shown yon as I can, 
 
 the course of all mens' life; 
 We will return where we began, 
 
 but either sturt or strife: 
 Dttme lilemorie doth take her leave, 
 
 she'll last no more, we see ; 
 God grant that I may not you grieve, 
 
 Ye'll get nae mair of lue. 
 
 BESS THE GAWKIE. 
 
 This song shews that the Scottish IVIuses did 
 not aJI leave us when we lost Ramsay and O9. 
 wald, * as I have good reason to believe that 
 the verses and music are both posterior to the 
 days of these two gentlemen. — It is a beautiful 
 song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have 
 few pastoral compositions, 1 mean the pastora. 
 uf nature, that are e(iual to this. — Burns. 
 
 Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, 
 Will ye gang to yon sunny brae. 
 Where flocks do feed and herds do strav. 
 
 And sport awhile wi' Jamie ? 
 Ah na, lass, I'll no gimg there. 
 Nor about Jamie tak nae care. 
 Nor about Jamie tik nae care. 
 
 For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! 
 
 For hark, and I will tell you, lass, 
 Did I not see your Jamie pass, 
 Wi" meikle gladness in his face, 
 
 Out o'er the nuiir to Maggy. 
 I wat he gae her mony a kiss. 
 And IMaggy took them ne'er amiss ; 
 'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this, 
 
 That Bess was but a gau'kle. 
 
 For when a civil kiss I seek. 
 
 She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, 
 
 • Oswald was a mnsic-scller in I,nn<!i)n, about tlie 
 year 17)0. lie pul)!ishcil a larpc collix'tion of Scottiah 
 tiincs, wliicli liu called The C\i'e<lonliii Pitclcct Cunipa- 
 nlon. Mr. Tytler ob-crves, that his fjcnius in compo- 
 sition, joined to his taste in the perlurmance of .Scot- 
 trsh music, wius natural and patlietic. Thrs sonj^ ha* 
 t)een imputed to a clergyman — Mr. Morchcad oi" Uil 
 m Galloway. 
 

 
 
 J 02 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 
 And for au liour slio'Il scarcely speak ; 
 
 The gladsome waters sung below. 
 
 
 Wlio'd not Call Ikt a gawkie? 
 
 And the sweet wind sung above-— 
 
 
 Rut 6uia my I\Iaj(gie has marr sense, 
 
 Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, • 
 
 
 She'll gie a score without offence ; 
 
 She conies to seek her love. 
 
 
 Now gie me ane unto the mense, 
 
 
 
 And ye shall be my dawtie. 
 
 A gentle wind came with a sweep. 
 And stretched her silken sail, 
 
 
 O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, 
 
 ^^^len up there came a reaver rude. 
 
 
 But I will never stand for ane, 
 
 With many a shout and hail : 
 
 
 Or twa, when we do meet again ; 
 
 touch her not, my mariners a*. 
 
 
 Sae ne'er think me a gawkie. 
 
 Such loveliness goes free ; 
 
 
 Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be, 
 
 Make way fot- Annie of Lochroyan, 
 
 
 Sic thoughts as these are far from ue, 
 
 She seeks Lord Gregorie. 
 
 
 Or ony that sweet face that see, 
 
 
 
 E'er to think thee a gawkie. 
 
 The moon locked out with all her star^ 
 The ship moved merrily on. 
 
 
 Rut whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, 
 
 Until she came to a castle high. 
 
 
 Fur yonder Jamie docs us meet ; 
 
 That all as diamonds shone : 
 
 
 Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet. 
 
 On every tower there streamed a light. 
 
 
 I trow he likes the gawkie. 
 
 On the middle tower shone three- 
 
 
 dear bess, I hardly knew, 
 
 Move for that tower my mariners a', 
 
 
 When I came by, your gown sae new, 
 
 IMy love keeps watch for me. 
 
 
 I think you've got it wat wi' dew ; 
 
 
 
 Quoth she, that's like a gawkie : 
 
 She took her young son in her arms, 
 And on the deck she stood — 
 
 
 It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, 
 
 The wind rose with an angry gust. 
 
 
 And I'll get gowns when it is gane, 
 
 1 he sea wave wakened rude. 
 
 
 Sue you may gang the gate you came. 
 
 Oh open the door, Lord Gregory, love : 
 
 
 And tell it to your t'awtie. 
 
 Oh open and let me in ; 
 
 
 The guilt appear'd in Jamie's check ; 
 
 The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair. 
 
 
 He cry'd, cruel maid, but sweet, 
 
 The surge dreeps down my chin. 
 
 
 If I should gang anither gate. 
 
 
 
 I ne'er could me/;t my dawtie. 
 
 All for thy sake. Lord Gregory, love, 
 I have sailed the perilous way, 
 
 
 The las=es fast frae him they flew. 
 
 And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts, 
 
 
 And left poor Jamie sair to rue, 
 
 And he'll be dead ere day. 
 
 
 That ever IMaggy's face he knew, 
 
 The fiiam hangs on the topmost cliff. 
 
 
 Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 
 
 The fires run on the sky. 
 
 
 As they went o'er the muir they sang ; 
 
 And hear you not your true love's voick 
 
 
 The hills and dales with echoes rang, 
 
 And her sweet baby's cry ? 
 
 
 The hills and dales with echoes rang, 
 
 
 
 Gang V°r the muir to Maggy ' 
 
 Fair Annie turned her round about. 
 And tears began to flow — 
 
 May never a baby suck a breast 
 \Vi' a heart sae fou of woe. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Take down, take down that silver mar 
 
 
 FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. 
 
 Set up a mast of tree. 
 
 
 (original song of OH OPEN THE DOCK, 
 
 It does nae become a forsaken dame 
 
 
 LORD GREGOUy). 
 
 To sail sae royallie. 
 
 
 It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, 
 
 Oh read my dream, my mother, deal 
 
 
 Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and 
 
 I heard a sweet babe greet, 
 
 
 Dumfiies-shires, there is scarcely an old song 
 
 And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan 
 
 
 or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues- 
 
 Lie cauld dead at my feer. 
 
 
 sed to belong to, or be the production of these 
 
 And loud and loud his mother laugnetf— 
 
 
 counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these 
 
 Oh sights mair sure than sleep, 
 
 
 very few ; as the ball.d, which is a long one, 
 
 I saw fair Annie, and heard her voice, 
 
 
 is called both by tradition and in printed collec- 
 
 And her baby wail and weep. 
 
 
 tions, The Lass o' Lochroijan, which I take to 
 
 
 
 be Lochroyan in Galloway Burns. 
 
 he went down to yon sea side 
 As fast as ho could fare, 
 
 
 Sweet Annie built a bonnie ship, 
 
 He saw idK Annie and her sweet babt. 
 
 
 And set her on the sea ; 
 
 Rut the wild wind tossed them sair; 
 
 
 Th(! sails were a' of the damask silk, 
 
 And hey Annie, and how An:iie, 
 
 
 The mast* vf silver free. 
 
 And Annie wiuna ye bidu? 
 
 
 ■-■ ' J 
 
> 
 
 SONGS 103 
 
 But ave the iiiair he called A.mie, 
 
 O ! con;?, my love ! thy Colin's lay 
 
 'I'he broader grew the tide. 
 
 With rapture calls, O come away ! 
 
 
 Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twia» 
 
 And hey Annie, and how Annie, 
 
 .\round that moilest brow of thine ; 
 
 Dear Annie speak to me, 
 
 O ! hither haste, and with thee bring 
 
 But ;:ye the louder he cried Annie, 
 
 Thut beauty blooming like the spring ; 
 
 Tlie louder roared the sea. 
 
 Those graces that divinely shine. 
 
 The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough, 
 
 And charm this ravish'd breast of mine ! 
 
 The slilp sunii nis^li the shore, 
 
 
 Fair Annie floated through the foam, 
 I3ut the baby rose no more. 
 
 
 
 first lie kissed her cherry cheek, 
 
 SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? 
 
 And then he kis^^ed her chin, 
 
 QUO' SHE. 
 
 And syne he kissed her rosy lips, 
 
 
 But there was nae brtwth within. 
 
 This song for genuine humour in the verse*. 
 
 my love's love was true as light, 
 
 and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled 
 
 As meek and sweet was she — 
 
 I take it to be very old Burns. 
 
 RIy mother's hate was sti'ong as death. 
 
 And fiercer tlun the sea. 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she. 
 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie cummin, 
 
 
 saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she • 
 Saw ye Johnnie cummin. 
 
 
 ROSLIN CASTLE. 
 
 Wj' his blue bonnet on his head. 
 And his doggie runnin, quo' she , 
 
 
 These beautiful verses were the production 
 
 And his doggie runnin ? 
 
 of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. 
 
 
 Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- 
 
 Fee him, f ither, fee him, quo' she • 
 
 dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. 1 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him : 
 
 do not know who was the author of the second 
 
 For he is a gallant lad, 
 
 song to the tune. Ti/ller, in his amusing his- 
 
 And a weel doin' ; 
 
 ^ i-y of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; 
 
 And a' the wark about the house 
 
 rut in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes. 
 
 Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' ihs 
 
 where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 
 
 Wi' me when I see him. 
 
 composed, he does not make the least claim to 
 
 
 the tune. — KuiiNs. 
 
 What will I do wi' him, hussy ? 
 
 
 What will I do wi' him ? 
 
 'TwAS in that season of the year. 
 When all things gay and sweet appear. 
 
 He's ne'er a sark upon his back. 
 
 And I hae nane to gie him. 
 
 That Colin, with the morning ray, 
 
 Arose and sung his rural lay. 
 
 Of Nanny's charms tlie shepherd sung. 
 
 I hae twa sarks into my kist. 
 
 And ane o' them I'll gie him. 
 
 And for a mark of mair fee, 
 
 Tile hills and dales with Nanny rung ; 
 
 Dinna stand wi' him, quo* sne ; 
 
 Wilde Iloslin Castle heard the swain, 
 
 Dinna stand wi' him. 
 
 And echoed back the cheerful strain. 
 
 
 
 For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ; 
 
 Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing sprioj;. 
 With rapture w.irnis ; awake and sing ! 
 
 Weel do I lo'e him : 
 
 fee him, father, fee him, quo' she ; 
 
 Awake and join the vocal tlirong, 
 Willi hail the morning with a song; 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him ; 
 
 He'll baud the plcugh, thrash i' the bxra, 
 
 To Nanny raise the cheerful lay, 
 
 And lie wi' me at e'eu, quo' she ; 
 
 0! bid her h.iste and come away; 
 
 Lie wi' me at e'en. 
 
 In swrcti'st sniilss herself adorn, 
 
 
 And add new graces to the morn ! 
 
 0, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray. 
 Each feather'd wai bier tunes his lay ; 
 
 
 
 CLOUT THE CALDRON. 
 
 Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng. 
 
 
 And love inspires the melting song : 
 
 A TRAniTios is mentioned in Ojc Bee, that 
 
 Then let my raptur'd notes arise, 
 
 the second Bishop Chisholm, of Di/nblane, used 
 
 I'or beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ; 
 
 to say, that if he were going to be lian;.;cd, no- 
 
 And love my risinc^ bosom warms. 
 
 thing would soothe his mind so much by ths 
 
 And fills my soul with sweet alarmsi, 
 
 way, as to hear Clout Ike CcUdron played. 
 
 1 
 
tui 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 T have met w'ltl another tradition, that the 
 eld song to this tune, 
 
 Hae ye nny pots or pans, 
 Or onie broken chanlers, 
 
 was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
 the Ciivaller times ; ind alluded to an amour he 
 had, while uniler hidinjr, in the disguise of an 
 itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the 
 name of 
 
 The Blacksmith and his Apron, 
 
 which from the ryihym^ seems to have been a 
 line of some old song to the tune. — Burns. 
 
 Have you any pots or pans, 
 
 Or any broken chandlers ? 
 I am a tinkler to niv trade. 
 
 And newly come fiae Flanders, 
 As scant of siller as of ,^race. 
 
 Disbanded, we've a bad run ; 
 Gar tell the lady of the place, 
 
 I'm come to clout her caldron. 
 
 Fa aclrie, didle, didle, Uc, 
 
 Madam, if ycu have wark for me, 
 
 I'll do't to your contentment, 
 And diiina care a single Sie 
 
 Tor anr man's resentment ; 
 Fur, lidy fail', though I apjjcar 
 
 To cv'ry ane a tinkler, 
 Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, 
 
 1 am a gentle jinker. 
 
 Fa adiie, didle, didle, &c. 
 
 Love .lupiter into a swan 
 
 Tiirn'd fur bis lovely Leda ; 
 lie like a buH o er uicadov/s ran, 
 
 To cany aff Europa. 
 Then may not I, as well as he, 
 
 To cheat your Argos blinker, 
 And win your love, like mighty Jov^ 
 
 Thus hide me in a tinkler? 
 
 Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 
 
 Sir, yp appear a cunning man, 
 
 But this tiue plot you'll fail in, 
 Fur there is neither pot nor pan 
 
 Of mine you'll drive a nail in. 
 Then bind your budget on your back, 
 
 And nails up in your apiou. 
 For I've a tinkler under tick 
 
 That's ns'd to clout my caldron. 
 Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 
 
 SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? 
 
 This charming song is much older, and in- 
 deed superior, to Ramsay's vci-scs, *' The Toast," 
 as he calls them. There is another set of the 
 
 the original one, hut though it has a very gr?»t 
 deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading.— 
 
 BUKNS. 
 
 Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
 Saw ye nae n>y Peggy, 
 Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
 
 Coming o'er the lea ? 
 Sure a liner creature 
 Ne'er was furm'd by nature, 
 So complete each feature. 
 
 So divine is she. 
 
 O ! how Peggy charms me ; 
 Every look still warms me ; 
 Every thought alarms me, 
 
 Lest she love nae me. 
 Peggy doth discover 
 Nought but charms all over; 
 Nature bids me love her. 
 
 That's a law to me. 
 
 WTio would leave a lover, 
 To become a rover ? 
 No, I'll ne'er give over, 
 
 'Till 1 happy be. 
 For since love inspires roe, 
 As her beauty tires me. 
 Anil her absence tires me. 
 
 Nought can please but she. 
 
 ^^^lcn I hope to gain her. 
 Fate seems to detain her, 
 Cou'd I but obtain her, 
 Happy wou'il I be ! 
 I'll ly down before her. 
 Bless, sigh, and adore her. 
 With faint looks implore her, 
 'Till she pity me. 
 
 The original words, for they can scarcely b« 
 called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa- 
 miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 
 
 Saw ye my Jlaggie, 
 Saw ye my Maggie, 
 Saw ye my IMaggie, 
 Linkin o'er the lea? 
 
 High kilted was she. 
 High kilted was she. 
 High kilted was she, 
 
 Her coat aboon her kcec. 
 
 \Miat mark has your Magajie, 
 AVliat mark has your Maggie, 
 What mark has your Maggie, 
 That ane may keu l.ct ve 9 {hi/) 
 
 Though it by no means follows that the stl- 
 liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be 
 the original song ; yet I take this ballad, ol 
 which I have quoted p irt, to be the old verses. 
 The two songs in Riimsarj, one of them evi- 
 
 words, much older still, and which I take to be Idently his own, are never to be met with in tlia 
 
SONGS. 
 
 105 
 
 firp-side circle of our piMsmtry ; while that 
 wliii-li I take to be the olil son'^, is in every 
 Bli"|)li;ni's nio'.ith, Jtdiiis ly, I suppose, hail 
 tliiiuylit the tiM ve.'ses uiiwui thy of a place ia 
 bis collectiua.^IScuNS. 
 
 FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER AVI* STRAE. 
 
 It is sflf-cviilent that tlie first four lines of 
 this son? are p irt of a song more ancient than 
 Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to 
 tlieui. As music is the language of nature ; and 
 poetry, partitiilaily songs, are always less or 
 more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 
 bv some of the modifieatious of time and p'.ace, 
 this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs 
 have outlived their original, and perhaps many 
 subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name, 
 >r phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply 
 Ko distinguish the tunes by. 
 
 To this day among people who know nothing 
 af Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 
 jod all the song that ever I heard : — Burns. 
 
 Gin ye meeS a bonnie lassie, 
 
 Gie her a jjss and let her gae ; 
 But gii. ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
 
 Eye, gar lub her o'er wi' strae. 
 
 Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 
 
 Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae ; 
 An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
 
 Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 
 
 Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap, 
 Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, 
 
 O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, 
 As high as ony Roman wa.' 
 
 Driving their baws frae whins or tee, 
 The-e's no nae gowfers to be seen ; 
 
 Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee 
 
 The byass- bonis on Taiuson's green. 
 
 Then fling on coals, and iij)e the ribs, 
 And beek the house lialth butt and ben ; 
 
 That niotchkin stuwp it hads but dribs, 
 Then lei's get in the tappit hen. 
 
 Good claret best keeps out the cauld. 
 And drives away the winter soon ; 
 
 It makes a mm baith gas' m<l bauld, 
 And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 
 
 Leave to the gods your ilka care. 
 
 If that thi-y think us worth their while. 
 
 They can a rowth of blessings spare. 
 Which will our fiishious fears beguile. 
 
 For what they hive a mind to do, 
 
 That will thc< <o should we gang wood ; 
 
 If they command the storms to hlaw, 
 Then upo' sight the hailst^iins thud 
 
 But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet,* 
 
 The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair moVC, 
 
 But cour into their caves, and wait 
 The high command of sujircme Jovjii 
 
 Let neist day come as it thinks fit. 
 The present minute's only ours ; 
 
 On pleasure let's employ our ivit, 
 
 And laugh at fortune's fickle powers. 
 
 Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 
 
 Of ilka joy when ye are young, 
 Before auld age your vitals nip. 
 
 And l.iy ye twafald o'er a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsoc:c time ; 
 
 Then, lails and lasses, while it's 3Iay, 
 Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 
 
 Before it wither and decay. 
 
 Watch the saft minutes of delyte. 
 
 When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, 
 
 And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
 On you, if she kepp ony skaith. 
 
 " Haith, ye' re ill-bred," she'll smiling say •_ 
 " Ye'll worry me, ye gretdy rook;" 
 
 Syne frae your arms she'll rin away. 
 And hide hersell iu some dark nook. 
 
 Her laugh will lead you to the place 
 Where lies the happiness you want, 
 
 Ami plainly tells you to your face. 
 Nineteen nay-says are half a grant. 
 
 Now to her heaving bosom cling. 
 
 And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
 Frae her f.iir finger whop a riug, 
 
 As taiken of a, future bless. 
 
 These bennisons, I'm very sure. 
 Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 
 
 Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
 
 To plague us with your whining cant. 
 
 THE LASS O' LIVISTOX. 
 
 The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, if 
 well known, and has merit as to wit and hu- 
 mour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion. — 1> 
 begin?, 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Liviston, 
 
 Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 
 
 And she has written in her contract, 
 To lie her lane, to lie her 1-iue. 
 &c. &c. 
 
 L3 
 
a06 
 
 BURXS' WORKS. 
 
 THE LAST TIME I CA.ME O'ER THE 
 MUIR. 
 
 Ramsay found the first liae of this sonj^, 
 which had been preserved as the title of the 
 charming air. and then composed the rest of the 
 verses to suit that line. This has always a finer 
 vffevX than composing English words, or words 
 with an idea foreign to the spirit ef the old title. 
 Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, 
 it will generally be found to be quite iu the 
 spirit of the air. — Burns. 
 
 The last time I came o'er the muir, 
 
 I left my love behind me ; 
 Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, 
 
 When soft ideas mind me. 
 Soon as the ruddy morn display 'd 
 
 The beaming day ensuing, 
 I met betimes my lovely maid. 
 
 In fit retreats for wooing. 
 
 Btne.ith the cooling shade we lay, 
 
 Gazing and chastely sporting ; 
 We kiss'd and promis'd time away, 
 
 Till night spread her black curtain : 
 I pitied all beneath the skies, 
 
 Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me; 
 In raptures I beheld her eyes, 
 
 Which could but ill deny me. 
 
 Ehould I be call'd where cannons roar. 
 
 Where mortal steel may wound me ; 
 Or cast upon some foreign shore, 
 
 Where dangers may surround me ; 
 Yet licipes again to see my love. 
 
 To fea^t on glowing kisses. 
 Shall make my cares at distance move, 
 
 In prospect of such blisses. 
 
 In all my soul there s not one place 
 
 To let a rival enter ; 
 Since slie excels in ev'ry grace. 
 
 In her my love shall centre. 
 Sooner the seas shall cease to flow. 
 
 Their waves the Alps shall cover ; 
 On Greenland's ice shall roses grow. 
 
 Before I cease to love her 
 
 The next time I gang o'er the muir, 
 
 She shall a lover find me ; 
 ftnd that my fiith is firm and pure. 
 
 Though 1 left her behind me. 
 Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 
 
 Jly heart to her fair bosom ; 
 rtwre, while my being does remain, 
 
 My love more fresh shall blossom. 
 
 JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. 
 
 Tuot'oii this has certainly every evidence of 
 fing a Scottivn air, yet there is a Well-known j 
 lue and sons in the Noith cf Ireland, called, I 
 
 The Weaver and f>'s Shuttle, O, whx 
 though sung much Quicker, 13 evt y note tin 
 very tune. 
 
 When I was in my se'nteen jivr, 
 
 I was baith biythe and bunny, 
 O the lads loo'd me baith far and near-, 
 
 B.-, I loo'd nane but Johnny : 
 He gain'd my heart in twa three weekS;. 
 
 He spake sae biythe and kindly ; 
 And I made him new gray breeks, 
 
 That fitted him most finely. 
 
 He was a handsome fellow ; 
 
 His humour was baith frauK icd fiiw;. 
 His bonny Jocks sae yellow, 
 
 Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee;— 
 His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks. 
 
 And face sae fair and ruddy ; 
 And then a-days his gray breeks. 
 
 Was neither auld nor duddy. 
 
 But now they're threadbare worn, 
 
 They're wider than they wont to bt f 
 They're tashed-like,* and sair torn, 
 
 And clouted sair on ilka knee. 
 But gin I had a simmer's day, 
 
 As I have had right mony, 
 I'd make a web o' new gray. 
 
 To be breeks to my Johnny. 
 
 For he's weel wordy o t!iem. 
 
 And better gin I had to gie, 
 And I'll tak pains upo' them, 
 
 Frae fauts I'll stiire to keep them &w 
 To dead him weel shall be my care, 
 
 And please him a' my study ; 
 But he maun wear the auld pair 
 
 Awei, tho' they be duddy. 
 
 For v/hen the lad was in his jirime, 
 
 Like him there was nae mony 
 He ca'd me aye his bonny thing, 
 
 Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? 
 So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks. 
 
 For a' the care they've gi'cn me yet. 
 And gin we live anither year, 
 
 We'll keep them hale between us yet 
 
 Now to conclude, — his gray breeks, 
 
 I'll sing them up wi' miith and glee; 
 Here's luck fc) a' the gray stocks. 
 
 That show themseils upo' the knee i 
 And if wi' health I'm spared, 
 
 A' wee while as I may, 
 I shall bae them prepared. 
 
 As Wee' as ony that's o' gray 
 
 StaiDod. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 107 
 
 MAT EVF OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 
 
 Kate of At)eiilt'cn, is, I believe, the work of 
 pour CiiniiinslKun the pljyer ; of whom the fol- 
 lowing anecdote, thojj;li told before, deserves a 
 reiitul. A fat dignitary of the church coming 
 past Cunniiiijham one Sunctay as the poor poet 
 was bu-y plying a fi-hing-rod in some stniam 
 near Duiliam. his native country, his reverence 
 reprimanded Cunningham very si'verely for >jeli 
 an oecup.ition on such a day. The poor poet, 
 with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which 
 was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he 
 hoped God and his leverenee would forgivj his 
 seeming profanity of that sacred day, " as he. had 
 no dinnir to eat, but ichat lay at the bottom of 
 that pool !" This, Jlr. Woods, the player, who 
 knew Cunningham well, and e-iteeined him in ich, 
 assured me was true. — Burns. 
 
 ilver moon's enamour'd beam, 
 
 Steals softly through the night. 
 To wanton with the winding stream, 
 
 And kiss reflected light. 
 To beds of state go balmy sleep, 
 
 ('Tis where you've seldom beeri). 
 May's vigil while the shepherds keep 
 
 With Kate of Aberdeen ! 
 
 Upon the grctrA the virgins wait, 
 
 In rosy chaplets gay. 
 Till morn unbar her golden gate, 
 
 And give the jiromis'd May. 
 Methinks I hear the maids declare 
 
 The promis'd May, when seen. 
 Nut half BO fragrant, half so fair. 
 
 As Kate of Aberdeen ! 
 
 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 
 
 We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
 The nested birds shall raise their throats, 
 
 And hail the maid I love : 
 And see — the matin lark mistakes, 
 
 He quits the tufted green ; 
 Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 
 
 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 
 
 Where midnight fairies rove, 
 Like thera, the jocund dance we'll lead. 
 
 Or tune the reed to love : 
 For see the ro-<y May draws nigh. 
 
 She claims a virgin ([ueen ; 
 And hark, the happv shepherds cry, 
 
 '"Tis Kate of Aberdeen 1" 
 
 Avrshire. — The following &nerdote I had from 
 the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
 land, who had it from the la^t Jcdin, Eirl ol 
 Lou<ion. — The then Earl of Loudon, father to 
 Earl John, before mentioned, had Ramsay at 
 Loudon, and one day walking together by the 
 banks (>f Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a 
 place yet called Patie's Mill, they were stiuek 
 with the ap|iearance of a beautiful country girl. 
 His lord-hij) observed, that she would be a fine 
 theme fir a song. — Allan lagged behind in re- 
 turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produc- 
 ed this identical song Bukks. 
 
 The lass of Paties mill. 
 
 So bonny, biythe, and gay, 
 In sj)ite of all my skill. 
 
 She stole my heart away. 
 Wiien tedding of the hay, 
 
 Bare-heuded on the green. 
 Love 'midst her locks did play. 
 
 And wantun'd in her een. 
 
 Her arms white, round, and smootl^ 
 
 Breasts rising in their dawn, 
 To age it would give youth. 
 
 To press 'em with his hand : 
 Thro' all my spirits ran 
 
 An ecstasy of bliss, 
 \^^len I such swcetuess fanu 
 
 M'rapt in a balmy kiss. 
 
 Without the help of art, 
 
 Like flowers which grace the wild. 
 She <lid her sweets impart. 
 
 Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. 
 Her looks they were so mild, 
 
 Frte from affected pride. 
 She me to love beguil'd ; 
 
 I wish'd her for my bride. 
 
 O had I all that wealth, 
 
 Hopeton's high mountains * fill, 
 Insur'd lang life and health. 
 
 And pleasure at my will ; 
 I'd promise and fultil. 
 
 That none but bonny she, 
 The lass of Patie's mill 
 
 Shou'd share the same wl' no* 
 
 THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 
 
 Is Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, 
 fnis song is localized (a verb I must use fur want 
 
 THE TURNIMSPIKE. 
 
 There is a stanza of this excellent scng for 
 local humour, omitted iu this set, — where I have 
 placed the astensms. }• 
 
 llERSEl.r, pe highland «hentleman, 
 Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; 
 
 • Thirty three miles south-west of Edinbuigh^ 
 lere the Karl (if Hopeton's mints are. 
 -^ - - . . t Burns hail placed the asterisms between 
 
 Worth of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by and 10th verses. The verse is here restored. 
 
 of another to express my idea ) somewhere in the ! ^'^'^Tf "''•" !;-f,' "[ ""^f'T" ,""'"' '''^, .k o,v 
 
 -- !""■ J ' I Burns had placed the a.sterisins between the 9t3 
 
 LI 
 
i08 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 And mony alterations set-a 
 
 Amang te lawlatd whig, man. 
 Fal, §-c 
 
 First when her to the lawlands came, 
 Nainsel was driving cows, man ; 
 
 There was uae laws about him's nerse, 
 About the preeks or trews, man. 
 
 Nainsell did wear the philaheg, 
 Tl.e plaid prick't on her shouder ; 
 
 The guid claymore hung pe her pelt, 
 De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. 
 
 But for whereas these cursed preeks, 
 Vt'herewith man's nerse be locket, 
 
 O hon ! that e'er she saw the day ! 
 For a' her houghs be piokit. 
 
 Every ting in de highlands now 
 
 Pe turn'd to alteration ; 
 The sodger dwall at our door-sheek. 
 
 And tat's te great vexation. 
 
 .Scotland be turn't a Ningland now. 
 
 An' laws pring on de eager ; 
 Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds. 
 
 But oh ! she fear te sodger. 
 
 Anither law came after dat, 
 
 Me never saw de like, man ; 
 Thev mak a lang road on de crund. 
 
 And ca' him Turniinspike, man. 
 
 An' wow ! she pe a ponny road. 
 Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; 
 
 Where twa cai ts may gang on her, 
 An' no prcak ithers legs, man. 
 
 Thev sharge a penny for ill<a horse, 
 (In troth, tney'll no pe sheaper^ ; 
 
 For udtight but gam upo* the crund. 
 And they gie Ee a paper. 
 
 Thetj tak the horse then py te head, 
 
 And tere teij iiiuk her atiiii, man; 
 Mc tell teiii, me hue seen te day, 
 Tey had 7ia sic commaH, man. 
 
 Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse. 
 And pay teni what liim likes, man ; 
 
 I'll seo a shudgment on his toor ; 
 Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. 
 
 But I'll awa to the Highland hills. 
 Where te'il a ane dare turn her, 
 
 £nd no come near your Turnimspike, 
 Uoletjs it yc to purn her. 
 
 Fal,^c 
 
 HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
 
 As this was a favourite theme with our later 
 Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs 
 of that name. That which 1 take to be the 
 oldest, is to be found in the Musical Museum^ 
 beginning, / hue been at Crookie-den. — 
 
 I HAE been at Crookie-den,* 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
 
 Viewing Willie and his men, 
 
 Jly bonnie laddie. Highland laddie 
 
 There our faes that burnt and slew, 
 IMy bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
 
 There, at last, they gat their due. 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 
 Satan sits in his black neuk. 
 
 My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
 
 Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, 
 JMy bonnie laddie. Highland laddie : 
 
 The bluidy monster gae a yell. 
 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
 
 And loud the lauyh gaed round a' hell ! 
 My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
 
 One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in hia 
 collection by the name of The auld Highland 
 Ldddie. — It is also known by the name of 
 Jinijhm J' hni'e, which is a well known song of 
 four oi five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier 
 song than Jacobite times. Asa proof of this, it 
 is little known to the peasantry by the name of 
 Hiijhlnnd Laddie ; while every body knows 
 Jinylan Juhnie. The song begins, 
 
 Jinglan John, the meickle man. 
 
 He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. 
 
 Another Higland Laddie is also in the 3/«- 
 setim, vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay's ori- 
 ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " O my 
 bonnie Highland lad, §-c.'' It consists of three 
 stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in 
 its composition — it is an escellentbut somewhat 
 licentious song. — It begins. 
 
 As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, 
 
 And down amang the blooming heather, &c. 
 
 This air, and the common Highland Laddie^ 
 seem only to be different sets. 
 
 Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mu- 
 seum, vol. V. is the tune of several Jacobite frag 
 ments.— One of these old songs to it, only eiiatt, 
 as far as 1 know, in these four lines— 
 
 Whare hae ye been a' day, 
 
 Bonnie ladifie. Highland laddie ? 
 Down the back o' Bell's brae, 
 
 Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie. 
 
 * A. cant name for Hell 
 
SONGS. 
 
 108 
 
 Aao'her cf this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, 
 talltii, the new Ilii/liltind Laddie.* 
 
 THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 
 
 The following is a set of this song, which 
 wa-s the earliest sonji; I refnenil)er to have got !iy 
 hrart. When a chil.l, an old woman sung it to 
 mc, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
 hearing. 
 
 Wxi.i.v weel I mind, I lent you my li.inil, 
 To sing you a song whii-h y<\i did me comiiuinrl ; 
 Hut my memoiy'N :><i l)a<l, I had aln\ost forgot 
 That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 I'll not sing ahnut confusion, d'!!usi(m, or prid«, 
 I'll sitig about a laddie was fur a virtuous hride ; 
 For virtue is an ornament that time will never 
 
 rot. 
 And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on. 
 We envy not the greatest that sits ujnm the 
 throne ; 
 
 1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her 
 
 smock, 
 Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command. 
 We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi'our 
 
 hand ; 
 And when wearied without rest, we'll find it 
 
 sweet in any Sjior, 
 And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
 Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content ; 
 Fur they say they hae mair pleasure that wins 
 
 but a groit. 
 Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the 
 
 queen ; 
 They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink 
 
 let them swim, 
 On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it 
 
 still remote, 
 Sae tak lids for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 
 
 When I think on this warld's pelf, 
 
 And the little wee shaie I have o't to myself, 
 
 • The followinR (.l>^erv;itinn was found in a mcmo- 
 "andum book Ulongm); lo Bums: 
 
 The Higfiltinder^ Prayer at Sheriff: HTuir. 
 " O L— <1 i*.' ihou with ii« : but, if thou l)e n-./ with 
 »«, be not agaiusi us i but Uave it bet-neen the rat coati 
 •la in/" 
 
 And how the lass that wants it is by the ladj 
 
 forgot. 
 May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !• 
 
 Jockie was the laddie that he'd the pleugh, 
 
 Hut now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; 
 
 He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaide« 
 
 coat ; 
 May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 
 
 Jenny was the lassie tliat mucked the byre, 
 
 Hut now she i.< clad in her silken attiie, 
 
 And Jockie s.iys he lo'es her, and swears he'i 
 
 me forgot ; 
 May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 
 
 Rut all this shall never daunton me, 
 
 Sae lang's I keep my fancy free: 
 
 For the lad that's sae inconstant, he's not wcrth 
 
 a groat ; 
 May the shame fa' the gear an.l the blaithrie o't ! 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 In Ramsay's Tea-table Mixcellani/, he tells 
 us that about thirty of the songs in that publi- 
 cation were the works of some young gentlemen 
 of his acquaintance ; which soti^s are marked 
 
 with the letters D. C, &c Did Mr. Tytler, 
 
 of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender 
 of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that 
 the songs marked C, in the Tca-tab/e, were the 
 composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of 
 Achinames, who was afterwards uiifortunatelv 
 
 drowned coming from France As Tvtler was 
 
 most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay., 
 I think the anecdote may be de|ien(led on. 6i 
 consequence, the beautiful song of Twtedslde is 
 Mr. Crawford's, and indeed docs great honour 
 to his poetical talents. He was a Roliei t Craw- 
 ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, 
 of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married tc 
 a Mr. John Belches, 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose I 
 
 How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed • 
 Yet .Clary's still sweeter than those ; 
 
 Both nature and fancy exceed. 
 Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 
 
 Nut all the gay flowers of the field. 
 Nor Tweed gliding gently through those, 
 
 Such beauty and pleasure dues yield. 
 
 The warblers are heard in the grove. 
 The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 
 
 The blackbird and sweet cooing dove, 
 With music enchant ev'ry bush. 
 
 ♦ Shame fall the trear ami the bhrTrij o'l, is the tura 
 ofanolil Scottish soiij, spoken when a >ouiig hami. 
 snme girl marries an olii man, upon the acpuuiit of t:A 
 wealth —Kelly's Scult Ptuverltt. 
 
no 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Come, let us jro forth \o the mead, 
 Let us see how the primroses spring, 
 
 We'll lod'jre in some villao;e on Tweed, 
 And love while the feather'd folks sing. 
 
 How does my love pass the long day ? 
 
 Does JIary not 'tend a fev/ sheep ? 
 Do they never carelessly stray, 
 
 While happily she lie» asleep? 
 Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ; 
 
 Kind nature indulging my blis'*, 
 To relieve the siift pains of my breast, 
 
 I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 
 
 'Tis she does the virgins excel, 
 
 No beauty with her may compare ; 
 Love's gracts around her do dwell ; 
 
 She's faiiest, where thousands are fair. 
 Say, charmer, wliere do thy flocks stray ? 
 
 Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; 
 Shall I sei^k them on sweet winding Tay, 
 
 Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 
 
 I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
 Tweedsiile, and s.iid to have been composed by 
 a Lord Yester. It cnn-;!sted of two stanaas, of 
 which I titill recollect the fir.-t. 
 
 When Maggy and T was acquaint, 
 
 I carried my nodille fu' hie ; 
 Nae lintwhite on a' the gieen jjlain. 
 
 Nor gowdspiiik sue happy as me : 
 But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ; 
 
 I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
 So now I m.iun waniler abroad. 
 
 And lay uiy banes far frae the Tweed. 
 
 The last stanza runs thus : — Ed. 
 
 To Meiggy my love I did tell, 
 
 Saut tears did my pas-ion express, 
 Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell. 
 
 An' the women loo sic a man less. 
 Her heart it was frozen and cauM, 
 
 Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
 Therefore I will wander abroad, 
 
 And lay my baues far frae the Tweed. 
 
 THE BOATIE ROWS. 
 
 The author of the Jioiitie Rows, was a Mr. 
 Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming di-play of 
 womanly afffction min^lin;: with the concerns 
 and occU|iati<'i.s of bfe. It is nejrly e(jual to 
 Tliercs niii: luck about the house. 
 
 O WVT.I. may the boatie row» 
 And better may she s.ieed ; 
 Anil leesoine ni ly the boatie re 
 Tiiut wins my b.iini- lire ul . 
 The boatie row-:, tl'.e bo itie rows, 
 The boatie rows iikL'b I ; 
 And wei-1 may the biiatli- row 
 That wins the bairns breid. 
 
 I cust • my line in Largo bay, 
 
 And fishes I catch'd nine ; 
 
 There was three to boil, and three to firf 
 
 And three to bait the line: 
 
 The boatie rows, the boatie row? 
 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 
 Who wishes her to speed. 
 
 O weel may the boatie row. 
 That fills a heavy creel.f 
 And cleads us a' frae head to feet. 
 And buys our porridge meal : 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rowa, 
 The boatie rows indeed ; 
 And happy be the lot of a' 
 That wish the boatie speed. 
 
 Wlien Jamie vow'd he would be miOB, 
 And wan frae me my heart, 
 
 muckle lighter grew my creel, 
 He swore we'd never part : 
 
 Tiie boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 And muckle lighter is the load, 
 When love bears up the creel. 
 
 My kurtch I put upo' my head. 
 And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ; 
 
 1 true my heart was douf an* wae, 
 When Jamie gaed awa : 
 
 Hut weel may the boatie row, 
 And lucky be her part ; 
 And lightsome be the lassie's care> 
 That yields an honest heart. 
 
 \\lien Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie, 
 
 Are up and gotten lear, 
 
 They'll help to gar the boatie row. 
 
 And lighten a' our care : 
 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 
 And lightsome be her heart that heart 
 
 The murlain, and the creel. 
 
 And when wi' age we're worn down, 
 Anil hirpling round the door, 
 TheyT. row to keep us dry and warni, 
 As we did them l)efore ; — 
 Then weel may the boatie row. 
 She wins the bairns bread ; 
 And happy l>e the lot of a' 
 That wish the boat to speed ! 
 
 TIIE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
 
 Another, out very p'-etty Anglo-5!oot tiiii 
 piece. 
 
 • Cast— Tlic AlicrilocriShirc dialecU 
 \ kn u«icr UuikeU 
 
SONGS. 
 
 m 
 
 How blest lias ray time Decu, what joys have 1 
 
 Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my 
 
 own ! 
 So joj-ful my heart is, so easy my chain, 
 That freedom is tasteless, uiid lovin'j a pain. 
 
 Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we 
 
 stray, 
 Arnund us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
 How pleasing 1 !ieii- sport i* .' the wanton ones 
 
 see 
 And borrow their iooks from my Jessy and me. 
 
 To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen 
 In revels all day with the nymphs on the green: 
 Tho' painful my absence, 'my doubts she be- 
 guiles, 
 And meets me at night with curopUcence and 
 smiles. 
 
 What thu' on her cheeks the rise loses its hue, 
 Her wit and good humour bloom all the year 
 
 thro' ; 
 Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, 
 And gives to her mind what he steals from her 
 
 youth. 
 
 Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
 And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous 
 
 fair ; 
 In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! 
 To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
 
 Unto the yinvcs a niilkin, itind sir, «he says, 
 With a double and adieu to thee fair IMay. 
 What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain piettj 
 May, 
 Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-blacli 
 hair ; 
 Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, sht 
 says. 
 With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
 &c. &e. 
 
 THE POSIE. 
 
 It appears evident to me that Oswald com- 
 posed his /{iisUn Castle on the modulation of 
 
 this air In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
 
 three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- 
 ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow- 
 ed the three first bars of the oM air ; and the 
 close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. 
 The old verses to which it was sunjr, when 1 
 took down the notes fioin a country jjirl's voice, 
 had no great merit.— The following is a speci- 
 men ; 
 
 There was a pretty May,* and a milkin she 
 went ; 
 Wi* lier red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black 
 hair : 
 And she lia» met a young man a comin o'er the 
 bent. 
 With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
 
 O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 
 
 Wi thy red rosy cheeks, tnd thy c.-al-black 
 hair .' 
 
 •Maid. 
 
 THE POSIE 
 
 O LUVK will venture iu, vhere it daui na wee' 
 
 be seen, 
 O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 
 
 been. 
 But I will down yon river rove, ammg 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, 
 And I will pu" the piuk, the eiiihlem o' my dear, 
 For she's the |)ink o' woman kind, and hlooiiia 
 without a peer ; 
 And a' to be a jiosie to my ain dear IMay. 
 
 I'll pu' the budding rose, when Plia'biis jieeps 
 in view. 
 
 For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie 
 mou ; 
 
 The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
 ing blue. 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
 And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; 
 The daisy's for simplicity and unaA-cted air. 
 And a' to be a posie to my aiu dear May ; 
 
 The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 
 
 g'ey. 
 Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o 
 
 day, 
 But the songster's nest within the bush I winns 
 
 tak away ; 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear IMay 
 
 The woodbine I will pu', wlien the e'ning sta. 
 
 is Ileal', 
 And the diamond djaps o' dew shall be her e'ei 
 
 sae clear ; 
 The violet's lor modesty which wcel she fa's h 
 
 wear, 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o 
 
 luve, 
 And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear b» 
 
 a' above, 
 That to my latest drauglu o' life the band shali 
 
 ne er remuve, 
 And this will be a posie to my aiii t'-ar Ma^ 
 
112 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 MARY'S DREAM. 
 The Miry here alluded to is generally sup- 
 
 pi "-.o lie Miss Mary Macghie, daiisjhter to 
 the ^AUt\ of Ainls, ia Galloway. The poet 
 was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise 
 wrote another beautiful song, called Pnmpei/s 
 Ghost. — I have seen a poetic epistle from him 
 in North America, where he now is, or lately 
 was, to a lady in Si-otland. — By the strain of 
 the veises, it appeared that they allude to some 
 love disappointment. 
 
 The moon had c'imb'd the hignest hill, 
 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And from the eastern summet shed 
 
 Her silver light on tow'r and tree: 
 When Mary laid her down to sleep. 
 
 Her thouj^hts on Sandy far at sea ; 
 When soft and low a voice was heard. 
 
 Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. 
 
 She from her pillow gently rais'd 
 
 Her head to ask, who there might be ; 
 
 She saw young Sandy shiv'rlng stand. 
 With visage pale and hollow eye ; 
 
 ' O M iry, dear, cold is my clay, 
 ' It lies l)eneath a stormy sea ; 
 
 ' Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ; 
 ' So, Mary, weep iio more for me. 
 
 * Three stormy nights and stormy days 
 
 * We toss'd uixiii the raging main ; 
 
 * And long we strove our bark to save, 
 
 ' But all our striving vi^as in vain. 
 
 * E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, 
 
 ' My heart was tillM with love for tliee : 
 ' The storm is past, and I at rest ; 
 ' So, Mary, weej> no more fui- me. 
 
 O maiden de:ir, tin self prepare, 
 ' We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
 ' Where love is free from doubt and care, 
 
 • And tlioii and 1 shall part no more !' 
 Loud crow'd the cock, the sharlows fled. 
 
 No moie of Sandy could she see ; 
 But soft the |)assiug s|)irit said, 
 
 " Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" 
 
 He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad te in 
 
 byre, 
 But in aiint the ha' door, or e\v afore the fire, 
 ^nd we'll gang tmb mair, Sfc- 
 
 THE JOLLY BEGGAR. 
 
 Said to have been composed oy King James 
 v., on a frolic of iiis own. 
 
 There was a jcdly beggar, and a begging h« 
 
 was bono', 
 And he took up his quarters into a land'art 
 town, 
 And we'll gang nae mair a roving, 
 
 Hue lute into the tiig/it, 
 And we'll gang tine mair a roving, lioys, 
 L$ti the moon xhine ne'er xae brii/hl I 
 
 The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good 
 
 clean straw and hay. 
 And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar 
 
 lay, 
 
 And ive'll gang nae mair, §"0. 
 
 Up raise the good man's dcchte', and for to ba. 
 
 the door. 
 And there she saw the beg>,ir standin i' th» 
 
 floor. 
 
 And we'll gang nae mair, §"c 
 
 He took the lassie i;i iiis Firms, and to the bed 
 
 he ran. 
 O hooly, hooly wi' me, sir, ye'U waken out 
 
 goodnian. 
 
 Anil we'll gang nae mair, ifc. 
 
 The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a 
 
 word he spake. 
 Until he gi>t his turn done, syne he began tc 
 
 crack. 
 
 And we'll gang nne mair, §-c. 
 
 Is there ony nogs into this town? maiden, tell 
 
 me true. 
 And what wad ye do wi' them, my hiuny and 
 
 my dow ? 
 
 And we'll gang nne mair, SjX. 
 
 They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikU 
 wrang, 
 
 dool for the doing o't ! are ye the pnir man 3 
 
 And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc. 
 
 Then she took up the mealpocks and flang theiB 
 
 o'er the wa', 
 The (leil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhea< 
 
 and a*, 
 
 A-id we'll gang nae mair, §"c. 
 
 1 took ye for some gentlenian, at least the laird 
 
 of llrodie ; 
 O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie? 
 And we'll gang nae iiinir, 6fc, 
 
 He took the la.ssie in his arms, and gae her kissct 
 
 three, 
 And four-aiid-twenty hunder merk to pay the 
 
 uurice-fee. 
 
 And we'll gang nae mair, ^-c. 
 
 He took a horn frae his side, and blew hiitb 
 
 loud and slinll, 
 And four-and-twinty belfel kuight.'t came ikip- 
 
 ping o'er the hdl, 
 j And we'll gaiiy >uie tnuir, jfC 
 
SONGS. 
 
 And he took out his little knife, loot a' lis dud- 
 dies f.i', 
 
 And he wm the brawest gentleman that was 
 aiiian^ them a'. 
 
 And we'll gang nae mair, §-c, 
 
 1 he hocjcrar wis 3 cliver loon, and he lap shoul- 
 
 dor lici>;ht, 
 O ay for sii-kori qii irtcrs as I gat yesternight ! 
 And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc. 
 
 HIE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 
 
 BV MR. DUDGEON. 
 
 Tins DiiilgiHiu is a respectable farmer's son 
 in Berwickshire. 
 
 Vy amanij yon cliffy rocks 
 
 Swt'etJy rings the rising echo, 
 To the nviid tliat tends the goats, 
 Lihiiig o'er her native notes. 
 
 Hark ! she sink's, " Young Sandy's kind 
 All' he's luouilsed av to loe me ; 
 
 Here's a hrooili I ne'er shall tine 
 Till he's fairly married to me : 
 Drive away ye drone Time, 
 An' bring about our bridal day. 
 
 " S.indy herds a fluck o' sheep, 
 
 Alton does he blaw the whistle, 
 In a strain sae saftly sweet, 
 Laniniies list'niiig d lurna bleat. 
 
 He's as fleet's the mnuntain roe, 
 Hardy as the highland heather. 
 
 Wading thri)Ui;h the winter snow, 
 Keeping ay his flock together ; 
 Rut a pla;d, wi' bare houghs, 
 He braves the bleakest uorlin blast. 
 
 " Brawly he can dance and sing 
 
 Canty glee or highland cronach; 
 Ndne can ever match his fl-.ug, 
 At a reel, or round a ring ; 
 
 \Vij;htly can he wield a rung, 
 In a brawl he's ay the bangster : 
 
 A' liis piaise can ne'er be sung 
 IJy the lange-t-winded sangster. 
 Sangs that sing o' Sandy 
 Come short, though they were e'er sae lang. 
 
 When 'tis carded, row'd and njms^ 
 Then the work is haflens done ; 
 Hut when woven, drest and ilean, 
 It may be clea<ling for a queen. 
 
 Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, 
 That feed upon the mountain s steepj 
 Bleating sweetly as ye go, 
 Thro' the winter's frost and snow; 
 H.irt, and hvnd, and fiUow-deer, 
 No be haff so nsefid are : 
 Frae kings to him that hads the plovf. 
 Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. 
 
 Up, ve shepherds, dance and skip. 
 O'er the hills and vallies trip, 
 Sitig up the praise of tarry woo, 
 Sing the flocks that bear it too ; 
 Haimless creatures without blame, 
 That dead the back, and cram the waia^ 
 Keep us warm and hearty fou ; 
 Lcese me on the 'arry woo. 
 
 IIow happy is the shepherd's life, 
 Far fiae cuui ts, and free of strife, 
 While the giiDiners bleat and bae, 
 And the lambkins answer mae : 
 No such music to his ear ; — 
 Of thief or fox he has no fear ; 
 Sturdy Kent and CoUg true, 
 Will defend the tarry woo. 
 
 He lives content, and envies noce; 
 Not even a monarch on his throne, 
 Tho' he the royal sceptre sways. 
 Has not sweeter holidays. 
 M'ho'd be a king, can ony tell. 
 When a shepherd sings sae well ? 
 Sings sae well, anil pays his due. 
 With honest heart and tarry woo. 
 
 TARRY WOO. 
 
 This 19 a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 
 tlie first half stanz.u as well as the tune itself, 
 ftre much older than the rest oH the words. 
 
 Tarry woo, tarry woo, 
 Tarry woo is ill to spin ; 
 Card it well, card it well. 
 Card .. »'ell ere ye begin. 
 
 THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIF.- 
 
 The first h.df stanza is much older than the 
 days of Ramsay. — The old words began thus :— 
 
 The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's woo. 
 
 dcr bonnie ! 
 A laird he was that sought her, rich baith it 
 
 lands and money. 
 She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady 
 But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddia 
 
 The collier has a oaughter. 
 
 And O she's wonder bonny ; 
 A lainl he was that sought her, 
 
 Rich baith in lands and money ; 
 The tutors watch'd the motion 
 
 Of this young honest lover ; 
 But love is like the oceau ; 
 
 Wha c*i* its depth discover? 
 
114 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 He li.id i ir,".rt to please ye. 
 
 And w.is hy ii' respected ; 
 His airs sat roiiiul him easy, 
 
 Genteel, l>ut un^iifected. 
 The fullier's honnie lassie, 
 
 Fdir as the new-hlown lilie, 
 Ay sweet, ana never saucv, 
 
 Seeur'J the lieurt of WiRie. 
 
 He lov'd beyond expression 
 
 The charms that were about her^ 
 Anil panted for pnsse-sitm, 
 
 His life was dull without her 
 After mature resolving. 
 
 Close to his breast he held her 
 In saftest flames dissolving, 
 
 He tenfierly thus tell'd her : 
 
 'My bonny collier's daughter. 
 
 Let nacthing discompose ve, 
 'Tis no yiHir scanty tocher 
 
 Shall ever gar me lose ye : 
 For I have gear in plenty, 
 
 And love says, 'Tis my duty 
 To ware what heav'n has lent me 
 
 Upon your wit and beauty. 
 
 MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. 
 
 The old words of this song are omitted here, 
 though much more beautiful than these insert- 
 ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Fer- 
 
 gusson, in one of his merry humours The (Id 
 
 words began thus: — 
 
 I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 
 
 IMy ain kind dearie, O, 
 I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O, 
 Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat. 
 
 And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
 I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O 
 
 Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig, 
 
 My aiii kind dearie, O ? 
 And cuddle there sae kindlie, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O? 
 At thorny ilike and birken-treo, 
 
 We'll dilT and ne'er be weary, O ; 
 They'll scug ill een fiae you and me. 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O ! 
 
 Nae herds, wi' kent or colly, there, 
 
 Shall ever come to fear ye, O ; 
 But lavrocks, whistling in the air, 
 
 Sh.'.ll woo, like me, their dearie, O. 
 While others herd their lambs and yowcs, 
 
 And toil for wuild's gear, my jo ; 
 (Jj)on the lea, my pleasure grows, 
 
 Wi* thee my kiud dearie, O. 
 
 DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 
 
 I have been informed, that the tune of Down 
 the Hum, Davie, was the composition of David 
 Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, be- 
 longing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddule. 
 
 When trees did bud, and fields were greca. 
 
 And broom bloom d fair to see ; 
 When Mary was complete fiftee-n, 
 
 And love laugh'd in her e'e ; 
 Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did mo7e» 
 
 To speak her mind thus free, 
 Gang dawn the Ivrn Davie, love. 
 
 And I shall follow thee. 
 
 Now Davie did each lad surpass, 
 
 That dwalt on yon burn side, 
 And Mary was the bonniest lass, 
 
 Just meet to be a bride ; 
 Her cheeks were rosie, red and white. 
 
 Her een were bonnie blue ; 
 Her looks were like Aurora bright, 
 
 Her lips like dropping dew. 
 
 As down the burn they took their way, 
 
 What tender tales they said 1 
 His cheek to her's he aft did lay. 
 
 And with her bosom play'd ; 
 
 ^V^lat pass'd, I guess, was harmless plsy, 
 
 And naething sure unmeet : 
 For, ganging hame, 1 heard them say, 
 
 They lik'd a walk sie sweet ; 
 And that they aften should return, 
 
 Sic ])leasure to renew ; 
 Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, 
 
 And ay shall follow you. • 
 
 BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET 
 BETTY. 
 
 The old words, all that I remember, are,— 
 
 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 
 
 It is a cauld winter night ; 
 It rains, it hails, it thunders. 
 
 The moon she sries nae light : 
 It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, 
 
 That eTer I tint my way ; 
 Sweet, let me lie beyond thee, 
 
 Until it be break o' day.— 
 
 O, Betty will bake my bread, 
 
 Ami Betty will brew my ale, 
 And 15etty will be my love. 
 
 When I come over the dale : 
 
 • TIic last four lines of the tlotd stnn/.i, tx-ing 
 »omcivliat objectionable in point ol ilelii'acy, arc omit- 
 teil. Ihirns .iltcroil tlicso liiic!,. 11;.. '.\\i alii-iatioB 
 lici'n atteuiled with his usual succe.», \t would hava 
 bi'L'n aUuDtt^L 
 
 
SONGS. 
 
 115 
 
 Blink ovpi- tlie burn, sweet Betty, 
 liliisk over the liiini to ine, 
 
 \ii(l while I hae life, dear l.issie, 
 Mv iiiii sweot Bv^tty thuu's be.— 
 
 THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE 
 HOUSE. 
 
 This is one of the most beautiful songs in 
 the Scuts, or any other language. — The two 
 lines, 
 
 And will I see his face again ! 
 Ana will I hear him speak ! 
 
 as well as the two preceding ones, are unequall- 
 ed almost l)y any thing I ever heard or read : 
 and the lines, 
 
 The present moment is our ain, 
 
 The neiit we never saw- 
 are woithy of the first poet. — It is long poste- 
 rior to Ramsay's days. — About the year 1771, 
 or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad ; 
 and I su|ipose the composition of the song was 
 not much aiiterior to that period.* 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true ? 
 And are ye sure he's weel ? 
 Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 
 Ye jads, lay by your wheel ! 
 Is this a time to talk of wark, 
 When Culin's at the door? 
 Gie me my cloak ! I'll to the quay, 
 And see him come ashore. 
 
 Fjt there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There^s nne luck ava ; 
 
 There's little pleasure in the house, 
 
 M'hen our gudeminis awa. 
 
 Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side, 
 
 I'ut on the muckle pat ; 
 
 Gie httle Kate her cotton gowu, 
 
 And Jock his Sunday's coat ; 
 
 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 
 It's a to please my ain guilenian, 
 
 He likes to see them braw. 
 
 For there's nae luck, §'c. 
 
 There is tiva hens upon the bauk. 
 Sheen fed this month and mair ; 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about. 
 That Colin weel may fare ; 
 And spread the table neat and clean, 
 oar ilka thing look braw ; 
 It's a for love of my gudeman, — • 
 For he's been long awa. 
 
 For there's nae luck, §t. 
 
 gie me down my bigonets. 
 My bishop-satin gown ; 
 
 For I maun tell the bailie's wife 
 
 That Colin's come to town ; 
 
 My Sunday's shoon they maun gae OII« 
 
 My hose o' peail blue. 
 
 It's a* to please my ain guderaan, 
 
 For he's baith leel and true. 
 
 For there's ?iue luck, §-c. 
 
 Sae true's his woriU, sae smooth's his speeeh 
 
 His breath like caller air, 
 
 Ilis very foot has music in't, 
 
 When lie comes up the stair : 
 
 And will I see his face again ! 
 
 And will I hear him speak ! 
 
 I'm dowri;;ht dizzy with the thought, 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet I 
 
 For there's nae luck, §-c. 
 
 The cauhl blasts of the winter wind, 
 
 That thrilled thro' my heart, 
 
 They're a' blaun by ; I hae Lm safe, 
 
 'Till death we'll never part ; 
 
 But what puts [laiting in my head? 
 
 It may be far awa ; 
 
 The present moment is our ain. 
 
 The uei^t we never saw ! 
 
 Fur there's nae luck, SfC. 
 
 Since Colin's well, I'm well content, 
 
 1 hae nae niajr to crave ; 
 
 Could I but live to mak hiir. bles*, 
 
 I'm blest ahoou the lave ; 
 
 And will I see his face again I 
 
 .And will I hear him spe.'k ! 
 
 I'm downrigl'.t dizzy with cap .iap-t^ 
 
 In troth I'm like io g:«;et ! 
 
 • It is no » ascertained tliat Meikle, the trauslat<r 
 •f Cauioens, was the author of tins Jong. 
 
 JOHN liLi'f. Boxr:E J/^i-.l. 
 
 JJfiN Hat's ^unrie J-sssio wa* i ,».ghter of 
 John Hav, E'A, cr Muru> Is of Tf.edJale, and 
 late Ci'untcas Dow-^ger of Ilj.\bjrgh. — She died 
 at Bioo:iib-..Is, ucm Kelso, some time between 
 the y.'ai-i i^'.O s-ml 1740. 
 
 Br sr-,Do''b winding Tay a swain was recoiling 
 Af'' crr'd ki. Oh hey ! maun I still live pining 
 Aiycl f'.ius away, and daurna discove' 
 Tj ir.y Ix/unie Hay that I am her lover ! 
 
 N^s tr.air it will hide, the flame waxes stronger; 
 If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer : 
 Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture, 
 Alayhe, ere we part, my vows may content her. 
 
 She's fresh as the Sprin;;, and sweet as Aurorik, 
 When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good- 
 morrow ; 
 The swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi* daisies, 
 Looks witl er'd and de.id when twin'd of lie! 
 8'rac<'«. 
 
116 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 But if she appear where verdure invites her, 
 The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the 
 
 swt-eter ; 
 Tis heaven t» lie by when her wit is a-flowing. 
 Her smiles and brighteyes set my spirits a-glow- 
 
 ing. 
 
 The mair that T gaze, the deeper I'm wounded, 
 Struck duml) wi* amaze, my mind is confounded ; 
 I'm a' ill a fire, dear maid, to caress ye, 
 Far a' my aesire is Hay's bonnie lassie. 
 
 THE BONNIE BKUCKET LASSIE. 
 
 The idea of this son<j is to me very original : 
 the two first lines are all of it that is old. The 
 rest (if the son?, as well as those songs in the 
 Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure, 
 tippling, but extranidinary body of the name of 
 Tytler, commonly known by the name of Bcl- 
 loon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon : 
 A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edin- 
 burgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a 
 sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as 
 George-by-the-Grace-of-God, and Solomon-the 
 Son-of- David ; yet that same unknown drunken 
 mortal is author and compiler of th.ree-fourths 
 Elliot's pompous Encycliipedi* Biitannica, which 
 he composed at half a guinea a week !• 
 
 The bonnie brucket lassie 
 
 She's blue beneath the e'en ; 
 She was tlie fairest lassie 
 
 That danced on the green : 
 A lad he loo'd her dearly. 
 
 She (lid his love return ; 
 But he his vows ha< broken. 
 
 And left her for to mourn. 
 
 *' My shape," she says, " was handsome, 
 
 My face was fair and clean ; 
 But now I'm bonnie brucket, 
 
 And blue beneath the e'en : 
 Wy eyes were bright and sparkling, 
 
 Before that they turn'd blue ; 
 But now they're dull with weeping. 
 
 And a', my love, for you. 
 
 " IMy person it was comely. 
 
 My shape, they said, was neat ; 
 But now I am quite chang'd, 
 
 My stays they winna meet : 
 A' night I sleeped soundly. 
 
 My mind was never sad ; 
 But now my rest is broken, 
 
 Wi' thinking o' my lad. 
 
 " O could I live in darkness, 
 Or hide me in the sea. 
 
 • Balloon Tytler, is here rcrerred to. 
 
 Since my love is unfai.hfu!. 
 
 And has forsaken me ! 
 No other love I suffer'd 
 
 Within mv breast to dwet s 
 In nought 1 have offended, 
 
 But loving hira too well." 
 
 Her lover heard her mournitg, 
 
 As by he chanc'd to pass, 
 And press'd unto his bosom 
 
 The lovely brucket lass : 
 " My dear," he said, " cease grieving, 
 
 Since that your love's sae true, 
 My bonnie brucket lassie 
 
 I'll faithful prove to you." 
 
 SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN 
 
 This song is beautiful. — The chorus in par- 
 ticular is truly pathetic. — I never could Jean 
 
 any thing of its author. 
 
 .\ l.Ass that was laden with care 
 Sat heavily under yon thorn ; 
 I listen'd awhile for to hear. 
 
 When thus she began for to mourn : 
 Whene'er my dear shepherd was there, 
 
 The birds did melodiously sing. 
 And cold nipping winter did wear 
 A face that rcseud>led the spring. 
 Sae merry as we twa hue been. 
 Sue merry ns we twit line been. 
 My heart it is like fur to break, 
 ir//c/j I think (in the days we hae teen. 
 
 Our flocks feeding close by his side, 
 
 He gently pressing my hand, 
 I view'd the wide world in its pride. 
 
 And laugh'd at the pomp of command ! 
 My dear, he would oft to me say, 
 
 What makes you hard-hearted to me? 
 Oh ! why do vou thus turn away 
 
 From him who is dying for thee? 
 Sae merry, §-c. 
 
 But now he is fir from my sight, 
 
 Perhaps a deceiver may prove. 
 Which makes me lament day and nig^ 
 
 That ever I granted my love. 
 Kt eve, when the rest of the folk 
 
 Were merrily seated to spin, 
 ( set myself under an oak. 
 
 And heavily sis;hed for hira. 
 Sae merry, i^c. 
 
 THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
 
 Tins is another beautiful song of Mr. CraW 
 ford's composition. In the neighbourhood o( 
 TriKjuair, tradition still shews the old "Bush;" 
 which, when I saw it in the year 1787, wM 
 
SONGS. 
 
 117 
 
 "WinpotcJ of eijrlit or nine raf^g^eil birches. The 
 Earl of Traquair has pl;inteii a i:liiin|i of trees 
 near l)y, which he calls " The New IJush. " 
 
 Hear nie, ye nymphs, and every swain, 
 
 I'll tell how I'ejiijy grieve* nie ; 
 Tho* thus I languish anil complain, 
 
 Alas ! slie ne'er lielieves me. 
 My vows and sisjiis, like silent air, 
 
 Unheedeii never move her ; 
 The bonnie bush ahoon Traquair, 
 
 Was where 1 first did love her. 
 
 That day she sinil'd and made me glad, 
 
 No maid seilii'd ever kinder ; 
 I thougL*: myself the luckiest lad, 
 
 So swjetly there to find her. 
 I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, 
 
 In words that I thuuijht tender ; 
 If more there pa>'s'd, I'm not to blame, 
 
 I meant not to offend her. 
 
 Yet now she scornful flees the plain, 
 
 The fields we then frequented ; 
 If e'er we meet, she shews disdain. 
 
 She looks as ne'er a( qn.iinted. 
 The bonnie bu'-h bloouj'd fair in 3lay, 
 
 Its sweets I'll ay remember ; 
 But now her frowns make it decay. 
 
 It fades as in December. 
 
 Ve rural pow'rs, who hear my strains, 
 
 Why thus should Pesfgy grieve me? 
 Oh ! make her partner iu my pains. 
 
 Then let her smiles relieve me : 
 If not, my love will turn despair. 
 
 My passion no more tender; 
 I'll leave the bush ahoon Traquair, 
 
 To lonely wild.s L'U wander. 
 
 CROMLET'S LILT. 
 
 " In the hitter end of the 1 6th century, the 
 Chishuhns were propiietors of the estate of 
 Crondecks (now pns>es>e(l by the Drunimonds). 
 The eldest son of that family was very much 
 Sttached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, 
 conin.on'y known by the name of Fair Helen 
 of Ardoch. 
 
 " At that time the opportunities of meeting 
 betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
 m<ue sought after than now ; and the Scottish 
 ladies, far from piiding themselves on extensive 
 literature, were thought sufficiently book-learn- 
 ed if they could make out the Scriptures in their 
 mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of 
 the line of female education : At that |)eriod 
 the most of our y<iung men of family souijht a 
 fortune, or found a grave, in France. Crom- 
 lu', when he went abroad ti the war, was o- 
 bliged to leave the managenun. of hi» corre*- 
 pcndence with his mistios to a lay bruth^i' cf 
 
 th'* monastery of Dumhiain, in the imniediata 
 neighbourhood of Crouileck, and near Ardoch. 
 This n\an, uuf(Mtunate! ,', was deeply sensible i4 
 Helen's chai i:is. He artfully prepossesseii her 
 with storirs to the disailviiiitage of Cromlusj 
 anil by misinterpreting oi- keeping up the let- 
 ters and messages intrusted to his e.ire, I* en- 
 tirely irritated both All <'onnecti(m was broken 
 olf betwixt them : Helen wa» inconsolable, and 
 Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad call- 
 ed Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his 
 genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. 
 
 " When the Rrtftd monk thought time had 
 sufficiently softent '. Helen's >urrow, he projMsed 
 himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate; but 
 at last, overcome by the persuasions of her 
 brother with whom she lived, aiul who, having 
 a fimily of thirty-one chddren, was piobably 
 very well jileased to get her off his hands, she 
 submitted, rather than consented to the cere- 
 mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, 
 when forcibly put into beil, she started quite 
 frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
 gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, 
 she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, He- 
 len, vi'ind vie.* Cromlus soon after coming 
 home, the treachery of the confidant was dis- 
 covered, — her m.iiriage disannulled, — <ind He- 
 len became lady Cromlecks." 
 
 N. B. Warg. iMurray, mother to these tliirty- 
 one chddren, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
 one of the seventeen sons of Tullybanline. and 
 whose youngest son, conjmonly called the Tutor 
 of Ardodi, died in the year 1715, aged HI 
 years. 
 
 SiKCE all thy vows, false maid. 
 Are blown to air, 
 
 And my ])()or heart betray'd 
 
 To s.id despair. 
 
 Into some wilderness. 
 
 My grief I will expiess. 
 
 And thy hard- hearted ness, 
 O cruel fair. 
 
 Have I not graven our loves 
 
 On every tree 
 In yonder sjireading gioves, 
 
 Tl'.o" false thou h«: 
 Was not a solemn oath 
 Plighted betwixt us both. 
 Thou thy faith, I my trvith. 
 
 Constant to be ? 
 
 Some gloomy place I'll find. 
 
 Some doleful shade, 
 
 Where neither sun nor wind 
 
 K'er entrance had : 
 
 Into that hollow cave, 
 
 There will 1 sigh and rave. 
 
 Because thou dost behave 
 
 So faithlessly. 
 
 • Reticmtiei nie. 
 

 118 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 Wild fruit snail be my moat, 
 
 Restore my Peggy's wonted charms, 
 
 I'll drink the spring, 
 
 Those charms so dear to me ! 
 
 Cold earth shall he my seat: 
 
 Oh ! never rob them from these arcQ3| 
 
 Fi)r covering 
 
 I'm lost if Peggy die. 
 
 ril have the starry sky 
 
 
 My head to canojiy, 
 Until my soul on hy 
 
 
 
 Shall spread its vr'iag. 
 
 
 
 SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. 
 
 I'll have no funeral fire, 
 
 
 Nor tears for me : 
 
 The old set of this song, which is still to be 
 
 No grave do I desire, 
 
 Nor obsequies : 
 
 found in printed collections, is much prettier 
 
 than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
 
 The courteous Rtd-breaat he 
 
 say, took it into his head to clear it of som« 
 
 With leaves will cover rne, 
 
 seeming indelicacies, and made it at once mora 
 
 And sing my elegy 
 
 chaste and more dull. 
 
 With doleful voice. 
 
 
 
 The night her silent sable wore. 
 
 And when a ghost I am, 
 
 And gloomy were the skies ; 
 
 I'll visit thee, 
 
 Of glitt'ring stars appear'd no more 
 
 O thou deceitful danie, 
 
 Than those in Nelly's eyes. 
 
 Wliose cruelty 
 
 When at her fither's yate I knock'd, 
 
 Has kill'd the kindest heart 
 
 Where I had often been, 
 
 That e'er felt Cupid's dart, 
 
 She, shrouded only with her smock, 
 
 And never can desert 
 
 Arose and loot nie in. 
 
 From loving thee. 
 
 
 
 Fast lock'd within her close embrace, 
 
 
 She trembling stood asham'd ; 
 Her swelling breast, and glowing face. 
 
 
 
 And ev'ry touch inflam'd. 
 
 MY DEARIE, IF TIIOU DIE. 
 
 My eager passion I ohey'd, 
 
 
 Resolv'd the fort to win ; 
 
 Attc/TUER beautiful song of Crawford's. 
 
 And her fond heart was soon betray'd 
 
 
 To yield and let me in. 
 
 Love never more shall tjive me pain, 
 
 
 My fancy's fix'd on thee, 
 
 Then, then, beyond expressing, 
 
 Nor ever maid uiy heart shall gain. 
 
 Transj)orting was the joy ; 
 
 IVIy Pef^xy, if thou die. 
 
 I knew no greater blessing. 
 
 Thy heauty <loth such pleasure give, 
 
 So bless'd a man was I. 
 
 Thy love's so true to ine, 
 
 And she, all ravish'd with delight. 
 
 Without thee I can never live, 
 
 Rid me oft come again ; 
 
 My dt.irie, if thou die. 
 
 And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night 
 
 
 She'd rise and let me in. 
 
 If fate shall tear thee from my breast, 
 
 
 How shall I lonely stray ! 
 
 But ah I at last she prov'd with b^unSf 
 
 In dreaty dreams the night I'll waste, 
 
 And sighing liat and dull, 
 
 In sighs, the silent day. 
 
 And I that was jis much concern'd. 
 
 I ne'er can so nnn'h virtue find, 
 
 Look'd e'en just like a fool. 
 
 Nor such perfection see ; 
 
 Her lovdy eyes with tears ran o'er, 
 
 Then I'll renounce all woman kind, 
 
 Repenting her ra-h sin : 
 
 IMy Peggy, after thee. 
 
 She sigli'd, and curs'd the fatal boor 
 
 
 That e'er she loot me in. 
 
 No new-bln\vTi heauty fires my heart. 
 
 
 \V ith Cupid's riving rage ; 
 
 But who cnu'd cruelly deceive, 
 
 But thine, which can such sweets impart, 
 
 Or from such lieinty part? 
 
 Must all the world engage. 
 
 I lov'd her so, I could not leare 
 
 'Twas this, that lilse th? morning sun, 
 
 The charmer of my lu'art ; 
 
 Gave joy and life to me ; 
 
 But wedded, and conceal'd our cHme 
 
 And when its destin'd day is done. 
 
 Thus all was well again. 
 
 With Peggy let me die. 
 
 And now she thanks the happy tims 
 
 
 That e'er she lout me in. 
 
 Ye powers that smile on virtuous love. 
 
 
 And m such pleasure share ; 
 
 
 You who its riiililiil (liiiies iipj>rove. 
 With pity view the fair : 
 
 
 
 J 
 
SONGS. 
 
 GO TO THE EWR-nuGirrs, :\iarion. 
 
 I A>t not sure if tliis olil anil ch.irminjj -lir l)c" 
 if tlio Simrh, as is (•(iiiiinnnly s.iiil, or of tlic 
 Nortii of St-otldti(l. — Tlii-re is a smiir ;i|>|i,irfiitlv 
 as ntu-ioiit as Hu-L-IhinlUs, jMiriiui, wliicl'i 
 •i'lsjs to tlic s.inie tune, and is evidently of the 
 North. — It begins thus: — 
 
 TiiE Lord o' Gnrdiin hid three doclitcrs, 
 
 5!jry, Mtri^et, unil Je.m, 
 Tliey Uiul n.i st.iy at honnie Castle Goidou, 
 
 But a«-a to Aherdteu. 
 
 119 
 
 Wn,r. ye jjo to the ewe-hu^'hts Marion, 
 And we.ir in tlie sheep wi" nie ; 
 
 The »un shines sweet, iny Marion, 
 lint n,ie halFs.ie sweet as thee. 
 
 Marion's a bonny l,i>s. 
 
 And the b!yt!i blinks in lier e'e ; 
 And f.iin wad I ni.irry M irion, 
 Giu Marion wad uiairy me. 
 
 There's jjowd in your garters, Marion, 
 
 And silk on your white !iause-bane ; 
 Fu' fain wad I ki^s my Marion, 
 
 At e'en wi-.en I loaie hiine. 
 There's braw lads in E irnsi iw, Marion, 
 
 Wha i:a|ie, and glower with tlieir e'e, 
 At kii k wh.n tluy see my Alarion ; 
 
 But nane of tiiem lo'es idie nie. 
 
 1 ve nine milk-ewes, my Marion, 
 
 A cow and a brawi^y i|uey, 
 I'll gie them a' to my ^Alarion, 
 
 Just on her brid il-day : 
 And ye's get a green sey apron, 
 
 And waistcoat of the Lcmdon brown, 
 And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring. 
 
 Whene'er ye gang to tl e town. 
 
 Pm young and stout, my Marion ; 
 
 Nane dance like me on the green ; 
 And gin ye tiiistke me, Marion, 
 
 I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean : 
 Sae pi.t on yonr pearllns, Marion, 
 
 And kyrtie of the cranii^sie ; 
 And soon as my chiu has nae bair on, 
 
 I ehill come west, and sice ye. • 
 
 LEWI.S GORDON.f 
 
 Ihis air is a pn<of how one of our Scots 
 tunes comes to be comj.osed out of another. I 
 
 • This is marke.1 in ilie T a TaJ.le MlsrelUuy as an 
 old soni- Willi .i.liitions.— a;,/. •" 
 
 ihL'n {'"' '■'•."'i* /i'T'l"". vonnpcr brother to the 
 hen D„keo. Gor.loii. eoMimanled ,i .IcUichinent for 
 m< lliev.iiicr. uml aaiiiitt.'l hiinvjf with LTcat i-il- 
 »»<itrv and iuJuMHiit. Me d,e.l in ITol." '' 
 
 have one of the earliest co]).es of the song, and 
 it has jnetixed. 
 
 Tune of Tarry Woo. 
 
 Of whi<h tune, a differect se.t has insensibly 
 varied into a different air.— To a Scots critic, 
 the pathos of the line, 
 
 " Tho' his back be at the wa'," 
 
 —must be very striking It needs not a Jaco- 
 
 bite prejudice t,- be iiifected with this s.ing. The 
 supposed autho; ii " Lewis dordin' was a Mr 
 Geddes, priest, at Slienval, in the Ainzie. 
 
 Oh ! send Lewie Gordon haine, 
 
 .•\nd the la<l I winna name ; 
 
 Tho' his back be at the wa'. 
 
 Here's to him that's far awa ! 
 
 Ok hon ! my I£i,,hland man. 
 Oh, my honnt/ lli(jlthtiid iinni • 
 Weel woidd I my truK-liive kun, 
 Aniang ten thonsajid lliyhland men. 
 
 Oh ! to see his tartan-trews, 
 Bonnet blue, and laigh-heei'd shoes, 
 Philabeg ahoon his knee ; 
 That's the lad that I'll gang wi' ! 
 O/i hull, Sfc. 
 
 The princely youth that I do mean, 
 Is fitted for to be a kin" : 
 On his breast he wears a star; 
 You'd tak him for the God of War 
 O/t hon, §-c. 
 
 Oh to see this Princely One, 
 Seated on a royal throne ! 
 Disasters a' would disappear. 
 Then begins the Jub'Ice ye^r ! 
 
 Oh hon, Sfc. 
 
 Oil ONO CHRIO. 
 
 Dr. Ri.ACia.otK informed me that this sod* 
 was composed on the infamous massacre at 
 Glencoe. 
 
 Oh ! was not I a weary wight ! 
 
 Oh ! ono chri, oh ! ono chri—~ 
 Maid, wife, and widow, in one night ! 
 When in my soft and yielding anus, 
 O ! when most I thought him free from harma 
 Even at the dead time of the night, 
 They broke my bower, and slew" my kni"ht. 
 \yith ae lock of his jet-black hair, ° 
 
 I'll tie my heart for everni-iir ; 
 Nae sly-tongued youth, or flitt'nng swain. 
 Shall e'er untye this knot again ; 
 Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be. 
 Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee.' 
 <The chorui repeated at tht end of each line). 
 
120 BURNS WORKS 
 
 THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 
 
 This song;, as far as I know, for the first 
 time appears here in print. — When I was a boy, 
 it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
 member to have heard those fariatics, the Buch- 
 anites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
 which they dignify with the name of lymns, to 
 this air BuiiNS. 
 
 As I was a walking 
 
 One morning in May, 
 The small birds sang sweetly, 
 
 The flowers were bloomin' gay, 
 Oh there I met my true love, 
 
 As fresh as dawnin' day, 
 Down amoRg the beds of sweet roses. 
 
 Fu' white was her liarefoot, 
 
 New bathed in the dew ; 
 Whiter was her white hand, 
 
 Her ecn were bonnie blue; 
 ^nd kind were her whispers, 
 
 And sweet was her moo, 
 Down among the beds o' sweet roses. 
 
 My father and my mother, 
 
 I wot they told me true, 
 That 1 liked' ill to thrash. 
 
 And I like worse to plough ; 
 But 1 vow the maidens like me, 
 
 I'or 1 kend tlie way to woo, 
 Down among the beds of sweet roses. 
 
 COKN RIGS ARE BONNY. 
 
 Mv I'atic is a lover gay. 
 
 His mind is never mudily. 
 Ills lireath Is sweetei than new liay, 
 
 His face is fair and rndily. 
 HiH sliujie is liandMMiie, miildle size ; 
 
 He's stately in his wawking ; 
 The sliiriing of his cen surprise ; 
 
 'Tis lieaven to hear him tawking. 
 
 La-^t night I n:et him on a hawk. 
 
 Where vllow ciirn was growing, 
 There mony a kimily Word he spake. 
 
 That set my lieart a-glowing. 
 He ki->M, and vow'd he wad lie mine. 
 
 And liio'ii nit' best of ony ; 
 That gars me like to sing sinsyne, 
 
 O com ru/s are bnniiy. 
 
 _et miid.-n* of a sil!y minil 
 
 Urfuse wlijt niai>t they're wanting, 
 Biiicc we for yielding are de-igu'd. 
 
 We clia>t«ly should be granting ; 
 Tlien I'll iiMiiply ami many I'ate, 
 
 All'! -vol- u\\ ciuUei iiiiny 
 Wi* (if>- to t..uz!i> air or lite, 
 
 W bere ■-•oiii rij;-> are bouny. 
 
 All the old words that ever 1 could meet with 
 to this air were the following, which seem t« 
 have been an old chorus. 
 
 O corn rigs and rye rigs, 
 
 O corn rigs are bonnie ; 
 And where'er you meet a bonnie lass. 
 
 Preen up her cocker n»uy. 
 
 WAUKIN O' THE FAULD. 
 
 There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, 
 which I take to be the origiual song w'nenoe 
 Ramsay composed his beautiful song of tbt 
 n<yiie in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins, 
 
 will ye speak at our town. 
 
 As ye come frae the fauld, &c. 
 
 I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the 
 delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to it* 
 wit and humour. 
 
 My Peggy is a yovmg thing. 
 Just enter'd in her teens. 
 Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
 Fair as the day, and always gay. 
 My Peggy is a young thing. 
 
 And I'm not very an Id, 
 Yet well I like to meet her at 
 The wauking of the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 
 Whene'er we meet alane, 
 
 1 wish nae malr to lay my care, 
 I wish nae mair of a' that's rare. 
 
 My Peggy sjieaks sae sweetly, 
 To a' the lave I'm cauld ; 
 
 But she gais a' my spirits glow, 
 At waukii.g of the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly. 
 Whene'er I whisper love. 
 That 1 look down on a' the town. 
 That I look 'li'wn upon a crown, 
 ]\ly I'eguy smiles sae kindly. 
 
 It makes me blythe and ba'jld. 
 And naething gi'es me sic delight. 
 As wauking of the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly. 
 
 When on my pipe I play; 
 By a' the rest it is cmifest, 
 3y a' the rest, that she sings best. 
 My IVggy sings sae saftly. 
 
 And in lier saiigs aie tald, 
 Witli innocence, the wale of sei;!^ 
 
SONGS. 
 
 121 
 
 MAGOin: LAUDER. 
 
 Tins nl I sorii,', so prci^nant with Si-ottisli 
 nairittif and ciitTwy. is iiiu-U ri'lishcd by all 
 ratiks, notwitlistaiiiiinc; ii.s lnoad u it an<l pal- 
 palilc nllusidns. — Its langiiasje is a piecioiis ino- 
 Jel iif imitaritin : sly, spris^hily, and fon^ihly ex- 
 pri'ssive. — M is^jzit's tongui." \vms;s out tlie nick- 
 nnini'S of Rob the Pipur with all the ciiiek'ss 
 lightsomt'iii'ss of iinri'straiiiuJ gaiety. 
 
 \ViiA wad na be in love 
 
 \\"i' bonny iMai,'<,'ie Laudor? 
 
 A jiiper ini't hur gaiin to Fife, 
 
 And spoiiM what was't they I'a'd her ;— 
 
 Right scornfully slie answei'd hini, 
 
 I5o<;onc, you hall.in>li.iki'r ! 
 
 Jig on your s^ate, you bladilerskate, 
 
 31y name is JIaggie Lauder. 
 
 Masf^ie, <]no* he, and by my bigs, 
 I'm tidijin' fain to sec thee ; 
 Sit ilo«ii by nie, my bonny birdi 
 In ticith I winna steer thee : 
 For I'm a ])i|Mr to mv trade, 
 My iiame Is Rob the Ranter ; 
 The la----es loop as tliey were daft, 
 Vhen I blaw up my chanter. 
 
 Piper, quo' ."Me;;, hae ye your bags? 
 
 Or is your drone in order ? 
 
 If ye be Rob, I've heird o' you, 
 
 Live you upo' the liorder ? 
 
 Th.e lasses a', liaith t.ir and near. 
 
 Have heaid o' Rob the Ranter ; 
 
 III shake my foot wi' right sjiide will, 
 
 Gif you'll blaw up your chanter. 
 
 Then to his bapjs he flew wi' speed, 
 About the drone he twisted ; 
 Meg up and wallop'd o'er tiie green, 
 For brawly cimiil she tri>k t. 
 Weel done! tjuo' he — play ip ! quo* she; 
 Weel l)ohb'rl ! quo' Rob the llantcr ; 
 Tis worth mv while to pi ly indeed, 
 ^Vhen I hae sic a d.incer. 
 
 Weel hae ye jilay'd your part, (juo* Meg, 
 Your cheeks are bke the crims(m ; 
 There's nai.e iti Scotlaml plays sue weel. 
 Since we lo<t Habliie Simpson. 
 I ve liv'd in Fife, baith maid and v/lfe, 
 These ten years aiid a quarter ; 
 G'.n ye ghi.uM come to Knster Fair, 
 Speir ye fur Maggie Lauder. 
 
 TRANENT MUIR. 
 Tu7,e—" Killicrankie." 
 
 " TRANF.NT-MfiR" Was Composed by a Mr. 
 Skirvin, a veiy woithy re>|'ecf.ible firmer, near 
 
 that Lieutenant Smith, whom he inentions iu 
 the n'nth stanza, came to llaild;ngt>in after the 
 publicaticMi of the song, and sent a challenge to 
 Skirvin to meet him at H.uldington. and an- 
 swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
 noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back," 
 said the honest faiiiier, " and tell Mr. Smith 
 that I hae na leisuie to come to Haddington ; 
 but tell him to come here ; and I'll t.ik a look 
 o' him ; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'l. 
 fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did, — i'fi 
 rin awa." — 
 
 The Chevalier, being void of fear, 
 
 Did inarch up Hirsle brae, man, 
 And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent, 
 
 As fast as he could gae, man : 
 While General Cope did taunt and mock, 
 
 Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ; 
 But e'er next morn proelaim'd the cock. 
 
 We heard another craw, man. 
 
 The brave I ivniel, is I heard tell, 
 
 Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; 
 The morning fair, and clear the air. 
 
 They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : 
 Down guns they threw, and swords they drew 
 
 And soon did chace them aff, man ; 
 On Seaton-Crafts they buft tlieir chafts, 
 
 Atid gatt them riu like daft, man. 
 
 The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'uoiu. 
 
 They'd make the rebels run, man ; 
 And yet they flee when them tliey see, 
 
 And winna fire a gmi, man : 
 They turn'd their back, the foot they brake, 
 
 Such terror seii'd them a', man ; 
 Some wet their cheeks, some fvl'd their breck* 
 
 And some for fear did fa', man. 
 
 The volunteers prick'd up their ears. 
 
 And vow gin they were crouse, man ; 
 But when the bairns saw't turn to earu'st, 
 
 Tliey were not worth a louse, man ; 
 ;\Iaist feck g.ide hanu> ; (J fy for shame ! 
 
 They'd better stay'd awa', man. 
 Than wi' cockaoe to make parade, 
 
 And do nae good at a', man. 
 
 Mentelth the great,* when hersell sh— t, 
 
 Un'wares did ding him o'er, man ; 
 Yet wad nae stand to bear a h and, 
 
 But aff fou fast did scour, man ; 
 O'er Soiitra hill, e'er he stood still. 
 
 Before he tasted meat, m in : 
 Troth he may brag of his swift nag, 
 
 That bare him alf sae fleet, man. 
 
 • The minister of I,nngformae>i'!,avoIimtc«r ; who, 
 hapiuMiiiig to eoiue llie iiif;*'! I)i tore ili l)inle, upon i 
 II I ■• , , 111 r lli;;hlaiul (jelluif". ea^'lli; nature ai l'res:on, threw him 
 
 UaJdington. 1 have hea-il the auecdute often, | over, aiul carried liis gun as a trophy to Cope's camp. 
 
122 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 And Simpson • keen, to dear the een 
 
 Of rel)els far in wranj;, in.in. 
 Did never stiive wi' pistuls five, 
 
 But giJliip'd wilh tlie tliiang, man : 
 Ke tiirnM his b.uk. and in a crack 
 
 Was de.inly nut of sight, man ; 
 And thdiight it best ; it was nae jsst 
 
 Wi* Highlanders to fight, man. 
 
 ^langst a' the gang tiane bade the bang 
 
 But twa, and ane was tane, man ; 
 For CaniplK'H rade, l)iit Myrief btiid, 
 
 And sail he |)aid the kain.f man ; 
 Fell sktlps he got, was war than shot 
 
 Frae the sharp- edpj'd claymore, man ; 
 Frae many a spnut came running out 
 
 His reeking-het red gore, man. 
 
 But Gard'nerg hrive did still behave 
 
 Like to a hero bright, man ; 
 His courau^e true, like him were few, 
 
 That still despised flight, man ; 
 For king and liws, and country's cause, 
 
 In honour's bed he lay, man ; 
 His life, but not his courage, fled, 
 
 While he had breath to draw, man. 
 
 And Major Bowie, that worthy soul. 
 
 Was brought ilown to tlie giriund, man ; 
 His horse being sliot, it was his lot 
 
 For to get mony a wound, man : 
 Lieutenant Smitii, of Irish birth, 
 
 Frae whom he cali'd for aid, man, 
 Being full of dread, lap oVr his head, 
 
 And wadna be gainsaid, man. 
 
 He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 
 
 'Tw.is little there he saw, man ; 
 To Berwick rade, and safely said, 
 
 The Scots weie rebels a', man ; 
 But let that end, for well 'tis kend 
 
 His use and wont to lie, man ; 
 The Teague is naught, he never fau^ht. 
 
 When he had room to flee, man. 
 
 * Another voUinterr Presbyterian minister, who 
 »ai,1 he would cr.nv iiier the re'jels of their error bv the 
 dint 111" his p;^tllls•. haviii^, for tliat |iiir;iose, two ni 
 his pockets, tw.) in hi', holsters, and ont in his ijtlt. 
 
 t Mr. Myriewas astudeiu of physic, from Jamaica; 
 he entered as a vohintter in Cope's army, aid was 
 misenbly mangled by llic broadsword. 
 
 t i- e. He siiflered severely in the cause. 
 
 II James Gardiner, Colonel of a regiment of hor'ie. 
 This t'entlfin m's conduct, howevrr celebrated, does 
 not seem to ha\e |iri needed so much from the (,'ene- 
 rous ardour of a nohlc and lieroie mind, as from a 
 spirit of religious <:Mihusia>iii, .md a bifjoted reli.Jice 
 on the I'resbyteriau doctrine of |)rc(ksinalion, which 
 rendered it ;i matter of |iert'eel mdillerence whether he 
 left the field or leinaiiied in it. being d^•^erled bv his 
 ♦.roup, he was kilx'd by a Higlilaiulcr, wiih a Lochaber 
 axe. 
 
 CnloncI Gardiner having, when a gay young man, 
 tt Paris, mode an as i^uaimi willi a ladv, was, a« lie 
 pretended, not iinly deterred from keeping his an. 
 poiutmeiii, III, I lli.ir.iu(!tily leelainicd from all such 
 thoughts 111 future, by at. apiiarilion. bee hii Life by 
 Uuddndse. 
 
 And Caddell drest, aniang the rest. 
 
 With gun and good claymore, 2G2I1, 
 On gelding grey he roile that way. 
 
 With pistols set before, man ; 
 Tlie c'ause was good, he'd spend his bloody 
 
 Before that he would yield, man ; 
 But the night before he left the cor. 
 
 And never fac'd the field, man. 
 
 But gallant Roger, like a soger. 
 
 Stood and bravely fought, man ; 
 I'm wae to tell, at last he fell. 
 
 But mae down wi' him brought, man : 
 At point of death, wi' his last breath, 
 
 (Some standing round in ring, man), 
 Oil's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat. 
 
 And cry'd, God save the king, man. 
 
 Some Higliland rogues, like hungry dogs^ 
 
 Neglecting to pursue, man. 
 About they fac'd, and in great haste 
 
 Upon the booty flew, man ; 
 And they, as gain, for all their pain, 
 
 Are dcck'd wi spoils of war, man ; 
 Fow bald can tell liow her nainsell 
 
 Was ne'er sae pra before, man. 
 
 At the thorn-tree, which you may see 
 
 Bewest the meadow-mill, man ; 
 There mony slain lay on the plain. 
 
 The clans pursuing still, man. 
 Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, 
 
 I never saw the like, man ; 
 Lost hands and heads cost them their deada^ 
 
 That fell near Preston-dyke, mm. 
 
 That afternoon, when a' was done, 
 
 I gacd to see the fray, man ; 
 But ha J I wist what after past, 
 
 I'd better staid away, man : 
 On Seaton sands, wi* nimble handi. 
 
 They pick'd my |)ockets bare, man; 
 But I wijh ne'er to drie sic fear. 
 
 Fur a' the sum and mair, man. 
 
 STREPHON AND L\DIA. 
 Tunc—" The Gordon's had tlie Guldirg o't." 
 
 The following account of this son-f I 1 jd 
 from Dr. Blacklock. 
 
 The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in tha 
 song were perhaps the iovehe^t coujile of their 
 time. The gentleman was cmnmonly known 
 by the name of Beau Gibson. Tiie lady wa« 
 the Gentle Jean, celebrated soiuewliere in Mr. 
 
 Hamilton of Bangoiii's |>oeiiis Having fre- 
 
 ijtiently met at public places tlicy bad lot incj 
 a lerljMoeal attachment, which their frien !i 
 thought dangerous, as their resources were by 
 no means adequate to ti.eir la-tes and habits of 
 life. To elude the bad conseipiences of such a 
 connection, Strephua was i>ent abroad with « 
 
SONGS. 
 
 l?'3 
 
 eABLTiission, and jicnshcJ in Admiral reinon's 
 e.\pi'iliti()n to CuillKigeiia. 
 
 The author of the sonj^ was William Wallace, 
 Esq. of Cainihill, in Ayrshire. — Burns. 
 
 Ai.r. lovely on tlie sultry heach, 
 
 Exjjirinfj Strephon lay, 
 No hand the cordial draught to reach, 
 
 Nor rhear the gloomy way. 
 Ill-fated youth ! no |)areiit ni;;h. 
 
 To catch tl.y fleeting breath, 
 No hride, to fix thy swimming eye. 
 
 Or smooth the face of death. 
 
 Far distant from the mournful scete, 
 
 Thy parent" sit at ease, 
 Thy Lydia rifles all the i)lain. 
 
 Anil all the spring to please. 
 Ill-fated youth! Iiy fault of liiend. 
 
 Not force of foe dcpress'd, 
 '''hou fali'st, alas! thyself, thy kind. 
 
 Thy country, unredress'd ' 
 
 IM O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 
 
 The chorus of this song is old. — The rest if 
 q such as it is, is mine — Burns. 
 
 I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, 
 I'm o'er young to mairy yet ; 
 I'm o'er young, 'twad he a sin 
 To take rae frae my mammy vet. 
 
 There is a stray, characteristic verse, which 
 ought to be restored. 
 
 My minnie coft me a new gown. 
 
 The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 
 
 Ware I to lie wi' you. kind Sir, 
 I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
 I'm o'er young, &c. 
 
 MY JO. JANET. 
 
 Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 
 cacy, refused to insert the last stauza of thi- 
 aumorous ballad. — Burns. 
 
 Shtket Sir, for yo-ir courtesie, 
 
 NVhen ye come by the liass tlien, 
 For the luve ye bear to me, 
 
 Buy me a keeking-yla^s, then 
 
 Keck into the draic-uell, 
 
 Janet, Janet ; 
 And there ye' II see your lionny sell, 
 My Jo, Janet. 
 
 Keeking in the draw-well clear. 
 What if 1 should fa' in, 
 
 S)no i' my kin will say and eweOTj 
 
 I drown'd mysell for sin. — 
 Hand the letter be the liroe, 
 
 Janet, Janet, 
 Hand the better be the hr<te. 
 
 My Jo, Janet. 
 
 Good Sir, for your courtesie. 
 
 Coming through Aberdeen, ths% 
 For the luve ye bear to me. 
 
 Buy ine a |)air of sheen, then.— 
 Clout the auld, the new are dear, 
 
 Jam-t, Janet ; 
 Ae pair may gaiti ye hafu year, 
 JSIy Jo, Janet. 
 
 But what if (lancing on the green, 
 
 And skip[)ing like a maukin. 
 If they should see my clouted shoon, 
 
 Of me they will be taukin'.^ 
 Dance ay laiyh, and late at e'en, 
 
 Janet, Janet ; 
 Syne a their fauts jvill ni> l,c seen. 
 My Jo, Janet. 
 
 Kind Sir, for your courtesie. 
 
 When ye gae to the Cross, then. 
 For the luve ye bear to me. 
 
 Buy me a pacing-horse, then.— 
 Pace vpo' yuur sj)iniiinc/-uheel, 
 Janet, Janet ; 
 Pace vpo' your splnniny-uheel, 
 My Jo, Janet. 
 
 My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff, 
 
 The rock o't winua stand, Sir, 
 To keep the temper-pin in tiff. 
 
 Employs right aft my hand, Sir.-» 
 Mak the best o't that ye can, 
 
 Janet, Janet ; 
 But like it nciLf tcule a man. 
 
 My Jo, Janet. 
 
 GUDE YILL CO.MES, AND GUDE 
 YILL GOES. 
 
 This song sings to the tune called The lot. 
 torn iif thv. puucli bout, of wliicii a vejv goo^ 
 copy may be found in M' (•'iLbu7isCullt:ctiuK.~-m 
 
 BuilNS. 
 
 Tune—" The Happy Farmer." 
 
 O (jiide yill comes, and yiide yill goes, 
 (jutle yill gars me sell my hose. 
 Sell my hose, anil pawn my shoon, 
 For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
 
 I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh, 
 .\nd tlu'y drew teugh ami weel encugh } 
 I diank them a' ane by ane, 
 For gude yill keeps my heart abooa. 
 Gude yill, ij-c. 
 
 I had forty sliiHin in a clout, 
 Uude yill gart me |jyke tlit«a out ; 
 
124 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 That gear should moule I thought a siu, 
 Gude jill keeps my heart aboon. 
 Glide yill, S^'c. 
 
 The meikle pot upm my back, 
 Unto the vill-hduse I diil pack ; 
 It nitlted a' \vi' the heat o' the moon, 
 Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
 Gude y'dl, ^-c. 
 
 Gude yill hands me bare and busy, 
 Gars me moop \vi' tlic servant hizzie. 
 Stand in the kirk when I liae done, 
 Gude yill keeps my heart aboou. • 
 Gude yill, §"r. 
 
 I wish their fa' may be a shallows, 
 Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows. 
 And kei p a soup 'lill the altcrnoun, 
 Gude yill keeps my heart almon. 
 
 O yude yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
 Glide yill gars we sell my liuse. 
 Sell my /lOse, and jxiwn my sIiDon, 
 Gude yiU keeps my heart aboon. 
 
 WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD 
 DIE. 
 
 Lord Hait.f.s, in the notes to his collection of 
 ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the 
 composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter 
 of the ftrst Earl of JJarchniont, and wife of 
 George Baillie, of Jerv:swuod I^urns. 
 
 There was aaes a ^lay, and she Ino'd na men. 
 She biggit ' :r bonny bow'r down in yon glen ; 
 But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day ! 
 Come down the green gate, and oome here away. 
 Jiut now she ci ies, ^'C. 
 
 When bonny young Jcdiny came o'er the sea, 
 He said he saw naitliing sae lovely as me ; 
 He hecht me baith riujisand muny braw things ; 
 And were na my heart ight I wad die. 
 JJe hec/it me, Sfc. 
 
 tie had a wee titty that loo .1 na me. 
 
 Because I was twice as bonny as she ; 
 
 She rais'il such a j-otlier 'twixt him and his mo- 
 ther. 
 
 That were na my heart light, I wad die. 
 She ruis'd, §-t'. 
 
 The day it was set, and the bridal to he, 
 The wife took a dwam, and lay down to die ; 
 Bhc niain'd and she grain d out of dolour and 
 
 pain, 
 Till lie you'd he never wad see nie again. 
 
 She iiiuin'd tjC. 
 
 • 'Ibc hand of Biin)« h visible here. The lit and 
 1th viTKcii oulv are the orijiiual uiick. J 
 
 His kin was for ane of a higher degree. 
 Sad, What had he to ilo with the like of me i 
 Albeit I was bonny, I was na for Johny : 
 And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
 Albeit I teas, §v. 
 
 They said, I had neither cow nor cafiF, 
 Not dribbles of drink rins throw the drafl^ 
 Nor pickles of meal rins throw the miU-ee; 
 And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
 Nor pickles of, kc 
 
 His titty she was baith wylie and slee, 
 She spy'd me as I came o'er the lee ; 
 And then she ran in and made a loud din. 
 Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. 
 A.n.d then she, §"C. 
 
 His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ; 
 His auld ane looks ay us well as some's new ; 
 But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hiug, 
 And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. 
 Hut nuw he, Sfc. 
 
 And now he gaes ' dandering' about the dykes 
 And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : 
 The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee, 
 And were na my heart light, 1 wad die. 
 The live-laiig, ^c. 
 
 Were I young for thee, as I hae been. 
 We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon greeOf 
 And linking it on the lily-white lee ; 
 And wow gin I were but young fur thee ! 
 And linking 8fc. 
 
 MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF 
 YARROW. 
 
 Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of 
 the palish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the 
 Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry 
 hoiie, and married into the Harden family. Her 
 daughter was mairied to a predecessor of the 
 present Sir Francis Elliot of Stobbs, and of the 
 late Lord Heathtield. 
 
 There is a circumstance in their contract cf 
 marriage that merits attention, as it strongly 
 marks the ])redatory spiiit of the times. — The 
 fatlier-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for 
 some time .ifter the marriage; for which the 
 son-in-law binds himself to give him the profit* 
 of the first Michaelmas-moon. — Burns. 
 
 Happy's the love which meets return, 
 When in solt Haines souls equal burn; 
 But words are wanting to discover 
 The torments of a hopeless lover. 
 Ye registers of beav'ii, relate. 
 If looking o'er the ridl> of fate, 
 Did you there see me mark'd to mar/ow 
 Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow i 
 
All no ! licr form's too heav'nly fair, 
 FTtT love tlie gods above must share ; 
 While ninrtah witli (Icspaii- explore her, 
 And at distance due adore her. 
 O lovely maid ! my doubts bes^uile, 
 Revive and bless me with a smile : 
 Alas ! if not, you'll soon debar a 
 Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow 
 
 Pe hush, ye fears, I'll not de-^pair ; 
 My .Maiy's tender as she's fair ; 
 Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish, 
 She is too good to let me languish : 
 With success crown'd, I'll not envy 
 The folks who dwell above the sky ; 
 When Mary Scott's become my marrow, 
 We'll make a paradise in Yarrow. 
 
 SONGS. 125 
 
 THE MUCKIN' O* GEORDIE'S BYRE. 
 
 The chorus of this song is old Tlie rest i« 
 
 the work of Balloon Tytler.' — BuKNs. 
 
 Tune—" The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre." 
 
 The muckin' o' Geordie's byre, 
 
 And the shool an' the graip sae clean. 
 Has gar'd nie weet my cheeks. 
 And greet wi' baith my een. 
 It was ne'er mi/ ftther's will, 
 i^'or yet mi/ mit/ier's desire, 
 lit e'er I slioiihl fi/h mij fingers 
 Wi' muckin' o' Geordie's byre. 
 
 That 
 
 was 
 Sol- 
 ack- 
 
 tiie iiigiilaxd queen. 
 
 The Highland Queen, music and poetry, 
 composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the 
 bay man of war. — This I had from Dr. B 
 lock. — BuuNs. 
 
 Tu'w—" The Highland Queen.", 
 
 No more my song shall be, ye swains. 
 Of purling streams or flowrie plains: 
 More pleasing beauties now inspire, 
 And rhoebus deigns the warbling lyre. 
 
 Divinely aided, thus I mean 
 To celebrate, to celebrate, 
 
 To celebrate my Highland Queen. 
 
 In her sweet innocence you'll find 
 With freedom, truth and virtue join'd : 
 Strict honour fills her spotless soul. 
 And gives a lustre to the whole. 
 
 A match'ess shape and lovely mein 
 All centre in, all centre iii, 
 
 All centre iu my Highland Queen. 
 
 No sordid wish or trifling joy 
 Her settled calm of mind destroy : 
 From pride and affectation free. 
 Alike she smiles on you and me. 
 
 The brightest nymph that trips the green 
 1 do pronounce, I do pronounce, 
 
 I do pronounce my Highland Queen. 
 
 How blest the youth, whose gentle fate 
 Has destined to so fair a mate, 
 With all those wondrous gifts in store. 
 To which each coming day brings more, 
 
 Nj man more happy can be seen 
 Possessing thee, possessing thee, 
 
 Posiessing thee, my Highland Queen. 
 
 The mouse is a merry beast. 
 
 The moiidiwort wnnts the een. 
 But the warld shall ne'er get wit, 
 Sae merry as we hae been. 
 
 It was ne'er jnt/ fat/ier'i will, 
 Nor yet my mi titer s desire. 
 That e'er I sluml-l fyle my finrjeia 
 WV muckin' u' Geordie's byre. 
 
 macpherson's farewell, 
 
 ALSO KNOWN AS 
 
 MACPHERSON'S RANT. 
 
 He was a daring robber in the beginning of 
 this (eighteenth) century — was condemned to 
 be hanged at Inverness. ' He is said, when un- 
 der sentence of death, to have composed this 
 tune, which he called his own Lament, or Fare- 
 well. 
 
 Gow has published a variation of this fine 
 tune, as his own composition, which he calls 
 " The Piiucess Augusta." — Bi;kns. 
 
 I've spent my time in rioting, 
 
 Debauch'd my health and strength: 
 I've pillaged, plundered, murdered. 
 
 But now, alas ! at length 
 I ni brought to punishment direct • 
 
 Pale rie ith draws near to me ; 
 This end I never did project 
 
 To hang upon a tree. 
 
 To hang upon a tree, a tree, 
 
 That cursed unhappy death j 
 Like to a wolf ro worried bf. 
 
 And choaked in the breath : 
 My very heart would surely break 
 
 When this I think upon. 
 Did not my courage singular 
 
 Bid i)ensive thoughts begone. 
 
 ■ A 8ins>ilarly lcanic<l but unhappv person. He 
 live. .It to , earlv a sage of the w„r|,l: before thera 
 was toleratmn m Bntain. wh.ch he was obhged to quit 
 I ,J5) because of his dem<>or;4tical writiiiiTsI when he 
 i vImI "\iT " S^'"" =" " "''''■■^Paper ediior. 1 le also 
 •here. ""^ Temperance .Societies any 
 
126 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 Ko man on earth, tnnt (Iraweth breath, 
 
 ]\!ore courage hud than I ; 
 I (luicd my foes unto their (die. 
 
 And would not i'roni them fly. 
 This grandeur stout, I did keep out, 
 
 Like Hector, manfully : 
 Then wonder one like me so stout 
 
 Should hang upon a tr.>e. 
 
 The Eg)'ptian band I did comnuind, 
 
 With courage more by far, 
 Than ever did a general 
 
 His soldiers in the war. 
 Being feared by all, both great and small, 
 
 I liv'd most joyfullie : 
 Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, 
 
 To hang upon a tree. 
 
 As for my life I do not care. 
 
 If justice would take place, 
 And bring my fellow-plunderers 
 
 Unto the same disgrace : 
 But I'eter Brown, that notour loon. 
 
 Escaped and was made free : 
 Oh, curse upon this fate o' niine, 
 
 To hang upon a tree. 
 
 Both law and justice buried are. 
 
 And fraud and guile succeed ; 
 The guilty pass unpunished. 
 
 If money intercede. 
 The Laird o' Graunt, that Highland Sauct, 
 
 His mighty majestic, 
 He pleads the cau>e of Peter Brown, 
 
 And lets JIacpherson die. 
 
 The destiny of my life contrived. 
 
 By those whom I obliged. 
 Rewarded me much ill for good. 
 
 And left me no refuge : 
 But Braco Duff, in rage enough, 
 
 He first laid hands on me ; 
 And if thiit death would not prevent. 
 
 Avenged would I be. 
 
 As for my life, it is but short, 
 
 When I shall be no more ; 
 To part with life, I am content. 
 
 As any heretofore. 
 Therefore, good people all, take heed, 
 
 This warning take by me — 
 Accoiillug to the lives you lead, 
 
 Rewaidcd you shall be.» 
 
 UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
 
 Thk chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas 
 ire mine. 
 
 Up in the morninc;'s no for mC) 
 
 Up in t/ie morning early ; 
 When a the hills are cover d wV snoOt 
 I'tn sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 
 
 The drift is driving sairly ; 
 Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 
 
 I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 • riurns' own set of the Lament, appears Ijkcr the 
 
 ontiiviil 1 fl'iisions of the high-spirited c: ^.^jnjU, tlian 
 KlMi homily 
 
 UP IN THE MORNING EARLV 
 
 BY JOHN HAMILTON. 
 
 Caui.d 1)1, iws the wind frae north to soutiv 
 
 Tlie drift is driving sairly. 
 The sheep are courin' in the heuch : 
 
 O, sirs, its winter fairly. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me. 
 
 Up in the mornin' early ; 
 I'd rather gae supperless to my bed 
 
 Than ri^e in the moiniu' early. 
 
 Loud roars the blast amang the woods. 
 
 And tirls the branches barely ; 
 On hill and house hear how it thuds. 
 
 The frost is nipping sairly. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me. 
 
 Up in the mornin' early; 
 To s:t a' nicht wad better agree 
 
 Than rise in the mornin' early. 
 
 The sun peeps ower yon southland tilla 
 
 Like ony timorous carlie, 
 Just blinks a wee, then sinks again. 
 
 And that we find severely. 
 Now up in the mornin's no for me, 
 
 t^p in in the mornin' early ; 
 Allien snaw blaws in at the chimly cheek* 
 
 Wha'd rise in the mornin' early. 
 
 Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush ; 
 
 Poor things they suffer sairly. 
 In cauldrife quarters a' the night, 
 
 A' day they feed but sparely. 
 Now up in the mornin's no forme, 
 
 Up in the mornin' early ; 
 A pennyless purse I wad rather dres 
 
 Than rise in the mornin' early. 
 
 A cozie house and canty wife. 
 
 Aye keep a body cheerly ; 
 And pantries stou'd wi' meat and drink> 
 
 They answer uitco i-arely. 
 But up in the mornin's no for nte, 
 
 Uj) irr the mornin' early ; 
 The gowan maun glint on bank and lirae^ 
 
 When I rise in the mornin' early 
 
SONGS. 
 
 127 
 
 GALA-WATER. 
 
 I HAVE heard a cuacludiag verse suag to 
 
 these wonls — it is, 
 
 An' ay she came at e'cnin fa*, 
 
 Am iiifj the yeliuw broom, sae eerie, 
 
 To seek the snooil o' silk she tint ; — 
 
 She fau ua it, but gat her dearie. — BuftNs. 
 
 The original song of Gala-water was thus re- 
 cited by a resident in that very pastoral district. 
 
 Bonnie lass of Gala-water ; 
 
 Biaw, braw lass of Gala-water ! 
 I would wade the streitn sae deep, 
 
 For yc3 bi aw lass of Gala-water. 
 
 Braw, braw lads of Gala-water ; 
 O, braw lads of G.ila-water ! 
 
 I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee, 
 
 And fo.low my love thro* the water. 
 
 Sac fair her hiir, sae brent her brow, 
 Sae bonnie blue her een, ray dearie ; 
 
 Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou*, 
 I often kiss her till I'm wearie. 
 
 O'er yon h mk, and o'er yon brae, 
 O'l r yon moss amang the heather ; 
 
 ni kilt my coat almon my knee. 
 And follow my love thro' the water 
 
 Dowc amang the broom, the broom, 
 Down ammg the liroom, my dearie ; 
 
 The lassie lo-t her silken snood. 
 
 That gart her greet till she was wearie. 
 
 DU.MBARTON DRUMS. 
 
 Ttiis is the last of the West Highland airs ; 
 ond from it, over the whole tract of country to 
 the contiiies of Tweedside, there is hardly a 
 tune or song tliat one can say has taken its ori- 
 gin from any place or transaction in that part of 
 Scotland. — The oldest .\yrshire reel, is Stcw- 
 arlon Litsses, which wxs made by the fither of 
 the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
 ham, alias Lord Lyie ; since which period there 
 has indi'cd been local music in that country in 
 great jilenty. — Juhnie Faa is the only old song 
 which I coidd ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
 tensive county of Ayr. — BuiiNS. 
 
 The poet has fallen under a mistake here : — 
 the drums here celebrated were not those of the 
 town, or garri:<on of Dumbarton ; but of the 
 rej;iment commanded by Lord Dumbarton — a 
 ravaiior of the house of Douglas — who signalized 
 him-^elf en the Jacobite side in I6S5. — The old 
 song was a» follows : — 
 
 Dcmbarton's drums heat bonny, O, 
 Wiien ihev mind me of uiy dear Johnie, O. 
 
 How iiiippy am T, 
 
 When my soldier is by, 
 ^V^l!le he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ! 
 'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, 
 For his graceful looks do invite me, O : 
 
 \Viiile guarded in his arms, 
 
 I'll fear no war's alarms, 
 Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me, O 
 
 My love is a handsome laddie, O, 
 Genteel, but ne'er fopjjish nor gaudy, O : 
 
 Tl.o' commissions are dear, 
 
 Yet ril buy him one this year ; 
 For he shall serve no lon;^er a cadie, O. 
 A scddicr has honour and bravery, (), 
 Unacquaijited with rogues and their knavery, Ot 
 
 He minds no other thing • 
 
 But the ladies or the king ; 
 For cv'ry other care is but slavery, O. 
 
 Then I'll be the captain's lady, O ; 
 Farewell all my friends and my daddy, O : 
 
 I'll wait no more at home. 
 
 But I'll follow with the drum, 
 And whene'er that beats, I'll be ready, O. 
 Dumbarton's drums sound bonny, O, 
 They are sprightly like my dear Johnie, O : 
 
 How happy shall I he. 
 
 When on my soldier's knee. 
 And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ' 
 
 FOR LACK OF GOLD. 
 
 The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of tba 
 line 
 
 She me forsook for a great duke, 
 
 say, 
 
 For Athole's duke she me forsook; 
 
 which I take to be the original reading. 
 
 These words were composed by the late Dr. 
 Austin, physician at Edinburgh. — He had 
 courted a lady,* to whom he was shortly to 
 have been married : but the Duke of Athnie 
 hiving seen her, became so much in love with 
 her, tliat he made proposals of mirria^je, wliich 
 Were accepted of, and she jilted tlie Doctor.—. 
 Burns. 
 
 dr. austin. 
 
 Tune—" For Lack of Gold." 
 
 For lack of gold she has left me, O ; 
 And of all that's dear she's bereft me, Oj 
 She me forsook for Athoie's duke. 
 And to endless wo she has left me, O. 
 A star and garter have more art 
 Than youth, a true and faitlJul heart ; 
 
 • Jean, daughter of John Diummond, of Megg 
 inch, KsQ. 
 
128 
 
 BURNS' WOKKS. 
 
 Fi)t PDiptv titles \vp tnust jinrt ; 
 
 Foi jjlittt'riiig jJiDW she has left me, O. 
 
 Nn criipl fair shall ever move 
 Mv iiijiirM neiiif ;if;.iin tri love; 
 Thri)' (listarit clii)i;ites T must rove, 
 Since Ji'iinv she has left nie, O. 
 Ye jjnweis ;il)(ive, I to \<)ur care 
 Resign my faithless lovely fair ; 
 Your choicest hlessui'^s he her sharei 
 Tho' she has ever left me, O ! 
 
 MILL, MILL O. 
 
 The original, or at least a song evidently 
 prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It runs thus : 
 
 T/ie ?nin, mill O, nnri the kill, kill O, 
 Anil the ciK/fiin o' Perjrii/s nhetl O, 
 
 The suck and the siive, and a' she did leave, 
 And danc'd the milhr's reel O, 
 
 As I cam down yon waterside, 
 
 And hy yon shellin-hill O, 
 There I spied a honnie honnie lass, 
 
 And a lass that I lov'd rit'ht wcel O. — • 
 
 . RCRNS. 
 
 MILL, JIILL O. 
 
 Beveatit a green shade I find a fair maid 
 
 Was sleeping sound and still-O, 
 A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove, 
 
 Around her with good will-0 : 
 Her bosom I press'd, but, sunk in her rest, 
 
 She stir'd na my joy to «])ill-0 ; 
 While kincliy she slept, close to her I crept, 
 
 And kiss'd, and kissd her my fill-O. 
 
 Oblig'd by command in Flanders to land, 
 
 T' emjjloy my courage and skill-O, 
 Frae 'er quietly I stiw, hoist'd sails and awa. 
 
 For wind blew fair on the hill-0. 
 Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing 
 fame 
 
 Tahl me with a voice right shrill-O, 
 My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool, 
 
 Nor ken'd wha'd doue her the ill-0. 
 
 Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her 
 arms, 
 
 A fcrlying speer'd how she feIl-0 ; 
 Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, 
 
 Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-0. 
 
 * The remaining two stanzas, thougli pretty enough, 
 partake rather ton much of the mile simplicity ot ihc 
 "■ Uldcn time" to be admitted here. — KU. 
 
 Love gae the command, I took !-.er bv he ixc^ 
 
 And bad her a' fears expel-O, 
 And nae mair look wan, for I was the man 
 
 Wha had doue her the deed x /seil-O. 
 
 My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass. 
 
 Beneath the shilling-hill-O, 
 If I did offence, I'se make ye amends, 
 
 Before I leave Pcfjgy's niill-0. 
 O ! the mill, mill-0, and the kill, klll-O, 
 
 And the cogging of the wlieel-O, 
 The sack and the sieve, a' tluie ye man leave 
 
 And round with a sosrer reel-O 
 
 WALY, WALY. 
 
 In the west country I have heard a dlfFerent 
 
 edition of the second stanza Instead of tbi 
 
 four lines, beginning with, '' When cixJile 
 shtlls," §T. the other way ran thus :^ 
 
 O WHEREFORE need I busk my head, 
 Or wherefore need I kame my hair, 
 
 Sin my fause luve has me forsook. 
 And says he'll never luve me mair. — 
 
 Burks. 
 
 WAl.v waly up tlie bank, 
 And waly waly down the brse. 
 
 And waly waly by yon burn-side, 
 
 Where I and my love were wont to gse, 
 
 1 leint my back unto an aik, 
 
 I thought it was a trustie trie ; 
 But first it bow'd, and syne it brake. 
 And sae my true love did lyghtlie me. 
 
 O waly waly gin love be bonnie 
 
 A little time while it is new; 
 But when its auld it waxeth cauld, 
 
 And fades awa' like muming-dew. 
 O wherefore shu'd I busk my head ? 
 
 Or wherefore shu'd I kame my hair? 
 For my true love has me forsook, 
 
 And says he'll never loe me mair. 
 
 Now Arthur-seat shall be my bfv', 
 
 The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me: 
 Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 
 
 Since my true love has forsaken me. 
 Marti'nias wind, whan wilt thou blaw. 
 
 And shake the green leaves atf the trie? 
 O gentle death, whan wilt tlu a cum ? 
 
 For of my life 1 am wearie. 
 
 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 
 Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 
 
 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
 But my love's beat t thrown cauld to mtk 
 
 Whan we came in by Glasgowe town. 
 We weic a comely sight tu see ; 
 
SOJNGS. 
 
 ]29 
 
 Mf (ovp was dad i' tli' bl,u-k velvet, 
 And I iiiyscll in fianiasii. 
 
 But had I wist hcfoie I kisst, 
 
 Tlicit ove hail lict'ti sae ill to win, 
 I luid Idckt my lii-art in a c.vu of gowd, 
 
 And |iiiui d it wi' a siller pin. 
 Oh, (ill I if my yniiiiii hahe wrre hnrne, 
 
 And set uiJtin the luiisc's kiiee. 
 And I niysi'il wore dead and ttiine, 
 
 For a maid a;;ain lie never be ! 
 
 TODLEN IIAJIE. 
 
 This is, perli:ip<!, tlie first bottle song that 
 ever w;ls composed — Burns. 
 
 WiiFN I've a saxpcMce under my thumb. 
 
 Then I'll uet ciedit in ilka town : 
 
 But ay when I'm ]!oor they bid uie gae by; 
 
 O ! p'lverty parts good company. 
 Ti'dlun /lame, toil/cn liaiiie, 
 Coudtui my hove come todlen home ? 
 
 Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale. 
 She gi'i'-^ lis white bannocks to diiiik her ale, 
 Svne if l.er tippony chance to be sma', 
 Wi'll tak a E;ood scour o't, and ca't awa'. 
 
 Todlen hame, todlen /mnie. 
 
 An round as a tuep, come todlen hame. 
 
 My kimmer and I lay down to sleep. 
 
 And twa piiitstoups at our bed-feet ; 
 
 A.id ay wiien we waken'd, we drank them dry : 
 
 What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? 
 
 Todlen hut, and todlen ben. 
 
 Sue round as rny louve comes todlen hame. 
 
 Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, 
 
 Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your 
 niou ; 
 
 When sober sae sour, yo'II fis;ht wi' a flee. 
 
 That 'tis a biyth sijjht to the bairns and me. 
 When todlen home, todlen hame. 
 When round as a neep ye cone todlen hame. 
 
 CAULD KAIL IN ABLKDEEN. 
 
 This 'Ong is by the Duke of Gordcu — The 
 verses aie, 
 
 There's canid kail in Aberdeen, 
 
 And castocks in Strabogie ; 
 When ilka lad maun hae his lass, 
 
 Then fye, gie me n\y cogic. 
 My coyie. Sirs, my cojie, Sirs, 
 
 I cannot want my coyie : 
 Jtciulna r/ie my tliree-yirr'd stoup 
 
 For a the quenes on li igie. 
 
 There s .lohnie Smith has !jot a wife 
 That scrimps him o' his C(>t;ie, 
 
 If she were mine, upon my life 
 I'd doiik lier in a boijie. 
 
 My cvgie, Sirs, Sfc. — Burns. 
 
 CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 
 
 There's ranld kail in Aberdeen, 
 
 And castocks in Stra'bogie ; 
 (jin I but hae a bonny htss, 
 Ye'ie welcome to your cogie : 
 And ye may sit u|) a' the night. 
 And drink till it be braid day-light ; 
 Gie me a lass baith clean and tight, 
 To dance the Keel of Bogie. 
 
 In cotillons the French excel ; 
 
 John Bull loves couritra-dances ; 
 
 The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; 
 
 iMynhcer an allcmande prances : 
 
 In foursome reels the Scotch delight, 
 
 Tiie threesome inaist dance wond'rous JlgEl ; 
 
 But twasiime's ding a' out o' sight, 
 
 Dauc'd to the Reel of Bogie. 
 
 Come, lads, and view your p::rtner» well. 
 Wale each a blythsome rogie ; 
 I'll tak this lassie to niysel. 
 She seems sae keen and vogie ! 
 Now ])iper lad bang up the spring ; 
 The conntia fashion is the thing. 
 To prle their mou's e'er we begin 
 To dance the Reel of Bogie. 
 
 Now ilka lad has got a lass, 
 Save yon auld doited fogie ; 
 And ta'en a fling upo' the grass. 
 As thev do in Stra*l)ogie : 
 But a' the hisses look sae fain, 
 We cann.i think oursel's to bain, 
 For they maun hae their came again 
 To dance the Reel of Bogie. 
 
 Now a* the lads hae done their best, 
 
 Like true men of Stra'bogie ; 
 
 We'll sto]) awhile and tak a rest. 
 
 And tipple out a cogie : 
 
 Come now, my lads, an<l tak your glaM, 
 
 And try ilk other to surpasn, 
 
 In wishing health to every lost 
 
 To dance the Reel of Bogie. 
 
 WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 
 
 The author of We ran ami Ihry ran, &n4 
 i/ipy 7-(/« and we ran, Sfc. wxi the late Rev 
 Murdoch M l.etina.i, luiuiatcr at Crathie, 0*». 
 
 side. — BuiiNS. 
 M2 
 
ISO 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 Theie's some sav that vre wan, 
 
 Some say that they wan, 
 Some say that nane wan at a', man ; 
 
 But one thinp; I'm sure, 
 
 That at Sheriff Muir • 
 A battle there was, which I saw, man ; 
 
 And we rat, anil they ran, and tkty ran, 
 anil we ran, and tee ran, and they ran awa\ 
 num. 
 
 Brave Arpyle •)• and Belhaven, \ 
 
 Not like frighted Leven, § 
 Which Rothes ]| and Haddington^ sa', man j 
 
 For they all with Wightman ** 
 
 Advanced on the right, man, 
 Whiie others took flight, being ra', man. 
 jind we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 
 
 Lord Roxburgh -{-f was there. 
 
 In order to share 
 With Dougl.is, ^1 whe stood not in awe, man, 
 
 Volunteerly to ramble 
 
 With lord Loudon Campbell, || || 
 Biave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man. 
 And we ran, and they run, §•& 
 
 Sir John Schaw, ^^ that great knight, 
 
 Vv'i' broid-sword most bright, 
 On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; 
 
 An hero that's bold, 
 
 None could him with-hold. 
 He stoutly encounter'd the targemen. 
 And we ran, and they ran, Sfc, 
 
 For the cowardly Whittim, *'* 
 
 For fear they should cut him, 
 Seeing glittering broad-swords wi' a pa', man, 
 
 Au(\ that in such thrang, 
 
 Made Baird edicang, f f f 
 And fiom the brave clans ran awa', man. 
 And ice ran, and they ran, Sj'c. 
 
 • The battle of Dumblain or ShcrinTmiiir was fought 
 the l^ih (if November !71,i, between the Karl of Mar, 
 for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Arpyle for tlie pcv 
 vernineiit. lioth suies olaiincd the victory, the lifi 
 winf; of either army bciiifj routed. The capture of 
 I'reston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same 
 day. 
 
 t .Tiihn (Camjibell) iM Dukeof Argyle, commander, 
 in-rhiifor I le^^nveruniciU force*; ; a nobleman of great 
 tflleiil< and integrity, much respected by all parties: 
 died 171.J. 
 
 % Jolui (Hamilton) Lord Relhaven ; served as n vo- 
 lunteer; .'ind had the ciimm:ind nf a troop of horse 
 raised by the county of Haddington: perished at sea, 
 17-'l. 
 
 S David (I.esly) Tarl of I.even ; fur the governm.ent. 
 
 II Ji>hn (I.esly) Karl of Rotlies; fur IliegDveriiuient. 
 
 H 'I'll mas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the 
 govcnm cut. 
 
 ♦* Majorr.cneral Joseph Wightm.m. 
 
 1t John (Kerl first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go 
 ir.c-nt. 
 
 Jt Archibald (notiplas) Duke of nouglas. 
 
 lill tluch (Camiilu'll) Kail cf l.midon. 
 
 ^^S Arclubil.l E.ui of Hay, bmthir to the Duke of 
 Hreyle. He was dangerously wounde<l. | 
 
 ill An odicer in Ihc iroopOf gentleman volunteers. 
 
 »»*Maj()r-j,'incral Thomas \Vhithani. 
 
 ♦H • c Aiit <lu ctimi>. 
 
 Brave Mar • and Panmure + 
 
 Were firm 1 am sure, 
 The latter was kidnapt awa', man. 
 
 With brisk men about. 
 
 Brave Harry \ retook 
 His brother, and laught at them a*, man. 
 And we ran, and they ran, |rc. 
 
 Grave IMarshall [] and Lithgow, § 
 
 And Glengary's^ pith too, 
 Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, •• 
 
 And Gordons the bright 
 
 So boldly did fight. 
 The redcoats took flight and awa', man. 
 And we ran, and they ran, §-c. 
 
 Strathmore f f and Clanronald f f 
 Cry'd still, advance, Donald ! 
 
 Till both these heroes did fa', man ; |l || 
 For there was such hashing. 
 And broad-swords a clashing. 
 
 Brave Forfar §§ himself got a da', man. 
 And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 
 
 * John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander.in-chiel 
 of tlie Chevalier's army; a nobleman of great spirit, 
 honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-la-C'hapelie in 
 1752. 
 
 t James (Maulc) Earl of Pan:nurc; died at Paris, 
 17-'3. 
 
 4. Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the Eaii. 
 The circumstance here alluded to is thus related in the 
 Earl of Mar's printed account of the engagement : — 
 " The prisoners taken by us were very civilly used, 
 and none of them stri)it Some were altow'd to return 
 to Stirling upon their parole, Ac. . . 'J'he fc.v prison, 
 ers taken by the enemy on oni left were most of them 
 stript and wounded after taken The Earl of Par.- 
 mnre being first of Ihc prisoners wounded after t.Tken. 
 They having refused his parole, he was left in a vil- 
 lage, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the 
 approach of our army, was rescu'd by his brother and 
 his servants " 
 
 II George (Keith) Far] Marischall, then a vouth at 
 college He <iicd at hs governmenr of Ncnfihalel in 
 1771. His brother, the celebrated Marshall Keith, was 
 with him in this battle. 
 
 ^ James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith. 
 gow : attainied. 
 
 ^ Alexander M 'Donald of Olengary, laird of a clan ; 
 a brave and spirited chief: attainied. 
 
 ** Thomas Druininond of Logie-Almond ; com- 
 manded the two battalions of Druuimoiali. [le was 
 wounded. 
 
 ft John (Lyon) Earl of Strathmore; " a man of 
 good parts, of a most amiable ilisposition and charae- 
 ter." 
 
 rt Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Hanald. 
 A'. 11. The Captain of a clan was rne who, bet!:g next 
 or near in blood to the Chief, heeded them in his nu'.in 
 cy or absence. 
 ' II II " We have lost to our regret, the E.irl of Strath, 
 more and the Captain of Clan llanald." Karl of Mar's 
 Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac- 
 count : — " We eann'i find above t':L> of our !;-.( n in all 
 kiU'd, among whom were the Karl nf Straihirore [audi 
 the Captain ot Clan llanald, both nnich lamented. 
 The latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplish- 
 ments, was look'd upon .-is Ihc nii>,-l g;jlianl and gener. 
 ous young genllemau among the c'ans. . . . He wai 
 lamented bv both parlies that liiiew hun." 
 
 His serv.ant, who lay on the field w.itchiiig his ociil 
 body, being asked next d.iy who iliat w.-.s, answered. 
 He was a man yesterday. — iiosurli's Juiirne,. to the He- 
 brides, p. .).')U. 
 
 f^ Archibald (Douglas) '!art of Eorfar, who com- 
 manded a regiment in the Luke's army. He is siid tf 
 have been shot in the knee, ami to have had ten 01 
 twelve cuts in his head from tlic bro.id swords. H« 
 ditnl a few days after of his wounds. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 13' 
 
 Lonl Perth * stood the storm, 
 
 Scafiiith f but liikcAvanii, 
 Kilsyth I and Strathallan |j not sla', :nan ; 
 
 And Hamilton § pK'd 
 
 Tlic men were not bied, 
 For he had no fancy to fa', man. 
 
 Atid we ran, and tluy ran, §•<•, 
 
 Brave generous Southesk, \ 
 
 Tdehaiin ** was brisk, 
 Wliose ither indeed would not dra', man, 
 
 Into llie same yoke, 
 
 Wliich serv'd for a cloak. 
 To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. 
 And we ran, and iheij ran, Sfc. 
 
 Lord RoUo -j-j- not fear'd, 
 
 Kiiitoie^J and his beard, 
 Pitshgo 11 li and O^'ilvie §§ a', man, 
 
 And brothers Balfours, ^^ 
 
 They stood the first show'rs, 
 Clackmannan and Burleigh ••* did cla', man. 
 And we ran, and tkeij ran, §-c. 
 
 But Clep])an f f f acted pretty, 
 
 And Strowan the witty, \^\ 
 A poet that pleases us a", man ; 
 
 For mine is but rliime. 
 
 In respect of what's fine, 
 Or what he is able to dra', man. 
 
 And we ran, and they ran, §'c. 
 
 • James Marquis of Drummond, son of James 
 (Dnuniiionil) DuKe of Perth, was li utenant-sencral 
 of horse, and •' behaved with great gallantry." He 
 was attiiiiteJ, but escaped to France, where he soon 
 after (tied. 
 
 t William (Mackenzie) Earl of Scaforth. He was 
 sttaintcil, anil <lie(l in IT-Jn. 
 
 t William (LiviMg-.ioii) Viscount Kilsyth : attaintcil. 
 
 II William (Drnmmond' Viscount' Stratluillan ; 
 whose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit 
 and activity he manifested in the cause. He was ta- 
 ken prisoner in this hattU', which he survived to per- 
 ish in the still more fatal one of Culloden.muir. 
 
 § Lieutenant-general Geoige Hamilton, command- 
 ing under the tarl of Mar 
 
 ^ James (Carnegie) Karl of Southesk ; was attaint- 
 ed, and, escaping to I'ranee, died there in 17'-'y. 
 
 *» William (Murray) Marquis of Tulliljardin, eldest 
 son to the Duke of Atliolc. Having been attaiutiil, 
 he was taken at sea in llid, and died soon after, of a 
 flux, in the Tower. 
 
 tt Itobert (Itollo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular 
 merit and great integrity :" died In 175S. 
 
 Jt William (Keith) Earl of Kintore. 
 
 nil Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo; "a man of good 
 pans, great honour aiid spirit, and universally beloved 
 and esteemed." He was engaged again in the artair of 
 171-i, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad- 
 vancikl age in ITfi;.'. 
 
 <j\ James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (OgiU 
 vie) Earl of .\irly. He was attainted, but afterwards 
 pardoned. His father, nut dra'ing into Ih.,: jameyoke, 
 :aveil the estate. 
 
 HU Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- 
 leigh. 
 
 •«« Robert (B dfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at- 
 tain'ed. and died in 1757. 
 
 t+t Major William C'lephane, adjutant-general to 
 Ihe Marquis of Drummond. 
 
 XXX .\lexand r Robertson of Struan; who, having 
 Experience I every vicissitude of life, with a stoical 
 finnness. ij:ed in' peace 17'19- He was an excellent 
 Oct, anrf hi"! left eUgies worthy of TibuUut. 
 
 For Huntley • and Sinclair \ 
 
 They both play'd the tinclair, 
 With consciences iikick like a era* matt. 
 
 Some Auf^iis and Fileiiien 
 
 Tliey r.in for their life, man, 
 And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', mao. 
 And we ran, and they ran, §-c. 
 
 Then Laurie the traytor, 
 
 Wlio betray'd his master, 
 His king and his country and a', man, 
 
 Pretending Mar might 
 
 Give order to tight, 
 To the right of the army awa', man. 
 And we ran, and they ran, ifc. 
 
 Then Laurie, for fear 
 
 Of what he might hear, 
 Took Drnmmond 's best horse and awa', an^ 
 
 Iiiste.id o' going to Perth, 
 
 He crossed the Firth, 
 Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man. 
 ^r.d wt ran, and they ran, §"c. 
 
 To London he [iiess'd, 
 
 And there he address'd, 
 That he behav'd best o' them a', man ; 
 
 Anfl there without strife 
 
 Got settled for life, 
 An hundred a year to his fa', nian- 
 And we ran, and they ran, §T. 
 
 In Buriowstounness 
 
 He resides wi' disgrace, 
 Till his neck stand in need of a dra', mi^ 
 
 And then in a tether 
 
 He'll swing frae a ladder, 
 [And] go utr the stage with a pa', man. 
 And we ran, and they ran, |rc. 
 
 Rob Roy stood watch 
 
 On a lull f.ir to catch 
 The booty for ought that I sa*, man. 
 
 For he ne'er advanc'd 
 
 From the place he was stanc'd. 
 Till nae mair to do there at a', man. 
 And tee run, and they ran, SfC. 
 
 So we a' took the flight, 
 
 And Moui)ray tin." wright ; 
 But Lethain the smith was u bra' vaxHf 
 
 For he took the gout, 
 
 M'hich truly was wit, 
 By judging it time to withdia', man. 
 And we ran, and they ran, Sfc, 
 
 And trtinv ct IM'Lcan, 
 ^\'hose brecks were not clean, 
 
 • Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntlev, eldest 
 son to the Duk'- of Gordon, who, accordinig to the 
 usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet 
 with several other instances), reniained neutral. 
 
 t John Sincbir, Esq. commonly called Master ot 
 .Sinclair, eldest son of Henry Lord Sinclair; was at- 
 talnteil, but afterwards paid ncd, and died in 17.M>. 
 The estate was preserved of cout««). 
 
132 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Thro' misfortune he happen'd to fa*, man, 
 
 Bv saving his neck 
 
 Ilis trumpet did break, 
 Came aflF without musick at a*, man.* 
 And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 
 
 So there such a race was, 
 
 As ne'er in that place was, 
 And as little chase was at a', man ; 
 
 Frae ither tliey • run' 
 
 Without touk o' drum 
 They did not make use of 4 pa', man. 
 
 And we ran, and thei- ran, and they ran, 
 and we ran, and we ran, and they ran awa, 
 men. 
 
 BIDE YE YET. 
 
 There is a beautiful song to this tune, be- 
 ginning, 
 
 Alas, my son, you little know — ■ 
 
 which is the composition of a Miss Jenny 
 Graham of Dumfries Burns. 
 
 Alas! my son, vou little know 
 The sorrows tliat from wedlock flow : 
 Farewell to every day of ea^^e, 
 V^Len vou have gotten a wife to please. 
 Sue hide you yi:t, and hide you yet. 
 Ye little ktn wlidfs to hctide you yet ; 
 The half of that u-ill yane ynu yet. 
 If a wayward wife uhtain yuu yet. 
 
 Your e.^perience is but small. 
 As yet you've met with little thrall ; 
 The black cow on your foot ne'er trud. 
 Which gars you sing alang the road. 
 
 Sue hide ynu yet, ^'c. 
 
 Sometimes the rock, sometimes the rrel, 
 Or some piece of the spiiiniiig-wlu'cl, 
 She will drive at you wi' good will, 
 And then she'll send you to the de'il. 
 
 Aae hide you yet, SfC. 
 
 * The particulars of this anecdote no vvlicre appear. 
 The hero is svjpijoscit to be thi' r^ymv J i/in M'Lnnt, 
 trump':/, who wa< sent from Lord Mir, tlieii at I'ertli, 
 with a letter to the Duke of Argvlr, at Sinliiij; camp, 
 on the 50th of Octdber. f'Jt i 'ia'nwl Ldiers 1730. 
 Two co|iies, howcviT, printcil not long alter 1715, 
 reail, " And trumpet Mnrhif." 
 
 hi 17X-' tlie son of this Tnimprter Marinr tolil the 
 Earl (if Haddinotun (then Lord lininiii^;) th.it llie first 
 circuit he ever attended, as one of his Maje>ty's house- 1 
 nold trumpeters, wis the Norlhcrn. in the \car ITKi, a- ' 
 longwithold l.ord Miuto. I'hat the reason ofhis(;oin!» 
 there wa<, that the circuit immediately lucceding, hfs 
 fathei had been so liarasscd iu every town he went 
 through, by the people sinRiiig his verse, " .4iid trum- 
 pt Marine, wlifxe hritks," dv. of this son<;, ihat lie 
 swore h^ would never go again ; and aitualiv resigned 
 Ui« "i'.uaiion in favour of his ion.—Campbeii's Hiitory 
 </ Potti y in Scotland. 1 
 
 When I like you was young tad. free, 
 I valued not the proudest she ; 
 Like yon I vainly boasted then. 
 That men alone were born to reign. 
 
 Sae hide you yet, §•«. 
 
 Great Hercules and Sampson too, 
 Were stronger men than I or you ; 
 Yet they were baffled by their liears, 
 And felt the distaff and the sheers. 
 
 Sae bide you yet, §•«. 
 
 Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls. 
 Are oroof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls 
 But nought is found by sea or land, 
 That can a wayward wife withstand. 
 
 '^ le hide you yet, |ro 
 
 i^/DE YE YET. 
 
 OLD SET. 
 
 Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fit* 
 A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire, 
 A bonny wee yardie a>ide a wee burn ; 
 Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and cntrntM 
 Sae hide ye yet, and hide ye yet. 
 Ye little ken what may hetide ye yet^ 
 Some bonny wee body may he mii lutf 
 And I'll he canty wi' thinking at. 
 
 M'hen I gang afield, and come home at e ea, 
 I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean J 
 Aiul a bojiny wee bairne upon her knee, 
 That will cry, papa, or daddy, to ine. 
 
 Sae hide ye yet, Sfc. 
 
 And if there happen ever to be 
 A diff'rence atween my wee wifie and me. 
 In hearty good humour, although she be teas'^ 
 I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. 
 ^cie bide ye yet, §-c. 
 
 THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKI^ 
 TOW. 
 
 BV ALKXANDER UOSS. 
 
 Tkeke was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow, 
 
 An' she wad gae try the spinning o't, 
 
 She louted her dow!i, an' her rock took a low, 
 
 Ajid that was a bad beginning o't : 
 
 She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang. 
 
 An' she threw an* she blew, an' she wrigl'd aa' 
 
 wrang. 
 An' she choked, an* boaked, an' cry'd like tt 
 
 mang, 
 Al.is ! for the dreary spinning o't. 
 
 I've wanted a sark for these ei^ht years an t«Oj 
 An' this was to be the beginiiiii;; o't. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 133 
 
 But T vow I »li ill wiint it for as lang again, 
 
 Or ever 1 try the spinning o't ; 
 
 For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' 
 
 me, 
 [)icl sic a mis'iaj) an' misantcr befi' me, 
 Ijiit ye shall hae leave bi'ah to Ii.iug me an' 
 
 (irinv nie. 
 The neist time I try the spinuiog o't. 
 
 I hae ki'cpeil my house for these three score o' 
 
 \ ears. 
 All' av 1 kept free o* the spinning o't, 
 But how I was sarkeil f>-.ul fi' them that spcers, 
 For it mliiils me upo' the beginning o't. 
 But our women are now a days grown sae lira*. 
 That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa, 
 The warlds were bettor when ne'er an awa' 
 Had a r:;^; but ane at the beginning o't. 
 
 Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin, 
 
 That had been so Ian-; a beginning ii't, 
 
 I miijht well have ended as i did begin, 
 
 Nor have got sick a sk.iir with the spinning o't. 
 
 But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her 
 
 ain weerd, 
 I thought on a d.iv, it should never be speer'd, 
 IIow loot ye the low take your rock be the 
 
 beard, 
 When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? 
 
 The spinning, tlie spinning it gars my heart so'n, 
 
 When I think upo' tlie beginning o't, 
 
 I thought ere I dieil to have aiies made a web, 
 
 B'jt still I had wecrs o' the spinning o't. 
 
 But had I nine (lathers, as I hae but three, 
 
 The safest and soundest advice I cud gee, 
 
 Is that they frae spinuLog wad keep tiicLi- hands 
 
 free, 
 For fear of a bad beginning o't. 
 
 Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run 
 
 The dreaiysome risk of the spinning o't, 
 
 Let them seek out a lytht in the heat of the sun, 
 
 And there veiiture o' the beginning o't: 
 
 But to do as 1 dill, alas, and awow ! 
 
 To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low, 
 
 Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, 
 
 And as little ado with the spinning o't. 
 
 But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves 
 My heirt to think o' the lieginning o't, 
 Mad I won the length but of ae pair <>' sleeves, 
 Then there h id been wmd o' the spinning o't ; 
 This I wad ha' wa>licn an' bleecli'il like the snaw, 
 And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad ilraw. 
 An' then fouk wad say, that auld Girry was bra', 
 An' a' was ujion her ain spinning o't. 
 
 But gin I will shog about till a new spring, 
 I t'hiiiild yet hae a bunt of the sjiinnin^ o't, 
 A nuitchkin of linsfcd I'd i' the \eid fling. 
 For a' the wan chausie Iwginnin;; o't. 
 I'li gar my ain Tiiniiiie gae down to the how. 
 An «-ut me a "ock of a widderslunes grow. 
 
 Of good ranty-tree for to carry my to\r, 
 
 An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't. 
 
 For now when I mip . v~ . tt't't Maggy Grim 
 This morning just a^ ■» heijinniig <» i. 
 She was never ci'il — ancy, i,ut canny an' sliin. 
 An' sae it has fiir'd my spinning o't • 
 r>ut in' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry, 
 I'll a' Maggies can an* lier cantraps ilefy, 
 All* but onic snssii the spinning 1*11 try, 
 An' ye's a* hear o the beginning o't. 
 
 Quo' Tibby, licr dather, tak tent fit ye say, 
 The nevuc a ragg we'll be seeking o't. 
 Gin ye anes begin, ye'll taiveals night an* day, 
 Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't. 
 Since lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa, 
 An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma*. 
 An* what war am I? 1 m as warm an' as bra, 
 As thrumniy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't. 
 
 To labor the lint land, an' then luiy the seed, 
 An' then to yoke iiie to the harrowing o't, 
 An' syn loll ainon't an* pike out ilka vi'ecd. 
 Like fwine in a sty at the farrowing o't ; 
 Syn powiiig and rijiling an' steeping, an' then 
 To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain, 
 An' then after a' may be labor in vain, 
 When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o*t. 
 
 Rut the' it shoulil anter the weather to byde, 
 Wi* beetles We're set to the drubbing o't. 
 An' then frae our fingers to gniilge atf the hide, 
 With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't. 
 An* syn ilka tail maun be heckl'd out throw, 
 The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, 
 Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low. 
 The back o' luy hand to the spinning o't. 
 
 Quo' Jenny, I think 'oinan ye're i' the right. 
 Set your leet ay a spar to the spinning o't. 
 We may tak our advice frae our ain mither'i 
 
 fright 
 That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't. 
 But they'll say that auld fouk are twice baiina 
 
 indeed, 
 .■\.n* sae she has kythed it, hut there's nae need 
 To sickan an amshack that we drive our heail, 
 As langs we're sae skair'd iVa the spinning o't. 
 
 Quo' Nanny the younijest, I've now heard 
 
 you a", 
 An* dowie's your doom o* the spinning o't, 
 Gin ye, fan the cows tlings, the cog cast awa', 
 Ye m.iy see wheie ye'U lick up your winning 
 
 o't. 
 But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra', 
 1 But gae by the name <d' a dilp or a da, 
 I Sae lack where ye like I shall aives shak a fa', 
 Afuie 1 be dung with the sjiiuning o't. 
 
 ' For well I can i:i;nd rre when black Willie BcL 
 Had Tibbie tli-re just at the winning o't, 
 What blew up the bargain, she kens v.eli hersell, 
 Was the want uf the kn^ck of the spinning o't. 
 
134. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 An' novv, poor 'omaiij for ouglit that I ken, 
 She may never get sic an offer again, 
 But pine away bit an' hit, like Jenkin's hen. 
 An' naething to wyte but t!ie spinning o't. 
 
 But were it for naething, but just this alane, 
 
 I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't. 
 
 They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the 
 
 bean, 
 But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't. 
 But, be that as it hapijen*, I care not a strae. 
 But nane of the lads shall hie it to >ay. 
 When they come till woo, she kens naething 
 
 avae, 
 Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't. 
 
 In the days they ca'd yore, gin auM fouks Lad 
 
 but won. 
 To a suikoat hough side for the winning o't. 
 Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun, 
 Tbov never sought mair o' the spinning o't. 
 A pair of grey hoggeis well clinked ber.ew, 
 Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew, 
 With a pair of rough rullions to scuff thio' the 
 
 dew. 
 Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't. 
 
 But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, 
 An* how get we that, but the spinning o't? 
 How can we hae face tor to setk a i<ryt fee, 
 Except we can help at tlie winning o't ? 
 An' we maun hae pearlins and niabbies an' 
 
 cocks. 
 An* some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks, 
 An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks, 
 And pow what we can at the spinning o't ? 
 
 'Tis need'ess for us for to tak our remaiks 
 Frae our niither's niscooking the spinning o't. 
 She never kend ought o' tiie gueed of the sarks, 
 Frae this aback to the beginning o't. 
 Twa thrt-v. "^ll of plaiden was a' that was sought 
 By oui auid waild bodies, an' that boot be 
 
 bought, 
 For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, 
 So little they kend o' the spinning o't. 
 
 HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 
 
 It is remark-worthy that the song of ILiohj 
 inil J-'itir!;/, in all the old editions of it, is cal 
 ed T/ic Drunken W'ift o Giiltou-aij, which 
 ocahzes it to that country — Burns. 
 
 THE DIIUNKEN WIFE o' CALLOWAY. 
 
 Oh ! what had I to do for to marry? 
 My wife chi' drinks naething but sack and Ca- 
 nary, 
 ( to her friends ronipl lin'd right eaily, 
 <) ! 1)1 u my wife inul dr'nili lux hi iiml fdir.ii, 
 
 11,1 ly iinil J'aiili/. hniili/ ami fniihiy 
 'J I (lift nil) nif'c iiaJ iJinJt I »•.. •.ml J.ihlii. 
 
 First she drank cruit.'nie, and syne she dranlf 
 
 garie ; 
 Now she has druken my bonny grey marie, 
 That carried me thro' a' the dubs aud the larit 
 O ! gin, §-c. 
 
 She has druken her stockins, sa has she het 
 
 shoon. 
 And she has druken her bonny new gown ; 
 Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely 
 O ! gin, Sfc. 
 
 If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na mucl; 
 
 care, 
 But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare. 
 When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly, 
 O ! gin, Sfc. 
 
 My Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad. 
 The best blue bonnet e'er w:is on my head ; 
 At kirk and at market I'm covei'd but barely, 
 O ! gin, Sfc. 
 
 The verra gray mittens that gaed on my ban's. 
 To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns ; 
 RIy bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly, 
 O ! gin, §-c. 
 
 If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ; 
 If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll 
 
 cuise. 
 She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely, 
 O I gin, §-c. 
 
 I nevfr was given to wrangling nor strife. 
 Nor e'er did nfuse her the cnmfoits of life ; 
 Ere it come to a war I'm ay for a parley. 
 O ! gin. Sec. 
 
 A pint wi' her ciimmeis I wail her all(>w, 
 But when she sits down she ii Is herself fou ; 
 And when she is fou she's unco camstarie, 
 O ! gin, §-c. 
 
 Wien she comes to the street she roars and 
 
 she rants. 
 Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds tht 
 
 h.ouse wants ; 
 She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up y'ef 
 
 heart, C/iarlie.^' 
 
 O I gin, §-c. 
 
 And when she comes haine she lays on the Iad» 
 She ca's the l.isses baith liniinirs and jads, 
 And 1, mv ain sell, an anlil cuckold carlie, 
 O ! gin n>!/ tdfe viul liriii/t /inali/ and Juinif, 
 
 Hiuily (iiiil f'liirig, Imtily uml J'niily, 
 O ! yin my wife wad drink houly and fairly. 
 
SONGS 
 
 \3b 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
 
 BV THE REV J, SKISNEn. 
 
 Tim^— " Dumbarton Dnimj." 
 
 O! wiiv sliimld old as^e so miicli wound us I* 
 Tneic is n.'tliinfj in it all to conlound us ; 
 
 For liovv h.i])]iy now um 1, 
 
 With my >'ld will- sittinn by. 
 And our liaiiiis and our oys j all around us ; 
 
 For hotc hupj/i/ now am I, §-c. 
 
 We lieijan in tlio warld wi* naetliinir, 
 And WL-'ve joag'd on. and toil'd for the ae thing; 
 We made use of what we had, 
 And our thankful hearts were glad ; 
 When we g<it the hit meat and the c-laithinj;, 
 We made use of what we had, S^c. 
 
 We have liv'd all our life-time contented, 
 Sinjc the day we hecame first acquainted: 
 
 It's true we've lieen liut punr, 
 
 And we are so to this hour ; 
 But we never yet lepin'd or lamented. 
 
 It's true ict'fe been but puin, §-c. 
 
 When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntJt, 
 Nur did we hioi; our hoiils wlieu we wantit ; 
 
 But we alway« gave a share 
 
 Of the little we cou'd spare, 
 When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to <rrant it. 
 
 But we alu-ai/s gave a share, i"c. 
 
 We never laid a scheme to he wealtliy, 
 By means that were cunning or stealthy; 
 But we always ha<l the hliss, 
 (And what furtliei' could we wiss\ 
 To be jileus'd with ourselves, a id be healthy. 
 Hut ice always had the bliss, §c. 
 
 What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, 
 We have plenty of Joikic* unil Jeauies ; 
 
 And these, I'm certain, are 
 
 Mort iesirahle by far 
 Thatj a I) ig fidl of po(M- yellow sleenies. 
 
 And ttieae, I'm certain, are, §-c. 
 
 We have seen many wonder aad ferlv, 
 Of changes that almost are yearly, 
 
 Among rit h folks ui) and down, 
 
 Both in coiiutry and in town, 
 Who now live but -criniply and barely, 
 
 A)iiij!.^ —'"h fil/ts tiji and down, §-c. 
 
 Then why should peojile brag of prosperity ? 
 
 A straiten'd life we see is no rarity ; 
 Indeed we've been in want. 
 And our living's been but scant, 
 
 I'ct we never were re(iu<'eil to need charity. 
 Ir. deed we've been in witnt, §-c. 
 
 • This tune requires O to be .-iililed at the end of 
 ftnci-. i<( the Ion;; I iies, but in leading tlie louti tlie O 
 l!flio:l.r oiriiti. d. 
 
 t O.i/i — Ur.-uni-cliildren. 
 
 In this Louse we first came together, 
 Where we've limg been a father and inither. 
 
 And tho' not of st(uie and lime. 
 
 It will last us all our time ; 
 And, I hoi)e, we shall ne'er lu.d anither. 
 
 And t/w' n I of stone and lime, ^c. 
 
 And when we leave this poor habitation. 
 We'll dejiart with .1 good comuicLilutioa ; 
 We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 
 To a better louse than this. 
 To make room for the next gciuistion. 
 
 Then uh>/ sliaiild uhl ai/e si> much wound ut 
 There is notliintj in it all to confound us t 
 For how hojipy now am I, 
 With my old wife sitting by. 
 And our bairns and out oys all around us. 
 
 TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT VE. 
 
 A PART of this old song, according to th« 
 English set of it, is quoted in Sliakspea.u. •— • 
 
 BUKNS, 
 
 In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, 
 
 And fnjst and snaw on ilka hill, 
 And Boieas, with his blasts sae bauld, 
 
 Was tlireatning a' our ky to kill : 
 Then Bell iiiy wife, wlia loves na strife, 
 
 She said to me right hastilv. 
 Get up, goodiii m, save Cromv's life, 
 
 Aud tak your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 My Cromie is an useful cow, 
 
 And she is cume o; a good kyne ; 
 Aft has >lie Wit tiie bairns' mun. 
 
 And I am lait!i that she shou'd tyne. 
 Get up, gooiliiiaii, it is fun time, 
 
 The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 
 Sloth never made a gracious entl, 
 
 Go tak your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 My cloak was anes a good grey cloak 
 
 When it was fitting for my wear ; 
 But now It's scaiitiv worth a i;roat, 
 
 Foi I liave win n't this thirty ye<r; 
 Let's »pend the gear that we have Won, 
 
 We little ken the d.iy we'll die : 
 Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn 
 
 1 o have u new cloak about me. 
 
 • In the drinking scone in Othello: Ugoeingg,*. 
 
 King Stephen was a worthy peer, 
 
 His lircivlu-s iMst him but a nown ; 
 He held thcin sixjience all too dear, 
 
 Witli tint he called (he tailor lown. 
 He was a wight oI'IiihIi renown. 
 
 And thou art but of low ilc^ree; 
 Tis pride that pul.s the countrv down, 
 
 'I'lieu take thine auld cloak about thf e. 
 
 The old song fiom «hieh these stanzas were takec 
 was recovered by Dr. Percv, am' prwerved by him 9 
 lus Hi'liQuet of Ancitnt Poetru. 
 

 
 136 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 III days when our king Robert rang, 
 
 " Yestreen I lay in a well-ma.Je I)ed, 
 
 His treu's they cost but haff a crown ; 
 
 And my good lord beside me ; 
 
 He said they wire a groat o'er dear. 
 
 This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn. 
 
 And call'd tlie taylor thief and luun. 
 
 Whatever shall betide me." 
 
 He was the king that wore a crown, 
 
 
 And thou the man of laigh degree, 
 
 Come to your bed, says Johny Fai, 
 
 'Tis pride [)uts a* the country down, 
 
 Oh ! come to your beil, my deny; 
 
 Sac tak thy auld cloak about thee. 
 
 For I vow and swear by the hilt of my swor"i 
 
 
 That your loid shall nae mair come near ye 
 
 Every kind his its ain laugh, 
 
 
 Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, 
 
 " I'll go to bed to mv J.ihny Fai, 
 
 I think the warld is a' run wrung, 
 
 And I'll go to bed t j my deary ; 
 
 ■\Vlien ilka wife her man wad rule ; 
 
 For I vow and swear by what past yestreen, 
 
 Do ye not s-ee Roh, Jock, and Hab, 
 
 That my lord shall nae mair coine near me 
 
 As they are girded gaiUntly, 
 
 
 While I sit hurklen in the ase ; 
 
 " rU mak a hap to my Jnhny Faa, 
 
 I'll liave a new tloak about me. 
 
 And I'll maU a hap to my deary ; 
 
 
 And he's get a' the coat gaes round, 
 
 Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years, 
 
 Aud my lord shall nae mair come near me. 
 
 Since we did ane anither ken ; 
 
 
 And we have had between us twa, 
 
 And when our lord came home at e'en. 
 
 Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 
 
 And speir'd for his fair lady, 
 
 Now they are women grown and men. 
 
 The tane she cry'il, and the other reply' J, 
 
 I v/ish and pray well may they be ; 
 
 She's awajj' wi' the gypsie laddie. 
 
 And if you prove a good husband. 
 
 
 E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. 
 
 " Gae sadille to mo the black, black steed* 
 
 
 (jae saddle and mak him ready ; 
 
 Beil my wife, she loves na strife ; 
 
 Before that l either eat or sleep. 
 
 But she wad guide me, if she can, 
 
 I'll gae seek my fair laily." 
 
 And to maintain an easy life, 
 
 
 I aft maun yield, tho' I'm gnndman . 
 
 And we were fifteen well-made mea, 
 
 Nought's to be won at woman's hand, 
 
 Altho' we Were nae bunny ; 
 
 Unless ye give her a* the plea ; 
 
 And we were a' |)ut down for ane. 
 
 Then I'll leave a!f where I began, 
 
 A fair young wanton lady. 
 
 And tak my auld cloak about me. 
 
 
 
 TO DAUNTON ME. 
 
 JOIINY I-AA, OU THE GYPSIE 
 
 
 LADDIE. 
 
 TiiF, two following old stanzas to this tuiM 
 
 
 have some merit : — Bukns. 
 
 The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 
 
 
 li) d.uinton me, to daunton mo. 
 
 The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett. 
 
 () ken ye wlut it is that'll diunton me ?— 
 
 
 There's eighty eight and eiglity nine. 
 
 Tliey have a great many more stanzas in this 
 
 And a' that I hae born sinsyne, 
 
 song than 1 ever yet saw in any printed copy. 
 
 There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 
 
 The castle is still remaining at iMaybole, wlieie 
 
 I tliink it \\ ill do meikle for to dauuton me. 
 
 his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 
 
 
 kept her for lile Burns. 
 
 But to wanton me, to wanton me. 
 
 
 O ken ye what it is that wad wanton me?— 
 
 Thk gy|)siis came to our good lord's gate. 
 
 To see gude corn upon the rigs. 
 
 And wow but they sang sweetly ; 
 
 .\nd banlshmetit amang the Wbigs, 
 
 Tliey sang sae sweet, and sae very complete, 
 
 And right restored where rig! .,u.. oo, 
 
 Tliat down came the fair ladle. 
 
 1 think it W(mld do meikle for to wanton m& 
 
 And she came tripping down the stair, 
 Aud X her mjid* before her ; 
 
 
 
 As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face. 
 They coo-l the glauier o'er her. 
 
 TO DAUNTON ME. 
 
 
 
 There is an old set of the sotig : not politi 
 
 "* Gar tak fr i me this gay mantile. 
 
 cal, but very indej)endent. It runs thus ;— - 
 
 And bring to nic a plaidie ; 
 
 
 For if kith and kia aiid a' had sworn, 
 
 TiiK blude red rose at Yule may blaw. 
 
 ' VJl follow the gypsie laddie. 
 
 The kiuimer lilies blume m snaw. 
 
 . _ _J 
 
iiMlV^ 
 
 PAltrrEDBY-yFIlAVID Wllr 
 
 K.® IB OKI (StK.-^'- 
 
SONGS. 
 
 ISl 
 
 rhc fro't inay fioeze the ileepe-t »oa, 
 But an iiiilil in.in shall never il.iunton mc. 
 To il.iiintoii 1110, ami nie sae V'luiii:, 
 Wi' liis faiisc lie.irt anil fl.itteiiii' tiinjue, 
 That is the tliiiii; ye ne'er shall see, 
 Fo. an aiild man shall never daunton me. 
 
 For a' his nie.il, fur a' his riiaut, 
 For a' his fresh heef, anil his saut, 
 For a' his gowil anil white monie, 
 Aa auld niau sha 1 never dauntun ine. 
 Tu dauntun nie, iic. 
 
 riis gear may huy him kye and yowcs. 
 His gear may liny him glens «nd knowes, 
 Hut nie he sh ill not Imy nor fee, 
 For an auld man shall never daunton me. 
 To daunton me, &c 
 
 He liirples twa fauM as he dow. 
 
 Wi' his teothless gali, and his bald pow, 
 
 A.nd the rheum rins down frae his red blue e'e, 
 
 But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
 
 THE BONNIE LASS JIADE THE BED 
 TO aiE. 
 
 " The Ronnie Liss made the Red to mo," 
 was com|)i)-eil <in an amour of Charles II. when 
 skulking in the North, ahout Abordi.-en, in the 
 time of the usurpitioii. He formed une petite 
 affiilre with a daughter of the House of Port- 
 Ittham, who was the luss that made lite bed tu 
 him : — two verses of it are, 
 
 I kiss' I) hor lijjs sae rosy red, 
 
 While the tear stood l>linkin in her e'e ; 
 I said my lassie dinna crv, 
 
 For ye ay shall lu.ik the hod to me. 
 
 She took iier initlior's winding sheet. 
 
 And o't she made a s,irk to me ; 
 BIytbc and merry may she be, 
 
 The liss that made the bed to me. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE 
 .MA HI. 
 
 This story was founded on fact. A John 
 Hunter, ann-stoi to a very respectable farming 
 family who live in a jilice in the parish, I think, 
 of Galston, oalK-d liair-mill, was the luekli'ss 
 
 hero that /tud u hnrsi- ami had tide iiiair For 
 
 tome little yuuthtui tollies he found it necessary 
 to make a retreat to the Wost-Highlaiids, wheie 
 he feed himself to a ILijIdand Luird, for that 
 is the expression of all the oral editions of the 
 song I ever heard. — The present Mr. Hunter, 
 who told me the .inecdote, is the gieat-giaud- 
 ehild to our hero. — liuttNS. 
 
 I HAD a horse, and I had nao mair, 
 
 I gat him frae my d iddy ; 
 My jnirse was light, and my heart wa« Mu'r 
 
 Rut my wit it was fu' reidy. 
 And s.ie I thought me on a tiinCj 
 
 Outwittfiis of my diuldv, 
 To foe mysel to a l.iwland laird, 
 
 Wiia had a bonnie lady. 
 
 I wrote a letter, and thus began, 
 
 " Madam, be not oli'einled, 
 I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you, 
 
 And care not tho' ye keiid it: 
 For 1 get little frae he liird. 
 
 And far less frae my daddy, 
 And I would blythdy be the man 
 
 Would strive to please my lady." 
 
 She read my letter, and she lougb, 
 
 " Ye needna been sae blate, niaa ; 
 You inight hae come to me yonrsel. 
 
 And tauld me o' your state, maa : 
 Ye might hae come to me yoursel, 
 
 Outwittens o' ony body, 
 And made Jnhn Guu-kstoii of the ladrdj 
 
 And kiss'd his bonnie ladj. " 
 
 Then she pat siller in my |)iirse. 
 
 We drank wine in a coggie ; 
 She feed a man to rub my horse, 
 
 And wow ! but I was vogie. 
 Rut I gat ue'er sa sair a flog. 
 
 Since I came frae my daddy. 
 The laird came, rap rap, to the yett. 
 
 When I was wi' his lady. 
 
 Then she pat me below a chair, 
 
 .\nd liapp'd me wi' a plaidie ; 
 But I was like to swail wi' foar, 
 
 Aiid wish'd ine wi' my daddy. 
 The laird went out, he saw na nie, 
 
 I went when 1 was leady : 
 I promis'd, but 1 ne'er gade back 
 
 To kiss his bonnie l.idy. 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 Tins air was formerly called The Brirft- 
 ijrao'n preits whm llie sun r/itiius <tiiwn. The 
 words are by Lady Ann Liudsiiy. — BuRNS. 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kv at 
 hame, 
 
 And a' the warld to sl.ep are gane ; 
 The waes of my heart fd in show'is frae mycc, 
 
 When my gudeman lyes so..i«d by me. 
 
 Young Jamie loo'd me wet , and he sought me 
 for his bi ide, 
 But saving a crown he hail n:ieth.ing bsside ; 
 Tu make that crown a |iimud, my . aime gutit 
 to sea, 
 And the crown and the puund were baith foi 
 uae 
 
138 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 He liad r.ae been awa a week but only twa, 
 When my indther she fell sick, and the cow 
 was srown awa ; 
 
 My father lirak hi< arm, and my Jamie at the sea, 
 And auld Rubin Gray came a courtint" me. 
 
 My father coudna work; and my mother cotidna 
 spin, 
 I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud- 
 na win ; 
 Auld Rob maintaiii'd them baith, and wi* tears 
 in his ee, 
 Said, " Jenny, for their sahcs, O marry me." 
 
 My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back, 
 But the wind it l)iew high, and the ship it 
 %vas a wraik ; 
 
 The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die, 
 And why do I live to say, waes me? 
 
 My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna 
 f-peak, 
 She look'd in my face till my heart was like 
 to break ; 
 So they giVd hiin my hand, tho* my heart was 
 in the sea, 
 And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. 
 
 I hcdna been a wife a week but only four. 
 
 When sitting sue rnournfuliy at tjie dour, 
 I saw my Jamie's wiaith, fur I coudna think it he. 
 Till he sriiil, " I'm come back for to marry 
 thee." 
 
 sair did we gieet, and mickle did we say, 
 We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves 
 
 away, 
 
 1 wish I were de;id ! but I'm no like to die, 
 
 And why do I live to say, waes me ! 
 
 I gang like a ghaist. and I earena to spin, 
 
 I d irna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
 
 But Til do my best a gudcwife to be, 
 For aidd Robiu Grav is kind unto me. 
 
 UP AND WAR\ A' WILLIE. 
 
 The expression, " Up ami warn a' WilJie,'" 
 alludes to the Crantari oi warning of a High 
 .and Clan to aims. Not understanding tins, 
 the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Uji 
 end waur them «', &c. This edition of the 
 song I got fn.ir Tom Niul,' of ficetious fame, 
 in Edinburgh. 
 
 Up nud iviirn a', Willie, 
 
 Will n, iriirn a , 
 T'l ht'iir my canty [liyhhind sang, 
 lielate the thiny I saw, IF/^/c— Burns. 
 
 • Torn Kifl was a carpenter in KdiKbumh, niid liveil 
 flucHv t)y r.uiliin^ .■„l|ii,s. He ..as a s.) ITcmitor, o. 
 LIcrk. inonc oril„.cluircli.-s. Ileln.l a l'<m),I stro; n 
 voice, aii.l ivHsR,t.a:ly.|,siMiKMivlic(l bv hi- powers of 
 
 ^Z^ Ul'lil'r """""'""' "'^"'" °'' '"'«'"« ^"^' ""^ 
 
 Vv'hen we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 
 
 And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, 
 Wi' true design to serve the king. 
 And banish whigs awa, Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 W^arn, warn a' ; 
 For lords and lairds came there bedeea. 
 And wou but they were braw, Wilbe 
 
 But when the standard was set up, 
 
 Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie; 
 The royal nit upon the tap 
 
 Down to the ground did fa', Willia, 
 Up and \^-arn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 Then second-sighted Sandy said, 
 We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 
 
 But when the army join'd at Perth, 
 
 The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, 
 We didna doubt the rogues to rout, 
 Restore our king and a', Willie. 
 Up and warn a'. Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 The pipers playd frae right to left, 
 O whirry whigs awa, Willie. 
 
 But when we raarcli'd to Sherra-muir, 
 
 And there the rebels saw, Willie, 
 Brave Argyle attack'd our right. 
 Our flank and front and a', Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 Traitor Huntly soon gave way, 
 Seaforth, St. Clair and a', Willie. 
 
 But brave Glengary on our right, 
 
 The rebels' left did claw, Willie ; 
 He there the greatest slaughter made 
 That ever Donald saw, Willie. 
 Up and warn a' Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 And Whittam s — t h's hreeks for fear< 
 And fast did rin awa, Willie. 
 
 For he ca'd U3 a Highland mob. 
 
 Anil soon he'd slay us a' Willie, 
 But we chas'd him back to Stilling Drig, 
 Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 At length we rallied on a hill, 
 
 And briskly up did draw, Willie. 
 
 But when Argyle did view our line, 
 
 And them in order saw, Willie, 
 He streight gaed to Dumblane again, 
 And back his left did draw, Wilhe 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 Then we to Atichteraider march'd. 
 To wait a better W, Willie. 
 
 Now if ye spear wha wan the djv. 
 I've tell'd vou what I saw. W 'lit. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 isq 
 
 We b»ith dill fipiht and haith did beat, 
 And bailli <iid lin awa, Willie. 
 Up and warn a', Willie, 
 Warn, warn a' ; 
 For seooiul-sighted Sandie said, 
 
 We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 
 
 THE BLYTIISOME BRIDAL. 
 
 I FIND tlie Bli/tfisome Bridal in James Wat- 
 ion's Collection of Sc<>ts Poems, printed at 
 Edinburgh in 1706. 
 
 Tills song has hiitnou. and a felicity of ex- 
 pression worthy of Rimsay, with even mure 
 than his wonted broadness and sprij-htly lan- 
 guage. The Witty Catalogue of Names, with 
 their Historical Epithets, are done in the true 
 Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when 
 every householder was nicknamed either from 
 'onie prominent part of his character, pel son, 
 ■)r lands and housen, which he rented. Thus — 
 *' Skupe-Jitted Rob." " Thrnwn-moud Rah 
 o' the nubs." " Roarin Jxch i' the Swair." 
 " Slaverin' Simyiiie o' Ti)ds/iati:" " Soiiple 
 Kate o' Ircnyray," &:c. &c. — BuilNS. 
 
 Fv let us all to the bridal. 
 
 For there will be lilting there ; 
 For Jockie'sto be married to Maggie, 
 
 The la>s wi' thegauden hair. 
 And there will be lang-kail and pottage. 
 
 And bannocks of barley-meal, 
 And there will be good sawt herring, 
 To relish a cog of good ale. 
 1 y let us till to the brin'al. 
 
 For there will be liltinp there. 
 For Joc/iit's til be inurry'd tn I\Taggie, 
 The lass with the yauden liair. 
 
 And there will be Sandie the sutor. 
 
 And ' Wdl' with the meikle mow ; 
 .\n(l there will be Tam the ' bluter,' 
 
 With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. 
 And there will be bow-legged Robbie, 
 
 With thunibless Katie's gnoilnian ; 
 And there will be blue-chieked Dowbie, 
 
 And Lawrie the laird of the land. 
 Fy let us all, §*c. 
 
 And there will be sow-libber Patle, 
 
 And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mill, 
 Ca|iper-iios'd Francie, and Gibbie, 
 
 That wons in the how of the hill ; 
 And there will be Ali^ter Sibbie, 
 
 Wha in with black Bes-^y did moo!. 
 With siieevling Lillie, anil Tibbie, 
 
 The lass that stands aft on the stool. 
 Fy let us all, ^c. 
 
 4nd Madsje that was buckled to Steenie, 
 And colt him [grey) bieeks to his arse, 
 Wha after was' haiigit for stealing. 
 Great mercy it happened nd wunw : 
 
 And there will be gleed Geordle Janncrs^ 
 And Kirsh wi' the lilv-white leg, 
 
 Wha ' gade* to the south for niamiers, 
 And bang'd up her wame in JNIuns Meg. 
 Fy let us all, SfC. 
 
 And there will be Judan Maciawrie, 
 
 And blinkin daft Rarbra ' Macleg,* 
 Wi' flae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, 
 
 And shangy-nioii'd haliicket Meg. 
 And there will be h,ip[ier-ars'd Nansy, 
 
 And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name. 
 Muck JLulie, and fat-hipped Lizle, 
 
 The lass with the gauden waine 
 Fy let us all, &e. 
 
 And there will be girn-again Gibbie, 
 
 With his glakit wife Jennie Bell, 
 And Misleshiiiu'd Miingo Macapie, 
 
 The lad that was skip|)er hiinsel. 
 There lads and lasses in pearlings 
 
 Will feast in the heart of the ha', 
 Os sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings. 
 
 That are baith sodden and raw. 
 Fy let us all, §-e. 
 
 And there will be fadges and brachen. 
 
 With fouth of good gappoks of skate, 
 Pow-siidie, aiid drammock, and crowdie. 
 
 And callour nout-feet in a plate ; 
 And there will be partans and buckies, 
 
 Speldens and whytcns enew, 
 And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize. 
 
 And scadli|)s to sup till ye spew. 
 Fy let us all, 8fC. 
 
 And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, 
 
 And sowens, and failes, and b«ps, 
 With swats, and well-scraped i)auiiel;es. 
 
 And brandy in stoops and in caps; 
 Anil there will be meal-kail and cai>tocks, 
 
 With skink to sup till ye rive ; 
 And losts to rost on a brander, 
 
 Of flouks that were taken alive. 
 Fy let us all, §t. 
 
 Scrapt haddocks, wilks. dilse, and tangles, 
 
 And a mill of good snishing to pile; 
 When weary with eating and drinking. 
 We'll rise up and dance till we die. 
 Then fy let us all to the brid.d. 
 
 For there will be Ultin;) there ; 
 Fur Jnckie^s to be tnarry^d tn Miiygy. 
 The lass with the gauden hair. 
 
 O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNG 
 MAN. 
 
 This eong has long been known among th» 
 inlubitants of Nithsilale and GaJIoway, where 
 it is a great favourite. The first Verse should 
 be resitored to ib; orijpnal state. 
 
140 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 I FEED a lad at Roodsniass, 
 
 We're tall as the oak on the mount of the valCj 
 
 Wi' si\ler pennies three ; 
 
 As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail, 
 
 Wlien lie came home at l\Iartinmass, 
 
 As the full-moon in autumn our shields do ap 
 
 He c'ouhi nae labour lea. 
 
 pear. 
 
 i-aniia ye labour lea, young lad, 
 
 Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. 
 
 O eaniia ye lal)our lea ? 
 
 Such our love, §"c. 
 
 ludeed, quo' he, my hand's out — 
 
 
 An' «ip his graith packed he. 
 
 As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, 
 
 
 So are we cnrag'd when we rush on our foe* ; 
 
 This old way is the truest, for the t<;rms, 
 
 We sons of the mountains, tremendou-* as rocks 
 
 Jino'lwass is the hirino; fair, and Hallowmass 
 
 Dash the force of our foes with our thundering 
 
 the Jimt of the half year Burns. 
 
 strokes. 
 
 
 Such our love, §-c. 
 
 I FEED a man at Martinmas^, 
 
 
 Wi' arle-pennies three ; 
 
 Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old 
 
 But a' the faute I had to him, 
 
 France, 
 
 He coiild nae labour lea. 
 
 In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad- 
 
 O am ye labour lea, young ntiin, 
 
 vance ; 
 
 O am ye labour tea ? 
 
 But when our claymores they saw us produce, 
 
 Gae back the i/ate ye came again, 
 
 Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce. 
 
 Ye'se never scorn me. 
 
 Such our love, Sfc. 
 
 cl.ippin's gude in Febarwar, 
 An' tissins sweet in May ; 
 
 But what signiSi'S a young man's ove 
 An't diniia last for ay. 
 
 In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, 
 Jlay our councils be wi>e, and our commerce 
 
 increase ; 
 And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, 
 That our friends still prove true, and our beau- 
 
 O can ye, S,-c. 
 
 O kissin is the key of luve, 
 
 ties prove kind. 
 
 An (-lappin is the lock. 
 
 Then we'll defend our liberty, our country 
 
 An' niakiu-of's the best thing 
 
 and our laws. 
 
 That e'er a young thing got. 
 
 And teach our late posterity to fight i* 
 
 O can ye, Sfc. 
 
 Freedom' s cause. 
 
 
 That they like our ancestors bold, !(c. 
 
 IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL. 
 
 
 
 WOO'D AND i\I.\TtRIED AND A' 
 
 Tins tune was the composition of General 
 
 
 Rcid, an<l caUed by him Tlie Uiy/ilatid, nr i2<l 
 
 Wiio'd and married and a\ 
 
 fiei/inK-iit s xMarch. The words are by Sir 
 
 Woo'd and married and a'. 
 
 Harry Ersklnt- Burns. 
 
 Was she not very weel off. 
 
 
 Was woo'd and married and ol I 
 
 In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old 
 
 
 Ilonie, 
 
 The bride came out o' tlie byre. 
 
 From the heath-covcr'd mountains of Scotia we 
 
 And as she (lighted her cheeks, 
 
 come. 
 
 " Sirs, I'm to i;e married the night. 
 
 Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to 
 
 And lias nouthcr blanket nor sheets ; 
 
 gain, 
 
 IIa< noutlier blankets nor sheets, 
 
 But our ancestors fought, and they fought not 
 
 Nor scarce a coveilet too ; 
 
 in vain. 
 
 The bride that has a' to borrow. 
 
 Such our love of liberty, our country, and 
 
 Has e'en riffht meikie ailo." 
 
 our laws, 
 
 Woo'd and married, jr. 
 
 That like our ancestors of old, we stand 
 
 
 by Frci darn's cause ; 
 
 Out spake the bride's father. 
 
 We'll bravdi/ f'jht ike heroes hold, fur 
 
 As lie came in fiae the pleugh, 
 
 honour anil uji/iluuse, 
 
 " had yere tongue, my (laughter. 
 
 And defy the French, witk all their art. 
 
 And yese get gear enoufjh ; 
 
 to utter our laws. 
 
 The Ktirk that stands i' the tether, 
 
 
 And our bra' basin'd yade. 
 
 No efTominatc customs our sinews unbrace, 
 
 Will carry ye hame yere cirn ; 
 
 No luxurious tallies enerv.ite our race, 
 
 What wad ye be at ye jade ?" 
 
 Our louii-Miuiiding pipe bears the tiue martial 
 
 ir<j(/6.' and niumed, {». 
 
 strain. 
 
 
 '»o do We the old Scdttish valour retain. 
 
 Outspake the bride's mitlier. 
 
 Such our love, S^c. 
 
 " What deil needs a' this pride ? 
 
SONGS 
 
 141 
 
 ) h.id nae a pl.ick !n my poiica 
 
 That ni/lit I was a liride ; 
 My gown was liiisy-woolsy, 
 
 And ne'er a s:irk ava, 
 Anil ve !iae ril)b()ns ami biisltlas 
 
 Bl.iir tnan ane or twa." 
 
 ^^'ou'J (Old mnrried, |fc. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" quo' Willie, 
 
 " Tho' we be scant o' claiths, 
 We'll i-ieep the nearer thegither, 
 
 And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; 
 SimnuT is coming on, 
 
 Anil we'll get teats o' woo ; 
 And we'll get a lass o' our ain, 
 
 And she'll spin claiths anew." 
 
 Woo'd and married, §"C. 
 
 Outspike the bride's I)rither, 
 
 As he came in \vi' the kye, 
 " Puir Willie hud ne'er hae ta'en ye. 
 
 Had he kent ye as weel as I ; 
 For you're baitli proud and saucy, 
 
 And no for a puir man's wife, 
 Gin I canna get a better, 
 
 I'se never take ane i' my life." 
 
 Woo'd and married, Sfc, 
 
 Outspake the bride's sister, 
 
 As she eame in frae the byre, 
 " O gin I were but married. 
 
 It's a' that I desire ; 
 But we puir folk maun live single. 
 
 And do the best we can ; 
 I dinna care what I should want. 
 If I could but get a man." 
 Woo'd and married and a', 
 
 Wuo'd and married aiid a'. 
 Was she not very weel aff, 
 
 Was woo'd and married and a'. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 A SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is 
 really attended with less difficulty than to con- 
 vince a blockhead that one of these yeii d''esprits 
 is a forgery. This fine ballad is even a more 
 palpable iniitation than Hardiknute, The 
 manners indeed are old, but the language is of 
 yesterday. Its author must very soon be dis- 
 covered. — Burns. 
 
 BT JANK ELLIOT. 
 
 I've heard a lilting 
 At the ewes milking. 
 Lasses a' lilting before the break o' day, 
 Bui uow I hear moaning 
 On ilka green loaning, 
 Since our brave forresters are a' wed ixrsj. 
 
 At buchts in the morniug 
 Vae blythe lads are scorning ; 
 
 The It^scs are lonelv, dowic and V7ae i 
 
 Nae d.ilfin, niic gTibl)iiig, 
 
 Rut sighing and sabhing. 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. 
 
 At e'en in the glon;ing 
 Nae swankies are roammg, 
 'Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play ; 
 For ilk ane sits diearie, 
 Lamenting her dearie, 
 The flow'rs o' the forest wh' are a* wed away. 
 
 In har'st at the shearing 
 Nae blythe lads are jeering. 
 The Bansters are lyart, and runklcd, and grey ; 
 At fairs nor at preaching, 
 Nae wooing, nae fleeching. 
 Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. 
 
 O dule for the order ! 
 Sent our lids to the border ! 
 The English f(ir anes, by guile wan the day : 
 The flow'rs of the f irest 
 Wha aye shone the foremost. 
 The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 BY MRS. COCKBURN. 
 
 I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, 
 I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; 
 
 Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
 But soon it is fled — it is fled fur away. 
 
 I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, 
 With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and 
 gay: 
 FuU sweet was their blooming, their scent the 
 air perfuming, 
 But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae 
 
 I've seen the morning, with gold the hills a- 
 durning. 
 And the red storm roaring, before the parting 
 day ; 
 I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in 
 the sunny beams. 
 Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their 
 way. 
 
 O fickle fortune.' why this cruel sporting? 
 Why thus perjilex us [loor sons of a day ? 
 Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot 
 cheer me. 
 Since the flowers of the forest are a' wedt 
 awae. 
 
142 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 TIBBIE DUNBAR. 
 
 yVifjr— " Johnny M'GiU." 
 
 This tune is slid to be tlie composition of 
 Jolin M'Glil, fidJler, in Girvan. He called it 
 after his own name Burns. 
 
 0, v/iLT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 
 
 O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
 bar ; 
 Wilt tliou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car. 
 
 Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 
 
 I careni thy diddie, his lands and his money, 
 I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
 
 But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur. 
 And cmne iu thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
 bar ! 
 
 THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 
 
 The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram- 
 say's. The old words are : — Bjrns. 
 
 O THIS is no mine ain house. 
 
 My ain house, my ain house ; 
 This is no mine ain house, 
 
 I kon by the biggin o't. 
 
 There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 
 Are my diKir-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; 
 
 There's br'.Mil and cheese are my door-cheeks ; 
 Aud [jan-cakes the riggin o't. 
 
 This is no my ain wean. 
 
 My ain wean, my ain wean ; 
 This is no my ain wean, 
 
 I ken by the greetie o't. 
 
 ni t:ik the curchie aff my head, 
 
 Aff my head, aflf my head ; 
 I'll tik the curchie atf my head, 
 
 And row't about the feetie o't. 
 
 The tune is an old Highland air, called S/ruan 
 truish iritli ,/ian. 
 
 THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. 
 
 The Gaberlunzic-Man is supposed to ■lom- 
 jr.cmiirate an iiifrigue of James the Fifth. Rlr. 
 Callander of Craigforth, published some years 
 ago, an editiun of Christ's Kirk on the Green, 
 anil the (Sahcrli/nzie-Mun, with notes critical 
 iii.l historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
 been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady Parish, and 
 that it was suspected by his coteniporaries, tliat 
 in his fre(iiiciit excursions to that part of the 
 country ln' had other purposes in view besides 
 golfing and archery. Three favourite Iwliea 
 
 Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, v^one of them 
 resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- 
 bourhood), were occasionally visited by their 
 royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to 
 the following satirical advice to his Majesty, 
 from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord 
 Lyon. 
 
 Sow not your seed on Sandi/lands, 
 Spend not your strength in Weir, 
 And ride not on an Elephant, 
 For spoiling o' your gear. — BuRXS. 
 
 Thi! pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, 
 Wi' many good e'ens and days to me. 
 Saying, Goorlwife, for your couitesie, 
 
 Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! 
 The night was cauld, the carle was wat. 
 And down ayont the ingle he sat ; 
 My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, 
 
 And cudgily ranted and sang, 
 
 O wow ! quo' he, were I as free. 
 As first when I saw this country, 
 How blvth and merry wad I be ! 
 
 And I wad never think lang. 
 He grew canty, and she grew fain ; 
 But little did her auld minny ken 
 What thir slee twa togither were say'n, 
 
 When wooing they were sae thrang. 
 
 And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black 
 As e'er the crown of my dady's hat, 
 'Tis I wad lay thee by my back. 
 
 And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang. 
 And O ! quo' she, anu I were as white. 
 As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
 I'd dead nie braw, and lady like, 
 
 And awa' with thee I'd gang. 
 
 Between the twa was made a plot ; 
 They raise awee before the cock, 
 And wilily they shot the lock. 
 
 And fust to the bent are they gane. 
 Up the morn the auld wife raise. 
 And at her leisure put on her claise ; 
 Syne to tlie serv.mt's bed she gaes, 
 
 To speer fur the silly poor man. 
 
 She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, 
 The strae was cauld, he was away, 
 She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, 
 
 For some of our gear will i)e gane. 
 Some ran to coffers, and some to kists. 
 But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, 
 She d.iiic'd her lane, cry'd. Praise be blest, 
 
 I have lodg'd a leal poor man. 
 
 Since nathing's awa', as we can learn, 
 The kiru's to kirn, and milk to cAirx, 
 Gae butt the hou^, lass, aud w/ken my baim 
 And bid her come quickly ben. 
 
SOXGS. 
 
 US 
 
 rhe sn-rvaut ^jml'.' where the d.ni^hter lay, 
 Tlie -h(.fi.< wi!t ciU.M, she was away, 
 Ami ta<t to !icr f;;i(ii!\y;fe <j;,ii\ say, 
 Slio's alFwitli the GaLt'rluiaie-.uan. 
 
 O fy par rid..', ami fy sjir rin; 
 
 And h:i«ite ye liii;! thfst- triytors acain ; 
 
 For she's be burnt, and he's be slam, 
 
 The wearifu' Oaberlunzie-man. 
 Rome ra(h' n-io' hi)r>e, some ran a fit, 
 Tlie wife was wiuui, and out o' her wit : 
 Slie cnu'd n i sjan;:;, nor yet eoii'd slie «lt, 
 
 ISut ay slie cuis'd and she ban'd. 
 
 Mean time far hind out o'er the lea, 
 
 Fu' snuff in a i^ien, where iiane cou'd see. 
 
 The twa, with kindly sport and glee, 
 
 Cut frae a new cheese a whang : 
 The |)rivin;j was good, it pleas'd them baith, 
 To h>'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ; 
 Quo' sl:e, to leave thee I will be laith, 
 
 My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. 
 
 O kend my niinny I were wi' you, 
 llisanlly wad she crook her mou, 
 Sic a poor man she'd never trow. 
 
 After the Galierlunzie-man, 
 Jly dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young, 
 And ha' nae Icar'd the beggar's tongue, 
 To follow me frae town to town. 
 
 And carry the Gaberluuzie on. 
 
 Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, 
 
 And ppindlei and whorles for thetn wha need, 
 
 Wliilk is a gentle trade indeed. 
 
 To carry the Gaherlunzie — O. 
 I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
 And draw a black clout o'er my eye, 
 A cripple or blind they will ca' rae. 
 
 While we shall be merry and sing. 
 
 jonnie coup. 
 
 This satiiical song was composed to comme- 
 morate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans, 
 in l7io, when he marched against the clans. 
 
 The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
 I have heard some verses, but now only remem- 
 ber the title, which was, 
 
 W'ill ye go to the coals in the morning. 
 
 BUKNS. 
 
 Coup sent a letter frae Dunbar, 
 
 Chsrlie, meet me an ye dare, 
 
 A.'id I'll learn you the art of war, 
 
 tf you'll meet wi' me in the morning. 
 
 Ilti/ Jonnie Coup, are ye waking yet 9 
 Or are your diuins a-heatlng yet? 
 If ye were u-uk'ing T won'd wait 
 To gang to the coals i' the morning. 
 
 When Charlie lonk'd the letter upon. 
 He drew his sword the scalibird from, 
 Come follow roe, my merry merry men. 
 And we'll meet wi" Coup i' the morning, 
 Jley Jonnie Coup, Sfc. 
 
 Now, Jonnie, be as good as vour word. 
 Come let us try both fire and sword. 
 And dinna rin awa' like a frighted bird. 
 That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning 
 Ucy Jonnie Coup, S^c, 
 
 When Jonnie Coup he heard of this. 
 Me thought it waclna be amiss 
 To hae a horse in readiness. 
 To die awa' i' the morning. 
 
 Hey Jonnie Coup, Arc 
 
 Fy now Jonnie get up and rin, 
 The Highland bagpipes makes a din. 
 It's best to sleep in a hale skin. 
 For 'twill be a bluddie morning. 
 
 Jley Jonnie Coup, §*e. 
 
 X^Hien Jonnie Coup to Berwick came. 
 They spear'd at him, where's a' your men. 
 Tlie deil confounil me gin I ken. 
 Fur I left them a' i' the mornir.g. 
 
 Hey Jonnie Coup, §•«. 
 
 Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, 
 To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat. 
 And leave your men in sic a strait, 
 So early in the morning. 
 
 Iley Jon/lie Coup, ^c. 
 
 Ah ! faith, co' Jonnie, I got a fleg. 
 With their claymores and philabegs. 
 If I face them again, deil break my icg^, 
 So I wish you a good mornituj. 
 
 Hey Jonnie Ccup, ifc. 
 
 A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. 
 
 I PICKED up this old song and tune from a 
 country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met w::th it 
 elsewhere in Scotland. — Burns. 
 
 Wha RE are you gaun, my boncie lasa, 
 
 Wliere are you gaun, my hiauie, 
 She answer'd me right saucilie. 
 
 An errand fur my niiniiie. 
 
 O whare live ye, my bonnie !«», 
 
 O whare live ye, my liinnie. 
 By yen burn-side, gin ye maun kea. 
 
 In a wee house wi' uiy niintic. 
 
 But I foor up the glen at eea, 
 
 To see my bonnie lassie ; 
 And lang before the gr.iy mom ciua, 
 
 She was na bnuf sae sauci^ 
 
iU 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 weary fa' tlie waukrife cock, 
 And the foumart liy liis crawin ! 
 
 Tie wauken'd the aiild wife frae her sleep, 
 A wee blink or the ilawin. 
 
 Aq angry wife I wat she raise, 
 
 And o'er the bed she brought her ■ 
 
 And «'i' a mickle hazia rung 
 
 She wade her a weel pay'd dochter 
 
 O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! 
 
 O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
 Thou art a gay and a himnie lass, 
 
 But thou hast a waukrife minnie.* 
 
 TULLOCHGORUM. 
 
 This, first of songs, i< the master-piece of 
 my old trienil Skinner. He was passing the day 
 at the town of El'on, I think it was, in a friend's 
 
 house whose name was JMontgomery Mrs. 
 
 Montgomery observing, en passant, 'that the 
 beautiful reel of Tulloch'ionim wanted words, 
 she begged them of I\Ir. Skinner, who gratified 
 her wishes, and the wishes of eveiy lover of 
 Scotlish song, in this most e.xce^lent ballad. 
 
 These particulars I hid from the author's 
 son. Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen Burns. 
 
 Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, 
 And lay your disputes all aside. 
 What signifies'! for folks to chide 
 
 For what was done before them : 
 Let Whig and Toiy all agiee, 
 
 Wing and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
 AA hig and Tory all agree. 
 
 To diop their Whig-raig-raorum. 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree 
 To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, 
 And cheerfid slug alang wi' me 
 
 The Reel e' Tullochgorum. 
 
 O, Tulluchgorum's my delight, 
 
 It gars us a' in ane unite. 
 
 And ony sumph that keeps up spite, • 
 
 In conscience I abhor him ; 
 For biythe and cheerie we'll be a', 
 
 Blythe and cheerie, biythe and cheerie, 
 Biythe and cheerie we'll be a', 
 And make a happy quorum, 
 For Iilyihe and cheerie we 11 be a'. 
 As lang as we hae breath to draw. 
 And dance till we be like to fa" 
 
 The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 What needs t'fere be sae great a fraise, 
 Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
 I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 
 
 For half a hunder score o' thenv 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Dowf and dowie, iiuwf and dowie^ 
 Doivf and dowie at the best, 
 Wi' a' their variorum ; 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best. 
 Their allegros and a* the rest. 
 They canna please a Scottish taste, 
 
 Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 
 
 Let warldly worms their minds oppreei 
 Wi' fears o* want and double cess. 
 And sullen sots themsells distress 
 
 Wi' keeping up decorum : 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 
 
 Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
 Sour and sulky shall we sit 
 
 Like old phlloso|)hnrum ! 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
 Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit. 
 Nor ever try to shake a fit 
 
 To the Reel o' Tullochgorum ' 
 
 May choicest blessings ay attend 
 Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
 And calm and quiet be his end. 
 
 And a' that's good watch o'ei hitn| 
 May peace and plenty be his lot. 
 
 Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. 
 Peace and plenty be his lot. 
 
 And dainties a great store o' thcai ; 
 May peace and pleuty be his lot, 
 Unstain'd by any vicious spot. 
 And may he never want a groat. 
 
 That's fond o' Tullochgorum' 
 
 Rut for the sullen frumpish fool, 
 That loves to be oppression's tool, 
 May envy gnaw his rotten soiJ, 
 
 And discontent devour him ; 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 
 Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
 Dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 And nane say, wae's me for him ! 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
 Wha e'er he be that winna dance 
 The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 JOHN O' BADENYON. 
 
 ■EU. 
 
 •Ii^on V ' ' I r-' .V""' " "-""= »"|>i.'rn)r lo some o 
 Jiose recovered by Burns, which ii worthy of notit^' 
 
 " O tlinugli thy h^ir was gowilcn weft 
 An thyjips o" <Ira,ii)oiR (nmiie. 
 
 Thou hast gotten tl e clog ili.it winna clmc 
 tor a you're waukrife mimiie." 
 
 This excellent song is also the compositHW 
 of my worth.y friend, old Skinner, at LiasharU 
 
 BuilNS. 
 
 When first I cam to be a man 
 
 Of twenty years or so, 
 I thought myself a handsome youth. 
 And fain the world would know ; 
 
•^ 
 
 ~i 
 
 SONGS. 145 
 
 In btst attire I sfept iiliioad. 
 
 What next to do I musM a whilCi 
 
 Witli 6i)irit> bi'i-k and j;ay, 
 
 Still hoping to suicerd, 
 
 AiiH hert) and there and cveiy wlicre 
 
 I jiitch'd on hook!) for company. 
 
 Was like a nuiin in M.iy ; 
 
 And gravely try'd to re.id : 
 
 No i-are I h.id nor fear ot want, 
 
 I bought and borrow'd every whei >. 
 
 But lanihled up and down, 
 
 Arid stiiily'd night and <l.iy, 
 
 And for a liiaii 1 might liave past 
 
 Nor miss'd what deau or doctor wrote 
 
 In country or in town ; 
 
 That happen'd in my way : 
 
 I still was ple.isM where'er I went, 
 
 Philosophy I now e^teeiii'd 
 
 And when I was alone, 
 
 The ornament of youth, 
 
 T tnn'd my jiipe and pleas'd myself 
 
 And carefully through many a page 
 
 Wi' John o' Badenyou. 
 
 I hunted after truth. 
 
 
 A thousand various scheines I try'd, 
 
 Now in the days of youthful prime 
 
 And yet was ])leas'd with none, 
 
 A mistress I iiuist tiiid, 
 
 I threw tlieiii by, anil tun'd my pipe 
 
 For liive, I heard, s;ave one an air, 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 And ev'n improved the mind : 
 
 
 On Fhillis fair above the rest 
 
 And now ye youngsters every where. 
 
 Kind fortune tixt my eyes. 
 
 That wish to make a show, 
 
 Her piertiui,' beauty strucl.- my heart. 
 
 Take heed in time, nor funrlly hope 
 
 And she became my clioioe ; 
 
 For happiness bclaw ; 
 
 To Cupid now with hearty prayer 
 
 What you may fancy jileasure here, 
 
 1 (ifitr'd many a vow ; 
 
 Is but an empty name, 
 
 And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore. 
 
 And yir/s, and J'riendx, and bonks, and 80, 
 
 As other lovers do ; 
 
 You'll find them all the same ; 
 
 Hut, when at last I breath'd my flame, 
 
 Then be advised and warning take 
 
 I found her cold as stone ; 
 
 Fiom such a man as me ; 
 
 I left the girl, and tnn'd my pipe 
 
 I'm neither Pope uor Caidinal, 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 Nor one of high degree ; 
 
 
 You'll meet displeasure every where . 
 
 )Mien love had thus my heart beguil'd 
 
 Then do as I have done, ' 
 
 With foolish hopes and vain ; 
 
 E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves 
 
 To frietid^/iip's port I steer'd my course, 
 
 With John o' Badeuyon. 
 
 And laugli'd at lovers' pain ; 
 
 
 A friend 1 got by lucky chance, 
 'Twas somethmg like divine, 
 
 
 
 An honest friend's a. precious gift, 
 And such a gift was mine ; 
 
 THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 
 
 
 And DOW whatever might betide, 
 
 Here is a verse of this lively old song tha 
 
 A happy man was I, 
 
 used to be sung after these printed ones- — 
 
 In any strait 1 knew to whom 
 
 BUUNS. 
 
 1 freely might apply ; 
 
 
 A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 
 
 0, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen / 
 
 He heard, and spnrn'd my moan ; 
 
 O, wha has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? 
 
 1 hy'd me home, and tuu'u my pipe 
 
 In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the sted, 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 Au' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, ye* 
 
 
 treen ? 
 
 Methought I should be wiser next, 
 And would d puttiot turn, 
 
 
 
 Began to doat en Johnnv Wilkes, 
 
 
 And cry up Parson llorne.* 
 
 COCKPEN. 
 
 Their manly spirit I adniir'd. 
 
 0, WHEN she came ben she bobbed fu* law. 
 
 And prais'd their uoble zeal, 
 Who had with flaming tongue and pen 
 
 JIaiiitaiu'd the public weal; 
 But e'er a month or two had past, 
 
 0, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law. 
 
 And when she came ijen she kiss'd Cockpen, 
 And syne deny'd she did it at a'. 
 
 I found myself betray'd, 
 'Twas stIfinA party after all, 
 
 And was na ('ockpcn right saurie with n% 
 And was na Ci'ckpen right siueie with a', 
 
 For a' the stir they made ; 
 At last I saw thv factious knaves 
 Insult the very throne. 
 
 in leaving the daughter of a Lord, 
 And kissiu a collier lassie, an' a' .' 
 
 
 I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 O never look down my lassie, at a , 
 O never look down my la-*sie, at a*, 
 Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure co'aipleta* 
 
 
 • This son([ was comjiosnl when Wilkes, Hone, 
 
 he wf'o nrinliiiig a noiaf about liberty. 
 
 L 1 
 
 At the finest dame in castle or La*. 
 N 
 
 
146 
 
 Tho' thou }i?s nae silk and ho'Iand sae sma', 
 Thi)' tliou lias nae silk and Holland sae sina', 
 Tliy coat and thy sark are thy ain handy-wack, 
 And Lady Jean was never sue braw ! 
 
 BURMS' WORKS. 
 
 CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWES.. 
 
 The following set of this song is now %3ry 
 common. It is ascribed to the authoress of the 
 B<jvel of " Marriage .' 
 
 THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 
 T^ne—" The Laird of Cockpen." 
 
 The Laird o' Cockpcn, Le is proud an' he's 
 
 g-i'eat ; 
 His mind is ta'en up wi' the things of the state : 
 He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; 
 But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 
 
 Down liy the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; 
 At his table head he thought she'd look well ; 
 W'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
 A. pennylests la^s wi' a lang pedigree. 
 
 His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when 
 
 new, 
 His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; 
 Hl' put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, — 
 And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? 
 
 He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ; 
 And rapp'd at the yett o* Claverse-ha' Lee : 
 Gie tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : 
 She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cuckpen. 
 
 Jlistress Jean she was makiu' the elder-flower 
 
 wine : 
 " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" 
 She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown. 
 Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' 
 
 down. 
 
 A-nd when she cam* ben, he booed fu' low ; 
 And what was his errand he soni; let her know ; 
 Amazed was the Laird, when the iadv s.iid Na', 
 And wi' a laigh curtsie she tarued awa". 
 
 Dunihfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ; 
 He nuiunted his mare, and rade caiinilie : 
 And aften he thought, as he gaed tliro' the glen. 
 She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cotkpen. 
 
 And now that the Laird his exit hid mule, 
 Mistie>s Jean she reflected on what ^lic ImiI said : 
 Oh fur ane I'll get better, it's waur lH uet ten, 
 I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cotkpen. 
 
 Neist time that the Laird and the larly were seen. 
 They were gaun arm in arm to the kirk ou the 
 
 green ; 
 Now she sirs in the Ha' like a weeltappit hen ; 
 I3ut as yet there's nae thickens appeared at 
 
 Cockpen. 
 
 This beautiful song is in the true old Scotch 
 taste, yet I do not know that either air or wordi 
 were in print before BuiiNS. 
 
 Ca' the ewes to the knnwes, 
 
 Ca' them ichare the heather grows 
 
 Ca them whore the bur/tie ruwet. 
 Ml) honnie dearie. 
 
 As I gaed down the water-side. 
 
 There I met my shejdierd lad, 
 He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 
 
 An' he ca'd me his dearie. 
 Ca the ewes, Sfc. 
 
 Will ye gang down the water-side, 
 And see the waves sae sweetly glidc^ 
 
 Beneath the hazels spreading wide, 
 The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
 Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 
 
 I was bred up at nae sic school, 
 My shepherd lad, to play the foo. 
 
 And a' the day to sit in dool, 
 And Haebody to see me. 
 Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 
 
 Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
 Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 
 
 And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, 
 And ye sail be my deiiie. 
 Ca' the ewes, §"c. 
 
 If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
 I'se gang wi' you my shepherd-lad. 
 
 And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 
 And I sail be your dearie. 
 Ca' the ewes, ipc. 
 
 While waters wimple to the sea ; 
 
 While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
 'Till clay-cauld death sail bliu my e'e> 
 
 Ye sail be my dearie." 
 
 Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 
 
 LADIE MARY ANN. 
 
 The starting verse should be restoitd .— 
 I'ua.Ns. 
 
 " Lady Mary Ann gaed out o' her bower, 
 
 An' she found a bnnnie rose new i' the t'owtr ; 
 .\8 she kiss'd its ruddy Iip-< dra|>ping wi' dew, 
 Quo' she, ye're uae sae sweet as my Charlie'* 
 niou." 
 
 • Mr'!. Hums inforn.cd l!cc Kditor that the laitver*! 
 of t!iis song was wriUcr. by Uurns. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 147 
 
 LADIE MARY ANN. 
 
 Laijt Marv Ann looks o'er the castle \va*, 
 Slie saw three »>'>'>Mie hoys playin;^ at the ha". 
 The youngest no was the flower am.ing them a* ; 
 My Loiitiie laddie s younj, but ie's gruwin' 
 yet. 
 
 " O father, O f.ithrr, an' yt tliink it fit. 
 We'll send hiin a vear to the college yet ; 
 We'll sew a ereen ribbon round about his hat, 
 And that will let thein ken he's to marry yet." 
 
 Lady JIary Ann was a flower in the dew, 
 Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue, 
 And the langcr it blossomed, the sweeter it sjrew ; 
 For the lily in tht bud will be bonnier yet. 
 
 i'ounj Charlie Coehian was the sprout of an 
 
 aik, 
 Bonnie, and blooniiusj, and straiijht was its make, 
 The sun took delight to shine for its sake. 
 And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 
 
 The simrner is gane, when the leaves they were 
 
 green ; 
 
 And the days are awa that we hae seen ; 
 
 But far belter days, I trust, will conie again, 
 
 For mv bonnie laddie's young, but he's jrow- 
 . ■ , • ^ o 
 
 in yet. 
 
 KILLYCRANKY. 
 
 "The battle of Killycranky was the last stand 
 marte by the Clans for James, after his abdica- 
 ticn. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic- 
 tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. 
 — General Mackav, when he found the Hig^h- 
 landers (.id not pursue his flying army, said, 
 " Dundee must be killed, or he never would 
 have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone 
 marks the spot where Dundee fell Burns. 
 
 Clavers and his highland-men. 
 
 Came down upo' the raw, man. 
 Who being stout, gave mony a clout, 
 
 The lads began to claw, then. 
 V ith sword and terge into the r hand, 
 
 Wi which they were nae slaw, man, 
 Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh, 
 
 The lads began to claw, then. 
 
 O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, 
 
 She flaiig amang them a', man ; 
 The butter-box got mony knocks, 
 
 Their riggings paid lor a' then ; 
 They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks, 
 
 Which to their grief they saw, man; 
 
 1 clinkum dankum o'er their crowns, 
 
 The lads began to fa' then. 
 
 Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, 
 And flang amang th»ni a*, man ; 
 
 W 
 
 The English blades got broken heads. 
 Their crowns were cleav'd in twa theila 
 
 The durk and door made their last hour. 
 And |irov'd their final fa, man ; 
 
 They thought the devil had betn there. 
 That play'd them sic a paw then. 
 
 The solemn league and covenant 
 
 Came whigging u|) the hills, man. 
 Thought highland trews durst not refuse 
 
 For to subscribe their bills then : 
 In Willie's name* they thought nae an& 
 
 Durst stop their course at a', man ; 
 But hur nane sell, wi' mony a knock, 
 
 Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. 
 
 Sir Evan Du, and his men true. 
 
 Came linking up the brink, man ; 
 The Hdgan Duti-h they feared such. 
 
 They bre<l a horrid stink, then. 
 The true Maclean, and his fierce men. 
 
 Came in aming them a', man ; 
 Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, 
 
 All fled and ran awa' then. 
 
 Oh' on a ri, oh' on a rl, 
 
 Why should the lose king Shames, man ? 
 Oh' rig in di, oh' ri{/ in di, 
 
 She shall break a" her banes then ; 
 Whh fi(richini>:h, an* stay a while, 
 
 And speak a word or twa, man. 
 She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck, 
 
 Before ye win awa' then. 
 
 O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, 
 
 Hur nane-seil's won the day, man ; 
 King Shame's red-coats should Oa liu:»g jr> 
 
 Because they ran awa' then : 
 Had bent their brows, like hij^hl'.nf' tr-.v^ 
 
 And made as lang a stay, m'in, 
 TheyM sav'd their king, tba*. s'crd '''^-f,. 
 
 Aud Willie'd ' run' awa' t'^eiL. 
 
 THE EWIEW? fir; CPOOKiTKO** 
 
 Another excel'.er^/'jpj rf old Sliinner'** -• 
 Burns. 
 
 Were I but ib'e lo n-'aeirsc 
 iMy Ewie's pvai-^; \d praper verse, 
 I'd sound .t .0 cL ?j loud and tierce 
 
 As e- er f p.r's diMne could blaw ; 
 Tte Y.-v'e tv'' *'.v. c-.ookit l;»rn, 
 W'l? hai' k ;pt her might hae sworn 
 Sic f F /f: '/as never born, 
 
 'Ip.e.bout nor far awa', 
 Si« \ L"c Was never born, 
 
 H^rjabout nor I'ar awa' 
 
 I i.t /IT needed tar nor keil 
 To I mik her upo* hip or heel, 
 
 • I'liuceof Orar.pa. 
 
 L__ 
 
I 
 
 
 148 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 Her crook it horn did as weel 
 
 The loss o' her wt cou d hae bom, 
 
 To ken her by iino' them a' ; 
 
 Had fair strae-death ta'un bei avf«*. 
 
 She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 
 
 The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. 
 
 But keepit ay her air» jog trot, 
 
 
 Bdith to the fauld and to the coat. 
 
 But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, 
 
 Was never siveir to lead nor caw, 
 
 Aneath a lileeily villain's knife, 
 
 Baith to the fauld and to the coat, &c. 
 
 I'm really fley't that our guidwife 
 
 
 Will never win aboon't ava : 
 
 Cauld nor hunger never dang her, 
 
 O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
 
 Wind nor we* could never wrung her. 
 
 Call your muses up and mourn. 
 
 Anes she lay au ouk and lunger. 
 
 Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 
 Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw . 
 
 Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! 
 
 Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, 
 
 Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 8ec. 
 
 And eat the kail for a' the tyke, 
 
 
 My Ewie never ])lay'd the like. 
 
 But tyc'd about the barn wa' ; 
 
 
 
 My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. 
 
 ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN. 
 
 A better or a thriftier beast, 
 
 Nae honest man could weel hae wist. 
 
 This blythsome song, so full of Scottish hu- 
 mour and convivial merriment, is an intimHie 
 
 For silly thing she never mist. 
 
 favourite at Bridal Trystes, and House-heat- 
 
 To hae ilk year a lamb or twa' ; 
 
 ir.gs. It contains a spirited picture of a country 
 
 The first she had I gae to Jock, 
 
 ale-house touched oft with all the lightsome gaiety 
 
 To be to him a kind o' stock. 
 
 so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when 
 
 And now the laddie has a flock 
 
 at a fair. 
 
 O' inair nor thirty head ava' ; 
 
 
 And now the laddie has a flock, &c. 
 
 Instead ef the line. 
 
 I lookit aye at even' for her. 
 
 " Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," 
 
 Lest niischanter shou'd come o'er her, 
 
 I have heard it sung. 
 
 Or the fowniart might devour her. 
 
 O' 
 
 Gin the beastie bade awa ; 
 
 " Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown." 
 
 My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 
 
 Well deserv'd baith girse and corn, 
 
 These cakes are kneaded oat with the knuckles. 
 
 Sic a Ewe was never born. 
 
 and toasted over the red embers of wood on a 
 
 Here-about nor far awa. 
 
 gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have 
 
 Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. 
 
 a delicate relish when eaten warm with ale. 
 
 
 On winter market nights the landlady heats 
 
 Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
 
 them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm 
 
 (Wha can speak it without weeping ?) 
 
 the ale : 
 
 A villain can) when I was sleeping. 
 
 
 Sta' my Ewie, honi and a' ; 
 
 " Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken 
 
 I sought lier sair upo' the morn, 
 
 To gar the swats gae glibber down." 
 
 And down aneath a bnss o' tliorn 
 
 BURNA 
 
 1 got my Ewie's crookit horn. 
 But my Ewie was awa'. 
 
 
 
 I got my Ewie's crookit hoin, 2tc. 
 
 BLYTH WAS SUB 
 
 ! gin I had the Iout that did it. 
 Sworn 1 have as well as said it, 
 Tho' a' the waild should foibid it, 
 
 I wad gie his neck a thra' ; 
 
 1 never met wi' sic a turn, 
 As this sin ever I was born. 
 My Ewie wi' the cmokit horn. 
 
 Silly Ewie stown awa". 
 
 Blyth, blyth, blyth was she, 
 
 BIyth was she butt and ben ; 
 And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill, 
 
 And leugh to see a tappit hen. 
 She took me in, and set me down. 
 
 And heglit to keep me lawing-free; 
 But, cunning calling that she was, 
 
 She gart me birle my bawbie. 
 
 My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, kr.. 
 
 We loo'd the liquor well enough ; 
 
 
 But waes my heart my cash was done 
 
 O ! had she died o' crook or cauld. 
 
 Before that I had quench'd my drowth. 
 
 As Ewies do when they grow auld. 
 
 And hiith I was to pawn my shoon. 
 
 It wad nae been, by niony fauld. 
 
 When we had three times tooni'd our stoops 
 
 Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' i 
 
 And the niest chappin new begun, 
 
 For a' the claith that we hae worn. 
 
 Wha started in to heize our hope. 
 
 Frae Ler updher's sae aften shorn, 
 
 But ^ndro' wi' bis cutty gua. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 149 
 
 llie carlinfj hrotifjht lier kebbuck ben, 
 
 With girdle-cakes wtrl-lnasti'd brown, 
 Will docs ti.c camiy kiimntT ki-n, 
 
 Tlu-y gar the swats gae jjlibber down. 
 Wi' ca'd the bicker aft about ; 
 
 Tdl dawiiina; we ne'er jee'd our bun, 
 And ay the cleanest diiidiiT out 
 
 Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun. 
 
 He did like ony mavis sing, 
 
 And as 1 in his oxter sat, 
 He ca'd nie ay his bonny thing. 
 
 And niony a sappy kiss I gat : 
 I hae been east, I hac been west, 
 
 I hae been far ayont the sun ; 
 But the blythest lad that e'er I saw 
 
 Wds Andro wi* bis cutty gun ! 
 
 HUGHIE GRAHAM. 
 
 There are several edition? of this ballad. — 
 This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
 Ayrshire, where, when I was a hoy, it was a 
 popular song. — It originally, had a siinpls old 
 tune, which 1 have forgotten. — BuiiNS. 
 
 Our lords are to the mountains gane, 
 
 A hunting o' the fallow deer. 
 And they have grijiet Hughie Graham 
 
 For stealing o' the bishop's mare. 
 
 .\nd t'hey have tied him hand and foot, 
 And led him up, thro' Stirling town; 
 
 The lads and lasses met him tlieie, 
 
 Cried, llughie Graham thou'rt a loun, 
 
 Inwse my right hand free, he says. 
 And put my biaiil sword in the same ; 
 
 He's no in Stirling town this day. 
 Dare tell the tale to Hu^hie Graham. 
 
 Up then bespake the brave Wliitefoord, 
 
 As he sit by the bishop's knee, 
 Five hundred white stots I'd gie you 
 
 If ye'll let llughie Graham fiee. 
 
 baud your tongue, the bishop says, 
 And wi' your pleiding let me be; 
 
 For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
 Hughie Graham this day shall die. 
 
 Up then bespake the fair Whittfot)rd, 
 
 As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 
 Five hundred white jieiice I'll gie you, 
 
 If ye'll gie llu^hie Gialiaui to me. 
 
 h«ud your tongue now lady fair. 
 
 And wi' your pleading let it be; 
 Altho' ten Giah.iniM were in Ins coat, 
 
 ltd for my honoi he maun die. 
 
 They've ta'en him to the gallows kuuwei 
 
 He lo<>ked to the gallows tree. 
 Yet never colour left his cheek. 
 
 Nor ever did he blink his ee. 
 
 At length he looked round about, 
 
 To see whatever he could spy : 
 And there he saw his auld lather. 
 
 And he was weeping bitterly. 
 
 O baud your tongue, my fither dear, 
 And wi' your weepiug let it he ; 
 
 Thy wee()ing's sairer on my heart, 
 'Than a* that they can do to me. 
 
 And ye may gie my brriher John, 
 
 My sword that's bent in the middle cletfi 
 
 And let him come at twelve o'clock. 
 And see me pay the bishop's mare. 
 
 And ye may gie my brother James 
 
 Wy sword that's bent in the middle brown. 
 
 And bid him come at four o'clock, 
 And see his brother Hugh cut down. 
 
 Remember me to Maggy my wife. 
 
 The niest time ve gang o'er the moor. 
 
 Tell her she staw tne i.ishop's mare. 
 Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 
 
 And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
 I never did disgiHce their blood ; 
 
 And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
 To mak it shorter by the hood. 
 
 LORD RONALD, JIY SON. 
 
 This air, a very fivourlte one in Ayrshiie, 
 is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this 
 manner most of our finest more modern airs have 
 had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu- 
 sical shepheril, composed the simple artless ori- 
 ginal air, which being pi'.-kud up by the more 
 learned nmsician, took the inijiroved for tins 
 bears. — BuiiNs. 
 
 The name is commonly sounded Ronald, d« 
 
 Randal. 
 
 Where have ye been hunting. 
 
 Lord Randal, my son ? 
 Where have ye been hunting. 
 
 My hancNonie young man ? 
 In yon wild wood. Oh mother, 
 
 So make my bed soon : 
 For I'm wae, and I'm weary, 
 
 And fain would lie down. 
 
 Where gat ye your dinner, 
 
 Lord Randal, my son ? 
 Where gat ye your 'iinner. 
 
 My handsome youn;; man ? 
 
150 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 O, 1 rfinci] with my true love, 
 
 So nuke my l)t-'il soon : 
 Fur I'm wae, and I'm weary, 
 
 Aud fain would lie down. 
 
 O, what was your dinner, 
 
 Lord Randal, my son ? 
 O, wh it was your dinner, 
 
 My liandhouie yo:ini; man ? 
 Eels boiled in broo, niothur ; 
 
 So make my bed soon : 
 For I'ai wae, and I'm weary. 
 
 And fain would lie down. 
 
 O, where did she find them, 
 
 Lord Randal, my son ? 
 O, where did she catih them, 
 
 !\Iy handsome young man? 
 'Neath the bush of i)rown lirekao, 
 
 So make my bed soon : 
 For I'm wae, and I'm weary 
 
 And fain would lie duu n. 
 
 Now, where are your bloodhounds. 
 
 Lord Randal, my son ? 
 What caure of your bloodhounds, 
 
 IMy handsome young man ? 
 They swelled and died, mother, 
 
 And sae maun I soon : 
 O, I am wae, and I'm weary. 
 
 And fain would lie down. 
 
 I fear you are poisoned. 
 
 Lord RaJidaJ, my son ! 
 I fear you are ])oisoned, 
 
 My hiindsome young man ! 
 
 yes I am poisoned, — 
 So make my bed soon : 
 
 1 am sick, sick at hesrt. 
 
 And 1 now must lie down. 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 There were two old songs to this tune ; one 
 »f them contained some striking lines, the other 
 entered into the sweets of wooing rather too 
 freely for modern poetry. — It began, 
 
 " Ae simmer night on Logan braes, 
 
 I helped a bonnie lassie on wi' her claes, 
 First wi' her stockiiis, an' syne wi' her shoon. 
 But she g'led me the glaiks when a' was done." 
 
 The other seems older, but it is not so charac- 
 teristic of Scottish courtship. 
 
 " Logan Water's wide and deep. 
 An' laith am I to weet my teet ; 
 But gif ye II cons.'nl to gang wi* me, 
 I'll bire a liorbe to cany thee." 
 
 BuuNS. 
 
 ANOTHER SET. 
 
 LOGAN WATER, 
 
 BY JOHN MAYNE. 
 
 By Loiran's streams that rin sae deep, 
 Fu* aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep, 
 I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, 
 Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes : 
 But, wae's my heart, thae days are gane, 
 And, fu* o' grief, I herd my lane ; 
 Whi le my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far , far frae me and Logan Braes 1 
 
 Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he, 
 Atween the j.reachings, meet wi' me— 
 Meet wi* me, or, when it's mirk. 
 Convoy me hanie frae Logan Kirk ! 
 I Weil may sing, tliae days are gine— 
 Frae Kiik and Fair I come my lane. 
 While my dear lad niaun faco his f^es. 
 Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! 
 
 O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE 
 nE.\THER. 
 
 This song is the composition of a Jean Ghver, 
 a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a tliief ; 
 SJid in one or other character has visited most 
 of the Correction Houses in the West. — She 
 was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — 1 took 
 the song down from her singing as she wa* 
 strolling through the country, with a. slight of- 
 hand blackguard. — Burns. 
 
 Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, 
 Ainang the bonnie blooming heather, 
 There I met a bonnie lassie, 
 Keejiing a' her yovves thegither. 
 
 O'er the mi>ur aniuny l/ie Jieiilher, 
 
 O'lr the moor aiminy the /leather, 
 
 There I met a bonnie lassie. 
 
 Keeping a' her i/uwes thegitlier. 
 
 Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame, 
 In moor or dale, pray tell me whether? 
 She says, I tent the Heecy flocks 
 That feed amang the blooming heather, 
 O'tr the mvor, $«. 
 
 We laid us down upon a bank, 
 Sae warm and sunny was the weather, 
 She left her Hoiks at large to rove 
 Atnang the buuuie blooming heather. 
 
 O'er the ntoor, S^ 
 
 While thus we lay she sang a sang. 
 Till echo rang a mile and firther. 
 And av the biinlen o' the sing 
 Was — o'er the moor aiiuuu the heather. 
 O'l.r the mour, i"c. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 15] 
 
 F\.i charniM my lieart, nnfl aye •in;') ae, 
 I could na tliiiik on any itb<T : 
 l>y st-a and «kv she shall lie mine ! 
 The bonnitf la^s um.itis:; tlic lioatlicr. 
 
 O'er lite moor, S^e, 
 
 BONNIE DUNDEE. 
 
 wuARE p;at ye tliat hauvcr-mcal liannouk, 
 O silly liliiid hddie. O diiini yt" sl'c ! 
 
 1 got it fiao a soiIjjlt laddie, 
 
 Between Saint Johnstone and honnie Dundee. 
 O gin I saw the laddie that gae ine't ! 
 
 Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee: 
 May heav'n protect my honnie Scotch laddie, 
 
 And sen' liini safe hame to his babie and me ! 
 
 May blessins light on thy sweet, we lljipie ! 
 
 May blessins liglit on thy b'jnnie ee-bree! 
 Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, 
 
 Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! 
 But I'll bis^ a bow'r on yon honnie banks, 
 
 M'hare Tiy riiis wimplan by sae clear ; 
 An' ill deed thee in the tartan fine. 
 
 An' luak thee a man like diy daddie dear ! 
 
 OLD VERSE. 
 
 \e're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
 Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
 
 Yp slip trae me like a knotless thread, 
 
 An' ye'U crack your credit wi' iiiae than nie. 
 
 DONOCIIT-IIEAD. 
 Tune—" Cordon Castle." 
 
 Kfen blaws the wind o'er Dcmocht-Iiead,* 
 
 The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, 
 The Gabeilunzie tirls my sneek, 
 
 Anrl shivering tells his waef'u' tale. 
 " CauJd is the night, O let me in, 
 
 " And dinna let your minstrel la', 
 " And dinna let his windin-sheet 
 
 " Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! 
 
 " Full ninety winters hie I seen, 
 
 " And pip'd wheje goi-cocks whirring flew, 
 ' And niony a day je've d.inc'd, 1 wmn, 
 
 " To lilts which tV.ie my drone 1 blew." 
 My Eppie wak'<l, and soun she cry'd, 
 
 " Get up, Guidman, and let him in ; 
 " For weel ye ken the winter night 
 
 " M'as short when he began nis din." 
 
 \li Eppie's voice. O wow it's sweet 
 E'en iho' she bans and siaulds awee ; 
 
 But when it's tiin'd to sorrow's tale, 
 O haith, it's doub y de.ir to me ! 
 
 • A mountain in the North. 
 
 Coire in, an tl Carl ! I'll stter my fii*, 
 I'll mak it bkez.e a bonnie rt.ime ; 
 
 Yoor blude is thin, ye've tint the gate, 
 Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. 
 
 " Nie 1 ame have I," the minstrel said, 
 '' Sad jiarty strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 
 
 " And, weeping at the eve o' life, 
 
 *' 1 wander thro* a wreath o' Biiaw.* 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. 
 
 This song is one of the many attempts fiat 
 English composers have made to imitate tli? 
 Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these 
 strictuies. beg leave to distini,'iiish by the appel- 
 lation of Anglo-Scottish proikictions. The mu- 
 sic is jiretty good, but the verses we just ubuve 
 contempt. — Buuss. 
 
 BARNETT. 
 
 I LEFT the sweet banks of tlie deep flowing 
 'I' weed, 
 
 And my own little cot by the wild wood, 
 When Fanny was spoiling tluough valley and 
 mead. 
 
 In the bi-autifnl morning of childhood 
 And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore, 
 
 When the billows of twilight were flov.'ing, 
 I thou,i;ht, as 1 mus'd on the days ib.it wereoer. 
 
 How the rose on her cheek would be blowing 
 
 I came to the banks of the deep flowins; Tweed, 
 
 And mine own little cot by the wild \vo<m1. 
 When o'er me ten numiners had gathei'd their 
 speed, 
 
 And Fanny had p.i.ss'd from her chililliood. 
 I found her as fair as my fancy could dream. 
 
 Not a bud of her loveliness blighted. 
 And I wish'd I had ne'er .seen her beauty's noft 
 beam. 
 
 Or that we were for ever united. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 
 
 Thls Song is one of the many effusions of 
 Scots jacobit:sin. — The title, Fl werif ■•/' Edin- 
 biiryh, has no nianuer of connexion with the 
 present verses, so I suspect there has been an 
 older set of words, of which the title is all that 
 remains. 
 
 • This afToiliiig poem was loop; attributed to Rums. 
 He tlius reinaiks on it. " Ihmdclit-Hrad \^\u>\ mine 
 I womIiI giM- ten pounds it wx-re. It ;ip|ii.ariil (ii«i in 
 the Kiliiilniiph Heiakl : ai«l e.iiiie to llic e.litiir of ihal 
 papei with llie ,\t\ve:ist!e iiosi-m.irk mi ii." It iva^ 
 the eomiKisi.ion of William I'i kt niij;, a north o- 
 KiirI.ukI pi'tt, who it not known to have written ant 
 thiiiu mure. 
 
i 
 
 
 By tliij oye, it 19 finpular enough that the 
 
 CHARLIE, .^E'S MY DARLINO 
 
 Scottish Mcisi's v.'fie all J.iccjbites I have piiil 
 
 
 more attfutiun tii evtry (lescii)ition of Scots 
 
 OLD VERSES. 
 
 3ono;s than perha])s any luxly hviiiij has dune, 
 and I do not rt-coilect one single stanza, or even 
 
 Tune—" Charlie is my darling." 
 
 
 the title of the most triflinif Scots air, which 
 
 'TwAS on a Monday morning, 
 
 has the lea^t pjne;,'yrical reference to the fami- 
 
 Richt early in the year. 
 That Charlie cam to our toun, 
 
 lies (if Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are 
 
 hundreds satirizing them. This may be thouj^lit 
 
 The young Chevalier 
 
 no panegyric, on the Scots Poets, but I mean it 
 
 Anil Chnrlie he's mi/ dnrlinff, 
 Ml/ darliuff, mi/ dnrling ; 
 
 as such. For myself, 1 would always take it as 
 
 a comjilinient to have it saiil, that my heart ran 
 
 C/iiirlie he i ■»!.(/ diirUng, 
 
 before my head ; and surely the gallant though 
 
 The young Chtvalier. 
 
 unfortunate ho'ise of Stuart, the king« of our 
 
 
 fathers for so many heroic ages, Ls a theme 
 
 As he was walking uj) the street. 
 
 much more iuteresting than • • • '^ — 
 
 The city for to view, 
 
 Burns. 
 
 there he spied a bonnie lass, 
 
 
 The window looking through. 
 
 My love was once a bonny lad, 
 
 And Charlie, ^e. 
 
 He was the flower of all his kin, 
 
 
 The absence of his bonny face 
 
 Sae licht's he jumped up the stair, 
 
 Has rent my tender heart in twain. 
 
 And tirled at the pin ; 
 
 day nor night find no deligbt. 
 
 Anil wha sae ready as hersell, 
 
 In silent tears I still complain ; 
 
 To let the laddie in ! 
 
 And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, 
 
 And Charlie, |re. 
 
 Tliat lia'e ta'eu from me my dailing swain. 
 
 
 
 He set his Jenny on his knee, 
 
 Des))?.ir and anguish fills my breast. 
 
 All in liis Highland dress ; 
 
 Since I have lost my blooming rose ; 
 
 For brawly weel he. kenned the way 
 
 I sigh and moan while others rest, 
 
 To please a bonnie la^s. 
 
 His aVisence yields me no repose. 
 
 And Charlie, §'c. 
 
 To seek my love I'd range and love. 
 
 
 Thro' every grove and distant plain ; 
 
 It's up yon heathy mountain, 
 
 Thus I'll ne'er cease, but sjiend my days, 
 
 And down yon seros^yy glen, 
 
 To hear tiilings from my darling swain. 
 
 We daurna gang a- milking, 
 
 
 For Charlie and his men. 
 
 There's iiaething strange in Nature's change, 
 
 Atid Charlie, SfC 
 
 Since p miits shew such cruelty ; 
 
 
 They caiis'd my love from me to range. 
 Anil knows not to what destiny. 
 
 
 
 The |)retty kids and tender lambs 
 
 
 M'.V cease to sport upon the plain ; 
 
 THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRS 
 
 But I'll mourn and lament in cleep discontent 
 
 
 I'or the absence of my darliiig swain. 
 
 Up with the souters of Selkirk, 
 
 
 And ilown with the Earl of Home ! 
 
 Kind Neptune, let n'.e thee cntieat, 
 
 An:! up wi' a' the l.'rave lads 
 
 To seni! a fair and pleasant gale ; 
 
 Wha sew the single-soled shoon ! 
 
 Ye dol|jliins sweet, upiui me wait. 
 
 
 Am! convey me on your tail ; 
 
 O ! fyc upon yellow and yellow. 
 
 Heavens l)less niy voyage with success, 
 
 Aiid {ye upon yellow and green ; 
 
 While crossing of tiie raging main, 
 
 And up wi' the true blu" and scarltt. 
 
 And send me safe o'er to that distant shor?. 
 
 A:id up wi' the single-soled shoon • 
 
 T« meet u;y lovely darling sv/aiu. 
 
 
 
 Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 
 
 All joy and mirth at nur return 
 
 Up wi' the liiigle and la-^t ! 
 
 Shall tin n aljiiuml from Tweed to Tay ; 
 
 There's fame wi' the days that's coraiog 
 And glory wi* them that are past. 
 
 The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing. 
 
 To grace and crown our nujitial day. 
 
 
 Thus bless'd wi* charms in my love's arms, 
 
 Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 
 
 Jly heart (.lu-e more I will regain ; 
 
 Lads that arc trusty and leal ; 
 
 Then I'll range no more to a distant shore. 
 
 And up with the men of the Forest, 
 
 But in love will enjoy my darling swain. 
 
 And down wi' the Merse to the deii ' 
 
 
 ! mitres are made for noddles. 
 But leet they a'e made for shoou ; 
 
 
 _J 
 
And fjinp is as sib to Selkirk 
 As liijlit is true to tlie inuon, 
 
 Tlu-re siN a simtor in Si-lkiik, 
 
 Wh;i sin;;s a> lie dr.iws liis thread— 
 
 There's (;.i!l.iiit souttr-. in Solkiik 
 A« Unjj tiieru's water in Tweed. 
 
 CRAIL TOU.N.* 
 " IHinf—" Sir John Malcolm.* 
 
 Anp was yp e'er in Crail toun ? 
 
 Igo anil atfo ; 
 And saw ye there Clerk Disliington ? •}• 
 
 Sing ironi, iguii, ago. 
 
 His wii^ was !ikf a duukit hen, 
 
 Ii;o in, I .t<^ii ; 
 Tiie tail ii"t like a iCi'"^e-peu, 
 
 Sing iroiii, igon, ago. 
 
 And il'nni ye ken Sir John Malcolm? 
 
 J;;o an;i ago ; 
 Gin he's a wi>e mm I inistak him, 
 
 Sin^ ironi, igon, ago. 
 
 And hand ye weel frae Sandie Dim, 
 
 Igo and a:iii ; 
 He's ten times d it'ter nor Sir John, 
 
 Sing iruin, igon, ago. 
 
 To hear them o' their travels talk, 
 
 Igo and ago ; 
 To gae to Loiidoii'i lint a walk, 
 Sing irom, igoii, ago. 
 
 To see the womleis o' the deep, 
 
 Igo and ago. 
 Wad gar a ni in liaith wail and weep. 
 
 Sing iioui, igon, ago. 
 
 To see the leviathan ski|), 
 
 Igo and iiro. 
 And wi' Ills tail ding ower a ship. 
 
 Sing ironi, igcn, ago. 
 
 SONGS. 153 
 
 MY ONLY JO AND DEARIL, O 
 
 GALl,.* 
 
 Tune~" My only jo and deai i« O." 
 
 Thy clieek is o' the rose's hue, 
 
 My only jo and deaiie, O ; 
 Thy neck is o' tiie siller dew. 
 
 Upon the hank sae briery, O. 
 Thy ti'eth are o' the ivory, 
 
 sweet's the twinkle o' thine ce : 
 Nae joy, nae pleasure biiuKs oq me. 
 
 My only jo and dearie, O. 
 
 When we were bairnies o!i yon brae. 
 And youth was blinkiii' bom.ie, O, 
 
 Aft we wad d.iflf the lee laiig day. 
 Our joys in' sweet and iii.iriie, O. 
 
 Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee, 
 
 .And ronnd about the tlmrny tree ; 
 
 Or pu' the wild tlow'rs a' for thee. 
 My only jo and dearie, O. 
 
 1 hae a wish I canna tine, 
 'Mang a' the cares that urieve me, O J 
 
 A wish that thou wert ever mine. 
 And never niair to K-ive nii-, O ; 
 
 Then I wail daut thee nulit and day, 
 
 Nae ither warldly care 1 li hae. 
 
 Till life's warm stream forgat to play. 
 My only jo and dearie, O. 
 
 • There is a somewhat dilTcrenf version of this 
 •trance v.ii;. ii, lUnl's folleelioii, ITTfc. The prticnt, 
 whieii I ih Ilk the Ijpst, is co|iiea f:om the i><otti!,h 
 Minstrel. 
 
 t riie pcrsiin kiiowti io Seottish soni; and tradition 
 by (he epithet ClirK Di-hiiiBt.in, was a notary who re. 
 S'-k'd alK'Ut ihc innUlV ol tile last cei.turyin Crad, 
 «d acted a< tlie t.iwji- leik ,>f that aneietit hiirnh I 
 have been iiu'onmd :h.it he was a persun ol fircal locil 
 seletrity in Ins time, as m unconnirouiujny liuiiiuur- 
 
 FAIRLY SHOT O' HER, 
 Tvne—" Fairly shot o' her."* 
 
 O (jin I uere fairly shnt n' her ! 
 
 Fairly, fairly, fiirly ihut ,,' iier I 
 
 O uin I were fairly s/n'l o' Iut ! 
 
 If she were dead, I uwi <lunce on the top o' A«r 
 
 Till we were niarried, I conldna see licht tii 
 
 her ; 
 For a month after, a' thing aye gaed rirht wf 
 
 her : 
 15ut these ten veais I hae prayed for a wr-.sc; 
 
 to her — 
 O gin I wire fairly shot o' lur ! 
 
 O (/ill J wtrefiiiily shut u' her I §-c. 
 
 Nunc o' her relations or friends could stay wi' 
 
 her : 
 The nrebours and bairns are fiin to flee frae her: 
 .^nd 1 my ainsell am forced to gie way till her : 
 O gin I were fairly shut ■>' lifr ! 
 
 O gin I were fairly Ji.it «' her J ^c 
 
 She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckie prid« 
 
 in her ; 
 There's no a guuewife in the lulll country-side. 
 
 like her . 
 
 * Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in old furnitur* 
 ill St. Mary's Wyiid, Kdinl)iirj;h w;is broujjht up tM 
 the business of a printer, and ihed .ii an early a^B 
 about the be);inniiig »1 the pce^iii '«uULtv. 
 
 N2 
 
154 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Wi' dress and xvi' diink thedcll wadoa bide wi' 
 
 her : 
 O gin I were fairly shut o* her ! 
 
 O gin I ic ere fairly shot o' her ! §-c. 
 
 If tlte time were but come that to the kirk-gate 
 
 wi' lier, 
 And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her, 
 I'd then be us biythe as first wlien I met wi 
 
 her : 
 O gin I Were f.iirly shot o' her ! 
 
 O gin I were fairly shut o' her I Sfc. 
 
 FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D 
 ME THIS. 
 
 False luve ! and hae ye play'd me this, 
 
 In summer, 'mid tlie flowers? 
 I shall repay ye back asjain 
 
 In winter, 'mid the showers. 
 
 But ap;aiu, dear luve, and again, dear luve, 
 
 Will ye not turn again ? 
 As ye look to other women 
 
 Shall I to other mea ?• 
 
 FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD WIFE. 
 
 And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 
 
 Sing bimi. bee, berry, bum ; 
 Fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 
 
 Sini^ l)um, bum, bum. 
 Fare ye weel, my auld wife. 
 The steeier up o* >turt aiul strife. 
 The maul 's abune tlie meal the nicht, 
 Wi' some, some. some. 
 
 And fare ye weel. my pdce-stafT; 
 
 Sintr b'jni, bee, berry, bum : 
 Fare ye weel, my pike-staff; 
 
 Sine bum, bum, bum. 
 Fare ye v/eel, my pike-staff, 
 W-'" vnu n;u? mair ii y wife I'll baff; 
 The maut's al)uue the meal the bicht, 
 
 ^\ i' some, some, some. 
 
 r.ET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. 
 
 It fell about the Marfinm as time. 
 And a gay time it wa« than. 
 
 * From Heril's Oollcotinn. 177f;.— \ s!i^»lilly diffcr. 
 *nt version is pat by Sir Water Scott into the motah 
 of Davie Gellailcy, m tlie lelebraitil novel of Waver- 
 U-V- 
 
 " False love, and hnst thou play'd tne thU, 
 
 In su. inner, ainonf; ihe f1i)wcrs/ 
 I wjll repay tliei- b.icK a);ain 
 
 In "inter, among ilie sliowcra. 
 
 "Unless .iRain, auain, niy love. 
 Unless yiMi tnrii aL;:tiii, 
 
 A> vnn with I'llier maidens rove, 
 I'll smile on oilier men " 
 
 When our gudewife had puddins to raak, 
 And she boil'd them in the pan. 
 And the barrin o' our itonr well, weL, well 
 And the barrin' o' our door weil. 
 
 The wind blew cauld frae south to north, 
 
 It blew into the floor ; 
 Says our gudeman to our gudewife, 
 
 Get up and bar the doiir. 
 And the barrin', Sfc. 
 
 My hand is in my hussyfe skep, 
 
 Gudeman, as ye may see ; 
 An it shouldna be barr'd this huncer veai, 
 
 It's no be barr'd for me. 
 And the burrin, Sfc. 
 
 They made a paction 'tween them twa. 
 
 They made it firm and sure. 
 The first that spak the foremost word 
 
 Should rise and bar the door. 
 And the barrin', §-e. 
 
 Then by there came twa gentlemen, 
 
 At twelve o'clock at night; 
 And they c(mld neither see house nor ta'j 
 
 Nor coal nor candle-licht. 
 And the barrin', §-c. 
 
 Now whether is this a rich man's house, 
 
 Or whether is this a puir ? 
 Cut never a word wad atie o* them speak, 
 
 For the barrin' o' the door. 
 And the ban in', t^c. 
 
 .\nd fiist tiicy ate the white puddins, 
 
 And syne they ate the black ; 
 .\nd muckle thocht our gudewife to herseil, 
 
 But never a word she spak. 
 And the barrin', §-c. 
 
 Then said the tane unto the tothcr, 
 
 Hae, man, take ye my knife. 
 Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard. 
 
 And I'll kij^s the gudewife. 
 And the barrin', tj-c. 
 
 But there's nae water in the house, 
 
 And what shall we do than ? 
 What ails ye at the puddin' broo, 
 
 That boils into the pan ? 
 And the barrin', Sfc. 
 
 O, up then startit oui gudeman, 
 
 .■*.nd an angry man was he : 
 Wad ye kiss my wife before my face. 
 
 And scaud me wi' puddin' biee? 
 And the barrin', ^-c. 
 
 Then up and startit our gudewife, 
 
 Gi'eri three sKijis on the floor: 
 Gudeman, ye've spoken the fo.einost word. 
 
 Get U|) and bai- the d. or.» 
 And the burrin', ^-c. 
 
 ■ Prom Herd's Collection, rTi".— Tradition, as re. 
 ported ni Johnson's Musical Museum, alKims that thi 
 
SONGS. 
 
 155 
 
 LOCAK O' BUCIIAN. 
 
 T^me—" Ldgie o' Buclian." 
 
 0. LiciE o' Bucliin, O, Lo:;ie, iha lainj, 
 They h.ie ta'cn awa Jaiiiic that delved in the 
 
 yard ; 
 Ho |)I lyM on the |)i[)c and the viol sie sma' ; 
 Thi'v hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o* theni a'. 
 He iiiid. Think na lauij, lassie, thouyli I 
 
 gang awa ; 
 He said. Think na king, lassie, though I 
 
 gang awa ; 
 Fur the simmer is coming, cauld winter^s 
 
 an-a. 
 And Til come back and see thee in spite o' 
 them a'. 
 
 0, Saiulie lias owsen, and siller, and kye, 
 A house aiid a haddin, and a' tliinijs forhye, 
 r<ut I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet in's liaiid, 
 Befu'.e I'd hae Sandy wi' Louses and Kind. 
 He said, ffc. 
 
 My daddie looks sulky, my niinnie looks sour. 
 They frown upon Jamie. I)eeau.-<e he is poor ; 
 Hut d iddie and minnic although that they lie, 
 There's nine o' them a' like my Jamie to me. 
 He said, Sfc. 
 
 I sit on my crcc|-.ie, and spin at my wheel. 
 And think on the laddie that lo'cd ine sae weel ; 
 He had liut ae sixpence — he hrak it in twa, 
 And he gi'ed me ti'.e haiit'o't when he gaed awa. 
 Then, haste ye hack, Jamie, and bide na awa. 
 Then haste ye bach. Jamie, and bide na awa ; 
 Simmer is cumin' , cauld winter's awa. 
 And ye'll come and see me in spite u them 
 a'.' 
 
 " Riidcinan" of this sonij was a person of the name of 
 John Bl'iiit, who live;! of yore in Crawford-Muir. 
 Thtre are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of 
 them is in most of the Collcetions of Scottish Times; 
 tlic other, tliongh to a|ipearaiice equally ancient, seems 
 to have been preserved b> traili ion alone, as we have 
 lever seen it m print. A (liiril time, to which we hav e 
 neard ihis song sung, by only one person, an American 
 s'.i (i( nt we suspect to h ive been mported from his 
 ov n :<> Mitry. 
 
 • " I ogie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Bnchan 
 of r_elerheail, in liis (.leanings of .Scarce OM Uallads 
 <IS-'7), to have been the C"m|iosition of Mr. George 
 Haliiet, ami to have been wntleii by liim while school- 
 m<s:er of It.iihcn, in Abenlecnshin-, about the year 
 I73S. •' I'he poetry of tins indixidual," says Mi. 
 Dyhan, " wis chiefly J.icobiti.al, and long remained 
 familiar amongst the pea.-antry in iJiat quarter of the 
 country: One uf the best kuo.m of these, at the pru- 
 Bcnt, is' Wherry, Whigs, ana, man I' In I74(;, Mr. 
 Halket wrote a dialogue betwixt Ceorge II ami the 
 Devil, which falling into the hands of the Duke of 
 Cambeilaiid while on Ins march to Cnrodcn, he of- 
 fered one hundred pounds reward for the person or 
 Oie head o/ its author. Mr. llaiket dicil in 7-i6. 
 
 " The bogie licre mentioned, is m mie of the ad- 
 kjining parishes (Cramond) where .Mr. Halket then 
 rcsi.led; and the hero of the puijc was a James llo- 
 Kitson, gaidener at Uie plai-e of Logie." 
 
 HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEiM TIIAT'3 
 AWA. 
 
 Tune—" Here's a hcaltli to them thafs awa." 
 
 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 were here short 
 syne. 
 And canna be here the day. 
 
 It s glide to be merry and wise ; 
 
 It'.s gude to be hcmest and true ; 
 It's gude to he aff wi' the auld lovs, 
 
 Before ye be on wi' the new. 
 
 IIEY, CA' THROUGH. 
 
 Tune—" Hey, ca' through." 
 
 Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
 
 And the larls o' Buckhaven, 
 And the kinimers o' Largo, 
 And the las.ies o' Leven. 
 
 Hey, ca' through, en' through, 
 
 I''ur we hae muckle ado : 
 Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 
 Pot ice hae muchle ado. 
 
 We hae tales to tell, 
 
 And we hae sangs to sing ; 
 We hae pennies so spend, 
 
 And we hae pints to bring, 
 
 Hiy, ca' through, ifc. 
 
 We'll live a' our days ; 
 
 And them that comes bellin', 
 Let them do the like. 
 
 And spend the gear they win. 
 
 Hey, ca' through, Sfc, 
 
 I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT .\NS 
 
 CLUNIE. 
 
 Tune — " My lodghig is on the coid ground." 
 
 I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ; 
 
 He lo'cd ne'er a lassie but me. 
 He's willing to m.ik me his ai.i ; 
 
 And his ain I am willing to be. 
 He has colt me a rokeiay o' blue, 
 
 And a pair o' mittens »' green ; 
 The price was a kiss o* my mou' ; 
 
 And I paid him the debt yestri-en. 
 
 Let ithers brag weel o* their gear, 
 
 Their land, and their lorilly degree, 
 I cireiia for (night but my dear, 
 
 I'or he's iika thing lordly to me : 
 His words ate sae sugar'd, sae sweet ' 
 
 His sen.-e diives ilk tear far awa! 
 ' liMteti — poor fool ! .ind 1 greet ; 
 
 Vet how -iweet are the tears as thev f«'' 
 
156 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 AYE WAUICING, O. 
 
 THE ORIGINAL SONG, FROM RECITATION. 
 
 I'm wet, wet, 
 
 O I'm WL't and weary ! 
 Yet fain wad I ri'*e and rin. 
 
 If I tliought I w juld meet my deary. 
 Ay iviiuk'uig, O ! 
 
 Wanking aye, and weary, 
 Sltep I can f/et nane 
 
 For thinking o' my dtjry. 
 
 Simmer's a pleasant time. 
 
 Flowers of every cc»our. 
 The water rins ower Iz^e heiiKh— 
 
 And I lang for my true lover 
 Ay wauking, Sfc 
 
 When I sleep T dream. 
 
 When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
 Sleep I can get nane 
 
 For thinking o' my deary. 
 
 Ay wauking, §t. 
 
 Lanely night comes on ; 
 A' the lave are sleeping ; 
 
 1 think on my love. 
 
 And blear my een wi' greeting. 
 Ay wauking, §"c. 
 
 Feather-beds are soft, 
 
 Painte-l rooms are bonnie ; 
 But a kisg o my dear love 
 
 U better kr than ony. 
 
 Ay wauking, Sfc. 
 
 I To the streamlet winding clear, 
 
 j To the fragrant-scented brier, 
 
 E'ea to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O, 
 
 For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie, O 
 On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O • 
 Ere the golden orb of day. 
 Wakes the warlders from the spray. 
 From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O. 
 
 And when on a distant shore, bonrie lassie, O, 
 Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O, 
 
 Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear 
 
 Of thy lover on his bier. 
 To his memory shed a tear, b .nn!e lassie ? O.* 
 
 KELVIN GROVE. 
 
 JOHN LVl.E. 
 
 Turji—" Kelvin Grove." 
 
 Let u3 hr.ste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O ; 
 Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ; 
 
 Where the rose in all its pride 
 
 Decks the hollow dingle's side. 
 Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. 
 
 We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, 
 To the Cf ve l>"side the rill, bonnie lassie, O ; 
 
 Where the glens rel)ound the call 
 
 Of the lofty w iterfall, 
 Through the iiiuuntain's rocky hall, bonnie 
 lassie, O. 
 
 Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O, 
 Wlieie s.) oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O, 
 
 With tl'.e songsters in the grtvc, 
 
 We have told our tale of love. 
 And have sport ivegarla. ids wove, boa lie lassie, O. 
 
 All I I soon miivt hid ad <'ii, hotiiiie lassie, O, 
 lu tins t.iiiy sii'iii- ai.d \nii, Iminiie lassie, (), 
 
 BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Tvmi — " Blue Bonnets over the Border." 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
 
 Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward is 
 order ? 
 March, march, Eskdale and Liddesd'.Ie ; 
 
 All the l)lue bonnets are over the Border. 
 Many a banner spread flutters above your head; 
 
 Many a crest that is famous in story ; 
 Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mouit- 
 tain glen ; 
 Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish 
 glory. 
 
 Come from the hills where your hirsels are grai- 
 
 Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
 
 Come with the l>jickler, the lance, and the how 
 Trumpets are sounding, war steeds are hounding \ 
 
 Stand to your aims, and march in good order. 
 England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray^ 
 
 When the blue bonnets came over the Border, 
 
 COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 
 7^n^~" Gin a Body meet a Bodv. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Coniin' through the rye, 
 Gin a body kiss a body. 
 
 Need a body cry ? 
 Ev'ry las-ie has her lau'Ue, 
 
 Nane, they say, hae I ! 
 Yet a' the lads they smile at me, 
 
 Whin comiii' through the rye. 
 Aniang the train there is a 8»'aiu 
 
 I dearly lo'e uiysell ; 
 But whaur his h.ime, or what his name, 
 I dinna care to tell. 
 
 * Kelvin firovp is n bpaiitifiilly wooiled dell, abnu* 
 two iiiiic fr nil (il.itjjow, roriiiiii);a soit oHovcr^ ua 
 fur the l.iiiii and lai>e> ^X that citv. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 ir)7 
 
 G.n a body nioet a body, 
 
 Oomiii' tiae the town, 
 Gin a. body greet a body, 
 
 Need a body frown ? 
 Kv'ry lassie has her laddie, 
 
 Naiie, they say, hae I ! 
 Vet a' tlie lads they smile at nic, 
 
 When comin' through the rye. 
 Amanji; the train there is a swain 
 
 1 dearly lo'e mysell ; 
 Bui whaur his hame, or wliat his name, 
 I dinna care to tell. 
 
 DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. 
 
 Tune—" The Smith's a gallant fireman." 
 
 DiNXA think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to 
 
 leave thee ; 
 Dinna iliink, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 
 
 thcc ; 
 Dinna thiniv, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 
 
 thee ; 
 I'll tak a stir.k into my hand, and come again 
 
 and see thee. 
 
 Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 
 
 night and eerie ; 
 Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 
 
 night and eerie; 
 Far's the gale ye hae to gang; dark's the 
 
 night and eerie ; 
 stay this night wi' your love, and dinna 
 
 gang and leave me. 
 
 It'.o but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave 
 
 my dearie ; 
 But a niglit and hauf a day that I'll leave my 
 
 dearie ; 
 Bnt a nigla and hauf a day that I'll leave my 
 
 dearie ; 
 Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch I'll 
 
 come again and see thee. 
 
 Dmna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang ajid 
 leave nie ; 
 
 Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and 
 leave me ; 
 
 When a' the lave are sound asleep, I'm dull 
 and eerie ; 
 
 And a' the lee-lang nig-ht I 'm sad, wi' think- 
 ing on jny dearie. 
 
 diima think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to 
 
 leave thee ; 
 D.nna tliink, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 
 
 thee ; 
 Dmna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 
 
 thee ; 
 When e'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come 
 
 again and see thee. 
 
 Waves dre ri.sing o'er the sea; winds blaw 
 
 loud and fear me ; 
 Wivc^are risiii",^ o'er the sea ; winds blaw 
 
 load and fear me. 
 
 While tlic winds and waves do roar, 1 ani 
 
 wae and dreary ; 
 And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang 
 
 and leave me. 
 
 never mair, bonnie lassie; will I gang and 
 
 leave thee ; 
 Never mair, bonnie lassie .will I jTRn-^ and 
 
 leave thee ; 
 Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and 
 
 leave thee; 
 E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay 
 
 at hame and cheer tbce. 
 
 Frae his hand he coost his slide ; I winna 
 
 gang and leave thee ; 
 Tlu-ew his plaid into the neuk ; never can I 
 
 grieve thee ; 
 Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried my 
 
 lass, be chcerie ; 
 I'll kiss the tear frae afT thy check, and 
 
 never leave my dearie. 
 
 BONME MARY HAY. 
 
 CRAWFORD 
 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, I will li.e thee yet ; 
 For thine eye is the slae, and thy hair is the jet , 
 The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy 
 
 cheek ; 
 O, bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet ! 
 
 O, bonnie Mary Hay, will ye gang wi' me, 
 When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn 
 
 tree, 
 To the hawthorn tree, and the bonnie bciTV 
 
 den ? ' 
 
 And I'll tell thee, Mary Hay, how I loe thoa 
 
 then. 
 
 O, bonnie Mary Hay, it is haliday to me. 
 When thou art couthie, kind, and free ; 
 There's nae clouds in the lift, nor stcnms in 
 
 the sky, 
 Bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh. 
 
 O, bonnie Mary Hay, thou mauna say me nay. 
 But come to the bower, by the hawthorn 1^-ae ; 
 Butcometothe bower, and I'll tell ye a' what's 
 
 true, 
 How, wnnie Mary Hay, I can loe nanc but 
 
 _fou. 
 
 CARLE, AN THE KING COME. 
 
 Tune — " Carle, an the King come." 
 
 Carle, an the kin": come, 
 Cai-le, an il)e king come, 
 Thou shall dau'-e and I will sing, 
 Caile. an li e ki"jr com© 
 
158 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 An somebody were come again, 
 llicn sonieliody maun cross the main ; 
 And every man shall hae his ain, 
 Carle, an the king come. 
 
 I trow we swappit for tlie worse ; 
 We ga'e the ))oot and better horse ; 
 And that we'll tell them at the corse, 
 Carle, an the king come. 
 
 When yellow corn grows on the rigs, 
 And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs, 
 O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs, 
 Carle, an the king come. 
 
 Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine, 
 As we hae done — a dog's propine — 
 But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine, 
 Carle, an the king come. 
 
 Cogie, an the king come, 
 Cogie, an the king come, 
 I'se be fou and thou'se be toom 
 Cogie, an the king come. • 
 
 Come 
 Come 
 
 Come 
 There 
 
 Come 
 I'll hi 
 Come 
 There 
 
 COME UXDER MY PLAIDIE. 
 
 MACNIEL. 
 
 Tune—'' Johnny M'Gill." 
 
 under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to f.i' ; 
 in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the 
 
 snaw : 
 under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
 's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 
 
 twa. 
 under my plaidie, and sit down beside me; 
 p ye frae every cauld bhist that can blaw: 
 under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
 s room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 
 
 twa. 
 
 Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae '\ra ; 
 ' fear na t'le cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw ! 
 Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye: 
 Ye micht be my giitcher ! auld Dnnald, gae 'wa. 
 I'rn gaun to meet Johnnie — he'* you-.ig and he's 
 
 boiinie ; 
 lie's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw ! 
 Niine dancjs sae lichtly, s.ie graeefu', or tichtly. 
 His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like 
 
 the snaw I 
 
 Dear IMarinn, let that flee stick to the wa' ; 
 Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ; 
 The haill o' his pack he has now on his back ; 
 He's thretty, and I am but threr score and twa. 
 
 • ThisinanoUl favourite cav.-ilior song : thcchoruB, 
 it lea-i, lb as 1)1(1 a--' the time of tlie Cominoiiwealtti, 
 whin the retiir;! Ill Kiiii; Charles II. was a mailer of 
 tail)' iiiayer to the LuyaliaU. 
 
 Be frank now and kindly — I'll busk ye aye 
 
 finely ; 
 To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw ; 
 A bien house to bine in, a chaise for to ride in, 
 And flunkies to 'tend ye as af'c as ye ca'. 
 
 My father aye tauld me, my mother and a', 
 Ye'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye 
 
 braw ; 
 It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he's 
 
 bonnie ; 
 But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava ! 
 I hae little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ; 
 I'm now mair than twenty ; my time is but 
 
 sma' ! 
 Sae gie my your plaidie ; I'll c;*ep in beside ye ; 
 1 thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and 
 
 twa ! 
 
 She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', 
 Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a'. 
 The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it 
 
 dunted. 
 And struck 'giinst his side, as if burstin' in 
 
 twa. 
 He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht it was 
 
 diearie, 
 And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep 
 
 snaw : 
 The howlet was screamin*, while Johnnie cried, 
 
 Women 
 Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye 
 
 braw. 
 
 O, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae 
 
 braw, 
 They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and 
 
 twa ; 
 The hail o' their marriage is gowd and a car- 
 riage: 
 Plain love is the cauldest blast now th.it can 
 
 blaw. 
 Auld dotards, be wary ! tak tent when ye 
 
 marry ; 
 Young wives, wi* their coaches, they'll whip 
 
 and they'll ca', 
 Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youtk- 
 
 fu' and bonnie, 
 .Vnd they'll gie ye burns on ilk hafiet to claw. 
 
 DUSTY MILLER. 
 Turn—'' The dusty Miller." 
 
 IIkv, the dusty miller. 
 
 And his dusty coat ! 
 He will win a shilling. 
 
 Ere he spend a groat. 
 Dusty was the coat. 
 
 Dusty was the colour; 
 Dusty was the kiss. 
 
 That 1 gat frae the millei ( 
 
SONGS. 
 
 159 
 
 Hey, tlie dii'.fy miller, 
 
 Ami hii (lit-ity sack J 
 Lt't'zo me on the calling 
 
 Fills t'le (lusty peck ; 
 Fiil-i tlic (lusty pei-k, 
 
 Biiuiis the (lusty sillef 
 I w.id gie my coatie 
 
 For the dusty miller. 
 
 THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. 
 
 FROM RECITATION. 
 
 TVjnf — " Tlie weary pund o' tow."_ 
 
 1 BOUGHT my wife a stane o* lint 
 
 As good as ere did grow, 
 And a' that she could make o' that 
 
 Was ae weary ])uik1 o' tow. 
 The weary pund, the weary pund, 
 
 Tlw weary pund o' tow, 
 I thought my wife would end her life 
 
 Before she span her tow. 
 
 I lookit to my yarn-nag. 
 
 And it grew never mair ; 
 I lookit to my beef-stand— 
 
 i\Iy heart grew wonder sair ; 
 I lookit to my meal-boat, 
 
 And O, but it was howe ! 
 I think my wife will end her life 
 
 Afore she spin her tow. 
 
 But if your wife and my wife 
 
 Were in a boat thcgither, 
 And yon other man's wife 
 
 Were in to steer the ruthcr ; 
 And if the boat utre bottomless, 
 
 And seven mile to row, 
 I think they'd ne'er come hame again, 
 
 To spin the pund o' tow 1 
 
 KEEP THE COUNTRY, BONNIE 
 LASSIE. 
 
 T^ne—" Keep the Country, bonuie Lassie 
 
 Keep the country, bonnie lassie. 
 
 Keep the country, keep the country ; 
 
 Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 
 Lads will a' gie gowd fur ye : 
 
 Gowd for ye, bonnie lassie, 
 
 Gowd for ye, gowd for ye : 
 Keep the country, bonuie lassie ; 
 
 Lads will a' gie gowd for ye. 
 
 THE LANDART LAIRD. 
 
 TirETxE lives a landart* laird in Fife, 
 And he has married a dandily wife : 
 She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew. 
 But sit wi' her cummers, and fill hersell fu' 
 
 She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card ; 
 But she wad sit a:;d crack wi' the laird. 
 Sae he is doun to the sheep-fauld, 
 And cleekit a wetherf by the spauld. ^ 
 
 He's whirled afl the gnde wether's skin, 
 And wrapped the dandily lady therein. 
 • I downa pay you. for your gentle kin ; 
 But weel may I skelp my wether's skin.§ 
 
 " Landuard — that is, living in a part of the country 
 It some (lisiaiice from any town. 
 
 ♦ VVcddor. t Shoulder. 
 
 S I'hisiuriiius and most .iTnusini; old dittv is from 
 <tz. Jainieson's " Pcnular Ballads and .Songs;" 1806. 
 
 HAP AND ROW THE FEETIE O'T 
 
 WILI.IA5I CREECH.* 
 
 Tiint—" Hap and Rowe the Teetfe ot." 
 
 Well /up and row, ivell hap and row. 
 
 We'll hap and rmu the feetie o't. 
 It is a tree bit weary thing : 
 I downa hide the greetie o't. 
 
 And we pat on the wee bit pan, 
 
 To boil the lick o' meatie o't ; 
 A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan, 
 
 And burnt a' the feetie o't. 
 M'e'll hap and row, Sec. 
 
 Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat, 
 And aye it kicked the feetie o't, 
 
 Till, puir We elf," it tired itself; 
 And then began the sleepie o't. 
 We'll hap and row, §-c. 
 
 The skirling brat nae parritch gat. 
 When it gaed to the sleepie o't ; 
 
 It s waesome true, insteid o' t's mou% 
 
 They're round about the feetie o't. 
 
 We'll hap and row, S^c. 
 
 JU.MPIN' JOHN 
 Tune — " Jumpin' John 
 
 Her dad'lie forbade, her minnie forbade ; 
 
 Forbidden she \vadna be. 
 She wadna trnw't, the browst she brewed, 
 Wad taste sae bitterlie. 
 
 The liuip tail tilt!/ ca' .Tinnpin John 
 
 liepiiited the bonnie bissie ; 
 The lanri lad the)/ ca' Jun.pin John 
 lieguiled the bonuie Uissie. 
 
 • A pcntleman loner at the head of the bookselling 
 trade In F.diiihurfih, and who hnd Icon Lord Provost 
 of (lie city. A volume of his mi.^ecll.inf ous prose cs- 
 snys h.is been published, under thelitleof " Kdmburfjh 
 Fuj-itive Pieces." He was not only remarkable tof 
 his literary accomplishments, but also for his conver- 
 sational powers, whieh were such as to open to hirr 
 tJie sexiiety of the highest literal y men of his day. 
 
'60 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 A cow ana a cauf, a ynwe and a hauf. 
 And thretty eiide >hilling;s and tliree ; 
 
 A vei-y gude mcliei-, a cortarmau's doc.hter. 
 The lass wi' tlie lionnie black ee. 
 The laity lad, SfC. 
 
 O DEAR ! IMINNIE, WHAT SHALL I DO ? 
 Time—" O dear ! mother, what shall I do ?" 
 
 " Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do? 
 Oh dear ! mitinie, what shall I do ? 
 Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 
 " Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 
 
 '' If I be black, I canna be lo'ed ; 
 
 If I be fair, I caiina he gude ; 
 
 If I be lordly, the lads will look by ine ; 
 
 Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 
 
 " Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do? 
 Oil dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 
 Oh dear ' minnie, what shall I do?" 
 ' Ddl't thing, dolled tiling, do hs I do." 
 
 KILLIECRANKIE, O. 
 
 Tune — " The braes o' Killiccrankie." 
 
 Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 
 
 Where hae ye !)een sae brankie, O ? 
 Wiiere hae ye been s.ie braw, lad ? 
 Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 
 
 uin ye had been where I hae been. 
 Ye wadna been sae cantie, O ; 
 An ye had sien what I hae seen 
 On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
 
 I've faught at land, I've faiight at sea; 
 
 At liame I faiiglit niv auntie, O ; 
 But 1 met the detvil and Dundee, 
 
 On the braes o' Kdlieurankie, O ! 
 An ye hud been, ^-c. 
 
 The bauW Pitcur fell in a far. 
 And Claverse gat a elankie, O; 
 
 Or I hail fed an Atliole gled. 
 
 On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
 An yp, had been, 3fc. 
 
 DONALD COUPER. 
 Tun*—" DonaJ J Couper and his man." 
 
 Het Donald, howe Donald, 
 
 Hey Donald Couuer ! 
 W'h gane awa to seek a wife, 
 
 And he's come hame w'thoilt her. 
 
 O Donald Couper and hi i tea* 
 Held to a Highland fair, ir.aa • 
 
 And a' to seek a bonnie la;^ — 
 But fient a ane was theie, man. 
 
 At length he got a carline gray, 
 
 And she's come hirplin haoie, man ; 
 
 And "he's fawn owre the butfet stool, 
 And brak her rumple-bane, man. 
 
 LITTLE WAT YE WHA'S COMING 
 
 T^ne — " Little wat ye wha's conainjj," 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Lirtl. wat ye wha's coming, 
 Litrl • ,vjt ye wha's coming ; 
 Jock iiid Tarn and a' 's coming ! 
 
 Dunciti's coming, Donald's coming, 
 Colin'- ^'Dining, Ronald's coming, 
 Douj^.ii'- coming, Lauchlan's coming^, 
 Alister and a' 's coming ! 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
 Jock and Tani and a' 's coming ! 
 
 Borland and his men's coming. 
 The Camerons and Maclean's coming. 
 The Gorrlons and Macgregor's coming, 
 A' the Duniewastles coming ! 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's comjng. 
 Little wat ye wha's coming; 
 MacGilvray o' Drumgloss is coming ! 
 
 Winton's coming, Nithsdale's coining, 
 Carnwath's coming, Keninuie's coming, 
 Derweiitwater and Foster's coming, 
 Withrington and Nairn's coming ■ 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming. 
 Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
 Blythe Cowhill and a' 's coming ! 
 
 The Laird o' Macintosh is coming," 
 Macrabie and INIacdoiiald's coming. 
 The Mackenzie's and Macphersons comiag^ 
 A' the wild JlacCraws cominsr ' 
 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming, 
 Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
 Donald Gun and a' 's coniii.g ' 
 
 They g'oom, they glowr, they look sac bi^ 
 At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig; 
 They'll fright the fuds of the Pockpuds ; 
 For luony a buttock hare's comicg. 
 
161 
 
 Little wat ye wha » coining, 
 Little wat ye wha J cimiing. 
 Little w;it ye wlia's i-oining ; 
 Mony a buttock bare's coming ! 
 
 OCH HEY, JOHNNIE LAD 
 
 TANNAHILL. 
 
 OcH hey, Jonnnie lad, 
 
 Ye'ie no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been ; 
 Ocli hey, Joiinnie lad. 
 
 Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen. 
 1 waited lang beside the wood, 
 
 Sae wae and weary a' my lane : 
 Oci) iiey, Johnnie lad, 
 
 It was a waefu' niciit yestreen ! 
 
 I lookit by the whinny knowe, 
 
 I lookit by the firs sae green ; 
 I lookit ower the spiinkie howe, 
 
 And aye I thoclit ye wad hue been. 
 The ne'er a sujjper crossM my craig, 
 
 The ne'er a sleep has closed my een 
 Och hey, Johnnie lad, 
 
 Ye're no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been 
 
 Gin ye were waitin' by the wood, 
 
 It's I was waitin* liy the thorn ; 
 I thocht it was the place we set. 
 
 And waited niaist till dawnin* morn. 
 But be nae beat, my bimnie lass, 
 
 Let my waitin' stand for thine ; 
 We'll awa to Craigton shaw, 
 
 And seek the joys we tint yestreen. 
 
 OUR GUDEMAN CA^Sr HAIME AT E'EN. 
 
 Our gudeman cam hame at e'en. 
 
 And hame cam he ; 
 And there he saw a saddle-horse, 
 
 Where nae horse should be. 
 Oh, how cam this horse here? 
 
 How can this be ? 
 How cam this horse here ? 
 
 Without the leave o* me? 
 A horse ! quo' she ; 
 Aye, a horse, «|U'.)' he. 
 Ye auld blind dotard carle, 
 
 And blinder n\at ye be ! 
 It 8 but a bonnie milk-cow, 
 
 My mither sent to me. 
 A milk-cow ! quo' he ; 
 Aye, a milk- cow, quo' she. 
 Far hae I riilden, 
 
 And muL'kle hae I seen ; 
 But a saddle on a mi Ik-cow 
 
 Sanr 1 never naue. 
 
 Our gudeman cam hame at e en, 
 
 And hame ram he ; 
 He spifil a pair o' jark-boots. 
 
 Where nae boots should Ije. 
 ^V^lat■s this now, gudcwife ? 
 
 What's this I see ? 
 How ram thue boots here, 
 
 Without the leave o' me ? 
 I'.iiots ! quo' she ; 
 Aye, boots, quo' he. 
 Ye aulil blinil dot.ird carle. 
 
 And blinder mat ye be . 
 It's but a pair o* water-stoups, 
 
 The cooper sent to me. 
 Watcr-stoups ! quo' he ; 
 Aye, water -stoujjs, quo' she. 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 Au<l inuckle hae I seen ; 
 But siller-spurs on water-stoups 
 
 Saw I never nane. 
 
 Our gudeman cam hame at e'ecn, 
 
 And hame cam he ; 
 And there he saw a siller sword. 
 
 Where nae sword should be. 
 What's this now, gudewife ? 
 
 What's this I see ? 
 O how cam tkis sword here. 
 
 Without the leave o* me ? 
 A sword . que sne 
 Aye, a sword, quo' he 
 Ye auld blind dotard --arle. 
 
 And blinder mat ye be ! 
 It's but a parridge-sj)urtle, 
 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 
 A parridge-spurtle I quo* he ; 
 Aye, a parridge-spurtle, quo* sL). 
 Wcel, tar hae I ridden, 
 
 And niuckle hae I seen ; 
 But siller-handed parridge-spurtlet 
 
 Saw 1 never nane. 
 
 Our gudeman cam hame at e'cu, 
 
 And hame cam he ; 
 And there he spied a powder d wig, 
 
 Where nae wig shoulil be. 
 What's this now, gudewile ? 
 
 What's this 1 see ? 
 IIow cam this wig here, 
 
 M'ithont the leave o' me ? 
 A wig ! quo' she ; 
 Aye, a wig, quo' he. 
 Ye aulil blind dotard carle, 
 
 And bimder mat ye be ! 
 Tis iiaetliing but a clockcn-he.a 
 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 A clocken-hen ! quo' he ; 
 Ave, a docken-ben, quo* she- 
 Far hae I ridden. 
 
 And niuikle hae I seen, 
 But pnuther on a clocken-hen 
 
 Saw 1 never nane. 
 
 Our gudeman cam hame at e'en. 
 And hame cam he ; 
 
1G2 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 And thoie he saw a inickle coat. 
 
 Where nae coat should be. 
 How cam this coat here? 
 
 liow can this he ? 
 How cam this coat here, 
 Witliout the leave o' me? 
 A ciat ! quo' she ; 
 Aye, a coat, quo' he. 
 Ye auM blind dotard carle, 
 And blinder mat ye be ! 
 It's but a pair o' blankets 
 My minnie sent to me. 
 Blankets ! quo' he ; 
 Aye. blankets, quo' she 
 Far hae I ridden, 
 
 And muckle hae I seen ; 
 But buttons upon blankets 
 Saw 1 never nane ! 
 
 Ben gaed our giidenian, 
 
 An<l ben gaed he ; 
 And there he spied a sturdy man, 
 
 Where nae man should be. 
 How cam this man here? 
 
 How can this be ? 
 How (Mm this man here. 
 
 Without the leave o' me? 
 A man ! quo' she ; 
 Aye, a man, quo' he. 
 Puir blind t)ody, 
 
 And blinder mat you be ! 
 It's but a new milkin' maid, 
 
 My mither sent to me. 
 A maid ! quo' he ; 
 Aye, a maid, quo' she. 
 Far hae 1 ridden, 
 
 A.nd mufkle hae I seen. 
 But lang-bearded maidens 
 
 Saw 1 never naae. 
 
 GO TO BERWICK, JOHNIE. 
 Ttine — " Go to Berwick Johnie." 
 
 Go to Berwick, Juhnie ; 
 
 Bring her frae the Border ; 
 Yon sweet bonnie lassie. 
 
 Let her gae nae fartlier. 
 En;;li^li loons will twine ye 
 
 O' the lovely tre.i?-ure ; 
 But we'll let them ken, 
 
 A sword wi' them we'll measure. 
 
 Go to Berwick, Johnie, 
 
 And regain your lioiiour ; 
 Drive them owcr the Tweed, 
 
 And show our Scottish banner. 
 1 am Uol) the kini;. 
 
 And ye are Jock, my brither ; 
 But, before we lose her. 
 
 We'll a' there thegither.* 
 
 • Till"! popular r.mt i? from Jolin-jon's Miisi»al Mu- 
 Kum, vol. VI., It>u5. Kitson, in his ScuttUh iioutfs- 
 
 IF YE'LL BE MY DAWTIE, \^D SIT 
 IN MY PLAID, 
 
 Tune — " Hie, Bonnie Laisie.** 
 
 Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the burn. 
 And if your sheep wander I'll gie them a turn 
 Sae happy as we'll be on yonder green shade. 
 If ye'll be my dawtie, and «it in my plaid. 
 
 A yowe and twa lammies are a* my haill stock. 
 But I'll sell a lammie out o' my wee flock. 
 To buy thee a head-piece, sae bonnie and braid. 
 If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 
 
 I hae little siller, but ae hauf-year s fee. 
 But if ye will tak' it, I'll gie't a' to thee ; 
 And then we'll be married, and lie in ae bed) 
 If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 
 
 I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE 
 
 RAJISAT. 
 JOHNNT. 
 
 Though, for seven years and mair, honaur 
 should reave me 
 
 To fields where cannons rair, thou needsns 
 grieve thee ; 
 
 For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented ; 
 
 And love shall preserve ay what love has im- 
 printed. 
 
 Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee, 
 
 Gang the wai'ld as it will, dearest, believe me ' 
 
 NELLT. 
 
 Oh, Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover 
 My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a, loose rover ; 
 And bought in the world would vex my heart 
 
 sairer. 
 If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer. 
 Grieve me, grieve me, oh, it wad grieve me, 
 A' the lang night and day, if you deceive me ! 
 
 J OWN NT. 
 
 My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye ; 
 For, while my blood's warm, I'll kindly caress 
 
 Your saft blooming beauties first kmdled love I 
 
 fire. 
 Your virtue and wit m<ik it ay flame the higher 
 Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee. 
 Gang the world as it will, dearest, belie\e me! 
 
 179", ment'ons, that he li.nl licanl it Rravcly asserted 
 at KilMiburgh, that " a Joolisli song, bcgunnng, 
 
 Go, go, Ro, go to Berwick, Johnie I 
 
 Tliou »lialt liave the horse, aiul I shall have the poney 
 
 was made upon one of Wnllaoc's marnuding cxI>e'l^ 
 iKiMs, ami liiiit ilie iicrson thus adilrc.-i-nl was uo othef 
 I than his_fidiit Achates, bir John Gral.ani." 
 
SONGS. 
 
 163 
 
 NKLLT. 
 
 Th'.n, Jolinny ! I frankly this minute allow ye 
 To think ine your niistrws, for love gars me 
 
 trow ye ; 
 And gin ye prove false, to yoursell be it said, 
 
 then, 
 Ye win but s:na' honour to wrang a puir maiden. 
 Reave nie, reave me, oh, it would reave me 
 Of ray rest, night and day, if you deceive me ! 
 
 JOHNNY, 
 
 Bill ico-shop^les hammur red gauds on the studdy. 
 And fair s-iiinnier nuunings nae mair appear 
 
 ruddy ; 
 Bia Britons think ae gate, and when they obey 
 
 thee. 
 But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee. 
 Leave thee, leave thee ! I'll never leave thee ! 
 The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive 
 
 thee ! 
 
 KATIIERINE OGIE. 
 
 As walking forth to view the plain. 
 
 Upon a morning early. 
 While iMay's sweet scent did cheer my brain, 
 
 From flowers which grow so rarely, 
 I chanced to meet a pretty maid ; 
 
 She shined, though it was foggy ; 
 ask'd her name : sweet Sir, she said, 
 
 My name is Katherine Ogie. 
 
 I stood a while, and did admire. 
 
 To see a nymph so stately ; 
 So brisk an air there did appear, 
 
 In a country maid so neatly : 
 Such natural sweetness she display'd. 
 
 Like a lilie in a bosrie : 
 Diana s self was ne'er array'd 
 
 Like this same Katheiiue Ogie. 
 
 Thou flower of females, beauty's queen. 
 
 Who sees tliee, sure must ])iize thee ; 
 Though thou ait drest in robes but mean, 
 
 Yet these cannot disguise thee : 
 Thy handsome air, and graceful look, 
 
 tar excels any clownish rogie ; 
 Thou art a match for lord or duke. 
 
 My charming Katherine Ogie. 
 
 O were I but some shepherd swain ! 
 
 To feed my flock beside thee. 
 At boughting-time to leave the jilain, 
 
 In milking to abiile thee ; 
 I'd think myself a happier man, 
 
 ^^ith Kate, my chil), and dogie, 
 Than he that bugs bis thousands ten, 
 
 Had I but Katherine Ogie. 
 
 OWER BOGIE. 
 
 ALLAN HAMSAT. 
 
 JHtne — " O'er Bogie,* 
 
 I WILL awa' wi' my love, 
 
 I will awa' wi' her. 
 Though a' my kin had sworn and uid 
 
 I'll ower Dogie wi* her. 
 If I can get but her consent, 
 
 I dinna care a strae ; 
 Though ilka ane be discontent, 
 
 Awa' wi her I'll gae. 
 
 For now she's mistress o' my heart, 
 
 And wordy o' my hand ; 
 And weel, 1 wat, we shanna part 
 
 For siller or for land. 
 Let rakes delight to swear and -jrink^ 
 
 And beaux admire fine lace; 
 But my chief [jleasure is to blink 
 
 On Betty's bunnie face, 
 
 I will awa' wi' my love, 
 
 I will awa' wi" her. 
 Though a' my kin had sworn and loijf 
 
 I'll o'er Bogie wi' her. 
 
 LASS, GIN YE LO'E ME. 
 
 JAMES TVTLER. 
 
 Tune — " Lass, gin ye !o'e me.' 
 
 I HAE laid a herring in saut — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell ma now ; 
 
 I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut, 
 
 An I caiina come ilka day to woo: 
 
 I hae a calf that will soon be a cow- 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, lell me now ; 
 
 I hae a stuok, ami I'll soon hae a mowe, 
 And I canna come ilka day to woo: 
 
 I hae a house upon yon moor — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
 Three sjiarrows may (hince upon tl e floor, 
 
 And 1 canna come ilka d.iy to woo : 
 I hae a but, an' I hae a ben — 
 
 Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
 A penny to keep, and a penny to s|)en*. 
 
 An' 1 cauna come ilka day to woo: 
 
 I hae a hen wi' a happitie-leg— . 
 
 Lass, gin yc lo'e _me, tell me now; 
 That ilka day lays me an egg. 
 
 An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 
 I hae a cheese upon my skelf — 
 
 Lass, gin ye ln'e me, tell me now ; 
 And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself, 
 
 And I caima c >ine ilka day to woo. 
 
161 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME. 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCX. 
 
 T^ne—" Laddie, lie near me." 
 
 Lang hae we parted been. 
 
 Lassie, my deerie ; 
 Now we are met again. 
 
 Lassie, lit "sear me. 
 
 Near me, near me, 
 Lassie, lie near me. 
 
 Lang hast thou lain thy lane ; 
 Lassie, lie near me. 
 
 A* that I hae endured, 
 
 Lassie, my dearie, 
 Here in thy arms is cured ; 
 
 Lassie, lie near me. 
 
 LOW DOUN r THE BRUME.* 
 7^71*—" Low doun 1' the Broom." 
 
 Mv daddie is a cankert carle, 
 
 He'll no twine wi* his gear ; 
 My minnie she's a scauldin' wife, 
 Hauds a' the house asteer. 
 
 Uiit let them say, or let them do, 
 
 It's a' atie to me, 
 For he's low doun, he's in the brume, 
 
 Thnt's woitin on me: 
 'Wailing on me, my love. 
 
 He's waiting on me : 
 For he't low doun, he's in the brume, 
 That's wuitin' on rue. 
 
 My auntie Kate sits at her wheel, 
 
 And sair siie lightlies me ; 
 But weel 1 ken it's a' envy. 
 
 For ne'er a joe his she. 
 
 And let them say, Sfc. 
 
 My cousin Kate was sair beguiled 
 
 Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen ; 
 And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware 
 
 O' fause deluding men. 
 
 And let iJiem say, Sfc. 
 
 deed Sandy he nam wast yestreen. 
 And speir'd when I saw Pate ; 
 
 And aye sinsyne tiie neebors round 
 They jeer nie air and late. 
 And let them say, §"c. 
 
 • The chorus of this song is Tery old : tradition 
 ascribes the verses to a Lairil of Balnaraoon in Forfar- 
 shire: but upon that jioict the learned iltfler. It is 
 one of lh( must pofiular duties in ticutland. 
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING. 
 U-4.\.v-— " The Campbells are coming." 
 
 JTie Campbells are coming, O-ho, 0-ho I 
 The Campbells arc cnning, O-ho ! 
 
 The Campbells are coming to bonnie Loctt 
 leven I 
 The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho 
 
 Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ; 
 
 Upon the Lomonds 1 lay ; 
 I lookit doun to bonnie Loehleven, 
 
 And saw three perches play. 
 
 The Campbells are coining, l^c. 
 
 Great Argyle he goes before ; 
 
 He makes the cannons and guns to roar ; 
 With sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum ; 
 
 The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-bo ! 
 2'he Cumpbells are coming, Sfc, 
 
 The Campbells they are a' in arms, 
 Their loyal faith and truth to show, 
 
 With banners rattling in the wind ; 
 
 The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! • 
 The Campbells are coming, Sfc. 
 
 MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A 
 HECKLE. 
 
 Tune — " Lord Breadalbane's March." 
 
 O MERRY hae I been teething a heckle, 
 
 And merry hae I been shai)in a spunc ; 
 O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle. 
 
 And kissin my Katie when a' was dune. 
 O a" the lang day 1 ca' at my hammer. 
 
 And a' the lang day I whistle and sing ; 
 A' the lang nicht I cuddle my kimmer, 
 
 And a' the lang nicht as happy 's a king. 
 
 Bitter in dule I lickit my winnins, 
 
 O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
 Blest be the hour she cooled in her linens. 
 
 And blythe be the bird that sings over Let 
 grave ! 
 Come to my irras, my Katie, my Katie, 
 
 And come to my arms, my Katie again ! 
 Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! 
 
 And blest be the day 1 did it again ! 
 
 • From Johnson's Musical Museum, Part III., 1790, 
 where it is insinuated, as an on dil, that it was com- 
 posed on the nnprisonmcnt of Queen Mary in Loch- 
 leven Castle. The Lomonds are two well-known 
 hills, overhanging Lochleven to the east, and visiblt 
 from Kdinburgh. The air is the well-known famil) 
 tuue or march of the Clau Camplwll. 
 
^- 
 
 SONGS. 165 
 
 MY AULD MAN. 
 
 Betty, Iissy, say't thyell. 
 
 Tfite—" Saw ye my Father 1' 
 
 Thoip^jh tliy dame be ill to shoe : 
 
 
 First we'll luickle, then we'll tell ; 
 
 In the l.inil of Fife there li%'e<l a wicked wife, 
 
 Let her flytc, and syne come to. 
 
 And in the town of Cupar then, 
 
 What signilies a mother's i;loom. 
 
 Who sorely did l.iment, and made her complaint, 
 
 When love and kisses coine in play? 
 
 Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? 
 
 Should we wither in our bloom. 
 
 
 And in siinnier in.ik nae hay ? 
 
 n cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing 
 
 late, 
 
 For the sake of somebody, §*c. 
 
 She saiil, What's fjude for an aiild man ? 
 
 Bonny lad, I carena bv, 
 
 wlieit-hreid and wine, and a kinnen new 
 
 Though I try my luck wi' thee. 
 
 slain ; 
 
 Since ye are content to tie 
 
 That's gude for an auld man. 
 
 The half-mark bridal-band wi' me. 
 
 
 I'll slip haiiie and wash my feet. 
 
 Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn, 
 
 And steal <m linens fair and clean; 
 
 Ajd .vhat for cam ye in ? 
 
 Syne at the trystltig-place we'll iceet, 
 
 For bear-hread and water, I'm sure, is much 
 
 To do but what my dame has done. 
 
 iHjtter — 
 
 For the sake (f somebody. 
 
 It's ower gude for an auld man. 
 
 For the sake of somtbody, 
 
 
 I could woke (I iri liter nlcht, 
 
 .Vow the auld man's deid, and, without remeid. 
 
 For the sake of somtbody. 
 
 Into his ciuld grave he's gane : 
 
 
 Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae 
 missing ; 
 
 
 
 I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man. 
 
 
 
 SANDY O'ER THE LEE. 
 
 Within a little mair than three quarters of a year. 
 
 Tune~" Sandy o'er the lee." 
 
 She was married to a young man then. 
 
 
 Whd drank at the wine, antl tippled at the beer, 
 
 I WiNNA marry ony man but Sandy ower the 
 
 And spent more gear than he wan. 
 
 lee. 
 
 
 I winni marry ony man but .Sandy ower the !e- ; 
 
 black grevr her brows, and howe ^rew her 
 
 I winna hae the dominie, for gude he canna be; 
 
 een. 
 
 But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower 
 
 And cauld grew her pat and her pan : 
 
 the lee : 
 
 And DOW she sigh<, and aye she says, 
 
 For he's aye a-kisslng, kissing, eye a-kiss 
 
 I wish I had my silly auld man ! * 
 
 ing me ; 
 
 
 He's aye a-hissing, kissing, aye a-kissing me. 
 I winna hae the minister, for all his godly looks ; 
 
 
 FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 
 
 Nor yet will I the lawyer hae, for a' his wily 
 
 
 crooks ; 
 
 OLD VERSES, 
 
 I winna hae the ploughman lad, nor yet wiU I 
 
 Tune—" Somebody." 
 
 the miller. 
 
 But I will hae my Sandy lad, without a penny 
 
 For the sake nf somtbudy. 
 
 siller. 
 
 Fur the siike nj' somehiirfi/. 
 
 For he's aye a-kissing, Sf^c. 
 
 I could wake a winter nivht. 
 
 
 For the sake of suniebodij. 
 
 I winna hae the .soldier lad, fur he gangs to the 
 
 
 wars ; 
 
 I AM gaun to seek a wife, 
 I am gaun to buy a pl.iidy ; 
 
 I winna hae the sailor lad, because he smells o' 
 
 tar ; 
 
 I have thiee stane o' woo' ; 
 
 I winna hae the lord, or laird, for a' their meikle 
 
 Carline, is thy d iu'.;hter ready ? 
 
 gear, 
 But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'ef 
 the muii-. 
 
 Fur the sake of somebody, §-c. 
 
 
 • From RKson's " Scottbth Songs" 17'''. into 
 
 For he's aye a-kissing, i-c. 
 
 which the editor mentions that it was copiuil from 
 
 
 lome cominon colk-cilon, wliose title he ilicl not re. 
 
 
 member. It has often been the Uisk of the Scottish 
 muwtoimint out the evils of ill-assorted alhaiKcs; 
 
 
 
 but she has scarcely ever done so wuh so much hu- 
 
 m.mr, and. at the same time, so much force of moral MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET 
 
 paintmj». as in the present ea~e. \o tune is isslgncd 
 
 to the song in Rits.m's Oiliection; but the present Tun^f— " Mv Lovp is hut a lasmp vrt • 
 editor has ventiircl to suu-ge^t the fine air, '• Saw ^e i-^rie- aiy iM\e is Dut a lastie yet. 
 
 iiiy father," rather as Iwiiig suitable lo the pe<'uliar j,r. ;^. i ' i . i 
 
 rhythm of the verses -Uin to the ipirit of the couiikj- ""^^ '""'' ^''^ * ''"' « '«*»'« y«' : 
 
 '^on- 1 My live, she's but a lassie vet 
 
 
266 
 
 /'// let her stand « year or twa ; 
 She'll no he hulf sae saucij yet. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME 
 
 t RUE tlie d.'.y I souj^lit her, O ; 
 I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
 Wia gets her, needna say he's woo'd, 
 But he may say he's bnught her, O. 
 My love, slit's, Sfc. 
 
 Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
 Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
 Gae seek fcir pleasure where ye will — 
 But here I never miss'd it yet. 
 lily love, she's, §t. 
 
 We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
 We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
 The minister kiss'd the fiijillei's wife, 
 And couldna [ireac-h for thinking o't. 
 3Iy love, she's, ^c. 
 
 MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE. 
 Tkh*— " My Wife has ta'en the Gee." 
 
 A FHiEND o' mine cam here yestreen, 
 
 And he wad hae me down 
 To drink a liottle o' ale wi' him 
 
 In the neist burrows town : 
 But oh, indted, it was. Sir, 
 
 Sao far the waur for me ; 
 For, lang or e'er that I cam hame, 
 
 My wife had tane the gee. 
 
 We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, 
 
 The truth I tell to you, 
 That, l:ing or e'er the midiiicht cam, 
 
 We a' were roarin' fou. 
 My wife sits at the fireside, 
 
 And tht tear blinds aye her ee ; 
 The ne'er a *xd wad she gang to, 
 
 But sit and tuk' the gee. 
 
 In the mornin' sune, when I cam doun, 
 
 The ne'er a word she spake ; 
 But mony a sad and sour look. 
 
 And aye her head she'd shake. 
 Jly dear, ijuoth I, what aileth thee, 
 
 To look sae sour on nie ? 
 I'll never do the like again. 
 
 If you'll ne'er tak' the gee. 
 
 Wlicn that she hearci, she ran, she flang 
 
 Her arms about my neck ; 
 And twenty ki»es, in a cr.nk ; 
 
 And, poor wee tiling, she grat. 
 If you'll ne'er do the like again, 
 
 But bide at hame wi' me, 
 I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife 
 
 That never taks the gee.* 
 
 • From Heri's collection, 1776. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Tune — " The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome.* 
 
 As I came in by Teviot side. 
 
 And by the braes of Branksnme, 
 There first I saw my bonny bride. 
 
 Young, smiling, sweet, and handwmft 
 Her skin was safter than the down, 
 
 And white as alabaster ; 
 Her hair, a shining, waving brown ; 
 
 In straightness nane surpass'd her. 
 
 Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek, 
 
 Her clear een were surprising. 
 And beautifully turn'd her neck. 
 
 Her little breasts just rising : 
 Nae silken hose with gushats fine, 
 
 Or shoon with glancing laces, 
 On her bare leg, forbade to shine 
 
 Weel-shapen native graces. 
 
 Ae little coat and bodice white 
 
 Was sum o' a' her claithing ; 
 E'en these o'er mucklc; — mair delfte 
 
 She'd given clad wi' naething. 
 We lean'd upon a flowery brae, 
 
 By which a burnie trotted ; 
 On her I glowr'd my soul away, 
 
 While on her sweets I doated. 
 
 A thousand beauties of desert 
 
 Before had scarce alarm 'd me. 
 Till this dear artless struck my heart, 
 
 And, hot designing, charm'd me. 
 Hurried by love, close to my breast 
 
 I cla>p'd this fund of blisses, — 
 Wha smiled, and said. Without a pibst. 
 
 Sir, hope for nocht but kisses. 
 
 I had nae heart to do her harm. 
 
 And yet 1 couldna want her ; 
 What she demanded, ilka charm 
 
 O' heis pled I should grant her. 
 Since heaven had dealt to me a routl». 
 
 Straight to the kirk I led her ; 
 There plighted her my faith and trouth, 
 
 And a young lady made her.* 
 
 MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THING. 
 Tu7te — *' My wife's a wanton wcc thing." 
 
 Mv wifi''s a wanton wee th.fig. 
 My wife's a wanton wee thing. 
 
 • This sone, whic'i appeared in the Tea- Table 
 
 Mi-nllany, (rt'D, was f luiuUd upon a real ineiileiit. 
 'Vbi; Ixmii.-e liiss v-n^ (l.ni{;liter ti> a wcinan «h(> kcj'l 
 .nn alehouse al the haniUtn ar Ilranksoine Castle, in 
 Teviotilale. A vnoni; odiier, cif sdiiie riiiikj— hisn.iine 
 we believe was 'Maliiiiiil,— liapiieucil to be be (piarter- 
 Cil soniewliere in the neichhiiuthnod, saw, loviil, and 
 married her. So strange was such an alliance detnied 
 in llio-edavs, that the old inntlier, uiidur whosa aus- 
 pices it wa-s peifuiined, did uoi e»(ape the impulatioD 
 of witehcraJL 
 
SONGS. 
 
 167 
 
 Mv wife's a w.intjn wee tliinj : 
 Slie wiuna hi; guiili-il hy me. 
 
 Rhc pl:iy'il the Inon fre slie was niarried, 
 She |>'iy'<i the hion ere slie was niairieil, 
 She |il,iy'(l the liion eie she was married ; 
 She'll du't again ere she die ! 
 
 She sellM her coat, and she drank i 
 She sillM her enat, and she dratik »(;, 
 She row'd hersell in a hlanket ; 
 She wiatia be guided by ine. 
 
 She m'nd't iia when I forbade her, 
 She iiiiiid't n.i ulien I fnrliide her; 
 I to..k a riiiii; and I elaw'd her, 
 And a braw gude bairn was she !• 
 
 l\iV NATIVE CALKDONIA, 
 
 WE'RE A' NOD])[X. 
 
 Tune—" Nid noddin.' 
 
 O, we're a nndilin, nid, nid, voddin, 
 O, we're a' noddin, at our /louse at hame. 
 
 flow's a' wi' )e, kimnier? and how do ye 
 
 thrive ? 
 And how nuiiiy bairns hae ye n )w ? — Bairns I 
 
 hae five. 
 And are tiiey a' at hame wi' yon ? — Na, na, na ; 
 For twa ()' them's JK-eii herilia' siu' Jamie gaed 
 awa. 
 ^nd we're ti' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ,- 
 And u-cre a noddin, at our house at hame. 
 
 Grannie nods i' the neiik, and fends as she may, 
 And braus that we'll ne'er be what she's been 
 
 in tier dav. 
 Vow ! but she was bonnie ; and vow ! but she 
 
 Was braw. 
 And she had rowtii o' wooers auce, I'se warrant, 
 
 great and sma.' 
 
 And wt're a' noddin, §-c. 
 
 Weary fa' Kate, that sl;e winna nod too ; 
 She s:ts i' the coiner, su|i|iin' a' the broo ; 
 And when tlie bit bairnits wad e'en hae their 
 
 siiare, 
 Bhc gies them the l.idle. but dcil a drag's there. 
 And we re a' noddin, A-c, 
 
 Now, farewecl, kimmer, anrl wecl miy ye thrive ; 
 They sae the Frencii is rinnin' for't', and we'll 
 
 hae peaee belyve. 
 The heiir's 'i the bi ear, arjd th ; hay's i' the stack, 
 And a" 'II be right wi" us, gin Jamie were come 
 
 Sair, sair was my heart, when I parted frae tnj 
 
 Joan, 
 j And sair, sair I sigh'd, wliiie the tears stood ic 
 
 my een ; 
 For my daildie ii hut poor, and my fortune it 
 
 but sma' ; 
 Which gars me leave my native Cale onio. 
 
 When I tliink on days now gane, and how hap- 
 jiy 1 h le been. 
 
 While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prim- 
 rose blaws unseen ; 
 
 I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my dandie's sim- 
 ple ha'. 
 
 Or the hills ami healthfu* breeze o' Caledonia. 
 
 Hut wherever I wander, still happy he my J.vin ! 
 Nae care disturb her bosom, where jiLuce h;is 
 
 ever been ! 
 Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll 
 
 bear them a', 
 Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. 
 
 But should riches e'er he nr.iiie, and my Jeanit, 
 
 still be true. 
 Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my nitivi" 
 
 land 1 view ; 
 Then I'll kneel im Scotia's shore, while th« 
 
 heart-felt tear shall fa". 
 And never leave my Jeau and Caledonia. 
 
 back. 
 
 And we're n noddin', |-c. 
 
 _* From Jolinson's Sc Its M'l'iical Museum, vol. IJI, 
 1790. Tlie two (list stanzas, however, aiipear id 
 Htid'seolltrtioii. 1776. 
 
 O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUID.MAN 
 
 T'inf—" O, B!i yp war dciil, Ouidman." 
 
 O, AN ye were deid. guidman, 
 .And a green truffon your heid, gnidir.aa. 
 That I ini;;lit ware my w idowheid 
 Upon a raiitin Highlandman. 
 
 There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman, 
 There's sa.\ eggs in the pun, guidman; 
 There's ane to you, aiul twa to me. 
 And tliree to our John Ilighlandman. 
 
 There's beef info the pot, guidmin. 
 There's beef into the pipt, giiiilman ; 
 The banes for you, and the liroe tor me, 
 And the beef fur our John Ilighlandman. 
 
 There's sax horse in the sta", guidman. 
 There's sax horse in the sta', guidman; 
 There's ane to you, and twa to me. 
 And tliree to our John Hiyhlandman. 
 
 There's sax kye in the Iiyre, guidman. 
 There's sax kye in the liyre, guidm in • 
 There's nane o' them yours, but tiiere's t\r» i 
 them mine, 
 I And the lave is our John Ilighlandman's. 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 on, WHAT A PARISH ! 
 
 ADAM CKAWFOllD. 
 
 Tutu;—" Donnie Dundee." 
 
 O, tehat a parish, trfial a terrible parish, 
 O, wliiit a parish is that I'f DrnthM ! 
 They line linnijt. the minister, ilrouned the 
 precentor, 
 Dunti ilown t'r.e steeple, and drucken the 
 'bell! 
 
 FilCJCH the steeple was doB::, the kirk was still 
 8taniii[i ; 
 They l)igt;it a lum where tlie hell useil to hang ; 
 A steii-p^it they gat, and they brewed llieland 
 whi^ky ; 
 On Sundays they dr.ink it, and rantit and sang! 
 Of what a parish, §t. 
 
 Oh, had yru hut seen how gracefu' it Inikit, 
 To see the •■rainiiied pews sae socially join ! 
 
 Maedonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poiipit, 
 He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine ! 
 O, what a parish, ^c. 
 
 \^Tien the heart-cheerin spirit had inountit the 
 garret. 
 To a l):ill on the green they a' did adjourn ; 
 Maiils, wi' their cuuts kiltit, they skipjut and 
 liltit ; 
 When tired, tliey shook hands, and a hame 
 did return. 
 
 (J, what a parish, §•<;. 
 
 Wad the kiiks in our liritain haud sic social 
 mi'ituiics, 
 Is'ae warning they'd need frae a far-tinkling 
 bell ; 
 For true love and friemlship wad ea' them the- 
 gither, 
 Far better than roaring o' horrors o' heJl. • 
 O, what jiarish, §'C. 
 
 OLD KING COUL. 
 
 Olu King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly o'..', soid was he ; 
 And old King Coul he had a brown bowl, 
 
 And ther brought him in fiddlers three ; 
 And every tidd.er was a very good tidiller, 
 
 And a very good tiddler was he ; 
 '"iddlo-diddle, fiddle-duidle, went the fiiidlers 
 three : 
 And there's no a l.iss in a' .'scotland, 
 
 Compared to our sweet Marjone. 
 
 Old Kino: C<iul WIS a jolly old soul, 
 And a jolly olil snul was he ; 
 
 • Crawforil, Die imliter of this niriou'i fro ic, was ii 
 tailor in EdUibiO);li, aiui tlieauthor of somt' <)ur good 
 
 Old King Coul, lie had a brown bowl, 
 And they brought him in pipers three : 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, hi-diddle, how-didifh, 
 
 went the pipers three; 
 Fiddle-didille, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlen 
 three : 
 And there's no a lass in a the land, 
 Compared to our sweet ftlarjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a j(dly old sou?, 
 
 And a jolly old soul \v,i< he ; 
 Old King Coul, he hid a brown bowl, 
 And the V brought him in harpers three; 
 Twingle-twan.^le, twingle-twunglt, went the 
 
 harpers ; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how -diddle, 
 
 went the pipers ; 
 Fiddle-didiile, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddler* 
 three : 
 And there's no a la<;s in a' the land, 
 Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 And a jolly old soul was he ; 
 Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
 
 Auil they brought him in tiumpeters three: 
 Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
 ers ; 
 Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 
 
 harpers ; 
 Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 
 
 went the pijiers ; 
 Fiddle-diddle, tiddle-did.ile, went the fiddleri 
 three : 
 And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 
 Compared to sweet Waijorie. 
 
 Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
 
 And a jolly olil soul was he ; 
 Old King Coul, he bad a brown bnwl, 
 
 And they brought him in drummers three; 
 R'lb-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ; 
 Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
 ers; 
 Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 
 
 harpers ; 
 Ha-diddle, bow-diildle, ha-diddls, how-diddlp, 
 
 Went the pipers ; 
 Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
 three ; 
 And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
 Compared to sweet Marjorie. 
 
 I'C VERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIB 
 
 JOANNA BAILI.IE. 
 
 Tune — " Todlin hamc 
 
 Ti'ur.N white was my o'erlay as foam ii' the linn, 
 And siller was vlinkin' uiy pouches withiu • 
 
30NGS. 
 
 Wben mv laiiit>kin9 were bleating on meadow 
 
 ami liiao ; 
 As 1 pii'd to i!iy love in new deeding sae gay, 
 
 Kind UMs >\\e. 
 
 And my ftieiids were free ; 
 
 But poverty parts gude companie. 
 
 Uou' swift p;iss'd tlie iiiiiuitcs and hours of de- 
 
 iij,'ht ! 
 riie ])ipfr pliy'd dieerly, the crusie burn'd 
 
 hri;;ht ; 
 And iink'd in my bund was the maiden sae dear, 
 As bhe footed the Hour in her iiohday gear. 
 Woe is me, 
 And can it then he, 
 Tliat p'lviTty parts sic companie ! 
 
 We met at the fiir, we met at the kirk, 
 
 We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk ; 
 
 And the so\inds of her voice, and the bliidis of 
 
 her een, 
 The cheering and lil' of my bosom have been. 
 
 Leaves frae the tree 
 
 At Martiimias flee ; 
 
 And j)overty paits sweet companie. 
 
 At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride ; 
 The hruse I hae won, and a kiss o* the briile ; 
 And lou<l was the laughter gay fellows among. 
 When J utter'd niy l)anter and chorus'd my song. 
 
 Duwie to dree 
 
 Are jesting and glee, 
 
 When poverty parts gude companie. 
 
 Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet. 
 
 And mithers and aunties were mair than dis- 
 creet. 
 
 While kehhuck and bicker were set on the 
 board ; 
 
 But now they pass by me, and never a word. 
 So \f.l it be, 
 
 For the worldly and slie 
 Wi' poverty keep nae companie. 
 
 WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. 
 
 WILLIAM WALKINGSHAW OK WALKINGSHAW. 
 
 Tune—" Willie was a wanton Wag." 
 
 WiLl.iE was a wanton wag. 
 
 The blythc'st lad that e'er I saw: 
 At bridals still he bore the brag. 
 
 And carried aye the gree awa. 
 His doui>let was of Shetland shag. 
 
 And wow but M'illie he was hraw ; 
 Kail at his shouthers hung a tag 
 
 That pleased the lasses best of a*. 
 
 He wag a man without a clag ; 
 
 His heart was frink, without a flaw; 
 And ay<; whatever Wdlie said. 
 
 It stui was hadiien as a la'.?. 
 
 His boots they were made of the jag, 
 When he went to the weapon-'-hawr ; 
 
 Upon the green nane duist him brag. 
 The fient a ane uniang them a'. 
 
 And was not Willie weel worth gowd ? 
 
 He Win the love o' grit ami sma* ; 
 For, after he the bride had kiss'd, 
 
 He kiss'd the lasses haill-sale a*. 
 Sae mei-rily round the ring they row'd, 
 
 When by the haird he le^l them a' ; 
 And smack on smack on them bestow *(1, 
 
 By virtue of a standing law. 
 
 And was na Willie a great loun. 
 
 As shyre a lick as e'er was seen ? 
 When he danced with the lasses round, 
 
 The bridegroom spier'd where he had beeo 
 Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring; 
 
 Wi' bolihin', faith, my shanks are sair ; 
 Gae ca' the bride and maidens in. 
 
 For Willie he dow do na mair. 
 
 Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, 
 
 And for a wee fill up th.e ring ; 
 But shame licht on his souple snout ' 
 
 He wanted Wilhe's wantim fling. 
 Then straight he to the bride diil fare, 
 
 Says, Weel's me on your bonny face ; 
 With bobbin' Willie's shanks are sair, 
 
 And I am come to fill his place. 
 
 Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the daaca 
 
 And at the ring you'll aye be lag, 
 Unless like Willie ye advance ; 
 
 Oh, Willie has a wanton leg ! 
 F(U' wi't he learns us a* to steer, 
 
 And foremost aye bears up the ring; 
 We will find nae sic dancin* here. 
 
 If we want Willie's wanton fling. • 
 
 THE AULD MAN'S MEAR'S "^EAD. 
 
 Tune — " The auld man's mear's dead " 
 
 The auld man's itiear's dea/l ; 
 The pvir Loi/i/'s mear's ditut ; 
 Tlie auld man's mear's (lead, 
 A. mile abuun Dundee. 
 
 There was hay to ca', and lint to lead, 
 A hunder hotts o' muck to si-re.id, 
 And peats and trufTs and a' to lead^ 
 And yet the jaud to dee ! 
 
 The auld man's, SfC. 
 
 She had the fiercie and the fleiik, 
 The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk 
 On ilka knee she had a breuk — 
 What ail'd the beast to di*"" 
 The auld man's, if. 
 
 • From the Te-i-Table Miscellany, 1724. A« it it 
 there signed l)y ilie inilijHs of llie auth.ir, ihfe ariici 
 a prestimption tliat he was a'i\c, a >l <i fi irnd uf Ram 
 •ay, at Uie iierioU of the publicaliou ul that woKl. 
 
170 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 She was lann-tontliM and b'encli-Iippit, 
 Heam-lioiij^li'd and ha^gi>-tittit, 
 Lang-ni'ckit, chanircr-chifcit, 
 And yet the j.iiid tn dee ! • 
 
 Tlie auld man s, S^c. 
 
 ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCII. 
 
 MRS. Cr.AKT OF CAURON. 
 
 Tune—" The RuiRan's Rant." 
 
 Riu/s wife rif Aldivdlloch, 
 Jtoi/s wife nf Aldivtillt)ch, 
 "Wat ye how she chented me, 
 As I came u'er the braes of Ualloch ? 
 
 Shb vowM, she swfire, she wad be mine ; 
 
 She sai<l she lo'cd me best of onie ; 
 But, ah ! the tickle, fa'^liless quean, 
 
 She's ta'eii the carle, and left her Johnie. 
 Hoys wife, §-c. 
 
 Oh, she was a canty quean. 
 
 And wcel could dance the Hieland walloch ! 
 How hap y I. h.id she been mine, 
 
 Or 1 been R.iy of Aldivalluch ! 
 Hoy's wife, SfC. 
 
 Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, 
 
 Her wee bit inou' sae sweet and bonnie ! 
 
 To me she ever will I)e dear. 
 
 Though slie's for ever left her Johnie. 
 Hoy's wife, &-C. 
 
 STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 
 GAUN. 
 
 Tune—" Steer her up and haud her gaun." 
 
 O sTF.Eii her up and hand her gaun ; 
 Her mother's at the mill, jo : 
 
 ^But gin she winna talc a man. 
 E'en let her lak her will, p. 
 
 Pray thee, lad, leave feili/ thinkings ; 
 Cast thy cares of love awav ; 
 
 Let's our sorrows drown in drinking ; 
 *Tis ddfEn langer to delay. 
 
 See that shining glass of claret, 
 
 How invitingly it looks ! 
 Take it alf, and let's have mair o't ; 
 
 Pox on fighting, trade, and books ! 
 Let's have pleasure, while we're able; 
 
 Bring us in the meikle bowl ; 
 Place't on the middle of the table ; 
 
 And let wind and weather gowl. 
 
 Call the drawer ; let him fill it 
 
 Fou as ever it can hold : 
 Oh, tak tent ye dinna spill it ; 
 
 'Tis mair precious far than gold. 
 By you've drunk a dozen bumpers, 
 
 Bacchus will begin to prove. 
 Spite of Venus and her mumpers, 
 
 Drinking better is than love. 
 
 • The late Rev. Mr. flunie, minister of the parish 
 of ISdrlliwuk, near E(liiibiir_:h. (who was so enthiisi.as. 
 tically fond of Moving Scottish songs, ihat he Used to 
 hang his w.itch ronn.l the c.indle on Sundnv eveinngs, 
 and wai: anxiously till the coninnction of the liaiKls".!! 
 12 o'cloi-k pcrniit'cd him lo bri'.ik out in cne cf his 
 favourite ditties), was noted for the adniirable nviiiner 
 in which he song " Bonny nnndcc," " Waly, iv.ilv 
 
 up yon hank, Flie Anld Man's Meai'sdead.' witli 
 
 many othiT old Scotiuh ditties. One (lav, liappeinng 
 to meet w Ih some fru-nds at a ta\cin in Dalkvitii, he- 
 was solicited to favnur the eompanv with llie latter 
 humorous dittv ; which he wis aciionl riglv singing 
 with Ins nsiialcfVec' 3' <l bri llancv, when the «omaii 
 who kept the house thrusi her hc.ail in at the door, and 
 Bdiled, .it th eon liision of nne of the choruses, •• Od, 
 the auld nnn's mcai's dead, sireene i h Vour horse, 
 minister, his hanged it.sell at inv door" iiucli was 
 rcal'v the fact, •jlu' minister, on going into the li.nis?, 
 had tied his h rse bv a rii|ie to a i\, ok. or ring, near 
 the door, and as he «as iiiduicil to tt.iy nui /h' longer 
 th in he intiu led, the poor animal, either Ihrongh ex- 
 haustion, or a sndde . tit ol diease, IVIl down, and was 
 ttr&!iRleil. He wari so iimeli mort ficil by tliis iinh:ip|iy 
 aecidiiit, the C'liuneniT of »hi li h1,Ii the subject ot' i 
 his song «as not a litile stiik-ng. iliat, aH his life d'lor, 
 he could n.ver bo persuaded to' sing " Tlie .\uld Maii't 
 Hear g dead" a^a.n I 
 
 SYMON BRODIE. 
 
 Tune—" Symon Brodie." 
 
 SvMON BiiODiE had a cow. 
 
 The cow was lost, and he cou'd na find har 
 Wheti he had done what man could do, 
 
 The cow cam hame, and her tail behind ha 
 Honest auld Symon limdie, 
 Stupid auhl doitit iodic ! 
 
 I'll awa to the North countrie. 
 And see my am dear Syvwn Hrodie. 
 
 .Symon Brodic had a wife. 
 
 Ami, wow ! but she was braw and bonaie j 
 She took the dish-clout alf the hiiik. 
 
 And pieen'd it to her cockeiiuwiie. 
 Honest auld Symon Hrodie, §•& 
 
 NEIL GOWS FAREWELL TO 
 WHISKY. 
 
 Tunt-'- Farwell to Whisky." 
 
 You've surely heard o' famous Neil, 
 The man that played the fiddle weel ; 
 I wat he was a canty cliiel. 
 
 And dearly loe'd the whisky, O. 
 And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews, 
 He dearly lo'ed the Athole brosc ; 
 Atid wae was he, you may suppose, 
 
 To play farewell to whi.sky, O. 
 
 Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld, 
 And find my bluile grow nm-o cauld ; 
 I think 'twad iiMke me blythe ;uid biuldL 
 A wee drap Highlaud whi^kv, O 
 

 SONGS. 171 
 
 Yet tlie doctors tht-y do a' aj^reR. 
 
 We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, 
 
 Tluif whisky's no the drink t'.ir me. 
 
 My ain kiml-hearted lammie. 
 
 Saul I quoth Neil, 'twill spoil iny glt-e, 
 
 We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise, 
 
 Should thi'y j):irt nio and whisky, 0. 
 
 We'll be her comfort a' her days. 
 
 
 The wee thing gies her hand, and says- 
 
 Thoudh I can haith sjet wine and ale, 
 
 There ! gang and ask my mammy. 
 
 And find my head and finjjeis hale, 
 
 
 I'll be content. thoni,'h h-gs should fail. 
 
 Has she been to the kirk wi' thee. 
 
 To pi ly fireu'ell to whisky, O 
 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 
 Tint still I lliink on aiild hinu; syne, 
 
 She has been to the kirk wi' t3e. 
 
 When Par:idise oui friends did tyne, 
 
 And the tear was in her ee : 
 
 Because soinetains; ran in their mind, 
 
 For O ! she's but a young thing. 
 
 Forbid like Highland whisky, 0. 
 
 Just come frae her mammy. 
 
 Come, a' ye powers o' music, come ; 
 I find my heart grows unco i;luni ; 
 
 
 
 My fiddle-strins^s will no play bum, 
 
 
 To say, Farewei 1 to whisky, O. 
 
 THE WEE WIFIKIE. 
 
 Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand. 
 
 
 And screw the pe^s up while they'll stand, 
 
 DR. A. CEUDES. 
 
 To make a lamentation grand. 
 
 
 On glide auld Highland whisky, 0. 
 
 Tune—" The wee bit Wifikie." 
 
 
 There was a wee bit wifikie was comln' itm 
 
 
 the fair, 
 Had got a wee bit drappikie, that bred her 
 
 
 
 Hinckle care ; 
 
 THE LAMMIE. 
 
 It gaed about the wilie's heart, and she began 
 
 
 to spew . 
 
 HECTOR MACNi:iI.L. 
 
 ! quo' the wifikie, I wi^h I binna fou. 
 
 Tune — " Whar hae ye bsen a' day." 
 
 I wish I binna fou, I wish I binn i fou. 
 
 
 ! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. 
 
 WiiAR liae ye beeu a' day, 
 
 
 Wy boy Tammy? 
 
 If Johnnie find me barley-siek, I'm sure he'll 
 
 I've been by burn and flow'ry brae, 
 
 claw my skin ; 
 
 Meadow green and iiio\nitain grey. 
 
 But I'll lie doun and tak a nap before that I 
 
 Courting o' this young thing. 
 
 gae in. 
 
 Just come frae her mammy. 
 
 Sittin' at the dyke-side, and takin' o' her nap. 
 
 
 By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. 
 
 Aui whar gat ye that young thing, 
 
 Wi' a little pack, quo she, wi' a little pack, 
 
 l^Iy boy Tammy ? 
 
 By cam a packman laddie, wi' a. little pack 
 
 I got Ler down in yonder howe, 
 
 
 Smiling on a bonnie knowe, 
 
 He's clippit a' her gowden locks, sae bonnie and 
 
 Heeding ae wee lamb and ewe, 
 
 sae lang ; 
 
 For her jioor mammy. 
 
 He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast 
 
 
 awa he ran : 
 
 What said ye to the bonnie bairu, 
 
 And when the wifie wakened, her head was 
 
 My boy Tammy ? 
 
 like a bee, 
 
 I praised her een, sae lovely blue, 
 
 Oh ! quo' the wifikie, this is nae me. 
 
 Her dimpled cheek and diet ry inou ;— 
 
 This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me ; 
 
 I piee'd it aft, as ye iiiiy trow ! — 
 
 Somebody has been fellin' me, and this is iiae 
 
 She said she'd tell her mammy 
 
 mo. 
 
 I held lier to my beating heart, 
 
 I met wi' kindiv company, and birl'd mv baw- 
 
 My young, my smiling lammie ! 
 
 bee ! 
 
 I hae a house, it cost me dear. 
 
 And still, if this be Bessikie, three placks re- 
 
 I've wealth o' plenidien and gear ; 
 
 main wi' me : 
 
 Ye'se get it a', were't ten times iiiair, 
 
 And I will look the pursie neuks, see gin the 
 
 Gm ye will leave your mammy. 
 
 cunyie be ; — 
 
 
 There's neither jiursc nor plack about me 
 
 The smile gaed aff her bonnie face — 
 
 This is nae me, 
 
 I maunna leave my mammy. 
 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 She's gien me meat, she's gien me clalsCf 
 
 
 She's been my comfort a' my days : — 
 
 I have a little housikie, but and a kindly man . 
 
 My father's ileath hiou^lit ni.inie waes— 
 
 A dog, they c,i' liini Doussikie ; iJ' this be m?, 
 
 I cauui leave my mammy. 
 
 he'll fawu • 
 
 
 
172 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 And JoLnnie he'll come to the door, and kiudly 
 
 welcome gie, 
 And a' the liairns on the floor-head will dance, 
 
 if this \)f me. 
 Will dance, if this be me, &c. 
 
 T'he nicht was late, and dang out weet, aad, 
 
 oh, l)ut it was dark ; 
 The dog;;ie heard a body's fit, and he begin to 
 
 bark : 
 O, when she heard the doggie bark, and ken- 
 
 nin' it was he, 
 O, weel ken ye, Duussiekie, quo she, this is nae 
 
 me. 
 This is nie me, &e. 
 
 When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to 
 
 the door he ran : 
 Is that you, Bessikie ? — Wow, na, man ! 
 Be kind to the baiins a', and weil mat ye be ; 
 And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me. 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 John ran to the minister ; his hair stood a' on 
 
 end : 
 I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never 
 
 mend ; 
 My wife's come hanie without a head, crying 
 
 out most |)iteouslie : 
 Oh, faievveei, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me ! 
 This is nae me, &c. 
 
 The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful 
 
 to me, 
 How that a wife wi:hniit a head should speak, 
 
 or hear, or see I 
 But things that happen hereabout so strangely 
 
 alter'u be. 
 That I cou.- muist wi' Bessie say, *Tis neither 
 
 you nor sr.e ! * 
 Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you 
 
 nor slie ; 
 Wow, na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor 
 
 she. 
 
 Now Johnnie he cam hame again, and wow, 
 
 but he was fain. 
 To see his little I}es>ikie come to hersell itgain. 
 He go^ her sittin' on a stool, wi' Tibbock on 
 
 her knee : 
 O come awa, Johnnie, quo' she, come awa to 
 
 Hi' 
 
 For I've got a drap wi' Tilibikie, and this is 
 
 now me. 
 This ii now irie, quo' she, this is now me ; 
 I've got a drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now 
 
 me. 
 
 • A Jacobite allusion, prolwbly to the change of the 
 Sliurl for (tie Urunswick dynatty, jn I'M. 
 
 FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE 
 
 GALL. 
 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
 Scenes that former thoughts renew, 
 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
 Now a sad and last adieu ! 
 
 Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamiDj 
 Fare thee weel before I gang ! 
 
 Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming, 
 First I weav'd the rustic sang I 
 
 Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying. 
 First icthrall'd this heart o' mine, 
 
 There the saftest sweets enjoying,— 
 Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! 
 
 Friends, so near my boson ever, 
 Ye hae rendered moment's dear ; 
 
 But, alas ! when forc'd to sever. 
 Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 
 
 Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
 Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me I 
 
 Could I think I did deserve it, 
 How much happier would I be ! 
 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
 Scenes that former thoughts renew, 
 
 Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
 Now a sad and last adieu ! 
 
 TIBBIE FOWLER. 
 
 Tune—" Tibbie Fowler." 
 
 Tibbie Fowler h' the Glen, 
 
 There's ower miiny wooing at her ; 
 Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, 
 
 There's ower mony wooing at her. 
 Wiifiin at her, pii'in at her, 
 
 Coiirtiii her, nrnf canna get her ; 
 Fil/hi/ elf, it's for her pelf 
 
 That a' the lads are wooing at her. 
 
 Ten cam east, and ten cam west ; 
 Ten cam rowin' ower the water ; 
 
 » Sain ti-) nxve be^n written by the Rov. Dr. 
 
 J^tnch.in, late minister of C'ariiwalh, although cer- 
 lainly gro\inilc(l upon a soii<; of older slamliiii;, tUe 
 ii.Tiiie of which is miiitioncd in tlic Tea-Table Miscel- 
 lany. The two first verses of the song appeared in 
 Herd's Collection, 1776. 
 
 There is a tradition at I.cith that Tibbie Fowler wat 
 a real person, am! married, ^cme time ciiiriiii,' the se- 
 venlcciith ccnt'iiry, to the reprrsciitative of the attaint- 
 elC'milyof l,0),'an of lieslalriR, whose i(>«ii-honse, 
 dated \C,'G, is still poiii'cd out at the heart of a sirert 
 ill Leith. called Ihr Sherid' biae. Ihe inarria;;e.coii. 
 traet !)■ twien !,n{;an and l-.ilMlia Fowl' r is still cxtliit. 
 in the possession of a giiitlrmaii resident at Lcitl r— 
 See CaiujibeU's Uhlury of Leith, note, p. ?14. 
 

 SONGS. 17S 
 
 Twa csm down tlie l.-xnjT j!yVp-«i(le : 
 
 THE BRISK YOUNG LAD. 
 
 Tlieie's twii-anil-tliirty wooiii' at her. 
 
 
 Wooin' at her, ^-c. 
 
 T^ve-" Bung your eye in the morning." 
 
 
 TiiEiiE cam a young man to my daddie's door 
 
 There's 5cven Iiiit, and seven ben, 
 
 My d.iildie's door, my daddie's <iiior ; 
 
 Seven in the puntry wi* her ; 
 
 There cam a vouns' man to my daddie's door. 
 
 Tn'enty Iiea.1 al'oiit tlic iloor : 
 
 Cam scekmg me to woo. 
 
 There's fkne-and-forly wooin' at lier. 
 
 yi.iil irow ! hut he iva.i a hraw ynnnc/ Jarl, 
 
 Wuoiu' at htr, ^c. 
 
 A brisk young lad, and a liruw young lad • 
 
 
 An<{ wnw ! but he was ti hraw young lad, 
 
 She's fjnt pendletf in her lii!;« ; 
 
 Cam seeking me to woo. 
 
 Cockle-shells wjd set her lietter ! 
 
 High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags ; 
 
 B;it I was baking when he came, 
 
 And a' the l.ids arc wooin' at her. 
 
 When he came, when he came ; 
 
 Wooiii at her, §-c. 
 
 I look him in aud gied him a scone, 
 
 
 To thowe his rozen mou. 
 
 Be a lassie e'er sac black, 
 
 And wow ! but he was, §*c. 
 
 Gin she hae the penny sdlcr, 
 
 Set her up on Tintock tap, 
 
 1 set him in aside the hink ; 
 
 The wind will blaw a man .ill her. 
 
 1 gae him bread and ale to drink ; 
 
 IToom' at her, Sfc. 
 
 Am. ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink, 
 
 
 Until his wame was fou. 
 
 Be a lassie e'er sae fair, 
 
 And wow 1 but he teas, S^c. 
 
 An she want the penny siller, 
 
 A. flie may fell her in the air, 
 
 Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer. 
 
 Before a man be even'd till her. 
 
 Ve <<our-looking, caulilrife wooer ! 
 
 Wooin' at her, Sec 
 
 I ittaightway show'd him to the door. 
 
 
 Saying, Come nae mair to woo. 
 
 
 And wow ! but he was, §c 
 There lay a deuk-rfub before the door, 
 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE.* 
 
 Before the door, before the door ; 
 
 
 There lay a deuk-dub before the dooi, 
 
 Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 
 
 And tb«re fell he, I trow ! 
 
 Where early fa's the dew ; 
 
 And wow 1 hut he was, ^c. 
 
 Where me and Annie Laurie 
 
 Made up the promise true; 
 
 Out cam the guidman, and high he shouted ; 
 
 Made up the promise true, 
 
 Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ; 
 
 And never forget will I ; 
 
 And a' the toun-neebnrs were gather'd about it ; 
 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 And there lay he, 1 trow ! 
 
 I'll lay me doun and die. 
 
 And wow! but he was, SfC. 
 
 She's backit like the peacock ; 
 
 Then out cam I, and sneer'd and smiled; 
 
 She's breistit like the swan ; 
 
 Ye cam to woo, but ye're a' beguiled ; 
 
 She's jimp about the niidille ; 
 
 Ye'vL' fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befvled ; 
 
 Iler waist ye weel micht span : 
 
 We'll hae nae mair o' you ! 
 
 Her waist ye well micht span, 
 
 And wow ! but he was, §-c. 
 
 And she has a rollinfi; eye; 
 
 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'll lay me doun and die. 
 
 
 KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 
 
 
 • These two rerses, which are in a st>le wonderful- 
 
 
 ly tender anil chaste for their age, were written by a 
 
 Tune—" Robin lo'ej me." 
 
 Mr. Douglas of Frngland, upon Anne, one of the four 
 
 
 Paiightcrs of Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Max- 
 
 Robin is my only jo. 
 
 For Rubin has the art to lo'e ; 
 
 welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter of 
 Riddcll of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a ba- 
 
 ronet in the year I6S5, it is probable that the verses 
 
 Sae to his suit I mean to !)ow, 
 
 were composed about the end of the seventeenth or the 
 beginning of the eighteenth century. It is painful to 
 
 Because I ken he lo'es me. 
 
 Hiippy, hap|)y was the shower. 
 
 record, that. notwithsLinding the ardent and chival- 
 
 rous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas in his |)oem, 
 he did noi obtain the heroine fora wife: She was mar- 
 ried to Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch.— See " yl Hal- 
 
 Tliit led me to his birken bower. 
 
 Where fust of love I fan<l the power. 
 
 tad Bouh," ( otinted at Edinburg/i In 1824), p. 107. 
 
 And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me. 
 
 
 They spcik of napkins, speak of .jng». 
 
 
 Spe.ik of gluves and kissin' string* ; 
 
 L - . 1 
 

 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 And nime a thousand lioniiie tilings. 
 And fa' them signs he lo'es me. 
 
 But I'd pitfer a smack o' Rob, 
 
 Seati'd on the velvet fuj, 
 
 To i;ilts as lan-^'s a plaiden wnb ; 
 Because I ken lie lu'es me. 
 
 He's tall and sonsie, frank and free, 
 lo'ed \,y a', and dear to me ; 
 Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee, 
 
 Bcc,;use my Ruhin lu'es me. 
 My tittie Mary said to me, 
 Our court>liip hut a juke wad be, 
 And I or lan^ be made to see 
 
 That Rubin didna lu'e me. 
 
 But little kens she what has been, 
 Me and my honest Rob between ; 
 And in his wooing, O sae keen 
 
 Kind Robin is that lo'es me. 
 Then fly, ye lazy hours, away. 
 And hasten on the happy day, 
 When, Join your hand-i, Me-s John will say, 
 
 And mak him mine that lo'es me. 
 
 Till then, let every chance unite 
 To fix nor love and give delisjnt, 
 Anrl I'll Inok down on such wi' spre. 
 Wha doubt that Robin lo'es n.j. 
 O ney, Robin ! quo' she, 
 O hey, Robin ! quo' she, 
 O hey, Robin ! quo' she ; 
 Kmd Robin lo'es me. 
 
 THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE 
 TO DEAVE US. 
 
 ROIiERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 Tune—" Fy, let us a* to the bridal." 
 
 The poets, what fools they're to deave us. 
 
 How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ; 
 Tlie taue is »n angel — and, save us ! 
 
 The neist ane you meet wi's divine. 
 An<l tiiCM tl;eri.'s a lang-nebbit sonnet, 
 
 lie't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ; 
 And the moon, or some fir-ajfa planet's 
 
 Compajcd to the blink o' her een. 
 
 The cartli an' the sea they've ransackit 
 
 For sim'iies to set off their charms; 
 And no a wee P.ov/'r but s attackit 
 
 liy poets, like bumbees, in swarms. 
 Now, what siijniries a' this clatter, 
 
 I'.y chiels that the truth winna tell? 
 Wad it no be settlic' ':'.-.£ matter, 
 
 To say. Lass, ye're jiiit like your sell ? 
 
 An' then there's nac end to the evil. 
 
 For they are no deaf to the din— 
 liiat like me ony puir luckless difevil 
 
 D.iur scarce IvA/k iiie ijate they are in ! 
 
 But e'en let them be, xvl' their scornin* ; 
 
 There's a lassie whase name I could taljt 
 Her smile is as sweet as the mornin' 
 
 But whisht ! 7 am ravin' mysell. 
 
 Cut he that o' ravin's convickit. 
 
 When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks oc, 
 May he ne'er get anithcr strait jacket 
 
 Than that buckled to by Mess John ! 
 An' he wha — though cautious an' cannv— 
 
 The charms o' the fair never saw, 
 Though wise as King Solomon's grannia- 
 
 I swear is the daftest of a'. 
 
 'TWAS WITHIN A ]\[TLE OF EDIN- 
 BURGH TOWN. 
 
 Tusj— " Within a mile of Edinburgh." 
 
 'TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, 
 
 In the insy time of the year ; 
 Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down. 
 And each shepherd woo'd his dear. 
 
 Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, 
 
 Kiss'd sweet Jenny, making hay, 
 Tl:e lassie blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No, 
 
 no, it will not do ; 
 I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc 
 
 kle too." 
 
 Jockey was a wag that never would wed, 
 Though long he had followed the lass ; 
 
 Contented she earned and eat her own bread, 
 And nu'rrily turn'd up the grass. 
 
 Bonny Jockey, blythe and free. 
 Won her heart right merrily : 
 
 Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No, 
 no, it will not ilo ; 
 
 I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc- 
 kle too." 
 
 But when ha vow'd he would make hef hit 
 
 bri<le. 
 Though his flocks and herds were not few. 
 She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside, 
 And vow'd she'd for ever be true. 
 
 Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, 
 
 W<in her heart right merrily ; 
 At church she no more frowning, cried, " Na, 
 
 no, it will not do ; 
 I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot bua- 
 
 kle too." 
 
 MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE. 
 
 Tune—" My luve's in Gemvinie." 
 
 My luve's in Germanic ; 
 
 Send him hame, send him luo^ej 
 Jly luve's in Germanic; 
 
 Send him home. 
 
SOXGS. 
 
 lib 
 
 My luve's in Ojrtnanid, 
 Fif^lititi'T liravc for royalty ; 
 Ele may ne'er his Jcanie see ; 
 
 Si'iiil him lianu', send him hame ; 
 lie niiy ne'er l]is Joanie see; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 
 He's as I)rave as biave can be ; 
 
 Send him hame, send hiin hame ; 
 Our faes are ten to three ; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 Our f.ies are ten to three ; 
 He maun eitlier fa' or flee, 
 In the cause of Kiyalty ; 
 
 Send him hame, send hitn hame; 
 la the cause of Kiyalty ; 
 
 Send him hame. 
 
 Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
 
 lionnie dame, winsome dame ; 
 Ydur luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
 
 Winsome dime. 
 Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
 Hut he fell in Germanie, 
 Fightin;^ l)rave for loyalty, 
 
 jMournfu' dame, mournfu* dame ; 
 Fij,'!.ting lirave for loyalty, 
 
 Jlouinfu' dame. 
 
 He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 
 
 Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; 
 He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 
 
 Willie's Ejane ! 
 He will ne'er come ower the sea, 
 To his luve and ain countrie. 
 This waild's nae mair for me ; 
 
 Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; 
 This warld's nie mair for me ; 
 
 Willie's gane ! 
 
 TO THE KYE WI* ME. 
 
 WAS na* she worthy o' kisses, 
 Far niie than twa or three, 
 
 And woithy o' biid.il blisses, 
 Wha gaeil to the kye wi* me. 
 
 O gang to the kye wi' me, my love. 
 
 Gang to the kye wi' nie, 
 Ower the burn and through the broofflj 
 And I'll be merry wi' thee. 
 
 1 hae a house a biggin, 
 
 Anither that's like to fa'. 
 And 1 love a scorn fu' lassie, 
 Wha grieves nie warst of a'. 
 
 O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 
 
 O gang to the kye wi' me. 
 Ye'll ti. ink nae mair o* your mithcr 
 Amang the broom wi' me. 
 
 I hae a hnn^^e a bi<;^in, 
 Anither that's like to fa'. 
 
 I hae noo the lass'e wi* bairn, 
 Which vexes me warst of a'. 
 
 gang to the kye wi' me, ray lovsj, 
 Gang to the kye wi' me, 
 
 1 hae an auld mither at hame. 
 
 Will doodle it on hei knee. 
 
 THE IMILLER O' DEE. 
 Tune—" The Miller of Dee." 
 
 There was a jolly miller once 
 
 Lived on the river Dee ; 
 Ho wrought and sung from morn till uighik 
 
 No lark more blythe than he. 
 And this the burden of his song 
 
 For ever used to be ; 
 I care for nobody, no, not I, 
 
 If nobody cares for me. 
 A.iid this, §"c. 
 
 AYlien spring began its merry career, 
 
 O, then his heart was giy ; 
 He feared not summer's sultry heat. 
 
 Nor winter's cold decay. 
 No foresight marred the miller's cheei 
 
 Who oft (lid sing and sav, 
 Let others live from year to year, 
 
 I'll live from dav to dav. 
 No foresiglif, §'c. 
 
 Then, like this miller, bold and free, 
 
 Let us be glad and sing ; 
 The days of youth are made for glee, 
 
 And life is on the wing. 
 The song shall pass from me to you. 
 
 Around this jovial ring. 
 Let heart, and hand, and voice agree : 
 
 And so, God save our kin?.* 
 Tlie song, §-c. 
 
 SAW YE MY FATHER? 
 Tune-'" Saw ye my father }" 
 
 " O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my mother, 
 
 Or saw ye my true love John ?" 
 " 1 saw not your father, I saw not vour mother 
 
 But I saw your true love John." 
 
 " It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae 
 light. 
 And the bells they ring ding dong ; 
 He's met with some delay, that cauacth him to 
 stay ; 
 But he will be here ere long." 
 
 The surly auld carle did naething but snarle. 
 And Jennie's face it grew red ; 
 
 ♦ From an old MS. copy. The s.ong seems to hatt 
 been first printed in Herd's Colleevion, 1776. 
 
176 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 Yet, though he often sighed, he re'er a word 
 icplieil, 
 Till all were asleep in bed. 
 
 Up Johnie rose, and to the door he goes, 
 
 And gently tilled at the pin. 
 The lassie, taking tent, unto the door she went, 
 
 And she opened and let him in. 
 
 •' And are ye come at last, and do I hoid ye fast ? 
 
 And is my .Fohnie true ?" 
 " I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's 1 like 
 mysell, 
 
 Sae lang sail I love you." 
 
 " Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock, 
 
 And craw wliau it is day : 
 Your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gowd, 
 
 Aad your wings of the silver grey." 
 
 The cock proved fiuse, and untrue he was ; 
 
 For he crew an hour ower sune. 
 The lassie th<iught it day, when she sent her 
 love away, 
 
 \nd i"; was but a blink o' the mune 
 
 TAM O' THE BALLOCH 
 
 H. AINSLEY. 
 
 Tune—" The Campbells are coming. 
 
 In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tarn, 
 Wcel stcntit wi' brochan and braxie-ham ; 
 A breist like a build, and a back like a door, 
 And a wapping wame that hung down afore. 
 
 But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tara ? 
 For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow 
 
 tram ; 
 Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out. 
 And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout. 
 
 ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent, 
 Wi' a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent, 
 The strength o' a slot — the wecht o' a cow ; 
 Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grew. 
 
 1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean 
 
 Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ; 
 Now yc leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a 
 
 rain ; 
 O what can be wrang wi' ye, IMuirland Tarn ? 
 
 Has Rome dowg o' the yirth set your gear abrced ? 
 Hac they broken your heart or broken your head ? 
 Hae they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel ? 
 Ot, Tammy, my man, liae ye seen the deil ? 
 
 Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale ? 
 Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouvh like a whale ? 
 
 Now ye peep like a piiwt ; ye glumph and yi 
 
 gaunt ; 
 Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned i saunt ? 
 
 Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir; 
 We tell our distress ere we look for a cure: 
 There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ; 
 Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye Lae mairl 
 
 Oh ! ncebour, it neither was thresher nor thiefi 
 That deepened my ee, and lichtened my beef; 
 But the word that malves me saewaefu' and wan, 
 Is^Tam o' the Balloch's a married man I 
 
 HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD. 
 
 Haud a.va, bide awa! 
 
 Haud awa frae me, Donald : 
 I've seen the man I well could love, 
 But that was never thee, Donald. 
 Wi' plumed bonnet waiving proud. 
 
 And claymore by thy knee, Donald, 
 
 And Lord o' Moray's mountains high, 
 
 Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald. 
 
 Haud awa, bide awa, 
 
 Haud awa frae me, Donald, 
 What sairs your mountains and your lochty 
 I caima swim nor flee Donald : 
 But if ye'll come when yon f lir sun 
 Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald, 
 I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots. 
 And take the hills wi' thee, Donald. 
 
 One of the old verses runs thus :— 
 
 Hand awa, bide awa, 
 
 Ilaud awa frae me, Donald, 
 Keep awa your cauld hand 
 
 Frae my warm knee Donald. 
 
 AULD ROB MORRIS. 
 ,Tune—" Auld Rob Morris." 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 AuLD Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen. 
 
 He 8 the king o* guid fallows, and wale o' auld 
 
 men ; 
 He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscor* 
 
 too ; 
 Auld Rob IMorris is the man yc maun lo'e. 
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Haud your tongue, mother, a id let that abee ; 
 For his eild and my eild can never agree : 
 They'll never agree, anil that will be seen ; 
 For be is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 177 
 
 MoTiini. 
 Hand yoiir tonp:in>, iloclitor, and lay l)y your iniJc, 
 Fur he is tlie bi idcgriimn, and ye'se he tb.e bride ; 
 lie A\:\\\ lie l>y yi'nr sidf, and kiss yi'u too ; 
 Aald Rob Moi is is the nuu ye maun lo'e. 
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Auld Rob RInrris, 1 kt'ii iiini fu' weel, 
 His back stii-ks out like ony peat-creel ; 
 He's outsliinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ; 
 Auld Rob Jl'jrris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man. 
 Yet his anld brass will buy you a new pan ; 
 Then, dochter. ye should iiu be sa ill to shoe, 
 For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun Ip'e. 
 
 DAUGHTF.K. 
 
 Rut auld Rob Morris I never will hae, 
 Ria back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey ; 
 I had rather die than live \vi* him a year ; 
 6ae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear. 
 
 THE MALT-MAN. 
 
 The m,i!t-man comes on Munday, 
 
 He craves wonder sair. 
 Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller. 
 
 Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair. 
 I took him into the pantry, 
 
 And gave him some good cock-broo, 
 Syne paid 'aim upon a gantree, 
 
 As hostlcr-wives should do. 
 
 When malt-men come for siller, 
 
 And gaugers with wands o'er soon. 
 Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar, 
 
 And clear them as I have done. 
 Tliis l-ewith, when cunzie is scanty, 
 
 Will lieep them frae making din ; 
 The knack I learu'd frae an auld aunty, 
 
 The snackest of a' my kin. 
 
 The malt-man is right cunning, 
 
 But I can be as slee. 
 And he may crack of his winning, 
 
 WHien he clears scores with me ; 
 For come when he likes, I'm ready; 
 
 But if frae home I be, 
 Let him wait on our kind Uidy, 
 
 She'll answer a bill for me. 
 
 THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. 
 
 There was a wife wnn'd in a glen, 
 And she had dnchters nine or ten, 
 
 That sought the house baith but and ben, 
 To find their mam a snishiug. 
 
 Tlic avid trife heijriitt the /ire, 
 Tlif. aulil wiff. luiieit tfifjire, 
 Tlie auld u'ije uIddii the fire, 
 IShc (lied for lac/i if syiislting.* 
 
 Her mill into some bole had fiwn, 
 Wh.itrccks, (|iiotb she, let it be gavf n, 
 For I maun hie a young goodiiian 
 
 Shall furnish me with snishing. 
 The auld wife, §*c. 
 
 Her eldest dochter said right batild, 
 Fy, mother, mind that now ye' re auld. 
 And if ye with a youiiker wald. 
 
 He'll wa^te away your snishing. 
 2'lie auld icij'e, ^'C. 
 
 The younijest dochter ga'c a shout, 
 O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out. 
 Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout. 
 
 Your mill cm had nae snishing. 
 The auld wife, SfC. 
 
 Ye lied, ye llmmers, cries auld mump, 
 For I hae baith a tooth and stump. 
 And will nae langer live in dump, 
 
 By wantins; of niv snishinjj. 
 'The auld wife, Sec 
 
 Thole ye, says Peg, th,at pawky slul^ 
 Mother, if ye can crack a nut. 
 Then we will ii' consent to it. 
 
 That you shall have a siiisUing. 
 The auld wfe, S^c. 
 
 The auld ane did agree to that. 
 And they a pistol-bullet gat ; 
 She powerfu'ly began to crack, 
 
 To win lieisell a snishing. 
 The auld wife, §'c. 
 
 Rraw sport it was to see her rhow't. 
 And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and ro^r'V, 
 While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd, 
 
 And ay she cuis'd [loor stumpy. 
 The auld wife, §t. 
 
 At last she ga'e a desperate squeei. 
 Which brak the lang touth by the ceee. 
 And syne pmir stum|)y was at case, 
 
 But she tint hopes of snishing. 
 The auld wife, §-c. 
 
 Slie of the task begin to tire. 
 And frae her dochters did retire^ 
 Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire^ 
 
 And died lor hick of snishiag. 
 The anld wfe, SfC. 
 
 Ye auld wives, notice well this truth, 
 Assoun as ye"re past murk of mouth. 
 
 • Siiishing, in its llleial meaninir, is snuff m.ide ol 
 tobnceo ; but, in tins soni;, it nie;u)s soraeUme* coa- 
 tentment, a husbanij, lovc» money, d^c. 
 
 03 
 
178 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Ne'er do what's only fit for youth. 
 And leave utT thoughts of snishin^ : 
 
 Else, like t/iis icife beyimt the fire, 
 I'eV bairns against you will conspire ; 
 JS'^or will ye get, unit is ye hire, 
 A. young man with your snishing. 
 
 BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 
 
 O BESST Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 Thev are twa bonny lassies, 
 They bigg'd a how'r on yon burn-brae, 
 
 And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. 
 Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen. 
 
 And thought I ne'er could alter. 
 But Mary Gray's twa pawky een, 
 
 They gar my fancy falter. 
 
 Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap , 
 
 She smiles like a May morning. 
 When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap, 
 
 The hills with rays adorning : 
 WTiite is her neck, saft is her hand, 
 
 Her waist and feet's fu' genty ; 
 fl'ith ilka grace she can command ; 
 
 Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty. 
 
 And Mary's locks are like a craw. 
 
 Her een like diamonds glances ; 
 She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw. 
 
 She kills whene'er she dances ; 
 Blvtlie as a kid, witli wit at will. 
 
 She blooming, tight, and tall is ; 
 And guides her airs sae gracefu' still. 
 
 O Juve, she's like thy Pallas. 
 
 Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 Ye unco sair oppress us ; 
 Our fancies jee between you twa, 
 
 Ye are sic bonny lassies : 
 Wae's me ! for baith I canna get, 
 
 To ane by law we're stented ; 
 Then I'll diaw cuts, and take my fate. 
 
 And be with aue contented. 
 
 BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. 
 
 It was in and about the Martinmas time, 
 Wiicn the gieen leaves were a-failing, 
 
 That Sir J(d:n Graeme in the west country 
 Fell in love with 13urbara Allan. 
 
 He Bont his man down through the town. 
 To the place where she was dwelling, 
 
 O ha-<te, and come to my master dear, 
 Gin je be I!.trbara Allan. 
 
 O hooly, hdoly ruse she up, 
 
 To the |ilacc where he was lying. 
 
 And when she drew the curtain by. 
 Young man, I think you're dying 
 
 O its I'm sick, and very very sick. 
 
 And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan. 
 O the better for me ye's never be, 
 
 Tho' your heart's blood were a-spilling 
 
 O dinna ye mind, young man, said she. 
 When he was in the tavern a-drinking, 
 
 That ye made the healths gae round and rouad 
 And slighted Barbara Allan ? 
 
 He turn'd his face unto the wall, 
 And death was with him dealing ; 
 
 Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all. 
 And be kind to Barbara Allan. 
 
 And slowly, slowly raise she up, 
 
 And slowly, slowly left him ; 
 And sighing, said, she cou'd not stay. 
 
 Since death of life had reft him. 
 
 She had not gane a mile but twa. 
 
 When she heard the dead-bell ringing, 
 
 And every jow that the dead-bsll gied 
 It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan. 
 
 O mother, mother, make my bed^ 
 
 O make it saft and narrow. 
 Since my love dy'd for me to-day, 
 
 I'll die for him to-morrow. 
 
 ETTRICK BANKS. 
 
 On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night, 
 
 At glowmiug when the sheep drave haiMj 
 I met my lassie braw and tight, 
 
 Came wading, barefoot, a' her lane : 
 I\Iy heart grew light, I ran, I flang 
 
 IMy arms about her lily neck. 
 And kiss'd and clipp'd her there fou lang ; 
 
 Sly worda they were na niony, feck. 
 
 I said, my lassie, will ye go 
 
 To the highland hills, the Earsc to leam - 
 I'd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew, 
 
 When ye come to the brigg of Earn. 
 At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash. 
 
 And herrings at the Brooiiiy Law ; 
 Choar up your heart, my Ijonny lass. 
 
 There's gear to win we never saw. 
 
 All d:\y when we have wrou<Tht enough, 
 
 When winter, frosts, ami snaw begin, 
 Soon as the sun gaes west the loch. 
 
 At nis,'ht when you sit down to spin, 
 I'll screw my pipes and play a spring : 
 
 And thus the weary night will end, 
 Till the tender kid and laMib-tinic bnnjj 
 
 Our pleasant summer back aj;ain. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 179 
 
 Svne wVicn the trees are in tlicir bloom, 
 
 And gowans glent o'er ilka fieiil, 
 r II meet my 1 i>^s anionjj; the hroum, 
 
 And lead yoii to my suiiimei-shield. 
 Then far frae a' their scorntu' din. 
 
 Tint make the kindly hearts their s|)ort, 
 We'll laui^h and kiss, and dance and sing. 
 
 And gar the langest day seem short. 
 
 THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.* 
 
 DAVID MALLKT. 
 
 T^ne—" The Birks of Invennay. 
 
 The smiling morn, the breathing spring. 
 
 Invite the tiinefu' birds to sing ; 
 
 And, while they warble from the spray, 
 
 Love melts the universal lay. 
 
 Let us, Amanda, timelv wise. 
 
 Like them, improve the hour that flies • 
 
 And in soft raptures waste the day. 
 
 Among the birks of Invermay. 
 
 For soon t!ie winter of the year. 
 And age, life's winter, will appear ; 
 At this thy living bloom will fade, 
 As that will strip the verdant shade. 
 Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, 
 The feather'fl songsters are no more ; 
 And when they drop, and we decay, 
 Adieu the i)irks of Invermay ! 
 
 THE BRAES O" BALLENDEAN. 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 T^ni—" The Braes o' Ballendean." 
 
 Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain 
 Ae evening reclineil, to discover his pain ; 
 So sad, yet so sweetly, he waibled his woe. 
 The winds ceased to breathe, and the fviuntain to 
 
 flow ; 
 Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him 
 
 complain, 
 Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. 
 
 • Invermay is a small woody plen, watered by the 
 rivulet May, which there joins tlie river Earn. It is 
 Bboiit five miles above ihe bridsjf of Earn, and nearly 
 nine from Perth. The feat of Mr Belsches, the pro. 
 prictor of this jioctical region, and wlio takes from it 
 his territnrial dcsii^nation, stands at the bfjltom of the 
 glen. Beth sides of the lit t'e vale are com pletelv wood- 
 ed, chiefly witli birehes; and it is altogether, in point 
 of natural loveliness, a ^celle worthv of ihe attention 
 of the amatory muse. The com se of the May is so 
 sunk among rocks, that it cannot lie seen, but it can 
 Msdv be traced in us I rogress by another sense. The 
 peculiar sound which it makes in rushing through one 
 p.u-iiciilar part of its narrow, rugged, .ind tortuous 
 thoDnel, has occasioned the descriptive appellation of 
 the Hiimbtc-nuitili/e to be attached to that quarter of 
 the vale. Invermay may be at once and correctly de- 
 scribed as the fiiirest possible little miniature si>eciincn 
 i>f cascade scenery. 
 
 The Sling appeared in the 4th \olumeof the Tea- 
 vable Miscellaiiv. 
 
 How happy, he cried, my moments nice flew, 
 Ere Chine's bright charms first llasli'd in my 
 
 view ! 
 Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn eoulii 
 
 snivey ; 
 Nor smiled the fair Kiorning mair cheerful than 
 
 they. 
 Now scents of distress |)lease only my sit'ht ; 
 I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light 
 
 Through changes in vain relief I pursue, 
 All. all but con^jiiie my griefs to renew ; 
 From suri^liine to zejiliyrsand shades we lepair— 
 To sunsliine we fly from too piercing an air ; 
 But love's ardent Are burns always the same. 
 No winter can cool it, no summer iutlame. 
 
 But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; 
 The breezes grow cool, not Streplion's desires : 
 I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind. 
 Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. 
 .Ml, wretch ! how can lil'e be worthy thy care? 
 To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. • 
 
 THE BRUME O' THE COWDEN- 
 KNOWES. 
 
 Tune — " The Brume o' the Cowdcnknowes." 
 
 How blyth, ilk morn, was I to see 
 
 My swain coine ower the hill ! 
 He skipt the burn and flew to me : 
 I met him with good will. 
 
 ()/(, r/ie brume, the. honntc, hnintie brume I 
 
 The lirinue ii' the Cmfi/eit/nit wes / 
 I wish I u-(re ivith my dear swain, 
 }Vilh his pijie and ini/ yowes. 
 
 I wanted neither yowe nor lamb, 
 
 While his flock near me lay ; 
 He gatlirr'd in my sheep at night. 
 
 And cheer'd me a' the day. 
 
 Oh, the brume, §'C. 
 
 He tuned his jiipe, and play'd Sie 8weet» 
 
 The birds sat listening bye ; 
 E en the dull cattle s.'ood and gazed, 
 
 Chann'd with the nielodye. 
 
 Oh, the brume, S^c. 
 
 While thus we spent our time, by turns. 
 
 Betwixt our flncks and play, 
 I envied not the fairest dame, 
 
 Though e'er so rich or g ly. 
 
 Oh, the brume, §c. 
 
 • The cdcbrated Tenducci \\fei\ losing thi; sorR, 
 wih great ifiVet, in St. (Vi ilia's Hall, at Edinburgh, 
 about (ilty \ears Ago. Mr 'l'\tler, who was a great pa. 
 tr.in ol that oliMilile place of anuisiniciK, says, in nis 
 Dis-eitation on Scottish Music, " Wlio could heal 
 with iiiseii«.bi!ity, oruiihoul being moved in the high- 
 est degree, le diicfi -iiii.', ' I'll i ever leave thee," or, 
 • The Uraes o' Bjlleudean." Tlic air uai cunipuscd b» 
 Oiw.ild. 
 
^80 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Hard fate, that I should banish'd be, 
 Gang heavily, and mourn, 
 
 Because I loved the kindest swain 
 That ever yet was burn. 
 
 Oh, the brume, Sfc. 
 
 He did obli;re me every hour ; 
 
 Cou\d 1 but faithful' be ? 
 He stawe my heart ; could I refuse 
 
 Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 
 
 Oh, the brume, §"c. 
 
 My doggie, and my little kit 
 That held my wee soup whey, 
 
 My plaidie, brooch, and crookit stick, 
 May now lie useless by. 
 
 Oh, the brume, ^t. 
 
 Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu ! 
 
 Farewjel, a' pleasures there ! 
 Ye gods, restore me to my swain—. 
 
 Is a' I crave or care. 
 
 Oh, the brume, y-c* 
 
 THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE 
 CRAFT. 
 
 Tun^— •• The Carle he cam ower the Craft." 
 
 The carle he cam ower the craft, 
 
 Wi' his beard iiew-.«haven ; 
 He looked at me as he'd been daft, — • 
 
 The carle trowed that I wad hae hira. 
 Hnut awa ! I winna hae him ! 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
 For a' his beard new-shaven, 
 
 Ne'er a bit o' uie will hae him. 
 
 A siller brooch he gae me neist, 
 
 To fasten on my curchie nookit ; 
 I wore 't a wee upon my breist, 
 
 IJut soon, alake ! the tongue o't crook' ; 
 And sae may his ; I winna hae him ! 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
 Twice-a-bairii's a lassie's jest ; 
 
 Sae ony foul for me may hae him. 
 
 The carle hiis nae fault but ane ; 
 
 For he has land an<l dollars plenty ; 
 Dut, wae's me for him, skin and bane 
 
 Is no for a plump lass of twenty. 
 Hout awa, I winna hae him ! 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna h,u; him ! 
 What signifies his dirty riggs. 
 
 And cash, without a man wi' them ? 
 
 • As the reader may be supposed nrxious to know 
 •omcthiiiK of the pl.ne wliiili h.is thus hccii the subject 
 of lo much poetry, thocdilor Ihniksit proper to iiitorm 
 him, that, ■' the (."owdcnknowcs," or, as sometimes 
 (pt'lk'il 111 old writings, the Ciildinpkiiowcs, are two 
 little hills on the east side of the vale of l.audcidale, 
 BiTwickshiie. They lie immediately to the south of 
 the village of Krirlston, ccliflnated as the ru^id^•llce of 
 >hc earliest known ijeotlish poet, Thomas the Khyiner, 
 
 But should my ankert daddie gar 
 
 Me tak him 'gainst my inclination, 
 1 warn the fumbler to beware 
 
 That antlers dinna claim their station 
 Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
 I'm flee'd to crack the haly band, 
 
 S.ie lawty says, I shou'd na hae him 
 
 THE WEE THING. 
 
 MACKEIL. 
 
 TuTK — " Bonnie Dundee." 
 
 Saw ye my wee thing ? saw ye my ain thing? 
 
 Saw ye my true love down on yon lea ? 
 Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaii>- 
 in'? 
 Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- 
 tree ? 
 
 Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it b milk 
 white ; 
 
 Dark is the blue o' her saft-roUing ee ; 
 Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : 
 
 Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ? — 
 
 I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain 
 thing, 
 Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea ; 
 But I met my bunnie thing late in the gloaniin. 
 Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- 
 tree. 
 
 Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was 
 milk-white ; 
 
 Dark was the blue o' her saft-iolling ee ; 
 Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses; 
 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me ! — 
 
 It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain 
 thing, 
 
 It was na my true love ye met by the tree : 
 Proud is her leal heart ! and modest her nature ! 
 
 She never loed onie till ance she loed me. 
 
 Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary; 
 
 Aft ha? she sat, when a bairn, on my knee ; 
 Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer. 
 
 Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to 
 
 thee !— 
 
 It was, then, your Mary ; she's frae Castle- 
 Cary ; 
 It was, then, your true love I met by the 
 tree : 
 Proud as her heart is. and modest her nature. 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gae to nie. — 
 
 Sair gloom'd his dark brow — blood-ieJ hi# 
 cheek grew — 
 Wild flasli'd the tire frae his red-rolling ee ' 
 
SONGS. 
 
 81 
 
 \e'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and Tl r widow slie's youthful, ■*.iii lu'ver ae hair 
 
 Viiui" si-oi Mill;; I'l l.e \v;iiir ul' cln' wciniig, iiiiit Ikis a poivl skaii* 
 
 Defend ye, faust- traitor! iur lunliy m- lie. — ( )l' fvci y thj-.ii iini-lv ; she's witty anil fuir, 
 
 And li.is a rich jniiituii', uiy kiiiilie- 
 
 Awa wi' h/Pguilini^ cried the youth, sinilm!^ : 
 Aff went the binnet; tlie liiit-wlii:e locks 
 floe ; 
 
 V\'kat could vc wi>h l)ctti.-r, your pleaiure tc 
 crown, 
 I Than a widow, the honniest toast in the town. 
 
 ebcltcd plaid la'injj, her white bosuni shaw- I With, Naetliin>; hut — iIimw in yotii- stool and sit 
 
 Fair stoiid the loved uia.d ui' the daik-roll- 
 
 .,. I 
 
 Is It ipy wee thin^ ! is it mine ain thing ! 
 
 Is it my true love here that I see ! — 
 J.iniie, foi-jjie me ; your lieart's constant to 
 
 me ; 
 I'll never mair wander, dear ' ddie, frae thee ! 
 
 THE WHITE COCKADE. 
 
 Ttinr—" The White Cockade." 
 
 Mv love wa-. imrn in Aberdeen, 
 The bonniest l,;d that e'er was seen ; 
 But now he utakei our hearts fu' sad — 
 He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade. 
 O, lie's a riinting nming blade I 
 O, lie's a hrisk and a honni/ lad ! 
 Bitide rcliat mny, r<iy hctut is pl'id 
 To see my lad wi' hi.i tcliite coclidde. 
 
 O, leeze me on the phllabee;. 
 The hairv houj^h, and gaiter'd leg ! 
 Rut aye the thing that glads my ee, 
 Is the white coc-kade uboifu the bree. 
 O, lit's a ranting, &-c. 
 
 I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel. 
 My rii)i)l;ng kunie, and s))iimiug wheel, 
 To buy my lad a tartan plaid, 
 A hraidswoid and a white cockade. 
 O, he's a ranting, Sfc. 
 
 I'll fell my rokely and my tow, 
 Jly gude grey mare atid hawket cow, 
 That every loyal Isuchan lad 
 May tok the field wi' his white cockade. 
 O 'le's a ranting, Sfc. 
 
 THE WIDOW, 
 
 ALLAN RA.MSAY. 
 
 The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, 
 The willow can shaiie, and the widow can sew, 
 And niony braw thing* the widow can do ; 
 
 '1 hen have at the widow, my l.uldie. 
 With courage att.iek her, baith early and late: 
 To kiss her aiul dap her ye inaunna he blate : 
 Speak Well, and do better ; fur that's the best 
 gate 
 
 To win a young widow, m> LuiOie. 
 
 down. 
 And sj'ort with the widow, my laddie. 
 
 Tl'.en till her, and kill her with courtesie dead. 
 Though staik love liiid kindness be all you cac 
 
 plead ; 
 Be heartsouie and airv, and hope to succeed 
 
 With the Ixinnie giv widow, mv laddie. 
 Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd Lave it to 
 
 vrald ; 
 For fortune ay favours the active and bauld, 
 But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld 
 
 Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 
 
 THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIZ. 
 
 OLD VERSES. 
 
 Tung — " The ycllow-haii'd LadiUt." 
 
 The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae, 
 Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nane o' them 
 
 gae; 
 And aye as she niilkit, she merrily sang. 
 The yellow-hair'd luddle shall be n.y gudenaan. 
 And aye as she jnilkit, .she nierrily sang. 
 The ydluw-hair^d laddie shall be my aude- 
 man. 
 
 The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin. 
 The yowes are new dipt, and they winna buch* 
 
 in; 
 They winna bucht in, although I should dee; 
 Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me. 
 Attd aye us she milhit, ifc. 
 
 The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, come 
 
 ben ; 
 The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn. 
 Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang 
 
 sour, 
 I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. 
 It's ae tang half huur, and we'll e'en inuk it 
 
 three. 
 For the y Mow-hair'' d laddie my gudeman 
 shall be.» 
 
 • From the Tea-Table Mi.scclLuiy, 17S4. 
 
183 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 IHE YOUNG LATRD AND EDINBURGH 
 KATIE. 
 
 RAMSAy. 
 
 Tune — " Tartan Screen." 
 
 Now wat ye wha T met yestreen, 
 
 Coming down the street, my joe ? 
 My mistress, in her taitan screen, 
 
 Fu' boniiie, braw, and sweet, my joe ! 
 ]My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht 
 
 That never wiss'd a lover ill. 
 Sin' ye're out o' your niither's sicht, 
 
 Let's tak' a walk up to the hill.* 
 
 Oh. Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, 
 
 And leave the dinsome toun a while ? 
 The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, 
 
 And a' creation's gaun to smile. 
 The mavis, nichtingale, and lark. 
 
 The bleating lambs anil whistling liynd, 
 In ilka dale, green slww, and park, 
 
 Will nourish health, and glad your mind. 
 
 Sune as the clear gudeman o' dny 
 
 Does bend his niornin' draught o* dew, 
 We'll gae to some burn-side and plav, 
 
 And gather (louirs to busk your brow. 
 We'll pou the daisies on the groen. 
 
 The luc-ken-^owans frae the bog ; 
 Between hands, now and then, we'll lean 
 
 And sport upon the velvet fog. 
 
 There 's, up into a pleasant glen, 
 
 A wee piece frae my f ither's tower, 
 A canny, saft, and Hou-ery den. 
 
 Which circling birks have form'd a bower. 
 Whene'er the sun grows high and warm. 
 
 We'll to the caller shade lemove ; 
 There will I lock thee in my arm, 
 
 And love ai. I kiss, and kiss and love. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN' OWER 
 
 ME; 
 
 IN ANSWER TO THE VOUN'G LAIRD AND 
 EDINUUKUII KATV. 
 
 RA.MSAV. 
 
 A une — " My Mother's aye glowrin' ower me.** 
 
 tJlv mother's aye glowrin* ower nic, 
 Though she did the same before me ; 
 
 * It i-i qnilp ns rRmarka'ilfl as it Is Irtit'. tliiit llic 
 mod" iif hoiirtsliip iimiiii; prople oftlio iiiiiMli' ranks 
 ill Kdinbnrili Ims uiidiTiiOiio a cumiilite <liiin.M> 
 in the course of no morr tli in Ihn I ist tlilrly yciirs. 
 It iis(,'(l to lie custdiiriry fell li>virs to wiilk tdsi'tlicr 
 for liciiiri, l>()lli iliirint; tlic diy an I llie evoiiii:;, in 
 ilio Mp ulows, i)r tlif Kiii'm I'iirk, or llio li-lils hum 
 D'i'upii'd l)y ilir New Touii ; pr'.eticrs now only 
 known ti) arlizuns iin:l srri iiiu'-ijirj''. 
 
 TliB song appeared in the Tea-Tublo Miscellany, 
 
 I canna get leave 
 To look at my love, 
 Or else she'd be like to devour me. 
 
 Right fain wad I tak' your oHTer, 
 Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne my tocher 
 Then, Sandy, ye'll fret, 
 And wyte your puir Kate, 
 Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer 
 
 For though my fatlier has plenty 
 Of silver, and plenishing dainty, 
 
 Yet he's unco sweir 
 
 To twine wi' his gear ; 
 And sae we had need to be tenty. 
 
 Tutor my ])arent' wi' caution, 
 
 Be wylie in ilka i otion ; 
 
 Brag weel o' -our land, 
 And, there's tiiy leal hand, 
 
 Win them, I'll be at your devotion. 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 OLD VERSES. 
 
 Tune—" Wandering Willie." 
 
 Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie ' 
 Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame : 
 
 Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bough! 
 tnce ; 
 Now I have gotten my Willie again. 
 
 Through the lang muir I have followed my 
 Willie ; 
 Through the lang muir I have followed liina 
 hame. 
 Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; 
 Love ni w rewa ds all my sorrow and pain. 
 
 Here awa, there awa, here awa, .Willie ! 
 
 Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! 
 Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, 
 
 Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. • 
 
 CA.M* YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE. 
 
 Cam' ye o'er frae Frai.vC, came ye doun b) 
 
 Liinnoii, 
 Saw ye Geoidie Whelps and his bonny woman 
 War' ye at the place ca'd thi kittle-housie. 
 Saw ye Ueordie's grace, ridin' on a goosie. 
 
 Gporilio he's a man, there 's little doiiht o't, 
 He's (lone a' he can, wha can do without il ; 
 Down tlicro cam' a blade, .iiikiii' like alor<lie, 
 lie wad (Irlvu a trade at the loom o' Geurdie.1 
 
 * From II rd's Collft'-tion, I77I1. 
 t 'I'liiM piniiily alludes to Ciiunt Koui' gwnark 
 nnd tlie Cluuun. 
 
SONGS, 
 
 I8a 
 
 TIic the cl;iitV wltl- bad, l)lytliely may we niffcr, 
 Gin we get a wati, it iiiak'n little ilitTcr ; 
 We liae tint our jilaiil, lidiinct, lielt anil sworriie, 
 lid's and nuillins braid, bat we hae a Geoidie. 
 
 Hoy fiT Sandy Don, hey for cockolorum, 
 Hey lor Bobbin' Juliu and his Highland qiin- 
 
 ruin ; 
 Many a sword and lance swings at Highland 
 
 hurdle, 
 Huw they'll skij) and daucc o'er the bum o' 
 
 Geui'die. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
 
 ANOTHER SET. 
 
 The lawland l.ifls think they are fine; 
 But O they're vain and idly i;auily ! 
 
 How niudi unlike tn.it fjraeelii' mien. 
 And manly looks of my iili,'hl.ind Iidilie ? 
 O nil/ hiiiinij, biiiini/ liiyldnuil Imtilie, 
 Mg /lani/sonie, c/iirniniy liiylilnnil Iw/die ; 
 Mill/ heaven still guard, and lore nwnrd 
 Our lawland lass and lur hiyldand laddie. 
 
 If I were free at will to eluise 
 
 To be tile w<a!thie,-t lawland lady, 
 
 I'd take yoiin^ Donald without trews, 
 With bonnet blue, and belted jdaidy. 
 O my hunnij, ^c. 
 
 The brawest t)eau in borrows, town, 
 In a' his airs, with art made ready, 
 
 Coni|)ar'il to him, he's but a clown ; 
 He's finer far iii's taifan plaidy. 
 O my buiiuy, Ifc. 
 
 O'er henty hill with him I'll run. 
 
 And leave my lawland kin and darty ; 
 
 Frae winter's cauld, and suinmer's sun, 
 He'll sereen me with his highland plaidy. 
 O my bunny, ifc. 
 
 A painted room, ami silken bed, 
 
 May please a l.iwlind laird and lady ; 
 
 But I can kiss, and be as ulad. 
 
 Behind a bush m's liighland plaidy. 
 O my bonny, ^'c. 
 
 Few compliments between us pass, 
 1 ca' him my dear highland laddie, 
 
 And he ca's me his lawland l.iss, 
 
 Syne rows nie in beneath liis ulaidy. 
 O my bunny. &fc. 
 
 N'ae greater joy I'll e'er pretend. 
 
 Than thit his love provL" true and steady, 
 Like mine to bun, which ne'er shall end, 
 
 While heaven |)resei'ves my highland laddie. 
 O mj/ bonny, ^c. 
 
 JENNY NETTLES. 
 
 Saw ye Jenny Nettles, 
 
 Jenny Nettles. Jenny Nettles, 
 Saw ye Jenny Nettles 
 
 Coming frae the maiket? 
 Bag and baggage on her back. 
 
 Her fee and bountith in her lap; 
 Bag and baggage on her back, 
 
 And a babie in her oxtei ? 
 
 I met ayont the kairny, 
 
 Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
 Singing till her bairny, 
 
 Robin Rattle's bastard ; 
 To flee the dool upo' the stool, 
 
 And ilka une that mocks her. 
 She round about seeks Robin out, 
 
 To staji it in his oxter 
 
 Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, 
 
 Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle; 
 Fy. fy ! Robin Rattle, 
 
 Use Jenny Nettles kindly : 
 Score out the blame, and shun the shame, 
 
 Anil without mair debate o't, 
 Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain 
 
 The Icel and leesome gate o't. 
 
 O MERRY IMAY THE MAID BE. 
 
 SIR JOHN CI.EnK or ITNKVCUICK. 
 Tune—" Merry may the Maid be." 
 
 O, MERRY may the maid be 
 
 That marries the miller! 
 For, foul day or fair day. 
 
 He's aye bringing till her. 
 H'as aye a penny in his pouch, 
 
 For dinner oi- for supper ; 
 Wi" beef, and pease, anil melting cheese, 
 
 An' lumps o' yellow butter. 
 
 Behind the door stands I)ags o' meal. 
 
 And in the ark is plenty. 
 And goorl hard cakes his iiiither bakes. 
 
 And mony a sweeter dainty, 
 A good lat sow, a sleeky cow. 
 
 Are standing in the byre; 
 Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou. 
 
 Is playing round the fire. 
 
 Good signs are these, my mitl.er says 
 
 An<l bids me take the miller; 
 A miller's wife's a merry wife. 
 
 Anil he's aye bringing till her. 
 For meal or maut she'll never want, 
 
 Ti'l wood and water's scanty ; 
 As king's there's cocks and clockin Leni» 
 
 She'll aye hae eggs in plenty. 
 
184 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 THE TAILOR. 
 
 The Tailni f.ll tliro' the bed tliinil)lcs an' a*, 
 The Tailiir fell thro' the lied thiiiililes an' a', 
 The blankets were thin ami the sheets they were 
 
 sma', 
 The Tailor fell thro' the bed thim'^l"s an' a*. 
 
 TTie lassie was sleepy and thoiir;ht nn nae ill ; 
 The weather was caiild and the hussie lay still ; 
 The ninth |)art o' m.mliood may sure hue its 
 
 will ; 
 She kent weel tlie Tailor could do her nae ill. 
 
 Tlie Tailnr grew dioo-^y, and thought in a 
 
 dream, 
 How he caulked out the claith, and then felled 
 
 in tiie seam ; 
 A while avonf midniu'ht, before the eocks craw, 
 The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a". 
 
 Tlie day it has come, and the nicht it has gone, 
 S.iid the bonnie young lassie when sighing 
 
 alane : 
 Since men are but scant, it wad gee me n:je 
 
 pain, 
 To see the bit Tailor come skippin again. 
 
 AWA, WHIGS, AWA! 
 
 JACOBITE SONG. 
 
 TafU"— " Awa, \\Tiig3, awa !" 
 
 Our thistles fl.nirishVi fresh and fair, 
 
 And bonny bloimi'd our roses, 
 llut Whigs came, like a frost in June, 
 And witht-r'd a' our posies. 
 Awn, M'/iii/x, awa! 
 
 Awa, M'/iii/s, awa I 
 Yv're hut a puck o' trai'tnr loons ; 
 Yc'll neer do ff'wd at a'. 
 
 Our sad deciv in church and state 
 
 Surjtasses my ilescriving; 
 The Whigs can'ie v,'er us for a oirse. 
 
 And we have done wi' thriving. 
 
 Awa, Wliiys ! uwa, Sfc. 
 
 A foreign '\Miiggish loon bought seeds, 
 
 In Scottish yiiil to cover; 
 Lut we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks, 
 
 And pack him to Hanover. 
 
 Awa, WItiijsl awn, ^x. 
 
 Our nncient crown's fi'n i' the dust, 
 Deil iilinil them wi' the stour o't ! 
 
 Ami writi; th.ir names in his black beuk, 
 Wha ga'e the Wliigs the j'nwL-r o't ! 
 Awa, Wh\ ' awa, Jrc 
 
 Grim Vengeance lansj has ti'en a i:ap. 
 
 But we may see him wauken : 
 Gude hel(> the day, when royal heads 
 
 Are hunted like a m iiikin ! 
 
 Aica, WhitjS .' awa, §ti. 
 
 The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, 
 
 And ramping cjime amang us ; 
 But he pitied us, sae curbed wi' VMiigs,— 
 
 He turn'd and wadiia wran? ns. 
 
 Awu, Wltitjs ! awa, fye 
 
 Sae grim he sat amting the reeK, 
 
 Thrang bundling brimstone matches ; 
 And cioon'd, 'mang the beuk-taJking Whigs, 
 Scra])s of auld Calvin's catches. 
 Au-a, Whiqs, awa ! 
 
 Awa, Wliiijs, own ! 
 Ytll Tin me out o' wiin spunks, 
 And ne'er do good at a'. 
 
 LOCH-NA-GARR. 
 
 BY BON. 
 
 Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, 
 In you let tiie minions of luxury rove ; 
 I'uistore me the rocks where tlie saovv-fiake re 
 
 poses, 
 If still they are sacred to freedom and love. 
 Yet, Caledonia, deur are thy mountains. 
 Round their white summits tho' elements war, 
 Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing 
 
 fountains, 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. 
 
 vShades of the dead ! have I heard your voices 
 
 Rise on the nistht-rolling breath of the gaJe, 
 
 Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
 
 And rides on the wind, o'er his own Higldaad 
 dale. 
 
 Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga- 
 thers, 
 
 Winter jjresices in his cnM icy car ; 
 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers. 
 
 They dwell *mid the tempests of dark Loch- 
 na-Rarr. 
 
 TIIE IMERRY ]MEN, O. 
 
 WiirN I was red, and ripe, and crouse, 
 Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse, 
 
 My father built a wee house, a wee hou»e. 
 To baud me fiae the men, O. 
 
 There came a lad and gae a shout, 
 Gae a shout, gae a shout. 
 
185 
 
 The wa's fi'II In. and I fill otit, 
 Amaiiij the inciiy iiu'ii, O. 
 
 I dream sic swi'i'f fhin2^< in my sslucp, 
 
 In my sln-ii, in my s!i'e|). 
 My iniiiny says I wiima ke.:!p, 
 
 Aiii.iiitj sac iiii'tiy men, O. 
 ^ Sen jiliims are ii|je, they sliiuild lie joo'd, 
 
 Slidii!.! he |mii'(l, shniilil lie jJoiiM, 
 Wlien maids are rip'", tliey sliould be woo'd 
 
 At seven yeais and ten, O. 
 
 My love, I erie<l it, at the port, 
 
 At the port, at tlie port, 
 The captain bade =1 tjuine.i for't, 
 
 Tlie cdldiiel he l)ade fen, O. 
 The chaplain lie haiie siller for't, 
 
 Siller I'or't, siller tor't, 
 Ihit the sergeant bade ine naetbing for't, 
 
 Vet he cam farthest ben, O. 
 
 KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE. 
 
 T\nf — " Kciunure's on and awa." 
 
 D, Kfnml're's on ami awa, Willie, 
 
 (). Kenmure's on and awa; 
 And Kenmure's lord's tiie bravest lord 
 
 That ever Galloway saw. 
 
 Succes to Kemniire's band, Willie, 
 
 Success to Keiiimiie's banil ! 
 There's no a heart that fears a Whig;, 
 
 That rides by Kenmure's hand. 
 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, 
 Here's Kemiuiie'.-. health in wine ! 
 
 There ne'er was a coward o* Kenmure's bludc, 
 Aur yet o' (jordon's line. 
 
 O, Kermurc's lads are men, Willie, 
 
 O, Kenmure's lads are men ! 
 Their hearts and swonK are metal true ; 
 
 And that their laes shall ken. 
 
 They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, 
 
 They'll live or die wi' fame; 
 But tune wi' souml and vietoiie 
 
 May Kenmure's lord come hame ! 
 
 Hire's hint, that's fir awa, Willie, 
 
 Here's him that's tar awa ; 
 And here's the flower that 1 lo'e best, 
 
 The rose that's like the suaw. 
 
 POLWART ON THE GREEN. 
 
 At Polwart on the green. 
 If you'll meet me the morn. 
 
 Where lasses do coiiveaf 
 To danee about the t..orn, 
 
 A kindly welcome you shall meet 
 Frae her wha likes to view 
 
 A lover an<l u lad complete, 
 The lad and lover you. 
 
 Let dorty dames say Na, 
 
 As lani; as e'er tiny please. 
 Seem caulder than the sna', 
 
 N\ hile inwardly they bleeze ; 
 Ikic I will frankly shaw my ipiod, 
 
 And yield my heart to «hee ; 
 Be ever to the captive kind, 
 
 Tiiat langs na to be free. 
 
 At Polwart on the green, 
 
 Aman^ the new-mawn hay. 
 With sanjj;s and dancing keen 
 
 We'll pass the heartsome day. 
 At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid, 
 
 And thou be twin'd of thine. 
 Thou slialt be welcome, my dear lad* 
 
 To take a jiart of mine. 
 
 HAJIE NEVER CAME HE. 
 
 SAUDLEn, and bridled, and booted rode he, 
 A plume in his helmet, a swiml at bis knee ; 
 liut toom cam' the saddle, all bluiily to see. 
 And hiime cam' the steed, but hame never cam 
 he. 
 
 Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sap sair, 
 Diiwn cam' his auld mither, teai ing her hair, 
 Down cam' his sweet wife \vi' bunnie bairnj 
 
 three, 
 Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee. 
 
 There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot, 
 There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on the 
 
 spot. 
 There stood his gray father, weeping sae free. 
 So hame cam' liis steed, but Iiame never cam 
 
 he. 
 
 THE BOB OF DUMBLANE. 
 
 Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, 
 
 And I'll lend you my thripling kaii:e; 
 For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle. 
 
 If ye'U go dance the Bob of Dumb! inc. 
 Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies,. 
 
 Busk ye braw, and dimia think shame ; 
 Consider in time, if leading i;f .iionkies 
 
 Be better than dancing the Bub of Dumblase, 
 
 Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle. 
 And tike my word and otfer again. 
 
 Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle. 
 Ye did ni accept the Bub of Dumblane 
 
166 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 The dinner, tlie jiiper, and priest slnll he roa'iy, 
 And I'm grcnvn d.nvy with lyinsf my laue ; 
 
 Away then, leave liaith ininny and dady. 
 And try with me the Bob of Dumbldue. 
 
 LOCHABER NO MORE 
 T\tne — " I.O(.jiaber no more." 
 
 Faueweli, to Lnchiher, and farewell uy Jean, 
 \\'here lieait^ume with thee I've mony day been ; 
 Fur Lociiaber no iiKire, Loehaber no more, 
 We'll in.iy lie return to Lochaber no more. 
 Tiiese tears that I sht-d, they are a' for my dear, 
 And no for the dinsrer* attemling on weir, 
 Tho Iiore on roii<^h seas to a far bloody shore, 
 May be to return to Lochaber no more. 
 
 Tho* hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind. 
 They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my 
 
 mind. 
 Thn* Iduilest of thunder on louder waves roar. 
 That's naethinp; like leavins; my love on the shore. 
 To leave thee behiud me my heart is sairpain'd, 
 By ease that's inolorious, no fame can bejrain'd. 
 And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
 And I mu>t deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then f;lory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse, 
 Since honour coniuiaiiris me, how can I refuse? 
 Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
 And without thv favour I'd better not be. 
 I gae then, my l.iss. to win honour and fame. 
 And if 1 shoulil luck to come gloriously hame, 
 I'd briufj a heart to thee willi love running o'er. 
 And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 
 
 JOCKY SAID TO JEANY. 
 
 JorjCT 8aiil to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't ? 
 Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeanv, for my tocher -good, 
 For my tochi-r-good, I winna marry thee. 
 E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be. 
 
 I hafi gowd and gear, I hae land enough, 
 I hae >even good owsen ganging in a plcugh, 
 Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee, 
 And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 
 
 I hae a good ha' house, a barn .".nd a byre, 
 A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire, 
 I'll make a rantin fire, a;d merry inall we be: 
 And gin ye winna tak mo, I can let ye be. 
 
 Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna fell, 
 Ve (thall be the lad, I'll be the lass niysell. 
 Ye're u bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free, 
 V'e're weleomer to tak me than to let me be. 
 
 THE LOWLANDS OF HOI LANO 
 
 ANOTHER VEllSION 
 
 The luve that I hae chosen 
 
 I'll therewith be content ; 
 The saut sea will be frozen 
 
 Before that I repent ; 
 Repent it will I ne"»r 
 
 Until the day I die. 
 Though the Lowlands of Holland 
 
 Hae twined my love and me. 
 
 My luve lies in the saut sea, 
 
 And I am on the side ; 
 Enough to break a young thing's heart 
 
 Wha lately was a bride — ■ 
 Wha lately was a happy bride 
 
 And pleasure in her ee ; 
 But the Lowlands of Holland 
 
 Hae twined my love aud me 
 
 Oh ! Holland is a barren jjlace, 
 
 In it there grows nae grain, 
 Nor ony habitation 
 
 Wherein for to remain ; 
 But the sugar canes are plenty, 
 
 And the wine diaps fi.ie the tree, 
 But the Lowlands of Holland 
 
 Hae twined my love and me. 
 
 My love he built a bonnie s'nip, 
 
 And sent her to the .-ea, 
 Wi' seven score guid mariners 
 
 To bear her companie. 
 Three score to the bottom gaed, 
 
 And three score died at sea ; 
 And the Lowlands of H<il!and 
 
 Hae twined my love aud me. 
 
 JENNY DANG THE WEAVE* 
 
 Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 
 
 Jenny dang the weaver ; 
 The piper played as Jeiiny sprang. 
 
 An' aye she dang the weaver. 
 
 As I cam in by Fisherrow, 
 
 IMusselburgh was near ine, 
 I threw afT the niussel-[)uck. 
 
 And courtit wi' my deerie. 
 
 Had Jenny's apron bidden down 
 The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it 5 
 
 But now the word 's gane thro the towa, 
 The devil canna mend it. 
 
 Jenny lap, and Jenny fling, 
 
 Jeimy dang the weaver ; 
 The piper played as Jenny sprang, 
 
 A r;d aye bhe dang the weaver. 
 

 SONGS 1S7 
 
 1 
 
 A*J I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING , 
 
 We'll piss ye 'neath the claymore's shear. 
 
 
 Thou feckless German lairdie ! 
 
 As I went oat ae M.iy mornins;. 
 
 
 Ae May niorniri!;; it hii|i|)eneil t) be, 
 
 Auld Scotland, thou'rt ewer cauld a hole 
 
 thore I saw a very bonnie lass 
 
 For nursin' siccan vermin ; 
 
 Cimie liiikin' o'ev the ItM to me. 
 
 But the very doui;s o' England's court 
 
 And O she was a wfL-l-f.iuii Kis'', 
 
 Tliey bark anil howl in German. 
 
 Swi'i't as the fli>wcr sae newly sprung; 
 
 Then keep thy dil)b!e in thy ain hand, 
 
 I sai<l, f.iir iiiiiiil, an* ye fancy me, 
 
 Thy spade but and thy yardie; 
 
 When she laughing said, I am too younj. 
 
 For will the deil hae we gotren for a kingi 
 
 
 But a wee, wee German laiidie ? 
 
 To be your bride I am too youngf. 
 
 
 And far our proud to be your loon ; 
 This is thi! merry month of May, 
 
 
 
 But I'll he aulder. Sir, in June. 
 
 
 The hawthorns flourished frer-h and fair. 
 
 THE FORAY. 
 
 And o'er our hcails the small birds sing, 
 And never a word the lassie said. 
 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 
 But, gentle Sir, I am too young. 
 
 The last of our steers on *!ie board has bcea 
 
 
 spread. 
 
 
 And the last llask of wine in our goblets is rei : 
 Uj), up, my brave kinsmeu ! — belt swords and 
 
 
 
 begone ; 
 
 THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIH. 
 
 There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to 
 won ! 
 
 WiiA the deil hae we gotten for a king, 
 
 The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours, 
 
 But a wee, wee Geiman lairdie ? 
 
 For a space must be dim, as they gaze from th« 
 
 .\w\, when we gaed to brinij him, 
 
 towers. 
 
 He was delving in his yardie : 
 
 And strive to distinguish, through tempest and 
 
 Sheughing kail, and layin:; leeks, 
 
 gloom, 
 
 But the hose, and but the brceks ; 
 
 The prance of the steeds and the top of the 
 
 And up his beggar duds be cleeks — 
 
 plume. 
 
 This wee, wee German lairdie. 
 
 
 
 The rain is descending, the wind rises loud, 
 
 And he's clapt down in our gudemau's chair, 
 
 The moon her red beacon has veiled with a 
 
 The wee, wee German lairdie ; 
 
 cloud — 
 
 And he's l)rou'_;ht f<uitii o' foreign trash, 
 
 'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull 
 
 And dibbled them in his yardie. 
 
 eje 
 
 He's |iu'd the rose o* English loons. 
 
 Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are 
 
 And broken the harp o' Iiish clowns; 
 
 nigh. 
 
 Rut our thistle tu])8 will jag his thumbs^ 
 
 O 
 
 This wee, wee Geriiiaa lairdie. 
 
 Our steeds are impatient — I hear my blythe 
 
 Come up amang our Highland hills, 
 
 There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his 
 
 Thou wee, wee German lairdie. 
 
 neigh ; 
 
 And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive 
 
 Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his 
 
 We dibbled in our yardie : 
 
 mane 
 
 And if a stock ye daie to pu'. 
 
 Shall marshal your march through the dark- 
 
 Or baud the yoking o' a plough. 
 
 ness and rain. 
 
 We'll break your sceptre o'er your mru , 
 
 
 Thou wee bit German lairdie. 
 
 The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bugle 
 
 
 has blown ; 
 
 Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, 
 
 One pledge is to quaiT yet — then mount and 
 
 Nae fitting for a yardie ; 
 
 begone : 
 
 And our Norland thistles winna pu*. 
 
 To their honour and peace that si>atl rest vv:th 
 
 Thou wee bit German lairdie : 
 
 the sl.iin ! 
 
 And we've the trenching blades o* weir. 
 
 To tlieir heahh and their glee that see Teviot 
 
 ^ id piuoe je o' your Gerinaa gear— 
 
 again ! 
 
 ' ' ■ ■ -- 1 
 
18S 
 
 BURNS'S SONGS. 
 
 ADIEU: \ HEART-WARM FOND ADIEU! 
 Tune—" The Peacock." 
 
 Adieu ! a lieart-warrn fond adieu ! 
 
 Dear brothers of the rnyst'c tie ! 
 Ye fiivour'd, ye eiilighten'd few. 
 
 Companions of my sociiil joy ! 
 Thougli I to foieion lands must hie, 
 
 PuiMiing Fortune's sliddry ba', 
 Witli melting iie.ut. and brimful eye, 
 
 I'll mind you stdl, though far awa*. 
 
 Oft have [ met ynnr social band, 
 
 And K|ietit tlit- cheerful festive night; 
 Oft, honour'd with supreme i-ommaDd, 
 
 Presideii o'er the sons of light ; 
 And liy that hieioglyphie. bright, 
 
 Which none but craftsnien ever saw ! 
 Strong memiirv on my heart sliali write 
 
 Those lidpj'V scenes when far awa ! 
 
 May fieedom, harmony, and love, 
 
 Unite vtiu in the grand design, 
 Beneath the Omniscient Eye above. 
 
 The glorious architect divine I 
 That you :..-/ keep th' unerring line, 
 
 Still rising Iv the plummet's law, 
 Till ordei- bright completely shine — 
 
 Shall be my prayer when far awa. 
 
 And yon, farewell I whose merits claim. 
 
 Justly, that highest bad.;e to wear! 
 Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name, 
 
 To niasjjnry and Scotia dear I 
 A last reiiuest permit me here, 
 
 When yearly ve as-euible a', 
 One round, 1 a-k it with a tear, 
 
 To him, the bard, that's far awa,* 
 
 AE FOND KISS. 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 
 Ae farewell, alas, lor ever ! 
 
 Dfcp in beait-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 
 War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
 • Written as a Rori of farewell u, the Masonic com- 
 (>:tniona of liif vmiih, wticn ilic (ux'i was un the punil 
 of Icaktiiu Scoil^ul liii Jamaica, 'TUtJ. 
 
 MHio shall say that fortune grieves hisa. 
 While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
 Me, nae theerfu' twinkle lights me; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame thy 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 loved sae kindly. 
 Had we never loved sae blindly ; 
 Never met — or never parteil. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee well, thou first and fairest! 
 Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
 Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge tbE9, 
 War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
 AFTON WATER. 
 
 Tune—" The VcIIow-hair'd Laddie." 
 
 Flow pently, sweet Aflon, among thy greea 
 
 braes. 
 Flow gently, Fll sing thee a song in thy praise, 
 IMy Mary's asleep by thy murmuiing stream ; 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, distuib not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds througl 
 the glen, 
 
 Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowery 
 den. 
 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
 bear, 
 
 I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills; 
 Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding 
 
 rills ; 
 There daily 1 wander, as mora rises high, 
 My Cocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How jdcasant thy lianks and green valleys below 
 ^\'lu•l■e wild in the woodlaiuls the jjriniioses blow 
 There oft, us nidd evening creeps o'e' the lea. 
 The swee! .scented birk shades my Marv and ma 
 
 rJ 
 

 SOXGS .89 
 
 Tliy crystni ftroam, Affon, now lovciy itjiliilos, 
 
 ' But he still wa* faithful to his can, 
 
 And wimls l)y the cot whvrc my Mary icsidci ! 
 
 My gallant, braw John Highlandnian ! 
 
 How wanton tliy waters her snowy feet lave. 
 
 Sni'f /ley, mi/ hrmv Jo/m Iluihlamlman ! 
 
 As, gatli'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy 
 
 SiiKj ho, nil/ hrtiw John /Jii/hlandmanl 
 
 clear wave ! 
 
 Thire's ni.t a' lad in a the luntl. 
 
 
 Was match for my braw John IJiyhlandmanl 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
 
 
 braes ; 
 
 With his phllaheg and tartan plaid, 
 
 Flow gently, sweet river, tlie theme of my lays ; 
 
 And glide claymore down by his side, 
 
 My Mary's asleep by thy uiurmuring stream ; 
 
 The ladies* hearts he did trepan, 
 My gallant braw John Ilighlandinan. 
 
 riow gently, sweet Afton, di^turb not her dream. 
 
 
 Sing hey ifc. 
 We ranged a* from Tweed to Spey, 
 
 
 AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. 
 
 And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
 For a Lawland face he feared none, 
 
 TuHe—" Johnnie's Grey Breeks." 
 
 My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
 
 
 Siny hey, Sj-c. 
 
 Again rejoicing nature sees 
 
 
 Her rohe assume its vernal hues ; 
 
 They banished him beyond the sea ; 
 
 Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
 
 But, ere the bud was on the tree, 
 
 All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
 
 A down my cheeks the pearls ran. 
 
 
 Embracing my braw John Highlandman. 
 
 In vain to me the cowslips blaw ; 
 
 Siny hey, Sfc. 
 
 In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
 
 
 In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
 
 But, och ! they catched him at the last. 
 
 The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
 
 And bound him in a dungeon fast; 
 
 
 My curse upon them every one. 
 
 The merry plouglihoy cheers his team ; 
 
 They've hanged my braw John Highlandman ' 
 
 Wi" joy the tentie seedman stauks ; 
 
 Siny hey, Sfc. 
 
 Bat life to me's a weary dream, 
 
 
 A dream of ane that never wauks. 
 
 And now, a widow, I must mourn 
 
 
 Departeil joys that ne'er return, 
 
 The wanton coot the water skims ; 
 
 No comfort but a hearty can, 
 
 Amang the reeds the ducklings cry ; 
 
 When I think on John Highlandiran. 
 
 The stately swan niaie>tic swims ; 
 
 Siny hey, ^-c. 
 
 And every thing is blest but I. 
 The shepherd steeks his fauMing slips, 
 
 
 
 And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ; 
 
 
 Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, 
 I meet him on the dewy hill. 
 
 AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM 
 
 MING BEES. 
 
 And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
 
 Tune-" The King of France, he rade « Rar» 
 
 
 Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 
 
 Amang the trees wliere humming befs 
 
 And mounts and sings on flutterino- win"-s. 
 
 At buds and flowers were hinging, j 
 
 A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide. 
 
 Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 
 
 
 And to liei pipe was sin>;ing, O ; 
 
 Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
 
 'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or rcelf 
 
 Ai.J raging benil the naked tree ; 
 
 She dirl'd them afT, fu' clearly, O ; 
 
 Thy g'.oom will soothe my clieerless soul. 
 
 When there cam a yell o' foreign sque*'* 
 
 When nature all is sad like me ! 
 
 That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 
 
 
 Their capon craws and queer ha ha's. 
 They made our lugs grow eerie, O 
 
 1 
 
 
 The hungry bike diil scrajie and pike 
 'Till we were wae and weary, O — 
 
 A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS 
 
 BORN. 
 
 But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 
 
 
 A prisoner aiighteen year awa, 
 
 THE " RAUCLE CARI.INe's" SONG IN 111 E 
 
 He tir'd a fiddler in the North 
 
 " JOLI.Y BEGGARS." 
 
 That dang them tapsaltcerie, O. 
 
 Tune—" O an ye war dead, guTdinan !" 
 A Highland lad my love was born, 
 
 
 
 The Lawhnd laws he held in scorn ; 
 
 
 ■■ . 1 
 
100 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 A JIAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 
 Tune—" For a" tliat, and a' that. 
 
 Is there, for honest pnvertyi 
 
 Tli;it hiinjijs his head, and a' that ? 
 The <'<)\vard-!-l.ive, we pass him by j 
 
 We daur lie puir for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Our toils ot)scure, and a' that, 
 riie rank is hut the giinea-stamp— 
 
 The man's the goud fur a' that. 
 
 What though en hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodilin-ijrey, 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, 
 riie honest man, though e'er sae puir, 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ; 
 Thou;;h humlreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a cuif for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His ribbon, star, and a' that. 
 The man of independent mind, 
 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A kin;; can make a belted knight, 
 
 A m.uquis, duke, and a' that ; 
 Bi\t an honest man's aboon his micht, 
 
 Glide faith, he maunna fa' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that, 
 The pith o* sense, the pride o* worth, 
 
 .\re higher ranks for 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' th.at. 
 For a' tliat, and a' that. 
 
 It's coMiin' yet for a" that, 
 That man to nran, the warld o'er. 
 
 Shall brothe 3 be for a' that. 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 TKine—" Banks of Banna." 
 
 Yksti'.i:en 1 had a pint o' wine, 
 
 A place where body saw na ; 
 Ytt-treen lay on this breast o' mine 
 
 The raven locks of Anna. 
 The hungry Jew in wilderness, 
 
 krjoiciiig ower his UiSima, 
 Was naething to my hinriy bliss, 
 
 Ujxin the lips of Anna. 
 
 Ye r-onarchs tak the cast and west, 
 Frae Indus to Savannah 1 
 
 Gie me within my straining grasp 
 
 The melting form of Anna. 
 There I'll dt-spise imperial charms, 
 
 An empress or sultana, 
 While dying raptures, in her arms 
 
 I give and take with Anaa. 
 
 Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! 
 Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
 
 Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray- 
 When I'm to meet my Anna. 
 
 Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn »* ^ 
 
 And bring an angel pen to write 
 My transports with my Anna.* 
 
 ANNIE. 
 Tunt—" Allan Water." 
 
 I wAi.KFD out with theJIuseum in my hand, 
 and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared 
 to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat 
 and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I 
 wrote one to suit the measure. 
 
 Bv Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
 
 Wliiie Phoebus sank beyond Benledi, 
 The winds were whisp'ring through the grorc> 
 
 The yellow corn was waving readv : 
 I listen'd to a lover's sang. 
 
 And thought on )iiuthful pleasures many; 
 And aye the wild-wood echoes rang 
 
 O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 
 
 O, happy be the woodbine bower ; 
 
 Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
 Nor ever so-row stain the hour. 
 
 The place and time I meet my dearie ! 
 Her head U|]on my thro':bing breast, 
 
 She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever ! 
 While many a kiss the seai impress'd. 
 
 The sacied vow, we ne'er should sever. 
 
 The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae ; 
 
 The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
 How cheerie, through her short'ning day, 
 
 Is Autumn in her weeds o." yellow ! 
 But can they melt the glowing heart, 
 
 Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
 Or through each nerve the rapture dart. 
 
 Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 
 
 » Thissong. like " Ilijhlaml Mary," aflxinls a strong 
 proof of the pciwer which I'oetry possesses of rHising 
 anil siihliiiiiiif; olijccts. Ilighlanil Mary was theilairv- 
 niaiil of L'olMitlil ; Anna is said to have l)ccn tome- 
 thind meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrcnzy 
 rolhi)« when he s.iict, '< 1 think this is the best kiv* 
 long 1 ever wrote." 
 
?ONGa 
 
 191 
 
 A RED RED ROSE. 
 Tune — " Low down In the Brume.' 
 
 0, JiY luve's like a red red r«se. 
 That's newly sprung in June ; 
 
 O, my luve's like the nielodie. 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 As fair art thou, my bnnnie lass, 
 
 Sae dee|> in luve am I ; 
 Anil I will love thee still, my dear. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gann; diy, my dear. 
 And the rocks melt \vi' the sun; 
 will love thee still, my dear, 
 While the sands o' lite shall run. 
 
 And fare thee weel, my only luve. 
 And fare thee weel a while ! 
 
 And I will come again, my luve, 
 Thoujrh it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 
 
 This song I composed on Miss Jenny Crnik- 
 shank, only child to my worthy friend Jlr. 
 William Ciuikshank of the High-School, Edin- 
 burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quondam 
 merchant, now schoolmaster, in Irvine : the 
 Davie to whom I address my poetical cpiitle. 
 
 A ROSE-BUD by my eirly walk, 
 Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 
 Sue gently bent it-; thorny stalk, 
 All on a dewy morning. 
 
 Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
 In a' its crimscm glory spread, 
 And drooping rich the dewy head. 
 It scents the early morning. 
 
 Within the bush, her covert nest 
 A little linnet tondiy piest, 
 The dew sat chilly on her breast 
 Sae early in the morning. 
 
 She soon shdl sc^ her tender brood. 
 The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
 Amai;g the fVe>h green leaves bedewed. 
 Awake the early morning. 
 
 So thou, de ir bird, young Jeany fair, 
 On tremhiing siring or vocal air. 
 Shall sweetly ])ay the tender care 
 That tents thy early morning. 
 
 So thou, sweet ro^e-bnd, young and gay, 
 Sh.ilt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
 And bless the parent's evening ray 
 That watched thy eajly morning. 
 
 A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 
 
 Tins is a popular Ayrshire song, though tlie 
 notes were never taken down before, — It, a» 
 Well as many of the ballad tunes in this co.lt;- 
 tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice. 
 
 A Southland Jenny that was right bonny, 
 Had for a suitor a Norland Jidnmie, 
 But he was sicken a bashlu* wooer. 
 That he could scarcely speak unto her. 
 
 But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller 
 Forced him at last to tell his mind till her; 
 My dear, quo' he, we'll nae langer tarry. 
 Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry 
 
 Come awa then, my Norland laddie, 
 Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ; 
 Albeit I hae neither land nor money. 
 Come, and I'll ware my beiuty on thee. 
 
 Ye lasses o' the South, ye'rc a' for drei^sin ; 
 Lasses o' the North, mind mil!%iii and threshin ^ 
 My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad nij 
 
 (laddie, 
 Should 1 marry ane as dink as a lady. 
 
 I maun h.ae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, 
 Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a 
 
 scauldin ; 
 Tulzle wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie, 
 A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny, 
 
 My father's only dochter, wi' faims and Si — 
 
 ready, 
 Vi'ad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; 
 A' that I said was to try what was in thee, 
 Gae hanie, ye Norland Jockie, and court yout 
 
 Norland Jenny ! 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 SirouLD auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to mind? 
 Should auUl acquaintance be forgot, 
 And auld lang syne ! 
 
 7'or auld lang syne, my jo, 
 
 Fur auld lan^ ■>yiie, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lanff 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 aulii lang syne. 
 Fur auld, §-c. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes. 
 And pou't the gowans fine ; 
 
 But we've waiuler'd mony a weary fost 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 Fur auld, ^-c. 
 
192 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 We twa Viae paMI't i' the biMn, 
 
 Fr:ie iniiriiiiis; sim 'till liiriL- ; 
 But seas Uetween ii;< braid hae roai'd, 
 Sin aiikl I.mt^ syne. 
 For aulJ, Sfc. 
 
 And there's a han", my trusty fiere, 
 
 And ^ifs a ban' n' thine ! 
 Anil we'll tik a right gude willy-waught 
 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 For auld, Sfc. 
 
 AULD ROB MORRIS. 
 
 There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon 
 
 glen, 
 He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld 
 
 men ; 
 He has gowd in his coffers ; he has ousen and 
 
 kine, 
 And ae bounie lassie, his darling and mine. 
 
 She's fresh in the morning, the fairest in May ; 
 She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ; 
 As blytlie, and as artless, as the Limb on the 
 
 lea ; 
 And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 
 
 But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird, 
 And niy d.iddie has nought but a cothouse and 
 
 yard. 
 A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed. 
 The woutids I must hide that will soon be my 
 
 dead. 
 
 The day comes to me, but delight brings me 
 
 n.me ; 
 The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
 I wander my lane like a night-troubled gliaist. 
 And I sigii as my heart it wad burst in my 
 
 breast ! 
 
 Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
 
 I then might hae ho])'u she wad sniil'd upon 
 
 me ; 
 O how pa^t deserving Iiad then been my bless, 
 As now my distraction, no words can express. 
 
 DESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 Tune—" The uottom of the Punch Bowl." 
 
 O i.Ei ZK m-j on my spinning-wheel ! 
 O leeze me on my lock and leel ! 
 Frae tiip to tae that deeds me bien. 
 And haps me feil * and warm at e'en! 
 I'll set uic doun, atid sing, and spin, 
 While laigh dest-ends the simmer sun ; 
 
 • Covers me with a stuff »2n*e>il' fo the iKin. 
 
 Rlest wi' content, and milk, and meal'-« 
 O leeze nie oa my spinning-wheel ! 
 
 On ilka hand the burnics trot, 
 And meet below my theekit cot ; 
 The scented birk and hawthorn white 
 Across the pool their arms unite. 
 Alike to screen the birdie's nest. 
 And little fishes' caller reist ; 
 The sun blinks kindly in the biel, 
 Where blythe I turn my spmning-whed 
 
 On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
 And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
 The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
 Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
 The craik amang the clover hay. 
 The paitrick whirring ower the lea. 
 The swallow jinkin' roumi my sluel 
 Amuse nie at my spinning-wheel. 
 
 Vt'i' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
 Aboon distress, below envy, 
 O wlui wad leave this humble state* 
 Fi.r a' the pride of a' the great? 
 Amid their flaring idle toys, 
 An'.id their cumbrous, Jinsome jnvs 
 Can they the peace and pie i-ure feel 
 Of Bessy at her spiuuing-whcel i 
 
 BEWARE O' BONNIE ANf» 
 
 I COMPOSED this song out of cnnipUment to 
 Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of m^ triend; 
 Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath' 
 aUdti's Lament, and two or three others ia thif 
 work. 
 
 Ye gallants bright T red ye right, 
 
 Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
 Her comely face sae fu' o' giace, 
 
 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. 
 
 That sweetly ye might span. 
 
 Youth, grace, and love, attendant moT-, 
 
 And pleasure leails the van : 
 In a' their charms, and conquering «rau, 
 
 1 ney wait on bonnie Ann. 
 The captive bands may chain the 'lands^ 
 
 But Iiive enslaves the man ; 
 Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 
 
 Beware o* bonnie Ann. 
 
SONGS 
 
 193: 
 
 BEHOLD THE HOUU, THE BOAT 
 AUKIVi:. 
 
 Tunt — " Oran Gaoil." 
 
 BsHoi.n the hour, ttie Ixiat arrive ; 
 
 Tluiu »j(>est, t'.uiu (l.irlintr of my heart! 
 Sfvi'i'tl from tlifc. nil I survive? 
 
 But fitf h.is nillM, and we must part. 
 ['11 often ijreet tlii* surijirig swell, 
 
 Yon distant isle wjII often hail : 
 *" y. cii heie I took my last farewell, 
 
 There latest mark'd her vauish'd sail." 
 
 .\lon?; the solitary shore. 
 
 While fllttin^' sea fowl round me cry, 
 Across the roiiiiisj, da-^hlug roar, 
 
 I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
 Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 
 
 Where now my Nancy s path may be ! 
 While throu^'h thy sweets she loves to stray. 
 
 Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? 
 
 BEYOND THEE, DEARIE. 
 
 It is remark ihle of this air, that it is the con 
 fine of that country where the greatest part of 
 our Lowland music, (so far as from the title, 
 words, &c. we can localize it), has heen com- 
 posed. From Crai^ie-hurn, near IMotfat, until 
 one leaches the West Highlands, wo have scarce- 
 ly one slow air of any antiquity. 
 
 The snna; was composed on a passion which 
 a Mr. Gillespie, a particular fiiend of mine, had 
 for a .Mis< Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Wlielp- 
 (iale. — The young lady was born at Craigie- 
 burn wood — Tne chorus is part of an old fool- 
 isii ballad. — 
 
 Beyond thee., dearie, hei/nnd thee, dearie, 
 
 And O til be li/inr) bujiind titee, 
 siveetlij, XDunilly, wiel may lie sleep, 
 
 I'liat's laid ill the btd beyuad thee. 
 
 CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 
 
 Sweet clones the evening on Craigie-burn wood, 
 
 And blythely awakens the morrow ; 
 But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn 
 wood, 
 Can yiel<l me to nothing but sorrow. 
 Jiiyond ihee, ^c. 
 
 I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
 
 I heir the wild birds singing ; 
 But pleiiNure they hae nane for me. 
 
 While care my heart is wringing 
 Heyond thee, SfC. 
 
 eaniis tell, I maun na tell, 
 I dire Dd for your anger ; 
 
 But secret love will break my heart» 
 If I conceal it langer. 
 
 Jieyond, tliee, J-c. 
 
 I see thee graccfu', straight and talL 
 I see thee sweet and bonuie, 
 
 But oil, what will my torments be. 
 If thou refuse thy Jivjnie ! 
 Heyond thee, ^c. 
 
 To see thee in anither's arms. 
 In love to lie and languish, 
 
 'Twad be my dead, that will be Keen, 
 
 My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
 
 Beyond thee, S^c. 
 
 But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
 Say, thou lo'es nane belote me ; 
 
 And a' my days o' life to cuiiie, 
 I'll gratefully adore thee. 
 Beyond thee, Jfc. 
 
 BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YOr ftHl. 
 Tunt — " Liggcram co«h." 
 
 Bltthe 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 latiger sport and play, 
 
 IMirth or sang can please me : 
 Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
 
 Care and anguish seize me. 
 
 Heavy, heavy is the task, 
 
 Hiipeless love declaiiiig: 
 Trembling, 1 dow noclit but glonx 
 
 Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
 If she winna ease the tliiaws, 
 
 In my bosom swelling ; 
 Underneath the grass-green sod, 
 
 Soon maua be my dwelling. 
 
 BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
 
 Bh/tlie, llythe and merry teas shty 
 Blythe teas she but ntid ben ; 
 
 Bhjthe by the banks of Km, 
 And blythe in Gleiiturit glen, 
 
 Bv Oughtertyre grows the aik. 
 
 On Yarrow banks, the blrken shaW 
 
 But Phemie was a honnnier lans 
 Than braes o* Yarrow ever saw. 
 Blythe, ^c. 
 
 Her looks were like a flow'r in JTay, 
 Her smile was like a simmer mora : 
 
194 
 
 BURNS WORKS, 
 
 She tripped by tlie banks of Ern, 
 As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
 Blytlm, Sfc. 
 
 Her bonny face it was as meek 
 
 As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
 The evening fin was ne'er sae sweet 
 
 As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
 Blythe, Sfc, 
 
 The Highland hill's Tve wander'd wide, 
 And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 
 
 But Phemie was the blythest lass 
 That ever trod the dewy green. 
 nil/the, §-e. 
 
 BONNIE WEE THING 
 Tunir— " Bonnie Wee Thing." 
 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing; 
 
 Loveiy wee thing, wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tme 
 
 Wistfully I look and languish 
 In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
 
 And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
 
 WLt, and grace, and love, and beauty, 
 
 In ae constellation shine ; 
 To adore thee is my duty, 
 
 Goddess o' this soul o' mine 1 
 
 Bonnie wee thing, canuie wee thing, 
 Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
 Lest my jewel I should tine. 
 
 BONNIE 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 mor- 
 ning. 
 
 The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
 All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 
 
 And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 
 
 The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, 
 And yellow Autumn presses near. 
 
 Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 
 Till smiling Spring as^ain appear. 
 
 Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 
 
 Old Time and N.iture their changes tell. 
 
 But never rariijing, still unchanging 
 I adore mv bonnie Bell. 
 
 BONNIE LESLEY. 
 Tune—" The Colliei's bonnie Lacsie. 
 
 O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley, 
 
 As she gaed o'er 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 i«, 
 
 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. 
 The Deil he couldna scaith thee. 
 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
 
 And say, I canna wrang thee 1 
 
 The Powers aboon will tent thee, 
 
 Misfortune shanna steer thee ; 
 Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
 
 That ill they'll ne'er let near the* 
 Return again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie ! 
 That we may brag we hae a lass 
 
 There's nane asrain sae bonnie.' 
 
 BONNIE JEAN. 
 TunC'-" Bonnie Jean." 
 
 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 maminie's wark, 
 And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 
 
 The blythest bird upon the bush 
 Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 
 
 But hawks will rob the tender joys 
 That bless 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 owsen, sheep, and kye. 
 And wanton naigies nine or ten. 
 
 He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
 
 He (lanceil wi' Jeanie on the down ; 
 
 And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 
 
 Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 
 
 • Written in hoiinur of Miss I.cslw Baillicof Ayf 
 sliirc, (now Mrs Cminnini; of l.ofjie), wlieu on bm 
 way to Kiigland, iiroiifih Dumfries. 
 
SONGS 
 
 ISd 
 
 A» in the bosom o' the stream 
 
 The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en, 
 
 So treiiiblins^, pure, wms tender love, 
 Within the breast o' bonuie Jean. 
 
 And now she works her mamniie's wark, 
 And aye she sl^jhs wi' grief and pain; 
 
 Yet wistna what her ail might be, 
 Or what wad make her weel again. 
 
 But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 
 And didna joy blink in her ee, 
 
 As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
 Ae e'ening, on the lily lea? 
 
 The 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 of love : 
 
 O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 
 
 O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
 Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
 
 And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 
 
 At barn nor byre thou shalt na drudge, 
 Or naething 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. 
 
 HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE. 
 
 I have met the tradition universally over 
 Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in 
 the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air 
 was Robert Brace's march at the Battle of Baa- 
 nockburn. 
 
 BRUCE'S ADDRESS 
 
 TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Tune—" Hey tuttie taittie." 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ! 
 Scots, wham Bruce has al'ten led ! 
 Welcome to your gory bi;tl, 
 Or to victorie ! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour : 
 Bee the front of battle lour : 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 Chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 MTia can fill a coward's grave** 
 MMia sae base as be a slave ? 
 Let hio: tun A flee < 
 
 Win, for Scotland's kf'/jf and law. 
 Fretdoin 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 ir< every blow. 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
 CA' THE YOWES TO THE KN0WK8 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them where the burnie rowes. 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Hark, the mavis' evening sang. 
 Sounding Chiden's woods amang; 
 Then a-faulding let us gang, 
 iMy bonnie dearie. 
 
 We'll gang doun by Cluden side, 
 Through the hazels spreading wide 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide. 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 
 Yonder Cluden's silent towers. 
 Where, at moonshine midnight hours, 
 O'er the dewy budding flowers 
 
 The ♦"•liries dance sae checiie. 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
 Thou'rt to love aud heaven sae dear, 
 Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
 My 'ipnnie dearie. 
 
 Fair and lovely as thou art, 
 Thou hast stoun my very heart; 
 I can die — but canna part, 
 Jly bonnie dearie 
 
 CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, JH 
 KATY? 
 
 Tune—" Roy's wift." 
 
 Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
 Casst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
 Well thou knowest my aching heart. 
 And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 
 
 Is this thy plighted fond r'gard, 
 
 Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 
 Is this thy faithful swain's reward— 
 
 An aching, broken heart, my Katv' 
 
 L_ 
 
196 
 
 BURNS vVORKS. 
 
 Fireweli ! 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 like mine, my Katy. 
 
 REPLY TO THE ABOVE 
 
 ?T A YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND 
 AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS 
 DECEASE. 
 
 Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 
 Stay, my Willie — yet believe me; 
 'Tweel, thou kiiow'st na every pans: 
 Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 
 
 Tell me that thou yet art true. 
 
 And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; 
 
 And when this heart proves false to thee, 
 Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
 
 But to think I was betray'd. 
 
 That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! 
 To take the floweret to my breast, 
 
 And find the guilefu' serpent under ! 
 
 Couin I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me, 
 Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 
 
 I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 
 
 That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
 
 He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains, 
 Save love's willing fetters — the chains of hif 
 Jean.* 
 
 CHLOE. 
 
 ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SOUS 
 
 It was the charming month of May, 
 When all the flowers 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 flowery mead she goes, 
 The youthful, charming Chloe. 
 Lovely was she by the dawn, 
 
 Yonthful Chloe, chariiiing Chloe, 
 Tripjiing o'er the pearly litwn. 
 The youthful, charming Chloe, 
 
 The featber'd p' tile you might see 
 Perch'd all around on every tree, 
 
 CALEDONIA. 
 
 Their groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands 
 reckon. 
 Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
 fume ; 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
 With the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
 broom. 
 
 Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers, 
 Where the blue bell and gowan lurk bwly 
 unseen ; 
 
 I'or there, lightly tripi)ing amang the wild flowers, 
 A listening the liiinet, aft wanders my Jean. 
 
 Though rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny 
 vallics, 
 And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
 Their sweet-scented woodlauds, that skirt the 
 prou'l palace, 
 Wliat are tlicy ^. — the haunt o' the tyrant and 
 slave ! 
 
 The g'live's npicy forests and gold-bubbling 
 f'uiQtains, 
 The br;ivc Cukduaian view* wi' disdain ; 
 
 • Bums wrote this song in eomp'iment to Mrs. Buraj 
 ri\iring Ihi ir honeymoon. The air. with many other» 
 ofe(]iial beauty, was the comiiDsJtion of a Mr. Mar- 
 shall, who, in Burns'i time, v.'as butler to the Duke 
 of Ciorilon. 
 
 This beautiful song — beautiful for iKith its amatory 
 ami its patriotic sentiment — seems to have been com. 
 posed by Bums during tlie period when he was court- 
 ing tlie lady wlui afterwards became his wife. The 
 present generation is much iiitLMC-ted in this lady, and 
 deservedly ; as, in addition to her (loetical history, 
 which is an extremeU interesting one, she is a persiin- 
 asze of the greatist private worth, and in every respect 
 deserving to be esitemeil as the widow of Scotland's 
 best and most endeared bard. The following anecdote 
 will pel haps be lield as testifying in no ineonsiderahle 
 degree, to a quality which she may not hitherto liave 
 been siip|>".seil to possess — her wit. 
 
 It isgcnerally known, that Mrs. liiirns has, ever since 
 her husband's ileaih, o ciipicd exactly the same house 
 in Dumfries, which she iiihabiti d before that event, 
 and that it is custrmiary for strangers, who happen to 
 piuis through or visit the town, to pay their rcs|iects to 
 her, with or without letters of introduction, prcci>ely 
 as they do to the churchward, the bridge, the harl«)ur, 
 or an\ other public object of curiosity about the pl.icc. 
 A gav young Kngli>h gentleman one day visited Mn 
 IJu rills, and after he hiid seen all that she had to show 
 — iheliedroom in vhich the jioct died, his original |)or. 
 trait by Nasmyth, his fainily-bible, with the name* and 
 birthd.iysof himself, his wife, and children, written on 
 a blaidi-leaf by his own hai^d, and some other little 
 trifles of the same nature — he piocccded to intreat that 
 she would have the kindness to present him wiih soiu» 
 relic of the poet, which he might carry away with him, 
 ■as a wonder, to show m his own country. "Indeed, 
 Sir," said Mrs. Hums, " I have given awav so many re- 
 lics of Mr. Hums, that, to tell >e ihe truth, I have not 
 one Icit" — "Oh, you must surely have tiomelliing," 
 said the persevering .Saxon ; " any thing will do— any 
 liitle scrap of his handwriting— :he le.ist thing you 
 please. All I want \$.ju.\t a relic <f the poet; and an» 
 thing, you know, will ito t'or a rilic." Some furihr 
 aiterc.-it-on took place, the lad. reasserting that she hi- 
 no relic to gi\«, and he as repeatedly renewing hi* r 
 quest. At length, fairly tiriil out with the man's i:» 
 portiinitics, Mrs. Hum's said to him, with a siiuU', 
 " 'Deed, Sir, unlcs.. ye tak mi/sell, then, I dinna si'e 
 how \ou are to get what you want ; for, really, i'm the 
 only relic o' him that 1 keu o'." The j>etiauner at once 
 , wiu-^rew his request. 
 
SON 
 
 vJS. 197 
 
 In i.ttts ''sue test niflody 
 
 She, the fair sun oJ all her «eX) 
 
 Tlicy lia I the ch.iniiiiig Cliloe ; 
 
 1 1, IS blest my glorious day : 
 
 
 And shall a glimmering planet fix 
 
 Til', paintin;^ pay tlie eastfrn skies, 
 
 Wy worship to its ray ? 
 
 Tlie gliniiias sun lii'sjin to rise, 
 
 
 OutrivallM l>y the r.uliarit eyes 
 Of youthful, chai iiiins; Cliloe. 
 
 
 
 Luvely was Jie, ifc. 
 
 
 
 CONTENTIT WI' LITTLE. 
 
 Tune—" Lumps o' Puddin." 
 
 
 CIILORIS. 
 
 CoNTENTiT wi' little, and cantie wi" mair. 
 
 3^i»*— " My Lodging ia on the Cold Ground." 
 
 Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
 I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang. 
 
 
 My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
 
 Wi' a cogue o' gude swats and an auld Scottisi 
 
 The primrose b.inks how fiir ; 
 
 sang. 
 
 The bahny gales awake the flowers. 
 
 
 And wave thy flaxeu hair. 
 
 I whiles claw the elbow o* troublesome thocht ; 
 
 
 But man is a sodii-jr, and life is a faucht : 
 
 The lav'rock >huns the palare gay, 
 
 My mirth and gude hutiiour are coin in ray pouch, 
 
 And o'er the cottiige sings; 
 
 And my freidom's ray lairdship nae monarch 
 
 For nature smiles as s-weet, I ween, 
 
 daur touch. 
 
 To shepherds as to kings. 
 
 
 
 A towmond o* trouble, should that be my fa , 
 
 Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 
 
 A nicht o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' : 
 
 In lordly lec'uit ha' ; 
 
 When at the blythe end o' our journey at last. 
 
 The shepherd s'cjjs his simple reed, 
 
 "yha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 
 
 Blythe, in the birken sbaw. 
 
 
 
 Blind chance, let her snapper and stoite 'u her 
 
 The princely revel may survey 
 
 way; ^ 
 
 Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
 
 Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let ..le jaud gae ; 
 
 But are their hearts as light as ours, 
 
 Come ease or cotne travail, come ])leasure or pxia^ 
 
 BMeath the milk-white thorn? 
 
 My warst word is — Welcome, and wficome, a- 
 
 
 gain! 
 
 ""'e shtrdierd, in the flow'ry glen. 
 
 
 In shepherd's phrase will woo; 
 The courtier tells a fairer tale. 
 
 
 
 But is his heart as true ? 
 
 
 
 COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY 
 
 V«-»e wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
 
 BREAST. 
 
 That s.potless breast of thine ; 
 
 
 The courtier's gems may witness love. 
 
 Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 
 
 But 'tis na love like v 
 
 Come, let me take thee to my breast. 
 
 
 And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
 
 " 
 
 And 1 shuil *purn, as vilest dust. 
 
 
 The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
 
 .'tARINDA.' 
 
 And do I hear my Jeanie own. 
 
 
 That equal traiispoi ts move her ? 
 
 Clarikda, »r. stress of my soul. 
 
 I «^k for dearest life alone 
 
 The mea>ur'd time is run ! 
 
 That I may live to love her. 
 
 The wretch beneath the dreary pole^ 
 
 
 So marks his latest sun. 
 
 Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms. 
 
 
 I cla>p my countless treastiiH." ; 
 
 To what dark cave if frozen night 
 
 I'll seek nae mair o' heavei: to sharej 
 
 Shall poor Sylvander hie ; . 
 
 Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
 
 Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
 
 And, by thy een sae bminie blue, 
 
 The sun of all his joy. 
 
 I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
 
 
 And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
 
 We part. — but by these precious drops, 
 
 And break it shall I never. 
 
 That fill t!iy lovel> eyes ! 
 
 
 Nil other light sluill s^uide my steps. 
 
 
 Till ihy bright beams ari>e. 
 
 
 
 • Th widow alludec < In tlie Lift 
 
98 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 COUNTRY LASSIE. 
 
 In simmer when the hay was mawn, 
 
 And corn wavM 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 spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 
 
 O' gude advisement comes nae ilL 
 
 Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 
 
 And, lassie, ye* re but young, ye k^n ; 
 Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 
 
 A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
 There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
 
 Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
 Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 
 
 It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 
 
 For Johnie o* the Buskie-glen, 
 
 I dinna care a single flie ; 
 He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye. 
 
 He has nae luve to spare for nie : 
 But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 
 
 And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
 Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 
 
 For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 
 
 O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 
 
 The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
 But aye fu' lian't is fechtin' best, 
 
 A hungry care's an unco care : 
 But some will 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. 
 
 O 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 : 
 AVe may be poor, Robie and I, 
 
 Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
 Content and love brings peace and joy, 
 
 What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 
 
 equal to their wit and humoui they would 
 merit a place in any col! (ction.— The liistetanu 
 is. 
 
 Being pursued by a drigoon. 
 Within my bed he was laid down ; 
 And well I wat he was worth his room. 
 For he was my daintie Davie. 
 
 DAINTIE DAVIE. 
 
 Tfns song, tradition says, and the composi- 
 tion itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
 David Wilfiamsnn's getting the daughter of 
 Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
 ilragoons were searching htr house to apprehend 
 him for being an adherent to the sulemn league 
 and covenant. — Tbe pious woui lu had ])ut a 
 lady's ni^ht-cap on hini, and bad laid him a-h-.d 
 with her own daughter, iinil passed him to the 
 toldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. 
 — A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in 
 HcrcFi, cnllirdon, but the original sung consists 
 sf five or six stanza'*, and were their dtlicacy 
 
 DAINTY DAVIE. 
 
 Tune—" Dainty Davie." 
 
 Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
 To deck her gay green birken bowers, 
 And now come in ray happy hours, 
 To wander wi' my Davie. 
 
 Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
 
 Daint'j Davie, dainty Davie t 
 Tliere I'll upetid the day wi' you. 
 My ain clear dainty Davie. 
 
 The crystal waters round us fa', 
 The merry birds are lovers a', 
 The scented breezes round us blav, 
 A-wandering wi' my Davie. 
 3Ieet me on, §"c. 
 
 When purple morning starts the hare, 
 To steal upon her early fare. 
 Then through the dews I will repair. 
 To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
 Meet me on, S^c. 
 
 When day, expiring in the west, 
 The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
 I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best. 
 And that's my dainty Davie. 
 Meet me on, ^'c. 
 
 DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE 
 Tune—" The Collier's Bonnie Lassie.** 
 
 Deluded swain, the pleasure 
 
 The fickle fair can give thee 
 Is but a fairy treasuie — 
 
 Thy hopes will boon deceive the& 
 
 The billows on the ocean, 
 
 The breezes idly roaming. 
 The clouds' uncertain motion. 
 
 They are but types of woman. 
 
 O ! art thou not ashamed 
 
 To doat upon a feature ? 
 If man thou wuuldst 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 
 

 SONGS. 199 
 
 DOES HAUGHTY GAUL. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY. 
 
 Tuite-^" Push about tl.e Jorum.' 
 
 Dr. Blacklock informed me that he i.ad 
 
 
 AprU, l-'J5. 
 
 often heard the tradition that this air was cout- 
 
 
 posed by a carman in Glasgow. 
 
 Dors haiifjhty Gaul invasion threat ? 
 
 
 Then lot the loons beware, Sir, 
 
 Duncan Grav cam here to woo. 
 
 There's wooden walls upon our seas, 
 
 Ha, ha, the wonini/ o't. 
 
 And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
 
 On blythe yule night when we were foU| 
 
 The N!th shall run to Corsineon,* 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooini/ n't. 
 
 And CritTel sink in Sc)lway,f 
 
 ^Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
 
 Ere we ])orniit a foreis^n foe 
 
 Look'd asklent and unco skeigji ; 
 
 Ou British ground to rally ! 
 
 Gart poor Duncan stanil abeigh ; 
 
 Fall de rail, ^-c. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wool/iff o't. 
 
 let us not, like snarling tykes, 
 
 Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray d ; 
 
 In wrangling be divided ; 
 
 Ha, ha, Sfc. 
 
 Till slap come in an unco loon 
 
 Meg was deaf as .\ilsa Craig, • 
 
 And wi' a rung decide it. 
 
 Ha, hn, Src 
 
 Be Britain still to Britain true. 
 
 Duncan sigh'd baith out and in. 
 
 Ainang oursels united ; 
 
 Grat his e'en baith bleert and Win, 
 
 For never but by British hands 
 
 Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn j 
 
 Maun British wrangs be righted. 
 
 Ha, ha, §-c. 
 
 FaU de rail, ifc. 
 
 
 
 Time and charvce are but a tide. 
 
 Tlie kettle o' the kirk and state. 
 
 Ha, ha, §-c. 
 
 Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
 
 Slighted love is sair to bide. 
 
 But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
 
 Ha, ha, Sfc. 
 
 Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
 
 Shall I, like a fool, quo' he. 
 
 Our fathers' bluid tlie kettle b(Uight, 
 
 For a haughty hizzie die ; 
 
 And wha wad dare to spoil it j 
 
 She may gae to — France for me ! 
 
 By heaven the sacrilegious dog 
 
 Ha, ha, §-c. 
 
 Shall fuel be to boil it. 
 
 
 FaU de rail, §-c. 
 
 How it comes let doctors tell. 
 
 
 Ha, ha, §-c. 
 
 The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 
 
 Meg grew sick — as he grew heal. 
 
 And the wretch his true-bo:n brother. 
 
 Ha, ha, Sj-c. 
 
 W^ho would set the mob aboon the throne. 
 
 Something in her bosom wrings. 
 
 May they be damned together ! 
 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 
 ^Tio will not sing " God save the king," 
 
 And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 
 
 Shall hang is high's tte sterple ; 
 
 Ha, ha, §-c. 
 
 But, while we sing " God save the king,' 
 
 
 We'll ne'er forget the people. 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace. 
 
 Fall de rail, §-c. 
 
 Ha, ha, &fc. 
 
 
 Maggie's was a piteous case, 
 
 
 Ha, ha, Sfc. 
 
 
 Duncan could na be her death. 
 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
 
 
 
 Now they're crouse and canty baith. 
 
 DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. 
 
 Ha, ha, the wooirg o't. 
 
 TinSE ADDED BV BURNS TO THE OLD SOXG. 1 
 
 As down the burn they took their way, 
 And through the fliwery dale, 
 
 
 EVAN BANKS. 
 
 His clietk to hers he aft did lay. 
 
 Slow spreads *hc gloom my soui aesireC) 
 
 And love was aye the tjle 
 
 The sun from India's shore retires ; 
 
 With — Mary when shall we return, 
 
 To Evan banks, with teinn rate ray. 
 
 Such pleasure to renew ? 
 
 Home ol my youtn, it ieaUs me day. 
 Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
 
 Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn. 
 
 And aye will follow you. 
 
 Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! 
 
 
 All, all my hopes of biiss reside, 
 Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 
 
 1 
 
 > hiRhhillat thesoureeoftheNith. i 
 * A well-known niountanat the mouth of the lame 
 
 
 «ver. 
 
 • A wen-Known rock m tte Frith of Clyde 
 
 
 
200 
 
 And Sfne, in simple bpntity drcst. 
 Whose ima<^e lives witliiii my breast; 
 Who trembling heir.l my pi'.'rcing sigh, 
 Aud long piiisuM me with her eye ! 
 Does she, with he.irt unclringM as mine, 
 )ft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
 Or where yon grot o*eih mg** the tide, 
 Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 
 
 Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
 Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
 And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
 Which sweetly wiuils so far below ; 
 What secret charm to mein'ry brings, 
 All that on Evan's border springs? 
 Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
 Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. 
 
 Can all tht wealth of India's coast 
 
 Atone for years in alxence lo^t ? 
 
 Return, ye moments of delight, 
 
 With richer treasures bless my sight ! 
 
 Swift from this desert let me part. 
 
 And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
 
 Nor more may aught my steps divide 
 
 From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKsi, 
 
 FAIR ELIZA. 
 
 A GAELIC AIR. 
 
 TuRSf again, thou f.ur Eliza, 
 
 Ae kind blink before we part, 
 Rew on thy despairing lover ! 
 
 Canst thou break his fiithfu* hear: 
 Turn again, thou fiii I^liza ; 
 
 If to love thy heart dt-iiies, 
 For pity hide 'lie crurl sentence 
 
 Uuiler fiienilship's Kind disguise! 
 
 Thee, dear maiil, hae I offended ? 
 
 The offence is loving tlicc . 
 Canst thou wreck his peace for ever 
 
 Wlia for thine wid t;l.id!y ilie ! 
 While the life beats in my bosom, 
 
 Thou shalt \n'.x in ilka throe: 
 Turn again, thou lnvely inaidt-n, 
 
 Ae sweet suiile on me Ix'stow. 
 
 Not the bee upon the l>li)ssom, 
 
 In the pride o' siiiiiy imou ; 
 Not the little sporting fairy, 
 
 All beneath the sm'ioer moon; 
 Not the p>iet in the iiuimeut 
 
 Fancy lightens on his ee. 
 Kens the pleasure, fecU the rapture 
 
 That thy presence gies to me. 
 
 Tune — " Rothiemurchie.* 
 
 Fairest mniil nn Devrm hunks, 
 
 Cri/slitl Devon, wiml'my De-eon^ 
 Wilt thnu 1(11/ thiit friiwn usuie. 
 And smile as Ihuu wert wont to da 
 
 Full well thou knowest I love thee deaTj 
 Couldst thou to malice lend an ear! 
 O did not love exclaim, " F'uibcar ! 
 Nor use a fiithful lover so. 
 Fairest maid, ^c. 
 
 Then come, thnu fairest of the fair. 
 Those wonted smiles, O let me share; 
 And l)y that beauteous self I nweir. 
 No love but thine my heart bli«ll know. 
 Fairest maid, &i'c.* 
 
 FATE GAVE THE WORD> 
 Tune—" Finlaysion Houm." 
 
 Fate gave the word, the arrow sptnl, 
 
 And pierced my darling's heart: 
 And with him all the joys are fled 
 
 Life can to me impart. 
 My cruel hands the sapling drops, 
 
 In dust dishonour'd laiil : 
 So fell the pride of all my hopes. 
 
 My age's future shade. 
 
 The mother linnet in the brake 
 
 Bewails lier ravished young ; 
 So 1 for my lost darling's sake. 
 
 Lament the live-d ly long. 
 Death, oft I've fear'd thy fifal blow, 
 
 Now fond 1 bare my breast, 
 O do thnu kindly lay me low 
 
 With him 1 love at rest ! 
 
 TOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 
 
 Mr heart is sair, I dare nae tell. 
 My lieart is siii feu- sonubody ; 
 I could wake a vintcr in!;ht 
 For the sake of somel"idy. 
 
 Oh-hon ! foi siimeboily ! 
 Oh-ln'y ! for soiuelioily ! 
 
 • Tlioso verses, and the Ictler endosinR them, an 
 wnltiii ill .T eliar.icier Iti.ii iiia:k< ihc very l(«l>l. •si"" 
 of tlirir aii;lii.r. Mr. -vmc » •'!' >>l'iii'>n tliil lie omM 
 iiol have '.) en m any ,';ii.i;cr ••f .i J.ul al Dionfriis, 
 where cerUiiilv he hi.l inanv linn Iruii.!.. (i.ir umlei 
 anv lucesMly "I iin,.l..riiit; ,i il fro n r,il.iil»ir(>h. Iliit 
 nl«iiil llu^liioe Ills m.iiJ !>.■,;, M l> lie .1 lures iiiisct- 
 tl.d. an.) (he horrors ,<l a ja.: |..ri.eliialK liauntnl hu 
 iiiLiciniUDO. lie aiLsl on tlie Jlsi of Ihiii moiilh. 
 

 SONGS. 201 
 
 I roulil ran^c tlii* wni-ld around, 
 
 But the last throb that leaves my hearl 
 
 For the s;ike of sonicliiidy. 
 
 While diMth stands victor by, 
 
 
 That throb, lil'za. is thy part, 
 
 Ye [>o\viT< tli.it smile on virttiniis love, 
 
 And thine tiiat latest si^h. • 
 
 swcitiv smili' on ■iiiiiiilinily ! 
 
 
 Frae ilka d.iii'_"'i keep liiiii fur, 
 Anil send iiit vif(; my smiu-lxidy. 
 
 
 
 Oh -lion ! for somehody ! 
 
 
 Oli-bey ! for sonii'lmdy ! 
 
 GALA WATER. 
 
 I wad do — wiiiit wad I not, 
 
 
 Fo. the sake of soincliody ! 
 
 Tune^" Gala Water. 
 
 
 There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow Vae«, 
 
 
 That wander through theblumiiii; healLer j 
 But Yarrow braes, nor littrick sliaws, 
 
 
 FORLORN, MY LOVE. 
 
 Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 
 
 Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 
 
 But there is ane, a secret ane, 
 
 
 Abiine them a' 1 loe him better; 
 
 FoRi.ORN', my love, no comfort near. 
 
 And I'll be his, and he'll be mine. 
 
 Far, far from thee 1 wander here ; 
 
 The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 
 
 Far, far from tliee. the fate severe 
 
 
 At wliirli I mo^t ivpiiie, love. 
 
 Although his daddle wa.s nae laird. 
 
 O wert tlion lure, hnt near me, 
 
 And thougli I hae na miekle tocher } 
 
 Tint iienr, iifnr, nrtir me ; 
 
 Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
 
 Huir khiiUy t/iiiit ifii'ili/st cheer me, 
 
 We'll tent our flocks ou Gala Wate'. 
 
 And mingle sicj/is with mine, love. 
 
 
 
 It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er wa.s wealth, 
 
 Around me seowls a ^rintry sky, 
 
 That coft contentment, jjeace, or pleasure; 
 
 Tliat hlists eacli Inid of linpe and joy ; 
 
 The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
 
 And >lielti'r, shade, nor home have I, 
 
 that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 
 
 Save in these arms of thine, love. 
 
 
 wert, &c 
 Cold, altor'd friendship*'* cruel part. 
 
 
 
 To poison fortune's nitlilcss dart- 
 
 GLOOMY DECEMBER. 
 
 Let me not hreik thy faithful heart, 
 
 
 And say tli it fate is mine, love. 
 
 Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decemhei, 
 
 O wtrt, ij-c. 
 
 Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and cue; 
 
 
 Sad was the parting thou makes me remember; 
 
 But dreary tho' the moments fleet. 
 
 Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair 
 
 let me think we yet shall meet ! 
 
 Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
 
 That only ray of solaee sweet 
 
 Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour 
 
 Can on thy Ciiloris shine, iove. 
 
 But the dire feeling, O farctvell for ever. 
 
 O wert, &-C, 
 
 Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 
 
 
 Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 
 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
 
 
 FROM TIIF.E, ELIZA. 
 
 .Such is the tem])est has shaken my bosom. 
 Since my hist hope aiid last comfort is gone 
 
 
 Tun*—" Gilderoy." 
 
 Still as I hail thi'e, thou gloomy December, 
 Still shall 1 hail tliee wi* sorrow and care ; 
 
 Prom thee, Hliza, I must go. 
 
 For sad was the parting thoa makes me re- 
 
 And from my n.itive shore ; 
 
 member. 
 
 The cruel fates hetween us throw 
 
 Parting wi' Nancy, Ob, ne'er to meet mair. 
 
 A boundless ocean's roar : 
 But boundless oceans, roaring wide 
 Between my luve anil me. 
 
 
 • Miss Miller of Mauclilinc, (prolwh'y the sam« 
 
 lady wtiom the poet h.is eeiebraleil in tus catalogue of 
 
 They never, never can divide 
 
 tne beauties of 1 hat viliajje — 
 
 My heart and soul trom thee. 
 
 "Mils Miller is fine" ) 
 
 
 afterwards Mrs. Tcmpleton, wai the heroine of this 
 
 Farewell, farewell. I^liia clear. 
 
 beautiful sonj^. 
 
 The maid that I ailore ! 
 
 
 A hodiuf; voice is in mine ear. 
 We part to meet no more. 
 
 
 
 I'a 
 
 
 I 
 
ki}'^ 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 GREEN GROW THE RASHES: 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Green grow the rashes, O .' 
 Green prow the rashes, O f 
 
 The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend, 
 Are spent amang the lasses, O I 
 
 There's nought but care on every ban', 
 In every hour that passes, O ; 
 
 What ^ignifies the life o' man, 
 An* 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, Sfc. 
 
 The warly race may riches chase, 
 An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
 
 Kii though at last they catch them fast. 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy tljem, O. 
 Green grow, Sec 
 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 My arms about my dearie, O ; 
 
 An' warly cares, an' waily men, 
 May a gae tapsalteerie, O. 
 
 Green grow, 8fc. 
 
 For you so douse, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; 
 
 The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
 He dearly loved the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, Sfc, 
 
 Auld nature swears, the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classes, O ; 
 
 Her '|irentice han' she tried on man, 
 And then she made the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, Sfc. 
 
 GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. 
 
 TuTie—" Gudewife, count the Lawin." 
 
 Gane is the rlay, and mirk's the night; 
 Rut we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light ; 
 For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
 And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 
 
 Then, gudewife, ciiiint the lawin. 
 
 The lawin, the lawin. 
 
 Then, gudewife, count the lawiit, 
 
 A.nd bring a coygie mair. 
 
 There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
 And seniple folk maun feclit and fen; 
 Rut here we're a' in ae accord, 
 For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
 Thai, gudewife, §-c. 
 
 \[y cdcgie is a li.i'v po(,l, 
 
 r;j,it iualii tlie uuiiiio's o" care «nd dor' ; 
 
 AnJ pleasure is a wanton tijut — 
 
 An' ye drink but deep, ye'll find him ocK, 
 
 Then, gudeicife, count the lawin. 
 
 The lawin, the lawin, 
 
 Then, gudewife, count the lawi». 
 
 And hring's a coggie mair. 
 
 HANDSOME NELL. 
 Tune — " I am a man unmarried 
 
 O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass, 
 
 Ay, and I love her still, 
 And w ailst that virtue warms my bresst^ 
 
 I'll love my handsome Nell. 
 Tal lal de ral, §-c. 
 
 As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 
 
 And mony full as braw, 
 But for a modest gracefu' mien 
 
 The like I never saw. 
 
 Tal lal de ral, Ifc. 
 
 A bonnie lass, I will confess. 
 
 Is pleasant to the ee. 
 But without some better qualities 
 
 She's no a lass for me. 
 
 Tal lal de ral, ^c. 
 
 But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 
 
 And what is best of a' 
 Her reputation was complete, 
 
 And fair without a flaw. 
 
 Tal lal de ral, Sfc. 
 
 She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
 
 Both decent and genteel ; 
 And then th>jre's something in her guift 
 
 Gars ony dress look weel. 
 
 Tal lal de ral, §-c. 
 
 A gaudy dress and gentle air 
 
 May slightly touch the heart, 
 But it's innocence and modesty 
 
 That polishes the dart. 
 
 Tal lal de ral, Sfc 
 
 Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
 
 Tis this enchants my soul ; 
 For absolutely in my breast 
 She reigns without control. 
 Tal lal de ral, ^c. 
 
 It must be confessed that these lines give » 
 indication of the future genius of Rurns ; bu' 
 he himself teems to have been fond of them^ 
 probably from the recollections they excited. 
 
' The Golden hours , on angel -vvings , 
 Hew. o'er me and my dearie; 
 For d(^ax to me ; a,s liglil and life , 
 1113- sweet Sighl.-md Mai'v." 
 
rrAD I A CAVK 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 203 
 
 jS' , 
 
 'his wjti. 
 
 Aye, and Luke (i 
 
 Come love me an ' 
 
 Rubin Adair. 
 
 
 i:? TTAKnr. 
 
 iawie up the tr 
 
 glance. 
 
 '•. that io'' 
 
 uin my L :.;f, 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary, 
 
 .,st, 
 
 ')■'■ 
 
 oil, fur him buik again J ^c. 
 
 HER FLOWl? 
 
 Oh, fur 
 
 tne M inlander's Karewell to Ireland, witl» some alter- 1 
 »tions, sung slowly. J 
 
SONGS. 
 
 203 
 
 HAD I A CAVE. 
 
 Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
 V\Tiere the winds howl to tlie waves' dashing roar, 
 Tl'.cro would I weep niy 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 liie, 
 
 Laugh o'er th;^ perjury, 
 
 Then in thy bosom try 
 What peace is there. 
 
 Compare this with the old crambo-cHuk, — to 
 the same air — 
 
 You R wciCome to Paxton, younj Robin Adair, 
 Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair. 
 
 How does Johnnie Mackeral do? 
 
 Aye, and Luke Gardener too? 
 
 Come love me and never rue," 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 HIGHLAND HARRY. 
 
 Mr Ha. ry was a gallant gay ; 
 
 Fu' stately strode he on the plain ; 
 But now he's bani>h'd far away, 
 I'll never see him back again. 
 Oh, for him brick again ! 
 
 Oh, fir him back again ! 
 I lead gie a Ktiockhaspie's land 
 Fur Highland Harry hack again. 
 
 Wlien a' the lave gae to their bed, 
 
 I wander dowie up the glen ; 
 I sit me down, and greet my fill, 
 
 And aye I wish him back again. 
 
 Oh, for him back again ! §-c. 
 
 Oh, were some villains hangit hie, 
 
 And ilka body had their ain, 
 Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht, 
 
 My Highland Harry back again. 
 
 Oh, for him back again ! §*c. 
 
 Sad was the day, and sad the hour. 
 
 He left me in his native plain. 
 And ru>h'd his much-wrong'd prince to join ; 
 
 i3ut, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again I 
 Oh, for him back again I Sfc. 
 
 Strong was my Harry's arm in war, 
 Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain ; 
 
 But vengeance marks him for her ain— 
 I'll never see him back again.* 
 
 Oh, for him back again ! Sfc. 
 
 • The first three verses of this soiif;, excejitinp the 
 thorns, are by Hiiriis. The air to which it is sung, is 
 the H ^'hlaiidcr's Farsweil to Ireland, wilh some alter- 
 »lions, sung slowly. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 Tune—" Kathcrine Ogie." 
 
 Ye hanks, and braes, and streams arocnd 
 
 The Castle o* Montgomery ! * 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flow r% 
 
 Your waters never drum lie ! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there they langest tarry ! 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk i 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
 As, underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom ' 
 The golden hours, on angel wings. 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me, as light and life, 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace, 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 M'e tore ourselves asunder : 
 But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clsjr, 
 
 That wraps my Highland ]\Iary J 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance. 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
 And mould'ring now in silent dust. 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core. 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 HER FLOWING LOCKS: 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Her flowing locks, the raven's winj, 
 Adown her neck and bosmn hing; 
 
 How sweet unto that breast to cling. 
 And round that neck entwine her , 
 
 Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
 O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 
 
 Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
 A crimson still diviner. 
 
 • Coilsfield House, near Mauehlinc : but poetinUi 
 titled as above, on account of Oie name cf tb» pio. 
 pnetor. 
 
204. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 HERE'S, A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Here's, a bottle and an honest friend! 
 
 Wliat \VM(I ye wish for inair, man i 
 Wha kens, bifiire his life may end, 
 
 What his share may be of care, man. 
 Then catch the moments as they fly, 
 
 Aad Use them as ye ought, man :— 
 Believe me, happini^s is shy, 
 
 And comes not ay when sought, man. 
 
 HERE'S A HEALTH TO THE.M 
 THAT'S AWA. 
 
 PATRIOTIC — UNriNISHED. 
 
 Hzre's a health to them that's awa. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
 
 And wIm. winna wish gude luck to our cause, 
 
 Slay never gude luck be their fa' ! 
 
 It's gude to be merry and wise, 
 
 It's gude to be honest and true, 
 
 It's gude to support Caledonia's cause, 
 
 And bide by the bufif 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 ! 
 
 Xlay tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist. 
 
 And wander their way to the devil ! 
 
 Here's a Lc£.h to them that's awa. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 
 Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie. 
 
 That lives at the lug of 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 
 
 be heard, 
 But they wham the truth would Indite. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 Here's Chieftain Jl'Leod, a Chieftain 'vorth 
 
 gowd, 
 Tbo' bred amang mountains o' snaw I 
 
 Thou art sweet as the smile when kind lovert 
 
 meet. 
 And soft as their parting tear, Jessie ! 
 
 Although thou maun never be mine— 
 Although even hope is denied — 
 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 
 
 Than aught in the world beside, Jessie ! 
 
 I mourn through the gay gaudy day. 
 As hopeless I muse on thy charms ; 
 
 But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
 For then I am look'd in thy arms, Jessie ! 
 
 I guess by the dear angel smile, 
 
 I gue.-A by the love- rolling ee ; 
 But why urge the temler confession, 
 
 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie" 
 
 KERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE 1 LO'E 
 DEAR. 
 
 T^nt—" Here's a Health to them that's iwa." 
 
 Here's a health to ane I lu'e drar— 
 Hwe'ii a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
 
 HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS 
 
 ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONQ. 
 
 Tune—" John Anderson my ja" 
 
 How cruel are the parents 
 
 \Vh» riches only prize, 
 And to the wealthy booby, 
 
 Poor woman sacrifice. 
 Meanwhile the hapless daughter 
 
 Has but a choice of strife ; 
 To shun a tyrant father's hate, 
 
 Become a wi etched wife. 
 
 The ravening hawk pursuing, 
 
 The trembling dove thus flie^ 
 To shun impelling ruin 
 
 A while her pinions tries ; 
 'Till of escape despairing, 
 
 No shelter or retr'-at. 
 She trusts the ruthless falconer, 
 
 And drops beneath his feet. 
 
 HOW LANG AND DREARY IS niE 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen 
 
 How lang and dreary is the night. 
 
 When I am frae my dearie • 
 I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
 
 Though 1 we:e ne'er sae weary. 
 
 Fur, oil, her luneli/ nights are lang. 
 And, oh, htr itremns are eerie, 
 
 uind, oh, her wiJuw'd heart is sair, 
 That's ubsi nl frae her dearie. 
 
 • Written upon Mrss l.cwars, now Mrs. Thomson 
 of t)uii'fri(s; 3 true fr .end anri agre.it favourilc o- 
 thi' port, and, at liisi'rah, one of the most tyrap* 
 tliiziiig tnends ul' Ins althelcU widow. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 205 
 
 Wlien I tliiiik on the lightsome days 
 I Kpent wi' thee, my dearie ; 
 
 And now what seas between us roar, 
 lluw can I but be eerie? 
 For, oh, Sfc. 
 
 How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 
 
 The joyless day how dreary ! 
 It wisna sae ye glinted by, 
 
 When 1 wiis wi' my dearie. 
 1-^ur, oh, §"c. 
 
 I AM A SON OF MARS. 
 Tunc—" Soldier's Joy." 
 
 I AM son of Mars who lave been in mary 
 
 wars, 
 
 And show my cuts and scars wherever I conie ; 
 Tliis here was for a wench, and that other in a 
 
 trendi. 
 When welcoming the French at the sound of 
 
 the drum. 
 
 Z,al de dandle, §-c. 
 
 My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 
 
 hreith'd his last. 
 When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 
 
 Abram ; 
 I served out ray trade when the gallant game 
 
 was play'd, 
 And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 
 
 drum. 
 
 Lai de daudle, §"c. 
 
 I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 
 
 batt'ries. 
 And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
 Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 
 
 head me, 
 I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
 JjoI de daudle, &•€. 
 
 And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 
 
 and leg, 
 And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
 I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my 
 
 callet, 
 As when I os'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
 Ziol de daudle, Sec. 
 
 Whit tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 
 
 winter shocks. 
 Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 
 
 home, 
 When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 
 bottle tell, 
 could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the 
 drum. 
 
 JjoI de daudle, Sfc. 
 
 I DREAIM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
 
 WERE springi:ng. 
 
 These two staiuas I composed when I wa« 
 seventeen, and aie among the oldest of my prinU 
 ed pieces. 
 
 I DUEA5i'i) I lay where flowers were sprbg'.ng, 
 
 Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
 List'ning to the wilil blrd.i singing, 
 
 By a falling, crystal stream : 
 Strai;(ht the sky grew black and daring ; 
 
 Thro* the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
 Trees with ageil arms were warring. 
 
 O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 
 
 Such was my life's deceitful morning. 
 
 Such the pleasures 1 enjoy 'd ; 
 But lang or noon, loud tempests stormtDg, 
 
 A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd, 
 Tho' tickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 
 
 She promis'd fail-, and perforni'd but illj 
 Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd mo, 
 
 1 bear a heart shall su])port me still. 
 
 I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOUW 
 Tune — " I'll gang nae malr to yon towa" 
 
 I'li, aye ca' in by yon tnun. 
 
 And by yon garden green again j 
 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 
 
 And see my bonnie Jean again. 
 
 There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall gnss 
 What brings me back the gate again, 
 
 But she, my fairest fiithfu' lass ; 
 And stowlins we shall meet again. 
 
 She'll wander by the aiken tree, 
 
 When trystin time draws near again ; 
 
 And when her lovely form I see, 
 O haith, she's doubly dear again. 
 
 I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 
 
 And by yon garden green again; 
 
 I'll aye ca' iu by yon toun. 
 
 And see my bonnie Jean again. 
 
 I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY iif. 
 
 The chorus is old : 
 IS, is mine. 
 
 -the rest of it, such u h 
 
 I'm my mammy's ae bairn, 
 
 Wi' unco folk, I weary, Sir; 
 Anil lying in a man's bed, 
 
 I'm fley'd wad mak me irie. Sir. 
 I'm o'er young, I'm o'er ynurg, 
 I'm o'er poung to marry yet.- 
 

 
 Sru6 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 
 Tm o*er young, twad he « tin 
 
 If ye wad woo me, love, 
 
 
 To tah i<ie frae my n^rnmi/ yet. 
 
 Wha can espy thee ? 
 
 I'm far aboon fortune, love, 
 
 
 Hallowmas is :;orae and gane, 
 
 When I am by thee. 
 
 
 The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 
 
 
 
 And you and I in ae bed, 
 
 I come from my chamber 
 
 
 In trowth I darena venture, Sir. 
 
 When the moon's glowing ; 
 
 
 /'m o'er young, ^c. 
 
 I walk by the streamlet 
 'Mang the broom flowing. 
 
 
 My minnie coft me a new gown. 
 
 The bright moon and stars, loT6>* 
 
 
 The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 
 
 None else espy me ; 
 
 
 War I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 
 
 And if ye wad win my love. 
 
 
 I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
 
 Jamie, come try me. 
 
 
 Fm o'er young, S^c. 
 Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
 
 
 
 
 
 Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir ; 
 
 
 
 But should ye come this gate again, 
 
 JOCKIE'S TA'EN THE PARTING KIS& 
 
 
 I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
 
 
 
 I'm o'er young, Sfc, 
 
 Jogkie's ta'en the parting kiss, 
 Ower the mountains he is gane ; 
 
 And with him is a' my bliss ; 
 
 Nought but griefs wi' me remain. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Spare my love, ye winds that blaw, 
 
 
 IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 
 
 Flashy sleets, and beating rain ! 
 Spare my love, thou feathery snaw, 
 
 
 These were originally English verses : — I 
 
 Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 
 
 
 gave them their Scotch dress. 
 
 When the shades of evening creep 
 
 
 It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 
 
 Ower the day's fair gladsome ee. 
 
 
 Nor shape that I admire, 
 
 Sound and safely may he sleep. 
 
 
 Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 
 
 Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 
 
 
 Jlight weel awauk desire. 
 
 He will think on her he loves. 
 
 
 Something in ilka part o' thee 
 
 Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
 
 
 To praise, to love, I find ; 
 
 For, where'er he distant roves. 
 
 
 Pdt dear as is thy form to me. 
 
 Jockie's heart is still at hame. 
 
 
 StiJI dearer is thy miud. 
 Nae raair ungen'rous wish I hae, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Nor stronger in my breast, 
 
 JOHN BARLEYCOR^. • 
 
 
 Than, if I canna mak thee sae, 
 
 
 
 At least to see thee blest. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 
 Content am I, if heaven shall give 
 
 
 
 But happiness to thee : 
 
 There were tLree kings into the east/ 
 
 
 And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 
 
 Three kings both great and high. 
 
 
 For thee I'd bear to die. 
 
 An* they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 
 
 , 
 
 John Barleycorn should die. 
 They took a plough and plough'd him iiWHf 
 
 
 
 
 
 Put clods upon his head. 
 
 
 JAMIE, COJIE TRY ME. 
 
 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
 John Barleycorn was deM. 
 
 
 Jamie, come try me, 
 
 
 
 Jamie, come try me ; 
 
 But the cheerful spring came kindly on. 
 
 
 If ye wad win my love. 
 
 And show'rs began to fall ; 
 
 
 Can ye na try me ? 
 
 John Barleycorn g(it up again. 
 
 
 If ye should ask my love. 
 
 And sore surpris'd them all. 
 
 
 Could 1 deny thee ? 
 
 
 
 If ye wad win my love, 
 
 The sultry suns of summer came, 
 
 
 Jamie, come try me. 
 
 And he grew thick and strong, 
 His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
 
 
 My heart leaps light, my lore. 
 
 That no one should him wrong. 
 
 
 When ye come nigh n\e ; 
 If 1 had wings, my love. 
 
 
 
 • This is partly composed on the plan of an oU 
 
 
 Think na I'd fly thee. 
 
 ■ODg known by the same name. 
 
 
 
 
SONGS. 
 
 20" 
 
 Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, ar«i why 
 should you do so, 
 
 Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Ajader'son, 
 my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first 
 
 began 
 To try her canny hand, John, her master-wc:k 
 
 was man ; 
 And you amang them a', John, sue trig fra# 
 
 tap to toe. 
 She proved to be nae journey-work, John An 
 
 derson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my fire* 
 conceit, 
 
 And ye na think it strange, John, tho* I ca' y* 
 trim and neat ; 
 
 Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never 
 think ye so. 
 
 But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An- 
 derson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, Joho, we've seen our 
 
 bairns' bairns. 
 And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm haiipy 
 
 in your arms. 
 And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye', 
 
 ne'er say no, 
 Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, Joht 
 
 Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasuni 
 does it gie 
 
 To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween 
 you and me. 
 
 And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, 
 
 Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- 
 derson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were 
 first acquaint. 
 
 Your locks were like the raven, your bonnia 
 brow was brent. 
 
 But now your head's turned bald, John, your 
 locks are like the snaw, 
 
 Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander- 
 son, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeai 
 I we've past, 
 
 ' And soon that year maun come, John, will 
 bring us to our last : 
 But let nae that affright us, John, our heart* 
 
 were ne'er our foe, 
 While in innocent delight we lived, John An- 
 lOIIN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. Person, my jo. 
 
 John Akdersok, my jo, John, I wonder what Jjhn Anderson, my jo, John, we clam the hi! 
 
 you metn, thegither, , 
 
 To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up M And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi 
 
 late f.t e en, J aue aoither ; 
 
 The doher autumn ent«r'd mild, 
 ^VTicn he grew wan and pale ; 
 
 Il'i bending joints and drooping head 
 Show'd lie began to fail. 
 
 His colour sicken'd more and more, 
 
 He faded into age ; 
 And then his enemies began 
 
 To show their deadly rage. 
 
 They've ta'e» a weapon long and sharp, 
 
 And cut him by the knee ; 
 Then ty'd him fast upon a cart. 
 
 Like a rogue for forgerie. 
 
 They laid him down upon his back. 
 
 And ciidgell'd him full sore ; 
 Tliey hung him up before the storm, 
 
 And tum'd him o'er and o'er. 
 
 They filled up a darksome pit 
 
 With water to the brim, 
 They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
 
 There let him sink oi swim. 
 
 Ihey laid him out upon the floor, 
 
 To work him farther woe, 
 And still as signs 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 used him worst of all, 
 
 For he crush'd him between two stones. 
 
 ,\nd they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 
 And drank 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 fai in old Scotland ! 
 
208 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Now we mriun totter down, Jolin, but hand in 
 
 hand we'll go. 
 And we'll sltep the^ither at the foot, John An- 
 
 deisou, my jo. 
 
 LAST MAY A BRAW AVOOER. 
 
 Tune—" The Lothian Lassie," 
 
 Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang 
 glen, 
 And sair wi' his Inve he did deave me ; 
 I said there was naethlng I hattd like men : 
 The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe 
 
 me. 
 The deuce gae wi' him to believe me ! 
 
 He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black eea. 
 And Vdw'd for my love he was dcein'. 
 
 I said he niicht dee when he liked for Jean ; 
 The giiid forgi'e me tor leein', for leeiu', 
 The guid forgi'e me for leein' ! 
 
 A wecl-stockit mailin', himsell for the laird, 
 And marriage aff-hand, were his proffer. 
 
 I never loot on that I kfiin'd it or cared ; 
 But thoch» I might hae a waur offer, waur 
 
 offer, 
 But thought I might hae a waur offer. 
 
 But, what wad ye think, in a fortnicht or less, — 
 The deil's in his taste to gang near her ! — 
 
 He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess — 
 Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her, 
 
 could bear her. 
 Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her ! 
 
 But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi' care, 
 I gaed to the tryst o" Dalgarnoek ; 
 
 And wha l)ut ray braw fickle wooer was there ? 
 Whd glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a 
 
 warlock, 
 Wha glowr'u as he had seen a warlock. 
 
 Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink, 
 Lest necbors micht say I was saucy ; 
 
 My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
 And vow'<l I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 
 And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 
 
 I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet. 
 
 Gin she had recover'd her hearin' ? 
 \nd how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled 
 feet ?'• 
 Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin', a- 
 
 swearin', 
 Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin'. 
 
 • In Scotland, when a cast-ofT lover pays his ad. 
 dresses to a new mistress, tliat new mistress is saiil to 
 have pot the auld slioon (old shoes) of the former one. 
 Here the mota])hor is made to cirrv an extremely in- 
 genious sarcatm at tlie ciunisiuess of 'he new mislrc'sit'i 
 person. 
 
 He begged, for gudesake ! I wad be hi» wl£g^ 
 Or else I wad kill him wi" sorrow ; 
 
 Sae, e'en to preserve the piiir body in life, 
 1 think I maun wed hitn to-morrow, to-BiiK^ 
 
 row, 
 I think I maun wed hiin to-morrow. 
 
 LASSIE WI* THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS 
 
 T^ne — " Rothiemurchus' Rant." 
 
 Lassie tci' the Ihii white locks, 
 Jionnie luisie, itrtless lassie. 
 Wilt thou wi' me tend thejincks ? 
 Wilt thou be mi/ dearie, O ? 
 
 Now Nature cleads the flowery lea. 
 And a* is young and sweet like thee, 
 O, wilt thou share its jv)ys wi' me. 
 And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
 Lassie ud', ^c. 
 
 And when the welcome simmer shower 
 Has cheer'd ilk dniopinj^ little fliiwer. 
 We'll to the breathing v/nodhine bower, 
 At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
 Lassie wt, §x. 
 
 MHien Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
 The weary shearer's hameward way, 
 Through yellow-waving fields we'il stray, 
 And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
 Lassie, wi', §-c. 
 
 And whem the howling wintry blast 
 Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest, 
 Enclasped to my faithiul breast, 
 I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 
 Lassie, wi', §-c. 
 
 LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS 
 
 Tune—" O lay tlie loof in mine. Ism.* 
 
 O LAY thy loof in mine, lass. 
 In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
 And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
 That thou wilt be my ain. 
 
 A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
 He aft has wrought me niuckle wae ; 
 But now he is my deadly fae, 
 Unless thou be ray ain. 
 
 There's mony a lass has broke my rest^ 
 That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
 But thou art queen within my breaity 
 For ever to remain. 
 

 SONGS. W9 
 
 I.Ef NOT V\'OMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
 
 Again the merrv mor.th o* l^fay, 
 
 
 Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
 The birds lejoice in leafy bowel s. 
 
 Tune—" Duncan Gray." 
 
 Let not woman e'rr complain 
 
 The bees hum round the breathing flo77aa , 
 
 Of inconstancy in love ; 
 
 Blythe morning lilts his rosy eve, 
 
 Let not u-dtiKin e'er complain, 
 
 And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
 
 Fickle man is a()t to rove. 
 
 My soul, (lelightless, a' surveys, 
 
 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Look abroad tlirouijh nature's range, 
 
 
 Natnrc's mighty law is change; 
 
 Within yon milk-white hawthorn buzh) 
 
 Ladies, would it not l)e strange, 
 
 Ainang her nestlings sits the thrush : 
 
 Man should, then, a monster prove ? 
 
 Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
 
 
 Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 
 
 Hark the winds, and mark the skies ; 
 
 But I, wi" my sweet nurslings licre, 
 
 Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow. 
 
 Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
 
 Snn and moou bnt set to rise ; 
 
 Pass wiilow'd nights and joyless days, 
 
 Hound aiid round the seasons go. 
 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Wiy, then, ask of silly man, 
 To oppose great nature's plan ? 
 
 O wae upon you, men o* state. 
 
 That brethren rouse to deadly hate ' 
 
 We'll be constant while we can, 
 
 As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
 
 You can Ih; no inoie, you know. 
 
 Sae may it on your heads return ! 
 
 
 How can your flinty hearts enjoy. 
 
 The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* •, 
 
 But soon may jjeace bring happy days, 
 
 
 
 LONG, LONG THE NIGHT 
 
 And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 
 
 Tuve—" Aye wakin'." 
 
 
 ZtOnp, long tlie night. 
 
 
 
 J/ravg ciimrs the mnrrow, 
 
 
 While my soul's delight. 
 
 
 Is on her bed of sorrow. 
 
 LORD GREGORY. 
 
 Can I cease to care. 
 
 Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 
 
 Can I cease to languish, 
 
 And loud the tempests roar ; 
 
 While my darling fair 
 
 A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower. 
 
 Is on the conch of anguish ? 
 
 Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! 
 
 Zfong, §-c. 
 
 
 
 An exile frae her father's ha'. 
 
 Every hope is fled. 
 
 And a' for loving thee; 
 
 Every fear is terror 
 
 At least some pity on me shjw. 
 
 Slumber e'en I dread, 
 
 If love it may na be. 
 
 Every dream is horroi 
 
 
 ■Long, ifc. 
 
 Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gr:3!»' 
 
 
 By bonnie Irvine side. 
 
 Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 
 
 Where first I own'd that virgin love 
 
 Oh, in pity hear nie ! 
 
 I lang lang had denied ? 
 
 Take aught else of mine, 
 
 
 But my Chloiis s])are me ! 
 
 How aften di(Nt thou pledge the vow, 
 
 jLung, Sfc. 
 
 Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
 
 
 And m.y fond heart, it-ell sae true, 
 
 
 It ne'er mistrusted tliiae. 
 Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 
 And flinty is thy breast ! 
 
 Tune—" Logan Water." 
 
 Thou dart of heaven that flashes by. 
 
 0, Logan sweeetly didst thou glide. 
 
 Oh, wilt thou give me rest ! 
 
 That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
 ' And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
 Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
 
 Ye mustering thunders from above, 
 
 Your willing victim see ; 
 
 But now the flowery banks appear 
 
 
 
 Like drumlie winter, dark an drear, 
 
 • Originally, 
 
 While my dear lad maun face his faei. 
 
 " Ye mind na 'mid yoor criirl joy:, 
 
 } Far, fur frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 •• I lie widow's tears, the orpli;i."'s*ijri»i! 
 
 1 
 
21C 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Bat spare anf» pardon my false love 
 His wrongs to heaveu and me ! • 
 
 LINES ON LORD DAER. 
 
 This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
 I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 
 
 October twenty-third, 
 A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
 Sae far 1 sprackled + up the brae, 
 
 I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 
 
 I've been at dru.:kenyt'r(7er5' | feasts, 
 Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, 
 
 Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
 I've even join'd the honour'd jorura, 
 When mighty Squireships of the quorum. 
 
 Their hydra drouth did sloken. 
 
 But wi a Lord — stand out my shin, 
 A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 
 
 Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
 An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
 Our peerage he o'erlooks them a' 
 
 As I look o'er a sonnet. 
 
 But O for Hogarth's magic power ! 
 To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,§ 
 
 And how he stared and stammer'd, 
 Whan goavan || as if led wi' branks,^ 
 An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks. 
 
 He in the parlour hammer'd. 
 
 I sidling shelter'd in a nook. 
 An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 
 
 Like some portentous omen ; 
 Except good sense and social glee. 
 An' (what surprised me) modesty, 
 
 I marked nought uncommon. 
 
 I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
 
 The gentle piide, the lordly state 
 
 The arrogant assuming; 
 The fient a piidc, nae pride had he, 
 Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 
 
 Mair than an honest ploughman. 
 
 Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
 Hencefortn to meet with unconcern, 
 
 One rank as well's another ; 
 Nae honest icorthy man need rare, 
 To meet with noble youthful Daek, 
 
 For he but meets a brother. 
 
 These lines will be read with no common in- 
 Ifcrcst by all who remember the unaffected sim- 
 
 plicity of appearance, the sweetness of ccunte. 
 nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene« 
 volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — It was r 
 younger brother of his who, as Earl of Selkirk, 
 became so well known as the advocate of volun- 
 tary emigration, and who settled the CiMaj 
 upon the Red River. 
 
 MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
 Tune—" Macpherson's Rant. ' 
 
 Fareweil, ye prisons dark and strong, 
 
 The wretch's destinie ! 
 Macpherson's time will not be long 
 On yonder gallows tree ! 
 
 Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
 
 Sae dantonly gaed he. 
 He play''d a spring, and danced it TCKJ^dt 
 Heneath the gallows tree ! 
 
 Oh, what is death, but parting breath ? 
 
 On mony a bluidy plain 
 I've daur'd his face, and in this place 
 
 I scorn him yet again. 
 
 Sae rantingly, Sfc. 
 
 Untie these bands frae aff my hands. 
 
 And bring to me my sword ; 
 And there's nae man in a' Scotland 
 
 But I'll brave him at a word. 
 Sae rantingly, §-c. 
 
 I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; 
 
 I die by treacherie : 
 It buins my heart I must depart, 
 
 And not avenged be. 
 
 Sae rantingly, Sfc. 
 
 Now farewell, light, thou sunshine bright, 
 
 And all bpncLith the sky ! 
 May coward shame distain his name, 
 
 The wretch that dares not die ! 
 Sae rantingly, 8rc. 
 
 * This song was eompo'^od upon tlic sulvect of tile 
 well. known and very beautiful balL-iil, cntiUed " The 
 Lass of Loiliroyaii. 
 
 t Clambered. i Attorneys. 
 
 t Frightened stare. || Walkiiij; stupidly. 
 
 1 A kind of bridle. 
 
 MARIA'S DWELLING. 
 Tufte—" The last time I cam o'er the Moor." 
 
 Farewell thou stream that winding flow* 
 
 Around Maria's dwelling ! 
 Ah cruel inem'ry ! spare the threes 
 
 AVithin my bosom swelling : 
 Condemn'd to drag a ho])eless chain, 
 
 And still in secret languish ; 
 To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 
 
 Yet dare not speek my anguish. 
 
 The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 
 I fain my crime would cover : 
 
SONGS. 
 
 211 
 
 llie hurstiiisj sigh, th' unweeting; groan 
 
 Betray the hopeless lover. 
 I know iny doom must be despair, 
 
 Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
 But oh, M.uia, hear one prayer, 
 
 For pity's sake forgive me. 
 
 The music of thy tongue I heard, 
 
 Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
 I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'a, 
 
 'Till fears no more had saved me. 
 The unwary sailor thus aghast. 
 
 The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
 'i^Ii'l circling horrors yields at last 
 
 To overwhelming ruin. 
 
 MARK YONDER POMP. 
 Tunt—" Dei) tak' the wars." 
 
 Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 
 
 Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
 But when compared with real passion. 
 
 Poor is all that princely pride. 
 
 V/hat are their showy treasures ? 
 
 What are their noisy pleasures ? 
 The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 
 
 The polish'd jewel's bhize, 
 
 M.iy draw the wonrl'ring gaze, 
 
 And courtly grandeur brigiit. 
 
 The fancy may delight. 
 But never, never can come near the heart. 
 
 But did you see my dearest Chloris, 
 
 In simplicity's array ; 
 Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 
 
 Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
 
 O then the heart alarming. 
 
 And all resistless charming. 
 In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- 
 ling soul ! 
 
 Ambition would disown 
 
 The world's imperial crown, 
 
 Even Av'rice would deny 
 
 His worshipp'd deity, 
 And feel thro' every vein Love'a raptures roll. 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 Tune—" Bide ye yet" 
 
 0, Mary, at thy window be ; 
 
 It is the wished, the trjsted hour : 
 Those smiles and glances let me see 
 
 That make the miser's treasure poor. 
 How blyfhely wad I byde the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave fiae sun to sun, 
 Could I the rich reward secure, 
 
 Tie iov^»'y Mary Morison ! 
 
 Yestreen, when to the stented string 
 The dance gaed through the lichtit ha'. 
 
 To thee my fancy took its wing— . 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
 Though this was fair, and that was bra\7 
 
 And you the toast o' a the town, 
 I sigh'd, and said amang them a'. 
 
 Ye are na JMary Morison. 
 
 O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gic. 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thocht ungentle canna be 
 
 The thocht of Alary Morison. 
 
 MEG O' THE MILL. 
 
 Tune—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack "^ 
 
 O, KEM ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 
 An' ken ye what Jleg o' the Mdl 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 wuddiefu' bleerit knurl ; 
 She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl. 
 
 The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving: 
 The laird did address her wi' matter niair mo- 
 Ting ; 
 A fine pacing-horse wi' a clcar-chain'd bridle, 
 A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle. 
 
 O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ; 
 And 'vae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin* ! 
 A tocher's nae word in a true lover's paile. 
 But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the worl ! 
 
 MUSING ON THE ROARLXG OCEAN. 
 
 I COMPOSKD these verses out of compliment 
 to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an of- 
 ficer in the East Indies. 
 
 Tune—" Drumion Dubh." 
 
 Ml'sing on the roaring ocean, 
 Which diviiles 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, 
 Whispring spirits round my pillow, 
 
 Talk of him that's far awa. 
 
 Ye whom sorrow levcr wounded, 
 Ye who never shed a tear, 
 
212 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 Care-untronl)li.'d, joy-surrounded, 
 Gdudy (lay to you is dear. 
 
 Gentle night, do tliou befriend me, 
 Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 
 
 Spirits kind, again attend me, 
 Talk of him that's far awa ! 
 
 MY BONNIE IMARY. 
 
 This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza 
 of the song is old, the rest mine.* 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o* wine, 
 
 An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
 That I may drink hefore I go, 
 
 A service to my honnie lassie ; 
 The boat rocks at the ])ier o' Leith ; 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws fiae the ferry ; 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
 
 And I maun lea'e my bonuie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
 The shouts o' war are heard afor, 
 
 The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
 But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad make me langcr wish to tarry ; 
 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar. 
 
 It's leaving thee, my bonuie Maty. 
 
 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 BIv heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
 
 here — 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
 A-chasing the wilil deer, and following the roe, 
 Mv heart's in the Highlands wherever 1 go. 
 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
 
 North, 
 The biith-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 
 
 Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 
 
 snow ; 
 
 Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
 
 . Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods , 
 
 Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
 
 here ; 
 My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, 
 Chasing the wild deer and following the roe— 
 My J'.eart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
 
 • IMjis Minp, wliicli Iliims here nckno'Aiedfjcj to he 
 bis own, was first ijilrodiii-i-il by him in a Idler to 
 Urs. Dunlop, iis two o'J itanzai. 
 
 MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS 
 UPON'T. 
 
 Mt lady's gown there's gairs upon't, 
 And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
 But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
 RIy lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 
 
 My lord a-hunting he is gane. 
 
 But hounds ot hawks wi' him are nane*. 
 
 By Colin's cottage lies his game. 
 
 If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 
 
 My lady's white, my lady's red, 
 And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude, 
 But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude 
 Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
 
 Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
 Whare gor-cocks through the heather pase •, 
 There wons auld Colin's bonny lass, 
 A lily in a wilderness. 
 
 Sae sweetly move her genty limbs. 
 Like music notes o' lover's 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 man lo'es the best, 
 O that's the lass to mak irim blest. 
 
 MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
 
 Tun^—" There'll never be peace till Jamie comei 
 hame." 
 
 Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. 
 And listens the lambkins that bleat ower the 
 
 braes. 
 While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
 But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 
 
 The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlandf 
 
 adorn. 
 And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
 They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ! 
 They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 
 
 Thou laverock, that springs frae the dews of 
 
 the lawn. 
 The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking 
 
 dawn ; 
 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 daik, dreary winter, and w ild-driving snaw, 
 Alane can delight me — my Nannie's awa. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 213 
 
 MY NANNIE, O. 
 t^nt -" My NanB .o, O." 
 
 Behind yon hills whore Stiiichar flows, 
 
 Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 
 The wintry sun the <l:iy has dos'd, 
 
 And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 
 Tlie wcstland wind lilaws h)ud an* shrill ; 
 
 The niijht's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
 But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steaJ, 
 
 An' owre the hills to Nannie, O, 
 
 My Nannie's charmin;^, sweet, an' younj ; 
 
 Na* artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 
 May ill befa' the flatterin<j tongue 
 
 That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
 Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
 
 As spotless as sIm's bounie, O : 
 The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 
 
 Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 
 
 A country lad is my degree. 
 
 An' few there be that ken me, O ; 
 But what c»re I how few they bo, 
 
 I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
 My riches a' 's my penny-fee. 
 
 Ail' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
 But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
 
 My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 
 
 Our auld Guidman delights to view 
 
 His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
 But I'm as blythe that bauds his plough, 
 
 An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 
 Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
 
 I'll tike what Heaven will sea' me, O ; 
 Nae ither care in life hae I, 
 
 But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 
 
 MY PEGGY'S FACE. 
 
 My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
 The frost of Hermit age might wai'm ; 
 My Peggy's worth, ray Peggy's mind, 
 Might charm the first of human kind : 
 I 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 l)ut owns their magic sway, 
 Who but knows they all decay ! 
 The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
 The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
 The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
 Thesp are all immortal charms. 
 
 MY SODGER LADDIE, 
 
 THE soldier's doxy's SON*; IN " THE J0LL1 
 IIEGGAKS." 
 
 Tune—" Sodger Laddie." 
 
 I ONCE was a maid, tho' I canna 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. 
 Sine/, Lai de lul, §-c. 
 
 The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
 To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
 His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
 Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
 Sinff, Lai de lal, Sfc. 
 
 But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
 The sword I forsook for tho sake of the church. 
 He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the bo'Ji/, 
 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
 Siny, Lid de lal, ^-c. 
 
 Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
 The regiment at large for a husband I got; 
 From the gilded spontoon to tho fife I was ready, 
 I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
 S'uKj, L'A de lal, ^'C. 
 
 But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in de-pair, 
 Till I met my old boy at Cuiminghim fair ; 
 His ray regiinetit(d tliey flutter'd so gamly, 
 My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
 Sing, Lnl de lal, fre. 
 
 And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 
 
 And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 
 
 But wliilst with both hands I can hold the g 3M 
 
 steady, 
 Here's to thee, my hero, my sod:;er ladJie. 
 Sing, Lal de lal, §"c. 
 
 MY SPOUSE NANCIE. 
 Tune—" My Jo, Janet." 
 
 Husband, husband, cease your itrlfe^ 
 Nor longer idly rave. Sir; 
 
 Though I am your wedded wife, 
 Yet I'm not your slave, Sir. 
 
 One of two must still obey, 
 
 Nancie, Nmcie ; 
 Is it man or woman, say. 
 
 My spouse Nancie ? 
 
 If 'tis still the lordly word. 
 
 Service and obedience ; 
 I'll de-sert my soverei;^!! lord. 
 
 And BO good-bye allcgiauc* 
 
 6a/l will I be so bereft, 
 Nancie, Nancie ; 
 

 
 2H BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 Yet I'll try to mal e a soift, 
 
 The warld's wrack we share »'% 
 
 BIy spouse Nantie. 
 
 The warstle and the care o't ; 
 
 
 W' her I'll blythely bear it, 
 
 My poor heart then break it must, 
 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 My last hour I'm near it ; 
 
 
 When you lay me in the dust, 
 
 
 Think — think how you will bear it. 
 
 
 T will hope and trust in Heaven, 
 
 NAE-BODY. 
 
 Nancie, Nancie, 
 
 
 Strength to bear it will be given, 
 
 I HAE a wife o' my ain. 
 
 My spouse Nancie. 
 
 I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 
 
 
 I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
 
 ■Well, Sir, from the silent dead, 
 
 I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 
 
 Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
 
 
 Ever round your midnight bed 
 
 I hae a penny to spend, 
 
 Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 
 
 There — thanks to nae-body; 
 
 
 I hae naething to lend. 
 
 Ill wed another like my dear 
 
 I'll borrow frae nae-body. 
 
 Nancie, Nancie ; 
 
 
 Then all hell will fly for fear, 
 
 I am nae-body's lord, 
 
 ]My spouse Nancie I 
 
 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 ; 
 
 MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 
 
 MElKLE thinks my luve d' my beauty. 
 
 If nae-body care for me, 
 
 And meikle thinks my hive o' my kin ; 
 
 I'll care for nae-body. 
 
 But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 
 
 
 Jly tocher's the jewel has chainis for him. 
 It's a' for the apple he'll n(iuri>h the tree ; 
 
 
 
 It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee. 
 
 
 Mv laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 
 
 NANCY. 
 
 He canna hae luve to spare for me. 
 
 
 Thine am I, my faithful fair^ 
 
 Your profTcr o' hive's an arle penny, 
 
 Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
 
 My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
 
 Ev'iy pulse along my veins, 
 
 But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 
 
 Ev'ry roving fancy. 
 
 Sae ye wi' anitlier your fortune maun try. 
 Ye're like to the tin.nier o' yon rotten wood, 
 Ye're like to the baik o' yon rotten tree, 
 
 
 To thy bosom lay my heart. 
 
 There to thiob and languish ; 
 
 Ye'U slip frae me like a knotiess thread, 
 
 And ye'll crack your ciedit wi' mae nor me. 
 
 Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
 
 That would heal its anguish. 
 
 
 Take away these rosy lips. 
 Rich with balmy treasure : 
 
 
 
 Turn away thine eyes of love, 
 
 JIY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 
 
 Lest I die with pleasure. 
 
 Tunt—" My wife's a wanton wee thing." 
 
 What is life when wanting love ? 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 
 Night without a morning : 
 
 She is a handsume wee thing, 
 
 Love's the cloudless summer sun 
 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 
 Nature gay adorning. 
 
 This sweet wee wife o* mine ! 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 
 
 I never loo'd a dearer ; 
 
 
 And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVB 
 
 IN GREEN. 
 
 She is a winsome woe thing, 
 
 Now spring has cl.id the grove m green, 
 
 She is a hutKJMime wre thing, 
 
 And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 
 The fiirrow'd waving corn is seen 
 
 Thin sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 Rejoice in fostering shower* . 
 
 -J 
 
SONGS. 
 
 215 
 
 IThlle ilka tiling in nature join 
 
 Their sorrows to forej;o, 
 why thus all alone are mine 
 
 The wcaiy steps of woe ! 
 
 The trout within yon wim])ling burn 
 
 Glides swift, a silver dart, 
 And safe beneath the shady thorn 
 
 Defies tlie angler's art ; 
 My life was ance that careless stream, 
 
 That wanton trout was I ; 
 But love, wi' unrelentinij beam, 
 
 Has seorch'd uiy fountains dry. 
 
 The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 
 
 In yonder cliff that grows, 
 V\'hich 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. 
 Add now beneath the withering blast, 
 
 My youth and joy consume. 
 
 The waken'd lav'rock warbling springSi 
 
 And clim'os the e.irly sky, 
 IVinnowing blythe he; dewy wings 
 
 In mornir.g's rosy eye ; 
 As little reckt I sorrow's power, 
 
 Until the flowery snare 
 0' witching love, in luckless hour, 
 
 Made me the thrall o' care. 
 
 bad my fate been Greenland's snows, 
 
 Cr Afric's burning zone, 
 Wi' man and nature leagued my foes. 
 
 So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
 The wretch whase doo.-n is, " hope nae mair,' 
 
 That tongue his woes cau tell ! 
 Within wha^e bosom, save despair, 
 
 Nae kinder spirits dwell. 
 
 NOW BANK AND BRAE ARE CLAD 
 IN GREEN. 
 
 Now bank and brae are clad in green 
 
 An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring. 
 By Girvan's fiiry haunted stream 
 
 The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
 Tc Cassil'is' banks when e'ening fa's, 
 
 Theij wi' my .Alary l^t nie flee. 
 There catch her ilka glance of love 
 
 The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 
 
 The cliild wha boasts o' warld's walth. 
 
 Is atten laird o' ineikle care ; 
 But .Mary she is a' my ain. 
 
 Ah, tortiine carina gie me mair ! 
 rii.ii let me ran-e by Cassillis* banks, 
 
 Wi' h;T tie lassie dear to me, 
 Ap.'I catch her ilka glance o' lora 
 
 The bonnie blink o' Marv's ee 
 
 NOW WESTLIN* WINDS. 
 Tune—" I had a horse, I had nae ncair." 
 
 Now westlin' winds, and slaughtering guns. 
 
 Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
 The niU)rcock springs, on whirring wings, 
 
 Ainang the blooming heather. 
 Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 
 
 Delights the weary fanner ; 
 And the moon shine's bright, when I rove a 
 night, 
 
 To muse upon my charmer. 
 
 The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 
 
 The plover loves the mountiiins ; 
 The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 
 
 The soaring hern the fountains. 
 Through lofty groves the cushat roves, 
 
 Tlie path of man to shun it ; 
 The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 
 
 The spreading thorn the iinnet. 
 
 Thus every kind their pleasure find. 
 
 The savage and the tender ; 
 Some social join, and leagues combine ; 
 
 Some solitary wander : 
 Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 
 
 Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
 The sportman's joy, the murdering cry, 
 
 The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 
 
 But, Peggy dear, the evening's cleat, 
 
 Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
 The sky is blue, the fields in view. 
 
 All lading green and yellow : 
 Come let us stray our gladsome wav, 
 
 And view the charms of nature ; 
 The ru-tling corn, the fruited thorn, 
 
 And every happy creature. 
 
 We'll gently walk, and sweetly t.i'.k, 
 
 Till tlie silent moon shine clearly ; 
 I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't, 
 
 And swear I love thee dearly. 
 Not vernal showers to budding flowers, 
 
 Not autumn to the farmer. 
 So dear can be as thou to me. 
 
 My fair, my lovely charmer ! 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
 BLAW. 
 
 Tune~~" Miss Admiral Gordon's StrattSDCy." 
 
 I COMPOSED this song out of compliment te 
 Mrs. Burns. It was during the honey-moon» 
 
 Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lass that I loe best : 
 Tho' wild woods grow, and rivers rovr, 
 
 Wi' inony a hill betwtt », 
 
216 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 Balth day and niglil, my fancy's flight 
 Is erer wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flow'r, 
 
 Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; 
 I hear her voice in ilka bird, 
 
 Wi' music charm the air : 
 Tliere's not a bonnie flower that springs, 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, 
 Nor yet a boanie bird that sings. 
 
 But minds me o' my Jeau. 
 
 Upon the banks o' flowmg Clyde 
 
 The lasses busk them braw ; 
 But when their best they hae put on, 
 
 My Jeanie dings them a' ; 
 In hamely weeds she far exceeds 
 
 The fairest o' the to^n ; 
 Baith sage and gay confeK it sae, 
 
 Tho' drest in russet gown. 
 
 The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dsma, 
 
 Mair harmless canna be ; 
 She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't), 
 
 Except her love for me : 
 The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, 
 
 Is like her shining een ; 
 In shape and air, naue can compare 
 
 Vi'i' my sweet lovely Jean. 
 
 O hlaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
 
 Aniang the leafy trees; 
 Wi' gentle gale, fiae niulr and dale, 
 
 Bting hame the l.iilen bees, 
 And bring the lassie back to me 
 
 Tliat's aye sae neat and clean ; 
 Ae blink o' her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae lovely is my Jean. 
 
 What sighs and vnws aniang the knowcs, 
 
 Hae past atween us twa ! 
 How fain to meet, how wae to part 
 
 That djy she gaed awa ! 
 The powers aboon can only ken, 
 
 To whom the heart is seen, 
 Ihat nane can be sae dear to lue 
 
 As my sweet lovely Jean. 
 
 O, AY MY WIFU: SHE DANG ME. 
 
 Tune—" O, ay my Wife she dang me." 
 
 O, ay >»y wife she tlanrj vie. 
 And aft mi/ u-if- ahr l>ii)i(/e<{ me I 
 If ye yie a icuman u' Iter vill, 
 Gude faith, ihe'll soon oweryang y ■ 
 
 Os peace and rest my mind was bent, 
 
 And, fool I was, 1 marrieil • 
 But never honest man's intent 
 
 As curticdly niiscarriwl ! 
 O, ay my wife, §'C. 
 
 Some sair o' comfort still at last. 
 When a' thir days are dune, man— 
 
 My pains o' hell on earth is past, 
 I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man. 
 O, ay my wife, &^c. 
 
 O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER 
 
 O BONNIE was yon rosy brier. 
 
 That blooms sae fii frae haunt o' man ; 
 And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear 1 
 
 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 witness'd in their shade yestreen. 
 
 All in its rude and prickly bower. 
 
 That crimson rose, how sweet and fair •. 
 
 But love is fir a sweeter tlower 
 Amid life's thorny path o' care. 
 
 The pathless wild, and winipling burOi 
 M'i' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
 
 And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
 Its joys and griefs alike resign. 
 
 O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, JAM. 
 
 Tune—" The Moiidicwort." 
 
 ArC 0,fi>r ane and twenty. Tarn I 
 An hey, sweit ane and tivnity, Tam I 
 
 I'll learn my hin a rattUny sany. 
 An' I saw ane and twenty, Tain! 
 
 TiiEV sn'>ol me sair, and baud me down, 
 And gar me look like Blnntie, Tam ! 
 
 But three short years will ^oon wheel roan i 
 And then conies ane and twenty, Tom I 
 An O, for, Sec. 
 
 A gleih o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
 Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
 
 At kith or kin I need r.-a' spier, 
 An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
 An' 0,for, i|C 
 
 They'll hae me wed a wealthy coot, 
 Tho' I mysel hae jilenty, Tam ; 
 
 Hut hears't thou, laddie, there's my loe^ 
 
 I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
 
 An' 0,for, ^c. 
 
^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 SONGS. 217 
 
 
 Off, GIN MY LOVF, WERE YON RKD 
 
 They heat your brains, and fire your veiaa, 
 
 
 K( iSR. 
 
 And then you're [)iry for Rob MossgieL 
 
 
 T>i%e—" ilughie Grahsra." 
 
 aini) tal, lal, lay. 
 
 
 Oh, gin my love were yon red rose 
 
 Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 
 
 
 Tliat grows upon tlie castle \va*, 
 
 A heart that warmly seeks to fetl ; 
 
 
 And 1 niy-.L'll a d aj) o' dew, 
 
 That feeling heart but acts a part, 
 
 
 Into her l>onni(' lirea'it to fa' ! 
 
 'Tis rakish art in Rcib Mossgiel, 
 
 
 Oh, there, lieyond expression blest, 
 
 Siny tal, lal, lay. 
 
 
 I'd feast on be.nity a' the nieht ; 
 
 
 
 Stated (11) hiT silk-saft faulds to rest, 
 
 The frank address, the soft caress, 
 
 
 Till flcyed awa by Phtebus' licht. 
 
 Are worse than poison'rl darts of (tee^ 
 The frank address, and politesse. 
 
 
 ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BURNS. 
 
 Arc all finesse in Rob MossgieL 
 Siny tal, lal, lay. 
 
 
 0, WERE my love yon lilac fair. 
 
 
 
 Wi' purple blDs^oiiis to the spring ; 
 And I a bird to shelter there. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Wl-.tn wearied on my little wing ; 
 How I wad mourn when it was torn 
 
 
 
 LET ME IN THIS AE NIOHT 
 
 
 l!y autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
 
 Tune—" Let me in this ae night." 
 
 
 How I wad sing on wanton wing, 
 
 
 
 When youthfu' Jlay its bloom renewed. 
 
 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. 
 
 
 
 
 
 let me in this ae niqht, 
 
 
 on, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 
 
 This ae, ae, ne niglit, 
 
 
 BLAST. 
 
 Fur pitys sake this ae night, 
 O rixe and let me in, jo. 
 
 
 Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 
 
 
 
 On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
 
 Thou hear'st the winter wind and west 
 
 
 My pi lidie to the angry airt. 
 
 Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, 
 
 
 I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: 
 
 Tak pity on my weary feet. 
 
 
 Or (lid misfortune's bitter storms 
 
 And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
 
 
 Aroimd thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
 
 O let me in, &-c. 
 
 
 Thy bielil eliould be my bosom, 
 
 
 
 To share it a', to share it a*. 
 
 The bitter blast that round me blawi 
 Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
 
 
 Or were I in the wildest waste. 
 
 The cauldness o' thy heart's the cauM 
 
 
 Sae blaek and bare, sae black and bare. 
 
 Of a' my grief ami pain, jo. 
 
 
 The desert were a paradise. 
 
 O let me in, ^x. 
 
 
 If thou wert there, it thou wert there. 
 
 
 
 Or were I monarch of tlie globe. 
 
 HER ANSWER. 
 
 
 With thee to reign, with thee to reign; 
 
 
 
 The brightest je>vel in my crown 
 
 TELL nae me o' wind and rain, 
 
 
 Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 
 
 Ujjljraid nae me wi' cauld disdain, 
 Gae back the road ye cam again, 
 I wintia let you in, jo. 
 
 
 
 J till ijiiu now this ae night, 
 
 
 
 This ae ae, ae niijht ; 
 
 
 LKAVE NOVELLES, YE MAUCHLINE 
 
 And anct 7;r a', this ae night { 
 
 
 15ELLES. 
 
 I winn. Itt you in, jo. 
 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 The snellest blast at mirkest hours. 
 
 
 Tiiiu—" Donald Blue" 
 
 That round the patidess wand'rer poun, 
 Is nouj^ht to what poor she endures 
 
 
 LEAVE novelles, ye Mauchiine belles. 
 
 That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
 
 
 Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 
 
 / tell you now, ifc. 
 
 
 Such witching books are bailed hooks. 
 
 
 
 Fur rakish rooks like Itoli Mossgiel. 
 
 The swef test flower that deck'd the VEat^ 
 
 
 Sing tal, lal, lay. 
 
 Now trodden like the vilest weed l 
 
 
 
 Let simple maid the lesson road, 
 
 
 Your fine Tom Jones and Grandlsons, 
 
 The weird may he her ain, jo. 
 
 
 They make your youthful fancies reel, 
 
 J teU you now, jfr. 
 
 
 
 
218 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 The biid that charm 'd his summer-day 
 Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
 Let witless, trustinij woman .-ay 
 How aft her fate's the sam ?, jo. 
 / ttll you now, !fc. 
 
 O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 
 
 O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel 
 
 be seen, 
 O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 
 
 been, 
 But I will down yon river rove, amang the 
 
 wood sae green, 
 And a* to pu' a posie to my aia dear May. 
 
 The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. 
 And I will pu' the piok, the emblem o' my dear. 
 For she's the piuk 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, 
 For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie 
 
 mou ; 
 The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging 
 
 blue, 
 And a to be a posie to my ain dear JIay. 
 
 The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
 And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
 The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air. 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller 
 
 ^i^Tiere, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 
 
 day, 
 But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 
 
 tak away ; 
 And a* to be a posie to my aia dear May. 
 
 The woodbine I will pu*, when the e'ening star 
 
 is near. 
 And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een 
 
 sae clear ; 
 The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to 
 
 wear ; 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 I'll tie tike posie round wi' the silken band o' 
 
 luve, 
 A«d I'll plao« it in her breast, and I'll swear by 
 
 a' aliove, 
 That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 
 
 ne'er remuvn, 
 And Ois will be % posie to n>' aia dear May. 
 
 O MAY, THY MORR. 
 
 O May, thy morn %vas ne'er sae sweet, 
 As the mirk night o' December ; 
 
 For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
 And private was the chamber : 
 
 And dear was she I darna name. 
 But I will aye remember. 
 And dear, §-c. 
 
 And here's to them, that like oursel, 
 Can push about the jorum ; 
 
 And here's to them that wish us weel, 
 May a' that's gude watch o'er theai j 
 
 And here's to them we darna tell, 
 The dearest o* the quorum, 
 And e'l to, S^c, 
 
 ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES 
 A LaSS.» 
 
 Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trim." 
 
 On Gissnock banks there lives a lass. 
 Could I describe her shape and mien ; 
 
 The graces of her weelfar'd face, 
 
 And the glancin* of her sparklin' e'en. 
 
 She's fresher than the morning dawn 
 When rising Phoebus first is seen. 
 
 When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn j 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 
 
 She's stately like yon youthful ash. 
 
 That grows the cowslip braes between. 
 
 And shoots its head above each bush ; 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 
 
 She's spotless as the fiow'ring thorn 
 
 With flow'rs so white and leaves so greeK, 
 
 When purest in the dewy morn 
 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'e . 
 
 Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
 When fluw'ry May adorns the scene, 
 
 That wantons round its bleatin? dam ; 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 
 
 Her hair is like the curling mist 
 
 That shadtes the mountain side at e'en, 
 
 When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
 An' she's twa glancin' spaiklin' e'en. 
 
 Her forehead's like the show'ry bow. 
 When shining sunbeams intervene 
 
 And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
 An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 
 
 • 1 his song was an enriy promiption. .t wat re- 
 covercil from the nral comn'iiiiiicatioii of a '.adv resid 
 inp at Glnsfidw whom the Hani in early life alTcction 
 ately ailtnirsd 
 
r — 
 
 SONGS. 21S 
 
 1 
 
 Her voice s like tlie ev'ning thrush 
 
 Peace, thy olive wanJ extend. 
 
 That sings in Ci'ssnock banks unseen, 
 
 And bid wild war his ravage end, 
 
 \V]\\\e his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
 
 Man with brother man to meet, 
 
 An* she's twa glancin' sparkha* e'en. 
 
 And as a brother kindly greet. 
 
 
 Then may heaven with prosperous galea 
 
 Her Ii]w are like the cherries ripe, 
 
 Fill my wilor's welcome sails, 
 
 That sunny walls from boreas screen, 
 
 To my arms their charge convey. 
 
 Tl'.cy tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
 
 My dear lad that's far away. 
 
 An' she's twa glanciu' sparklin' e'en. 
 
 On the seas and far away, §*c. 
 
 Her teeth are like a fluck of sheep, 
 With fleeces newly washen clean, 
 
 
 
 That slowly mount the rising step ; 
 Au' she's twa glancin' sparklin* e'en. 
 
 
 ON A BANK OF FLOWER& 
 
 
 Tune—" On a bank of flowers." 
 
 Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
 
 
 That gently stirs the lilossom'd bean, 
 
 On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, 
 
 When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
 
 For summer lightly diest, 
 
 Au' she's twa glaucin' sparklin' e'en. 
 
 The youthful, blooming Nelly lay. 
 
 
 With love and sleep o|)prest ; 
 
 But it's not her air, her form, her face. 
 
 ^^^len Willle, wandering through the woodk 
 
 Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 
 
 Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
 
 But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace 
 
 He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 
 
 An' chiefly in her sparklin' e'ea 
 
 And trembled where he stood. 
 
 
 Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed, 
 
 
 Were sealed in soft repose ; 
 Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed. 
 
 
 
 It richer dyed the rose. 
 The springing lilie, sweetly prest. 
 
 ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY 
 
 
 Wild wanton kissed her rival breast. 
 
 Tune — " O'er the hills and far awj»y." 
 
 He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushedg 
 
 
 His bosom ill at rest. 
 
 How can my poor heart be glad, 
 
 
 When absent from my sailor lad ? 
 
 Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 
 
 How can I the thought forego. 
 
 Her tender limbs emiirace ; 
 
 He's on the seas to meet his foe ! 
 
 Her lovely form, her native ease, 
 
 Let me wander, let me rove, 
 
 All harmony and grace : 
 
 Still my heart is with my love ; 
 
 Tumultuous titles his pulses roll. 
 
 Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
 
 A faltering ardent kis, he stole ; 
 
 .\re with him that's far away. 
 
 He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed^ 
 
 On the scQX anil far away, 
 
 And sighed his very soul. 
 
 On stormy seas and far atcay ; 
 
 
 Niyhtly dreams and thoughts by day. 
 
 As flics the partridge from the brake, 
 
 Are aye with him that's far away. 
 
 On fear-inspired wings ; 
 
 
 So Nelly, St uting. half awake. 
 
 When in summer's noon I faint. 
 
 Away affrighted springs. 
 
 As weary flocks around me pant. 
 
 But Willie followed — as he should ; 
 
 Haply in this sjorching sun 
 
 He overtook her in the wood ; 
 
 Wy sailor's thund'iing at his gun : 
 
 He voweil, he prayed, he found the caaid 
 
 Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
 
 Forgiving all and good ! 
 
 Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
 
 
 Fate, do with me what you may, 
 Spare \>ct hiin that's far away .' 
 
 
 
 On the seas and far away, Src 
 
 
 
 OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH. 
 
 At the starless midnight hour. 
 
 
 When winter rules with boundless power. 
 
 Om, open the door, some pity show. 
 
 As the stoims the forests tear. 
 
 Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
 
 And thunders rend the howling air. 
 
 Though thou hast beeu false, I'll ever proTt 
 
 Listening to the doubling roar. 
 
 true, 
 
 Surging on the rocky shore, 
 
 Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
 
 A.. ' can — I weep and pray 
 
 
 For his weal that's lar away. 
 
 Cauld is the bla~t upon my pal; choek# 
 
 On the seas and far away, §-c. 
 
 But cauldcr thy love for nie, oh ' 
 
 
 

 
 
 220 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 
 "i"he frost tliat freozcs the life at my heart, 
 
 Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
 
 
 Is nought to my pains froe thee, oh ! 
 
 As is a kiss o' Willie. 
 
 
 The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
 
 HE. 
 
 
 And time is sftting with me, oh ! 
 
 Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
 
 
 False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 
 
 And fools may tyne, and knaves may wiav 
 
 
 I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh ! 
 
 My thoughts are a' bound upon ane, 
 And that's my ain dear Philly, 
 
 
 She has open'd the door, she has opened it wide, 
 
 
 
 She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 
 
 SHE, 
 
 
 My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his 
 
 What's a' the joys that gowd can gie? 
 
 
 side, 
 
 I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
 
 
 Never to rise again, oh ! 
 
 The lad I love's the lad for me. 
 And that's my ain dear Willie. 
 
 
 PHTLLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY 
 
 STAY, SWEET WARBLING WOO 3 
 
 
 Tune—" The sow's tail." 
 
 LARK, 
 
 
 HF. 
 
 Tune — " Loch.Erroch side." 
 
 
 O Philly, happy be that day 
 
 
 
 When roving thn)u;:h the gather'd hay, 
 
 STAV, sweet warbling wowl-lark, stay, 
 
 
 My youthfu' heart was stoun away, 
 
 Nor quit for me the trembling spray I 
 
 
 And by thy charms, my Philly, 
 
 A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
 Thy soothing fond complaining. 
 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Again, again that tender part. 
 
 
 O Willie, aye I bless the grove 
 
 That I may catch thy melting art ; 
 
 
 Where first i own'd my maiden love, 
 
 For surely that wad touch her heart, 
 
 
 Whilst thou didst pled^^e the powers above, 
 
 WTia kills me wi' disdaining. 
 
 
 To be my aiu dear Willie. 
 
 Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
 
 
 HE. 
 
 And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
 
 
 4s songsters of the eaily year 
 
 Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
 
 
 Are ilka li.iy mair sweet to hear. 
 
 Sic notes of woe could wauken. 
 
 
 So ilka day to me mair dear 
 
 Thou tells o' never-ending care. 
 
 
 And charming is my Philly. 
 
 O' speechless grief and dark despair; 
 For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Or my poor heart is broken ! 
 
 
 As on the brier the building rose 
 
 
 
 Still richer lireatlies and fairer blows, 
 
 
 
 So in my teiider IxiMiin throws 
 
 
 
 The love I bear my Willie. 
 
 
 
 WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOIIN 
 
 
 HE. 
 
 The milder sun and bluer sky. 
 
 Time—" I'll gang nae mair to yon toun," 
 
 
 
 
 That crown my harvest cares wi' joji 
 
 WAT ye wha's in yon tnun 
 
 
 Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
 
 Ye see the e'cning sun upon ? 
 
 
 As is a sight of Plully. 
 
 The fairest maid's in yon toun. 
 That e'ening sun is shining on. 
 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Now haply down yon gay gieen shaw, 
 
 
 The little swallow's wanton wing, 
 
 She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 
 
 
 TIki' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
 
 How blest, ye fluw'is, that round her blaW 
 
 
 Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring. 
 
 Ye catch the glances o' her ce. 
 
 
 As meeting o' my Willie, 
 
 How blest, ye birds, that round her sing, 
 And welcome in the blooming year! 
 
 
 HE. 
 
 And doubly welcome be tlie spring, 
 
 
 The bee, lliat thro' the t-unny hour 
 
 The season to my Jeanie dear ! 
 
 
 Sip« nectar in tlie opeiii ig (lower. 
 
 
 
 Com])ar'd wi' mv delig.it is jioor, 
 
 The sun blinks lilytho on yon toun, 
 
 
 Upon tl.e lips o' Philly. 
 
 Aniang yon liroumy braes sae green; 
 But my delight, in you toun. 
 
 
 SHE. 
 
 And dearest pleasure, is my Jean, 
 
 
 The woodbine in the dewy week 
 
 Without my love, not a" tiie charms 
 
 
 ^'hen veiling shades in tilencc meet) 
 
 Of Paradise could yield nie joy j 
 
 Ml 
 
 ...... J 
 
SONGS. 
 
 «2j 
 
 But i^ie me u?an e m my arms. 
 
 Am! welcome La])l,m(rs drcarie sky. 
 
 jMy cave wad be ii lover's bower, 
 Tl)(ii!gh raging winter rent tiie air; 
 
 And slie a lovely little flower, 
 That 1 wad teat and shelter there. 
 
 sweet is she in yon totin, 
 
 The sinking sun's gane down upon ; 
 Ths dearest maid's in yon tuun, 
 
 His setting beam e'er shone upon. 
 !f angry fate be sworn my f'le, 
 
 And suffering I am doom'd to bear, 
 I'll careless quit aught else below ; 
 
 But spare, oh ! spare ni'; Jeanie dear. 
 For, while life's dearest blood runs warm, 
 
 My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart i 
 For, as most lovely is her form, 
 
 She has the truest, kindest heart. 
 
 O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 
 
 Tins air is Oswald's : the song I made out 
 fc/ compliment to Mrs. Burns. 
 
 were I on Parnassus' hill, 
 Or had o' Helicon my fill ; 
 That I might catch poetic skill, 
 To sing how deir I love thee. 
 But Nith maut '^ my JMuse's well, 
 My Muse maui. ,.« thy bonnie sell ; 
 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-Iang simmer's day, 
 
 1 coudna sing, I coudna say. 
 How much, how dear, I love thee. 
 I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
 Thy waist sao jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
 Thy tempting lijis, thy roguish een— 
 
 By heaven and earth I love thee .' 
 
 By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
 riie thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
 And ay I muse and sing thy name, 
 I only live to love thee ! 
 The' I were doom'd to wander on, 
 Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
 Till my last weary sand was run ; 
 'Till then, and theu I love thee ! 
 
 As dews o' simmer weeping. 
 In tears the rnse-lmd steepmp : 
 O t/iiit's tiie lassie ii' mi/ heart, 
 
 Mij Icssie ever dcurer ; 
 O thut's tlie queen o' womankni'd 
 And 7ic\r a ane to peer hey 
 
 If thou shall meet a lassie 
 
 In grace and beauty charming. 
 
 That e'en thy elioseri lassie, 
 
 Erewhile thy breast sae warmings 
 Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 
 O iliat's, ^'C. 
 
 If thou had>t heard her talking, 
 And thy attentions plighted, 
 
 That ilka boily talking. 
 
 But her l)y thee is slighted ; 
 And if thmi art delighted ; 
 O that's, 4-c. 
 
 If thou hast met this fair one. 
 When frae her thou hast parted J 
 
 If every other fair one 
 
 But her, thiru hast deserted, 
 And thou art broken-hearted; 
 O that's, ^c. 
 
 OUT OVER TIIE FORTH I LOO.. 
 THE NORTH. 
 
 ro 
 
 Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
 
 But what is the north and its Highlanda f nei 
 
 The south nor the east gie ease to my breaii';, 
 The fur foreign land, or the wild roUicjj iea. 
 
 But I look to the west, when I gae to «tst. 
 That happy my dreams and my slu£„!jtre maj 
 be; 
 
 For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
 The lad that is dear to my babie and aie 
 
 O WUA IS SHE THAT LOES ME. 
 
 Tune—" Morag." 
 
 O WHA is she that loes me. 
 
 And has my heart a-keeplng ? 
 Q eweet is she that lues ine, 
 
 PEGGY ALISON. 
 
 Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 
 
 I ever mair defy them ; 
 Young kings upo7i their hansel throne 
 Are no sae blest as I am ! 
 I'll kiss time t/it, yet. 
 
 An' I'll hiris t/ite o'er again. 
 An' I'll kiss line ijet, yet. 
 My hoiinie I'tij/jy Alison. 
 
 When in my arms, wi' a' thy charm^ 
 I clasp my countless treasure, 
 
 I seek nie mair o" Heaven to share, 
 Than sic a monient'it pleasure ] 
 /// kiss, \c. 
 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
 1 5wear I'm thine for ever ; 
 
 And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
 
 And break it shall I never ! 
 
 Til kiss, Sj-c. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 POWERS CELESTIAL. 
 
 Povi'ERS celestial, whose protection 
 
 Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
 While in distant climes I wander, 
 
 Let my Jlary be your care : 
 Let her iorm sae fair and faultless. 
 
 Fair and faultless cs your own ; 
 Let my Marty'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, 
 
 Sooth her bosom into rest : 
 Guardian angels, O protect her, 
 
 When in distant lands I roam ; 
 To realms unkmiwn while fate exiles me, 
 
 Make her bosom still my home. • 
 
 PIIILLIS THE FAIR. 
 Tune—" Robin Adair." 
 
 While larks with little wing 
 
 Fanned the pure air, 
 Tasting the breathing spring, 
 
 Forth I did fare ; 
 Gay the sun's golden eye 
 Peeped o'er the mountains high ; 
 Such thy morn ! did I cry, 
 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 In each bird's careless song 
 
 Glad I did share, 
 While yon wild flowers among. 
 
 Chance led me there : 
 Sweet to the opening day. 
 Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
 Such thy bloom ! did 1 say, 
 
 Phillis th ■ fair. 
 
 Down in a shady walk, 
 
 Doves cooing were ; 
 I maiked the cruel hawk 
 
 Caught in a snare ; 
 So kind may fortune be ! 
 Such make bis destinv, 
 lie who wnuld injues thee> 
 
 Phillis the fair ! 
 
 • Prnbalily wrucn on MiRlilnnd Mary, en the eve 
 9/ the roctj departure for the West Indies. 
 
 PUIRTITII CAULD. 
 
 Tune—" I had a horse.** 
 
 O, PuiRTiTH cauld, and restless love, 
 
 Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
 Yet puirtith a' I could forgie, 
 An 'twere na for my Jeauie. 
 
 O, why should fate sic pleasure havt 
 
 Life's dearest bands untwining f 
 Or wht/ sae sweet a flower as love 
 Depend on Fortune's shining f 
 
 This world'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. 
 
 O, why should fate, Sfc. 
 
 Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray 
 
 How she repays my passion ; 
 But prudence is her owerword aye, 
 
 She talks of rank and fashion. 
 
 O, why should fate, ^c. 
 
 O, wha can prwlence think upon 
 
 And sic a lassie by him ? 
 O, wha can prudence think upon, 
 
 And sae in love as I am .' 
 
 O, why should fate, ^e. 
 
 How blest the humble cottar's lot ' 
 
 He woos his simple dearie ; 
 The sillie bogles, wealth and state. 
 
 Can never make them eerie. 
 
 O, why should fate, |*c. 
 
 RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 
 
 The last stanza of this song is mine ; it vrza 
 composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
 thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
 Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- 
 lonel of the Crochallan corps, a dub of wits 
 who took that title at the time of raising thtj 
 fencible regiments. 
 
 O RATTLIN, roarin Willie, 
 
 O he held to the fair. 
 An' for to sell his fiddle, 
 
 And buy some ither ware ; 
 But parting wi' his fiddle, 
 
 The saut tear blint his ee ; 
 And rattiin roarin Willie, 
 
 Ye're welcome hanae to me. 
 
 O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 
 
 O ^cll your fiddle sae fine ; 
 O Willie come sell your fiddle, 
 
 And buy a pint o' wine. 
 If I should sell my fid die, 
 
 The warl' wou'd think I was ma4t 
 For many a rantin day 
 
 JJy fiddle and I hae liad ' 
 
SONGS. 
 
 223 
 
 RAVING WIXDS AROUND HER 
 BLOWING. 
 
 I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
 M'Leoil of Raza, alludins; to her feelings on the 
 death of her sister, and the still more melancholy 
 death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of 
 Loudon. 
 
 TttML— " M'Grigor of Roro's Lament" 
 
 Raving winds around her blowing, 
 Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
 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 pandering, 
 On (he hopeless Future wandering ; 
 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 t'hee. 
 And to dark oblivion join thee ! 
 
 SAW YE OUGHT O' CAPTAIN GROSE. 
 Tunt—" Sir John Malcolm." 
 
 Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 
 
 Igo and ago. 
 If he's among his friends or foes ? 
 
 Irani, coram, dago. 
 
 Is he South, or is he North ? 
 
 Igo, and ago. 
 Or drowned in the river Forth ? 
 
 Irani, coram, dago. 
 
 Is he slain by Highland bodies' 
 
 Igo, and ago. 
 And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 
 
 Irani, coram, dago. 
 
 Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 
 
 Igo, and ago, 
 0/ hauiiin' Sarah by the wame ? 
 
 Irani, coram, dago. 
 
 Wliere'er he be, the Lord be near him ; 
 
 Igo, and ago, 
 As for the deil he daur na steer him, 
 
 Irani, coram, dago. 
 
 But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 
 
 Igo, and ago. 
 Which wdl oblige your humble debtor, 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 
 So may you have auld stanes in storo^ 
 
 Igo, and ago, 
 The very stanes tint Adam bore, 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 
 So may ye get in glad possession, 
 
 Igo, and ago, 
 The coins o* Satan's coronation ! 
 
 Iram, coram, dago. 
 
 SCROGGAM. 
 
 There was a wife wonned in Cockpen, 
 
 Scroggam ; 
 She brewed gude ale for gentlemen : 
 
 Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 
 
 Scroggam, my dearie, llulTum. 
 
 The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, 
 
 Scroggam ; 
 The priest o' the parish fell in another : 
 
 Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me; 
 
 Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffuui, 
 
 They laid the twa in the bed thegither, 
 
 Scroggam, 
 That the heat o' the tane might cool the totber 
 
 Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 
 
 Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. 
 
 SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 
 Tune — " She's fair and fause." 
 
 She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 
 
 I loo'd her mickle and lang ; 
 She's broken her vow, she's broken my hear^ 
 
 And I may e'en gae hang. 
 A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear. 
 And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 
 But woman is but waild's gear, 
 
 Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 
 
 Whae'er ye be that woman love, 
 
 To this be never blind, 
 Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove ; 
 
 A woman has't by kind : 
 O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
 An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
 'Twad been ower mickle to hae gi'en thee tnai,' 
 
 I mean an angel mind. 
 
 SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
 OF A'. 
 
 Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall." 
 
 Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
 Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 
 
14 
 
 BURNS' VrORKS. 
 
 Bowitchincfly o'ei-archinsf 
 
 Twa !augliiii!j (.'en o' bonnit; fihie. 
 Her smiliii'^ Sje wylitilj, 
 
 \Viv\ '.iiake a uiotch turret liis woe ; 
 What i)leasiirc, wliat trea<uie, 
 
 Unto thes^e ro-iy lips to gtow ; 
 Such w:is my Chlori<' honnie f.ice, 
 
 V>'heii firrt her honnie face I s:i\v, 
 Ami aye my Chloiis" dearest charm, 
 
 She says she lo'es me best of a'. 
 
 Like harmony her motion ; 
 
 Her pretty anc'.e is a spy 
 Betraying fair pr(>[)ortion, 
 
 Wad make a saint foriret the sky. 
 Sae warming, sae charming, 
 
 Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
 Ilk feature — auld Nature 
 
 Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
 Hers are the willing chains o' love, 
 
 By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
 And aye my Chloris' nearest charm. 
 
 She says she lo'es me best of a'. 
 
 Let others love the city. 
 
 And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
 Gie me the lonely valley. 
 
 The ilewy eve, and rising moon. 
 Fair beaming and streaming, 
 
 Her silrer light the boughs amang ; 
 While falling, recalling, 
 
 The amorous thrush concludes his sang ; 
 Tbeie, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 
 
 By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
 And hear mv vows o' truth and love, 
 
 ^ud say thou lo'es me best of a*. 
 
 SIC A M^FE AS WILLIE HAD. 
 Tune—" Tibby Fowler." 
 
 vVir.i.iE Wasti.e dwalt on Tweed, 
 
 The 1)1 ICC they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. 
 Willie was a wabster gtide. 
 
 Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie. 
 He had a wife was dour and din, 
 
 O, Tinkler Madgie was her mother : 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 
 I wadna gie a button for her i 
 
 She has an ee, she has biit ane. 
 
 The cat has twa the veiy colour ; 
 Twa rustle teeth, forhye a stump, 
 
 A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
 A whi^kin' beard about her mou' ; 
 
 Her nose and thiti they threaten ither: 
 Sic a wife as Wdlie had, 
 
 I wadna gie a button for her ! 
 
 She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
 Ae liuipin' leg a hind bread sliorter; 
 
 She'o twisted riclit, she's twisted left, 
 To balance fair in ilka quarter ; 
 
 She lias a hump upon her breast. 
 
 The twin o' that upon her shouther : 
 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 
 I wadna gie a button for her ! 
 
 Auld baiulrons* by the ingle sits, 
 
 And wi' her loof he; face a-washin' ; 
 But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 
 
 She dichts her grunyief wi' a hushioa.J 
 Her walie neeves,y like midden creels ; 
 
 Her face wad fyle the Logaii Water • 
 Sic a wife as Willie had, 
 
 I wadna gie a button for her ! 
 
 STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 
 GAUN, 
 
 Tune—" Steer her up." 
 
 O st?:eii her up and haiiil her gaun ; 
 
 Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
 And gin she winna tak a man, 
 
 E'en let her tak her will, jo. 
 
 First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 
 
 And ca' another gill, jo ; 
 And gin she tak the thing amiss, 
 
 E'en let her flyte her till, jo. 
 
 O steer her up, and be na blate ; 
 
 And gin she tak it ill, jo, 
 Then lea' the lassie to her fate. 
 
 And '.itne nae ianger spili, jo. 
 
 Ne'er break your heart for ae r<4Gtt 
 
 But think apon it still, jo, 
 That gin the lassie winna do't, 
 
 Ye II fipd another will, jo. 
 
 SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGI& 
 
 BURN. 
 
 Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
 
 And btythe awakes the morrow, 
 But a' the pride o' spting's return 
 
 Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 
 
 I see the flowers and spreading tr»es, 
 
 I hear the wild birds singing ; 
 But what a weary wigiit can pleasR, 
 
 And care liis bosom wringing ? 
 
 Fain, fain would I my griefs impar^ 
 
 Yet dare na for your anicer ; 
 But secret love will break my he&.t. 
 
 If I conceal it Ianger. 
 
 If thou refuse to pity me. 
 It" thou shalt love anither, 
 
 • The cat. f Mouth. t L'uohico. [j Futi. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 225 
 
 WTirn yon cjevii leaves fade fiao the tree, 
 Around iny grave they'll wither. • 
 
 TAM GLEN. 
 
 My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 
 Some counsel unto me come len'. 
 
 To aiii^er them a' is a jjity. 
 
 But what wi." I do \vi' Tatn Glen? 
 
 I'm thinkin?. wi' sic a braw feHow, 
 III jioortith I mi'^ht mak a tea ; 
 
 Wlijt care I in riches to wallovr, 
 If I iiiaunua marry Tam Glea. 
 
 There's Lowrie the laird o' Durneller, 
 
 " Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben 
 
 He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
 
 But when will he dance like Tara Glea ? 
 
 My miiinle does constantly deave me, 
 And iiids ine 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 gude hunder marks ten : 
 
 But, if it's ordaia'd I maun tak biin, 
 O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? 
 
 Yestreen at the Valentine's dealingr, 
 j\ly heart to my mou gied a sten ; 
 
 For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
 And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 
 
 The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
 My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 
 
 HLs likeness cam up the house staukin. 
 And the very grey breeks o' Tara Glen ! 
 
 Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 
 
 I'll gie you my bontiie black hen, 
 Gin ve v,-dl advise mt to marry 
 
 The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 
 
 THE AULD MAN. 
 
 But lately seen in gladsome green 
 
 The woods rejoiced the day, 
 Thro' ge:itle showers the laughing flowers 
 
 In double pride were gay : 
 But aow our joys are fled, 
 
 On winter blasts awa ! 
 Yet maiden May, in rich array. 
 
 Again shall bring them a'. 
 
 • Cragie-burn wood is siluatcd on the banks of the 
 river Motfat, and about three miles distant from the 
 village of that name, celebraied tor it3 medicinal wa- 
 ters. The woods of Cragie-burii, and of Uumcricf, 
 were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was 
 there he met the " Lassie wi" the lint-while locks," 
 tnd that he conceived several of his beautiful lyric*. 
 
 But my white pow, nae kindly thiwv 
 
 Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
 My trunk of cild, but liuss or beild. 
 
 Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
 Oh, age has weary days, 
 
 And nights o' sleepless pain I 
 Thou golden time o' youthfi;' prime, 
 
 Why comcBt thou nut again ! 
 
 THE BANKS O' DOON. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
 How can ye chant ye little birds. 
 
 And I sae weary fuj o' care ! 
 Thou'il lireak my heart thou warbling bird. 
 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thcrn : 
 Thou minds me o' de])artcd joys. 
 
 Departed never to return. 
 
 Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
 And ilka bird sang o' its iuvc, 
 
 And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi* lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 And my faiise lover stole my rose. 
 
 But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 THE BANKS BY CASTLE-GORDOH 
 
 Tune—" Morag. 
 
 Streams 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, tlieir richly gleaming waves, 
 I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
 Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
 The banks by Castle- Gordon. 
 
 Spicy forests ever gay. 
 Shading from the burning ray 
 Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
 Or the ruthless native's way. 
 I>ent on slaughter, blood, and spoil 
 Woods that ever verdant wave, 
 I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
 Give me the groves that lofty brave 
 The storms, by Castle-Gordfc. 
 
 Wildly here, without control. 
 Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
 In that sober pensive mood, 
 Dearest to the feeling soul, 
 Slie plants the forest, pours tlie floodi 
 Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
 
226 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 A.nd find at ni^ht a sheltering cave, 
 Where waters flow and wllj woods wave, 
 By bonnie Castle- Gordon. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE DEVON, 
 
 Tune — " Khannerach dhon na chri." 
 
 These verses were composed on a charming 
 girl, a IMiss Chailutte Hamilton, who is now 
 married to James INI'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- 
 sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- 
 vin Hamilton, of Jlauchline ; and was horn on 
 the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I v/rote 
 these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- 
 mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little 
 river Devon. — I first heard the air from a lady 
 in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for 
 this work. 
 
 How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
 Devon, 
 With green spreading bushes and flow'rs 
 blooming fair ! 
 But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the De- 
 von, 
 Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
 Ayr : 
 Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow'r, 
 
 In the gay rosy miirn as it bathes in the dew ; 
 And gentle the fail of the soft vernal show'r, 
 That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! 
 
 O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
 
 M'ith chill, ho.iry-wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
 Anil far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest, 
 
 The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! 
 Let Bouibon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
 
 And England triumphant display her proud 
 rose ; 
 A fairer than cither adorns tiie green vallies. 
 
 Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
 flows. 
 
 THE BANKS OF CREE. 
 Tune—" The banks of Crce." 
 
 Here is the glen, and hcie the !)ower, 
 Al! tmilerneath the l)iiclifM shiile; 
 
 The village hell has toM'd the Imur, 
 O, what can stay my lovely ni lid ? 
 
 Tis not Maria's whisjiering call, 
 
 Tis but the balmy hreathing gale, 
 M»xt with some warbler's (lying fall. 
 The dewy star of eve to hail. 
 
 It is Maria's voice I bear ! 
 
 So calls the wooillark to the grove, 
 His little faithful mate to cheer, 
 
 At QQiu: 'tis music — and 'tii love. 
 
 And art ttiou come, and art thou trut ! 
 
 O welcome dear to love and me ! 
 And let us all our vows renew. 
 
 Along the flowery banks of Cree. 
 
 THE BARD'S SONG. 
 TEs bard's song in "the jolly Bsaa4] 
 
 Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your f'.atK^ ' 
 
 See the smoking bowl before us, 
 IMark our jovial ragged ring ! 
 Round and round take up the chorus, 
 And in raptures let us sing — 
 
 A. fig for i/iose by law protected. 
 
 Liberty's a glorious feast I 
 Courts for cowards were erected. 
 Churches built to please the prieaU 
 
 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 for those, §fc. 
 
 Life is all a variorum. 
 
 We regard not how it goes , 
 Let them cant about decorum, 
 
 Who hav» characters to lose. 
 A fig for those, §"c. 
 
 Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 
 
 Here's to all our wandering train ! 
 Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 
 
 One and all cry out. Amen ! 
 A fig for those, Ifc. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIK, 
 
 BET-WEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND TH« 
 EARL OF MAR. 
 
 " O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
 Or I'.erd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
 Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 
 
 And (lid the battle see, man ?'* 
 I saw the battle sair and teugh, 
 .\nd reekin-red ran monie a sheugh. 
 My heart for fear gae sough fur sough, 
 To hear the thuds, and see the duds 
 O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
 Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 
 
 The red- coat lads wi" black cockades, 
 To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
 
 They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'dy 
 And mony a bouk did fa', man • 
 
 The great Argyle led on his files, 
 
 I wat they glanced twenty milc» i 
 
SONGS. 
 
 22T 
 
 Tliev hack'd ana hash'il, while broadswords 
 
 cla'-h'd, 
 And thro' tlioy dash'd, and hew'd and sinash'd, 
 Till fey men died awa, man. 
 
 But had you seen the philibegs, 
 
 And skyrin tartan trows, man. 
 When in tlio teeth they dar'd our whigs, 
 
 And covenant true blues, man ; 
 In lines extended lang and large, 
 When bayonets opposed the targe, 
 And thousands hastened to the charge, 
 W'' hi;;hland wrath they frae the sheath, 
 Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath. 
 
 They fled like frighted doos, man. 
 
 " O how deil Tarn can that be true ? 
 
 The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
 I saw myself, they did pursue 
 
 The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
 And at Dundjlane, in my ain sight, 
 They took the biig wi' a" their might, 
 And strausht to Stirling winged their flight ; 
 ]}ut, cursed lot ! the gates were shut; 
 And mony a hunted poor red-coat 
 
 Fur fear amaist did swarf, man." 
 
 My sister Kate came up the gate 
 
 Wi' crowdie unto me, niau : 
 She swoor she saw some rebels run, 
 
 Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
 Their left-hand general had nae skill. 
 The Angus lads had nae goad will 
 That day their neeboi's bluod to spill ; 
 For fear by foes, that they should lose 
 Tiieir cogs o' brose ; all crying woes. 
 
 And so it goes, you see, man. 
 
 They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
 Aniang the Highland clans, man ; 
 
 I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 
 Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. 
 
 Now wad ve sing this double fight. 
 
 Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 
 
 But mony bade the world gude-night ; 
 
 Then ye may tell, how pell and uiell. 
 
 By red claymores, and mu>kets, knell, 
 
 Wi' dying yed, the tories fell. 
 
 And whigs to hell did flee, man.* 
 
 Now simmer blinks on flowery braes. 
 And o'er the crystal streamlets plays ; 
 Come, let us spend the liehtsome day» 
 la the Bilks of Aberfeldy. 
 Jionnie tuisie, §*c. 
 
 While o'er their head the hazels hing. 
 
 The little birdies i)lythely sing. 
 
 Or lichtly flit on wanton wing. 
 
 In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 
 lionnie lassie, Sfc. 
 
 The braes ascend like lofty wa's. 
 The foaiwin' stream deep-roiring fa'a, 
 O'erhung wi' fragrant spreadin' shawa, 
 The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
 lionnie lassie, ^c. 
 
 The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow'rSi 
 White ower the lin the burnie pours. 
 And, risin', weets wi' misty show'r* 
 The Birk> of Aberfeldy. 
 Jsonnie lassie, Sfc, 
 
 Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
 They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me. 
 Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee. 
 In the Bilks of Aberfeldy.* 
 liunnie lassie, ^'C. 
 
 THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
 
 I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
 Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 
 
 Tune—" The Birks of Abergeldy.' 
 
 lionuie lassie, will ye rjo, u-ill ye gn, will ye go, 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Hiiks of Aber- 
 fddy 9 
 
 • This was written about the t;mc our bard made 
 kii touj to the Highlands, llUl. 
 
 THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 
 
 Tutu — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tarttr 
 let's fl)." 
 
 No churchman am I, for to rail and to write; 
 No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight ; 
 No slv man of business, contrivmg 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 [jeasniit, thouuh 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 — his 
 
 horse ; 
 There centum -per-centum, the cit with his 
 
 purse ; 
 But see you ' the Cror.-n,' how it waves in the 
 
 air ! 
 i There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 
 
 • The clionis is borrowed from an oM simple bal- 
 lad, called " riie Hirks of AoergeUly j" of which tbt 
 
 f«)llowjiig is a fragment. 
 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 WMl yc go, will ye go, 
 Bonnie lassie, will \c po 
 To the bilks o' AbcrgrUlie? 
 Ye shall get a gown o' si!k, 
 A g<nMi o' silk, a gdvvn o' silk. 
 Ye shall get a gown <>• silk. 
 And cuat uf calliniankis 
 
k: 
 
 228 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 The w fe of my bosom, alas ! 8 le did die ; 
 For siret't consolation to church I did fly ; 
 I found that old Solomon preved it fair, 
 That a bij^-bidlied bottle's a cure for all care. 
 
 I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
 A letter infonn'd me thit 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," • a maxim 
 
 laid down 
 By the bard, what d'ye call hiai, that woie the 
 
 black gown ; 
 And faith T atjree with th' old prig to a hair, 
 For a big-bt'^'licd bottle's a heaven of care. 
 
 STANZA 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 and 
 
 sijuire 
 Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with 
 
 THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 
 
 I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 
 
 A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
 I g,it my death fiae twa sweet een, 
 
 'Twa lovely een o' bonnie hlue. 
 'Twas not her golden ringlets bi ight ; 
 
 Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, 
 Her heaving bosom, lily-wliite — 
 
 It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 
 
 She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd, 
 
 She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
 And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 
 
 Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
 But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 
 
 She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
 .Sluniid she refuse, I'll lay my dead 
 
 To her twa eea sae bonnie blue.f 
 
 THE BONNIE WEE THING. 
 
 Composed on m) little idol, " The charm- 
 ng, lovely Davies." 
 
 lionti'e u-ie tiling, cannle wee thing. 
 Lovely wee thing teas thou mine ; 
 
 • Voiini^B Night ThouRlits. 
 
 + 'Pir heroine of tills sunt,' was Miss ,1. of Lnchma. 
 hen. Tins l.-idv, nnw Mrs. It. after ri-siilin(» some time 
 hi Livcriiool, IS settled witli her liujbojul in New Yorit, 
 North America. 
 
 / wad wear thee in my losom. 
 Lest my Jewel I should tine. 
 
 Wishfully I look and languish, 
 In that bonnie face of thine , 
 
 And my heart it stounds wi' anguisO, 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
 Bonnie wee thing, &^c. 
 
 Wit, and grace, and love, and beaut^r, 
 
 In ae constellation shine ; 
 To adore thee is my duty. 
 
 Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
 JBonnie wee thing, §"c. 
 
 THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
 
 The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, • 
 Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 
 
 But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
 Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 
 
 Hersel' in 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 withering bowers, 
 
 Again ye'il charm the vocal air. 
 But here, alas ! for me nae mair. 
 
 Shall liirdie charm, or floweret smile; 
 Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 
 
 Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 
 
 THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 
 
 These words are mine ; I composed thens 
 from the old traditionary verses. 
 
 There lived a carl on Kellybnrn braes, 
 
 (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 
 And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 
 And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
 in prime. 
 
 Ae day as the carl gaed up >he lang glen, 
 ( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 
 He met wi* the devil ; says, " How do yow fen?" 
 And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
 in prime. 
 
 " I've got a bad wife, Sir; that's a* my com 
 plaint ; 
 (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) 
 
 • Catrine, In Ayrshire, the scat of niigald Stew.nrt 
 Esq Profossor of Moral PhiIosi)|iliv in the Uiiivcrsitj 
 of Kdi'hurKh. H^illoclimylc, foniierly the scat (if Sij 
 John Whitel'oord, now of Alexander, Esq, clSliO. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 229 
 
 For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint ; 
 Aud the thyme it is withcr'J and the rue is 
 in prime." 
 
 It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall 
 
 crave, 
 (Hey, ami the rue grows honnie wi' thyme) 
 But gie me vour wife, man, for her I must have, 
 And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
 
 in prime." 
 
 " O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl eaid, 
 (iley, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 
 But if ye can match her, ye're war nor ye're caM, 
 And tiie thyme it is wither'd, and tlie rue is 
 in prime." 
 
 The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; 
 
 (Ilcy, aud the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 in prime. 
 
 He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door ; 
 
 (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore, 
 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 in prime. 
 
 Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his 
 band, 
 (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) 
 Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ; 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 prime. 
 
 The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, 
 
 (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 
 Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae 
 
 mair ; 
 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 
 in prime. 
 
 '• A reekit wee devil looks over the wa* ; 
 
 ( Hey and the rue grows l)onnie wi' thyme) 
 0, help, Mitster, help, or she'll ruin us a'. 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 in prime." 
 
 The devil he swoje by the edge o' his knife, 
 (Hey, awl the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 
 He pitred the man that was tied to a wife ; 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 in prime. 
 
 The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 
 
 (iiey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
 He was ndt in wedlock, thank heaven, but in 
 hell ; 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
 in prime. 
 
 Fhen Satan has travelled again wi* his pack ; 
 Hoy, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) 
 
 And to her auld husband he's earned her back; 
 And the thyme it is wither'd, and tl;e rue ia 
 in prime. 
 
 " I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 
 
 (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) 
 But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 
 
 And tiie thyme it is wither'd, and the rue i« 
 in prime. 
 
 THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 
 Tune — " Captain O" Kainc." 
 
 Ths small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
 turning ; 
 The niurnuii ing streamlet runs clear through 
 the vale ; 
 The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
 morning ; 
 And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
 dale. 
 But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
 
 fair. 
 When the lingerin* moments are numbered by 
 care ? 
 No flowers gaily springing, 
 Or birds sweetly singing. 
 Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 
 
 The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma- 
 lice — 
 A king and a father to p'lce on his throne ! 
 His right are these hills, and his right are these 
 valleys. 
 Where the wild beasts find shelter, but 1 can 
 find none. 
 But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, for» 
 
 lorn ; 
 .My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mouru. 
 Your deeds proved so loyal 
 In hot bloody trial ; 
 Alas ! can I make it no better .eturn ' 
 
 THE DA\ RETURN''. MY BOSOM 
 BURNS. 
 
 Tune—" Seventh of Novemlier." 
 
 The day returns, my bosom burns, 
 
 The biissl'ul day we twa did meet, 
 Tho* winter wild in tempest toil'd. 
 
 Ne'er summer sun was half sac sweet; 
 Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 
 
 And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
 Than kingly robes, than crowns and glol)eii. 
 
 Heaven gave me more, it made thee mioet 
 
 Wliilc day and night can bring delight, 
 Or nature ought of pleasure give ! 
 
230 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 WTiUe joys above, my mind can move, 
 For thee, and tliee alone, I live ! 
 
 Whea 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 my heart. 
 
 THE DEATH SONG. 
 
 ScFNE— A Field of Battle.— Time of the DAT- 
 Evening. — The Wounded and Dying of the Victo. 
 rious Army are supposed to join in the following 
 Song : 
 
 Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
 and ye skies, 
 Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
 Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
 ties. 
 Our race of existence is run ! 
 
 Thou grim King cf Terrors, th(/a life's gloomy 
 foe. 
 Go, friyhten the coward and slive ; 
 Go teath theru to trenible, fell tyrant ! but 
 know. 
 No terrors hast thou to the brave. 
 
 rhou strikest the mi peasant ; he sinks in the 
 dark, 
 
 Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; 
 Thou strikest the young hero — a glorious mark ! 
 
 He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
 
 In the proud field of honour — our swords in our 
 hands, 
 
 Our king and our country to save— 
 Wiile victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 
 
 O ! who would not die with the brave ! 
 
 THE DEIL'S A\V\ WI' THE EXCISE- 
 MAN. 
 
 The deil cam fiddling tV.ough the toun, 
 
 And danceil awa w' the exciseman ; 
 And ilka auld wife cried, Auld M.ihoun, 
 I wish vou lu.K o' the prize, man. 
 The deil s iiwd, the deil's arm. 
 
 The (JeU's (iwa u'i' the exciseman ; 
 He's ■luticed awn, he's dnnccd nwa, 
 He's danced awa u-i' the exciseman I 
 
 We'll -nak our nuut, we'll brew our drink, 
 We 11 laugh, slug, and rejoice, man ; 
 
 And niony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, 
 rhat danceil awa wi' the exciseman I 
 The deil's awn, Ifc. 
 
 There's threesome leeis, there's foursome re 'Is, 
 Thure't hornpipes and ^trathspeys, man ; 
 
 But the ae best dance e sr cam to tne heela, 
 Was, The deil's awa wi' the excsiemaii. 
 The deil's awa, §-c. 
 
 THE ELECTION. 
 Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the bndal." 
 
 Fi/, let 7IS a' to Kirkcudbright, 
 For there will he bickering there, 
 
 For Murray's light horse are to musttT ; 
 And oh, how the heroes will swear I 
 
 And there will be Murray commander, 
 And Gordon the batttle to win : 
 
 Like brithers they'll stand by each othei, 
 Sae knit in alliance and siu. 
 Fy, let us a', §-c. 
 
 And there will be black-nebbed Johnnie 
 The tongue of the trump to theai a* ; 
 
 If he get na hell fur his haddin*, 
 The deil gets nae justice ava ! 
 Fy, let us a', Sfc. 
 
 And there will be Templeton's birkie, 
 A boy no sae black at the bane ; ' 
 
 But, as to his fine Nabob fortune, 
 We'll e'en let the subject alane. 
 Fy, let us a', Sfc. 
 
 And there will be Wigton's new sheri£f; 
 
 Dame Ju^tice fu' brawly has sped ; 
 She's gotten the heart of a B by. 
 
 But v.hat has become cf the head ? 
 Fy, let us a', Sfc, 
 
 And there will be Cardoness* squire, 
 
 So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
 A wight that will weather damnation. 
 
 For the devil the prey will despise. 
 Fy, let us a,', §*c. 
 
 And there will be Douglasses doughty, 
 New christening towns far and near} 
 
 Abjuring their democrat doings. 
 By kissing the doup of a peer 
 Fy, lei us a', &-c. 
 
 And there will be Kenmure sae generous, 
 Whose honour is proof 'gaiii-t the storni j 
 
 To save them frae stark reprobation, 
 He lent theni his name to the firm. 
 J-y, let us a, §-c. 
 
 But we wima mention Redcastle ; 
 
 The body, e'en let him escape ; 
 He'll vvnture the g.illows fur siller, 
 
 An 'twerena the cost o' the rape. 
 Fy, let us «', Sfc. 
 
 And tLere is nur King's Lord Lieuteiunlj 
 Sae famed for his grateful return i 
 
SONGS. 
 
 S3i 
 
 Tlie billie is f;ettin!j his questions, 
 To say in St. Stephen's tlie morn. 
 Fy, let us a', ^c. 
 
 And there will he lads of the gospel, 
 Jluiihead, uha's as c;ui!e as he's true ; 
 
 And there \riil be Buittle's apostle, 
 Wha's mair o* the Idack than the blue. 
 Fi/, Itt us a, Sfc. 
 
 And there will he folk frae St. Mary's,* 
 A house o' great merit and note : 
 
 Tl-.e deil ane but honours tliem highly— 
 The deii ane will gie them his vote. 
 Fi/, let tts a', §-c. 
 
 And there will be wealthy youn^ Richard 
 D.ime Fortune should iiing by the neck : 
 
 But for prodigal thriftless bestowing, 
 His merit had won him respect. 
 Fi/, let us a", §-c. 
 
 And there will he rich brither Nabobs ; 
 
 Though Nabobs, yet men o' the first : 
 And there will be Colliston's whiskers. 
 
 And Quiutin, o' lads not the warst. 
 Fy, let us a', &■€. 
 
 And there will be Stamp-office Johnnie 
 
 Tak tent how you purchase a dram ; 
 
 Ami there will be gay Cassencarry ; 
 And there will be gleg ColouelTam. 
 Fi/, let us a', §-c. 
 
 And there will be trusty Kirrochtrie, 
 
 Whase hcmour is ever h;« sa' 
 If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 
 
 His worth might be sample for a*. 
 Fi/, let us a\ Sfc. 
 
 And can we forget the auld Major, 
 Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys? 
 
 Our flattery we'll keep for some other ; 
 Him only it's justice to praise. 
 Fi/, let us a', §-c. 
 
 And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 
 And also Harskimming's gude wi<»ht • 
 
 And there wHl be roaring Birtwhistle, 
 Wha iiu-kily roari in the right. 
 Fi/, let us u, ^-c. 
 
 And there, frae tne Niddisdale Dorder, 
 We'll mingle the .Maxwells in droves, 
 
 Teiieh Jockie, stanch Geordie, and Willie, 
 
 That granes for tne fishes and loves. 
 
 /V, lit us a", §-c. 
 
 And there will he Logan IM'D 1 ; 
 
 Sculduddery and he will be there ; 
 
 And also the Scott o' Galloway, 
 Sodgering, gunpowder Blair. 
 Fy, let us a\ ^c. 
 
 Then hey ! the chaste interest o* Broughtoa, 
 And hey for the blessings 'twill hrhvj ! 
 
 It may send Balmai,«iie to the Commons ; 
 
 In Sodom 'twould make him a kinpf. 
 
 Fy, let us a', §-c. 
 
 And hey ! for the sanctified M r y. 
 
 Our kind wha wi* chapels has stored ; 
 
 lie foundered his horse among harlots, 
 But gied the mtld marc tothe Lord. 
 Fy, let vs a\ Sfc. 
 
 THE GALLANT WEAVER. 
 
 Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. 
 By niony a flow'r and s|)reading tree, 
 There lives a lad, the lad for mo, 
 He is a gallant weaver. 
 
 Oh I had wooers aught 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. 
 
 Jly daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
 To gie the lad that has the lanil, 
 But to my heart I'll add my hanu, 
 And give it to the weaver. 
 
 Wliile birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
 While bees delight in opening flowers; 
 WTiile corn grows green in simmer showers, 
 I'll love my gallant weaver.* 
 
 • Meanin- the family of the Earl of Selkirk, resi- 
 «<-iU at St. Jlaii's iilc, near KirkcuUbright. 
 
 THE GARDENER WT HIS PAIDLE. 
 
 This air is the Gardeners' March. The titU 
 
 of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 
 
 WjiEN rosy Jlay comes in wT flowers, 
 
 To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; 
 
 Then busy, busy are his hours, 
 TUe gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
 
 The crystal waters gently f,i' ; 
 The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
 The scented breezes round him blaw. 
 The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
 
 When purple morning starts the hare 
 To steal upon her early fare ; 
 Then thro' the dews he maun repair. 
 Tile gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
 
 • In lome editions tailor is nuhstitutcit for weavtr. 
 
232 
 
 When (lay espir:ng in tbe west, 
 The curuin draws of nature's rest ; 
 He flies to her arms he lo'es best, 
 The garU'aer wi* his paidle. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHER- 
 ING FAST. 
 
 Tum-" Banks of Ayr." 
 
 The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
 Loiid roars the wild inconstant blast, 
 Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
 I see it driving o'er the plain. 
 The 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 ripening com, 
 By early winter's ravage torn ; 
 Across her placid azure sky 
 She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
 Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
 I think u])on the stormy wave, 
 Wiere many a danger 1 must dare. 
 Far from the bonuie banks of Ayr. 
 
 'Tis not the surging billows' roar, 
 *Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
 Though death in every sha])e appear. 
 The wrelilu'd have no more to fear : 
 lint round my heart the ties are bound. 
 That heart tiaris|)ierced with many a wound ; 
 Those bleed afresli, those ties I tear, 
 To leave the bcMinie banks of Ayr. 
 
 Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
 Hi^r heathy nuiors and winding va'.es ; 
 The scene where wretched fancy roves, 
 Pursuing past, nnli.ip|>y loves ! 
 Farewell my fi ieniK, farewell my foes, 
 Mv peace with these, mv love with those ; 
 The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
 Farewell the boniiie banks of Ayr.» 
 
 THE HEATHER WAS IILOOMING. 
 
 7"un«<— " 1 re.1 you twware si llie hunting." 
 
 The heather was Idooming, the meadows were 
 
 juawii. 
 Our lads gaed a hunting, ae d ly at the dawn. 
 O'er nioius and o'er mosses an i iiioiiy a glen, 
 At length they discovered a boanie uioor-hen. 
 
 • Hums wrote this song, while rniivoyjnn his chest 
 lo f;ir on the ni.Ml fri)Mi Ayrshire ti> 'irieiiriek, where 
 he inleriiU'il tii I'liilnrk m a lew ilavs fur Jainaici lie 
 iloitrnel il, he i^tyi, m his raicwcll iiir);c to hi-, native 
 qoiiniry 
 
 Tred you bewar* at the hnntinrf, young men ; 
 I red you beware at tJie hunting, t/ouncf men; 
 Tak some on the wing, and some as theg 
 
 spring, 
 £ut cannity steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 
 
 Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather 
 
 bells. 
 Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
 Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
 And C ' as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
 / red, §x. 
 
 Auld Phofcbus himsei, as he pcep'd o er the liill ; 
 
 In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ; 
 
 He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 
 
 brae — 
 His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where 
 
 she lay. 
 
 / red, §"c. 
 
 They hunted the valley, they hunted 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, fifc. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 
 
 This was a composition of mine in very earlj 
 life, before I was known at all in the worll, 
 
 Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair. 
 
 Sail ever be my Muse's care ; 
 
 Their titles a' are eni]ity shew ; 
 
 Gie me mv Highland lassie, O. 
 
 M'ithin t/ia glen sue busliy, O, 
 ^4boon the ]>lain sue nis/iy, (), 
 I cct me duwn wi' right gmui will. 
 To sine; my Iligltland lassie, 0% 
 
 were yon hills and vallies mine. 
 Yon palace anil ynu garden.s fi:ie ! 
 Tiie world then the love should know 
 
 1 bear uiy Highland lassie, O. 
 
 ^VUllin llie glen, §C. 
 
 But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
 And I maun cros.-i the raging sea ; 
 lint while my crimson currents dow, 
 I'll lo'e m;' "■-' ^and lassie, O. 
 M'ithin Cite glen, S^c. 
 
 Altho' thro' foreign dinu's I range, 
 I know her heart will never change, 
 For her bosom burns with hunour'u gl(W 
 My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
 Within the glen, {jX. 
 
 For her I'll dare the billow's roar; 
 For her I'll trai'c a distant shore ; 
 
SONGb 
 
 2S3 
 
 n.at Inilian wonhli mny lustre throw 
 Ariiutxl my Hi^'lilaii'l lassie, O. 
 }yilhin the ylen, &;c. 
 
 S!ie lias my lu'art, she has iny hand, 
 IJv secret truth and honoui's hauii ! 
 ' rill the uiort il stroke shall lay me low, 
 J'l'j thine, mv Hii^hluid lassie, O. 
 
 fill eif ell t/ie (//en, sue bushy, O, 
 fiireifcU the jtlniu, sae rashy, O, 
 To other luni/s I now must go, 
 To sini/ mi/ Hiyhltmd lassie, O. 
 
 TFIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 
 rniM— •• O'er the hills and far awa." 
 
 O, now can I he blithe anj glad, 
 Or how can I gan^ brisk and braw, 
 
 When the huiinie lad that I lo'e best 
 Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 
 
 It's no the frosty winte* wind, 
 
 It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 
 
 But aye the tear comes in my ee 
 To think on him that's far awa. 
 
 My father pat me frae his door, 
 
 iMy friends they ii le disown'd me a'; 
 
 Ijiit I hae ane will take my part, 
 The bonnie lad that's far awa. 
 
 A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 
 
 And silken snoods he gae ine twa ; 
 
 And 1 will weir theia for his sake, 
 Tlie hounie lad that's far awa. 
 
 The weary winter soon will jiass, 
 
 And spring will deed the birkea shaw; 
 
 rtnd my sweet hahie will he born. 
 And he'll come hame that's far awa. 
 
 THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 Tune—" The Lass of BaUochmyle." 
 
 TwAs even, the ih'wy fields were green. 
 
 On ilka hlaile the peirls hang; 
 The zephvr waiiton'd round the bean. 
 
 And bore its fiagraiit sweets alang : 
 la ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; 
 
 All nature list'ning seeiii'd the while, 
 Exie|)t where £;reenwo(id echoes rang, 
 
 Aiuang the braes o' Balloehmylc. 
 
 With careless step I onward stray'd. 
 My heart iejoice<l in Nature's joy ; 
 
 When, musing in a lonely glade, 
 A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 
 
 Her look wa> like the morning'ii eye, 
 Iler air like Nature's vernal smile; 
 
 I The lily's r.ue, and rose's dye, 
 Bespake the lass o' BaUochmyle. 
 
 Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
 
 And sweet is night in Autumn mild, 
 When roving thnuigh the garden gay, 
 
 Or wand'iing in the lonely wild ; 
 But woman, Nature's darling child ! 
 
 There all her charms she does compilsj 
 Even there her other v>orks are foil'd. 
 
 By the bonnie lass o* Ballochtnylu. 
 
 Oh, had she been a country maid. 
 
 And I the happy couiitiy swain. 
 Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 
 
 That ever ro.ie on Scotland's plain ! 
 Through weary winter's wind and rain. 
 
 With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
 And nightly to my bos^^n strain 
 
 The bonnie lass o' BaUochmyle. 
 
 Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep« 
 
 Where fame and honours lofty shine; 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 
 
 Or downward dig 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, 
 
 Wi' the bonnie lass o' Bollochmyle.* 
 
 THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 
 TO ME.f 
 
 When Januar winds were blawio* cauldj 
 
 Unto the north I bent my way. 
 The mirksome nicht did nie eiifauld, 
 
 I kend na where to lodge till day ; 
 But by good luck a lass I met, 
 
 Just in the middle of my care. 
 And kindly she did me invite 
 
 To walk into a chaiiil»!r fair. 
 
 I bow'd fu' low unto this ma'io. 
 And tlnnk'd her for her courttsie; 
 
 I bow'd fu' low unto 'his maid, 
 
 And bade her make the bed to me. 
 
 • This song was wiitteo in praise of Mi-s Alexandei 
 of BalltK'hinyle. Bums hai)iH"n d one fine evejiing to 
 meet this \'oiii)g t.dv, wlun walkuig Ihri ugh the 
 ("cautifui woods ot llallmhiinle, which lie at the dis- 
 tance of two miles from his larin of Mossgiel. Struck 
 witli a sense of her |>a.s>in^ beauty, he wrote this noble 
 lyric: which he soon after sent lo lier, eiu!o.-ed in a 
 letter, as full of ilclicale and romantic sciiliintnt, auil 
 as poetical as itsi If. He was soniewhit niortified to 
 find, that either iiiaiilcnly modest, or iiride of s'i|>e- 
 rior station, prcvemeil licr fiomackuowl<d(;ing the re- 
 ceipt <if his coriniiiment : Indeed it is no where record- 
 ed that she, at any stai;e of life, shewed the smallest 
 sense ol it ; as to fi<r the pearls seem to liave been li- 
 terally thrown away. 
 
 t There is an older and coarser son?, eontaii.tng ttw 
 same incidents, ai.d >aid to have licen oix'asioneil by ar 
 adventure of ( harlex II., when that monarch reside.^ 
 in Scotland with the I'rohyterian .irmy, IRVi-51. fhe 
 affair hapiieiied at the house of l^)rt-l.ethem. in Aber 
 dcenslurc, and it wa» a daughter of the lairU ihAt mad* 
 the bed to the king. 
 
234 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 She marie the tJed baitTi wide and braid, 
 Wi' twa white hands she spiead it doun ; 
 
 She put the cup to her rosy lips, 
 
 And drank. Young man, now sleep ye scan. 
 
 She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
 
 And from the chamber went wi* speed : 
 But I ca'd her quickly hai-k again. 
 
 To lay some mair beneath my beid. 
 A cod she laid beneath my heid, 
 
 And served me with a due respect ; 
 And, to salute her wi' a kiss, 
 
 I put my arms about her neck. 
 
 Haud aff your hands, young man, she says, 
 
 And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
 It will be time to speak the morn, 
 
 If ye hae ony love for me. 
 Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 
 
 Her teeth were like the ivorie, 
 Her checks like lilies dipt in wine. 
 
 The lass that made the bed to lue. 
 
 Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
 
 Twa dtiftit heaps sae fair to see ; 
 Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 
 
 The lass that made the bed to me. 
 I kiss d her ower and ower again. 
 
 And aye she wistna what to say; 
 I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 
 
 The lassie tl.ucni na .ang till day. 
 
 Uj)on the morrow, whtn we rase, 
 
 I tbank'd her fur her courtesie ; 
 And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, 
 
 And said, Alas ! ye've ruin'd me. 
 I clasp'd her waist, and kissM her syne. 
 
 While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; 
 I said, My lassie, dinna crv. 
 
 For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. 
 
 She took her mother's Holland sheets, 
 
 And made them a in sarks to me ; 
 Blytl.e and merry may she be. 
 
 The lass tliat made the bed to me. 
 The bonnie lass that made the bed to rae, 
 
 The braw lass that made the bed to me ; 
 I'll ne'er forget, till the day I dee, 
 
 The lass that made the bed to nie. 
 
 THE LAZY MIST. 
 
 Tke lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hiii. 
 Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
 How languid the scenes, lato so sprightly, ap- 
 pear, 
 As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
 The forests are leillessi, the nie.jdiiws are brown, 
 And all the gay fii|)])iry of sumiiier is down : 
 Apart let me wander, apnt let me muse. 
 Haw quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
 sues ; 
 
 ' How long I <ive liv'd — but how mucli liv'd in 
 
 vain 
 How little c/ life's fcanty span may remain : 
 What aspects old Time, in his progress, ha« 
 
 worn ; 
 What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
 How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd ! 
 And downward, how weaken'd, Low darken d, 
 
 how pain'd ! 
 This life's not worth having with all it can give, 
 For something beyond it poor man sure must 
 
 live. 
 
 THE LEA-RIG. 
 Tune—" The Lea-Rig.** 
 
 When o'er the hills the eastern star 
 
 Tells buchtin-time is near, my jo ; 
 And owsen frae the furrowed field 
 
 Return sae douff and weary, O ; 
 Down by the burn, where scented birl« 
 
 Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
 I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 
 
 My am Kmd dearie, O. 
 
 In mirkest glen, at midnicht hour, 
 
 I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
 If through that glen I gaed to thee, 
 
 My ain kind dearie, O. 
 Although 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 LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 
 
 The first half stanza of this ballad is old. 
 
 The lovely lass o* Inverness, 
 
 Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
 For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 
 
 And aye the saut tear blins her ee. 
 Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 
 
 A waefu' day it was to me ; 
 For there I lost my father dear, 
 
 'My father dear and brethren three ■ 
 
 Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 
 
 Their graves are growing green to gee ; 
 Anil by them lies the dearest ad 
 
 That ever blest a woman s ee ■. 
 Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, 
 
 A bluidy man I trow thou ne. 
 For mony a heart thou Last made sivr, 
 
 That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 235 
 
 THc i.OVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
 TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Tune—" Deil tak the wars." 
 
 Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 
 
 Rosy morn now lilts his eye, 
 Numherin;j; ilki huil which nature 
 
 AVateis wi' the tears o' joy : 
 
 Now through the leafy woods, 
 
 And by the reelving Soods ; 
 Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 
 
 The liatvvhite in his bower 
 
 Chants o'er the breathing flower : 
 
 The lav'rock to the sky 
 
 Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
 While the sun anil thou arise to bless the day.* 
 Phcehus gilding the brow o' morning 
 
 Binislifs ilka darksome shade. 
 Nature gladdening and adorning; 
 
 Such to ine my lovely maid. 
 When absent frae my fair. 
 
 The murky shades o' care 
 With starldss gloom o'ercost my sullen sky ; 
 
 But when in beauty's light. 
 
 She meets my ravi^h'd sight. 
 
 When through my very heart 
 
 Her beaming glories dart ; 
 Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. f 
 
 THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 
 Tune—" Corn- Rigs are bonnie.* 
 
 Ir was upon a Lammas night, 
 
 When corn-rigs are bonnie, 
 Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 
 
 I held awa to Annie. 
 The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 
 
 'Till, 'tween the late and early, 
 Wi' sma' persuasion shee agreed 
 
 To see me through the barley. 
 
 The sky was blue, the wind was still, 
 
 The moon was shining clearly ; 
 I set her down, wi' rij;ht good-will, 
 
 Amang the rigs o* barley. 
 I ken't her heart was a' rav ain ; 
 
 I loved her most siiicere.y ; 
 I kiss'd her ower and ower again, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 • yaHation. Vow to the streaming foun aiu, 
 
 Or ui> the heathy mountain 
 The hart, hinil, and roe, freely, wildly. wanton stray; 
 
 In twining haiel bowers 
 
 His lay the Uiuiet pours: 
 
 The lav'rock, 6:0. 
 
 f Variation. When frae my Chloris parted, 
 Sad, ehecile-s, brokenhearted. 
 Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast 
 mv sky ; 
 But when ■•he charms my sight, 
 In pride of Ijeauty's li^ht. 
 When thro' my very heart 
 Her beaming ptories dart ; 
 Tl* then, 'tis ilicn 1 wake to life and joy. 
 
 I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! 
 
 Her heart was beating rarelv— 
 My blessing? on that happy place, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
 But by the moon and stars so bright. 
 
 That shone that hour sae clearly ! 
 She aye shall bless that happy night, 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 I hie been blytho wi' comrades dear ; 
 
 I haebeen merry drinking ; 
 I hae been joyfu' gathering gear ; 
 
 I hae been happy thinking : 
 But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
 
 Though they were doubled fairly, 
 That happy night was worth them a* 
 
 Amang the rigs o' barley. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 Tune—" The MUI, Mill, O." 
 
 WiiEV wild war's deadly blast was ^394, 
 
 And gentle peace rcturnin/. 
 And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd. 
 
 That had been blear'd wi' mourning ] 
 I left the lines and tented field, 
 
 Where lang I'd been a lodger ; 
 lyjy humble knapsack a' my wealth; 
 
 A poor but houest sodger. 
 
 A leal light heart beat in my breast, 
 
 My hands 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 ray youthful fancy. 
 
 At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. 
 
 Where early life I sported ; 
 I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn. 
 
 Where Nancy oft I courted. 
 Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 
 
 Down by her mother's dwelling ? 
 And turn'd me round to hide the flooil 
 
 That ia my ec was swelling. 
 
 Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, swe^c lasst. 
 
 Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
 O ! happy, happy may he be, 
 
 That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
 Jly purse is light, I've far to gang. 
 
 And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
 I've serv'd my king and country laof ' 
 
 Tak pity on a sodger. 
 
 Sae wistfully ehe gazed on me, 
 And lovelier grew than ever ; 
 
 Quoth she, A sodgci ance I loved, 
 Forget him will I never. 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Our humble cot and hamely fare. 
 
 Ye freely >liill p.irtake n't ; 
 That gallant bjil-^e, the dear cockade, 
 
 Ye'ie welcome for the sake o't. 
 
 She gazed — she redden'd hke a rose- 
 Syne p lie as ony lily ; 
 
 She sank within n)y arms and cried, 
 Alt 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 ; 
 Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, 
 
 And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
 Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd, 
 
 A niailin |)ienish'd fairly ; 
 Then come, my faithlu' sodgcr lad, 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. 
 
 For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
 
 The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
 But glory is the sodger's prize. 
 
 The sodger's wealth is honour. 
 The \)rave poor sndger ne'er despise, 
 
 Nor tount him as a stranger : 
 Remember he's hs country's stay, 
 
 In day and hour o' danger. • 
 
 TIIK BANKS OF NITH. 
 Tune — " Robie Donna Gorach." 
 
 Thk Thajnes Hows proudly to the sea, 
 
 Where royal cities ^tand ; 
 But sweeter fluws the Nith to me, 
 
 Where Cummins ance had high command ; 
 When shall I see that honoured lan<l, 
 
 That winding strean\ I love so dear ! 
 Mu-t wayward fortune's ailverse hand 
 
 For e\'er. ever keep nie here. 
 
 riow lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 
 
 Where spieading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
 [low sweetly wind tliy glo|)ing dales 
 
 ^\'here laudikins wanton thro' the broom ! 
 Tho wanileiing, now, must be my iloum. 
 
 Far from thv bonnie banks and braes. 
 May there my latest hours consume, 
 
 Amang the friends of early days ! 
 
 THE TOAST. 
 
 At a meeting of the Dumprirssiiiru Volunteees 
 held to commemorate the anniversary of RonMi! y'8 
 victory, April 12th, 17S2, BuiiNs was called upon fol 
 a Song, instead of which he delivered llie following 
 Lines •.— 
 
 Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. 
 Here's the memory of those cu the twelfth that 
 
 we lost ; — 
 That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that 
 
 we found. 
 For their fame it shall last while the world goes 
 
 round. 
 Tlie next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
 Whoe'er would betray him on high may ht 
 
 swing ; 
 And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
 tution, 
 As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
 And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. 
 Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
 And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
 May his son be a hangman, and he his first triaL 
 
 • " Burns, I have been informed," says a clergyman 
 of n:iiiifrie.<thire, in a letter to Mr. Georne Thomson, 
 editor of Select M( lodiis of SeotlaiKl, " was one sum- 
 mer evening in the inn at l!ri)wnliill, with a couple of 
 j"riendfi, when a poor way-worn soldier |i.isscd the win- 
 dow. Of a siidilcn it -iriuk the poet tocallliim in, 
 »!id Ret the recital of hi:; adventures; after hearing 
 which, lie all at o ce fil! into one of tiiuse fit« of ah. 
 jtraction, not niiiisii;d lo him. lie was lilted to the 
 ;egion where he hat liiii gavl^ind and Ms sin(»ii'Rrobe8 
 »l)out him, ami the r< siili w:u. iliix adinirabic song he 
 U.ai you lor ' I'he Mill, Mill, O.'" 
 
 THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL 
 JAMIE COMES HAME. 
 
 This tune is sometimes called, There s few 
 QuJe FtUows when Willie s awa. — But I never 
 have been able to meet with any thing else of 
 the sons than the title. 
 
 Xune — " There'll never be peace till Jamie come* 
 hame." 
 
 By yon castle-wa', at the close o* the day, 
 
 I heard a man sing, 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, tho state is in jars, 
 Delusions, opjiressions, and murderous wars : 
 We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to 
 
 blame, — 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
 
 Mv seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
 And now I greet round their green beils in the 
 
 yird : 
 It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld 
 
 dame — 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
 
 Now life is a burden that bows me down. 
 Since I ti.it my bairns, and he tint liis crown ; 
 But till my last moments my w^ords are tl'.a 
 
 same, — 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes namo 
 
SONGS. 
 THE STOWN GLAN'CE O' KINDNESS 
 
 Laddie, lie near me." 
 
 237 
 
 Time 
 
 'TwAs na her bonnie Mue ee was mv ruin ; 
 Fair thoiigli slie be, tliat was ne'er my undoia' : 
 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
 *Twas the l)ewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 
 kindness, 
 
 Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
 Sair <]() I fear tint des])air maun abide me ; 
 Kilt though fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
 Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 
 
 Jlary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
 And thou hast ])lii>hteil ine love o' the dearest ! 
 Aon tiiou'rt the ansjel that never can alter ; 
 Soocer the sun in his motion shall falter. 
 
 THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 
 
 There's news, lasses, news, 
 Gude news hae I to tell ; 
 
 There's a bout fu" o' lads 
 Come to oar toun to sell. 
 
 The wean wants a cradle, 
 Anil the cradle tvants a cod; 
 
 A.nd ril no gang to my bed, 
 Until I get a nod. 
 
 Faflier, quo' she. Mother, quo' she, 
 
 Do ye what ye can, 
 I'll no gang to my bed 
 
 Till I get a mau. 
 
 The wean, §-c. 
 
 I hae as gude a craft-rig 
 As made o' yird and stane ; 
 
 And waly fa' the ley crap, 
 For I maun till't again. 
 2'he wean, Sj'c. 
 
 THE YOUNG HIGHLAND RO'V'ER. 
 Tune—" Morag." 
 
 Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 
 
 The snaws the mountains cover ; 
 Like winter on me seizes. 
 
 Since my young highland rover 
 
 Far v.'anders nations over. 
 Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 
 
 May heaven be his warden : 
 Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
 
 And bonnie Castle- Gordon! 
 
 rhe trees now naked groaning, 
 Shall soon wi* leaves be L-rglng, 
 
 Tlie birdies dowic moaning. 
 Shall a' be blythely singing, 
 And every flower be springing. 
 
 Sae I'll rejoice the lee-Ian;; dav, 
 When liy liis mighty warden 
 
 My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
 And bonnie Castle-Gordon.* 
 
 THE WOODLARK. 
 
 rune—" Wherc'U Iwnnie Annie lie." 
 
 Or, " LoLh.Erroch Side." 
 
 O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
 Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
 A helpless lover courts thy lay. 
 Thy soothing foud complaining. 
 
 Again, again that tender part. 
 That I H'ay catch thy melting art j 
 For surely that war! touch her heart, 
 Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 
 
 Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
 And heard thee as the careless '.vind ? 
 Oh, nocl'.t but love and sorrow join'd, 
 Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 
 
 Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
 O sptecidess grief, and dark despair ^ 
 For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae niair? 
 Or 01/ poor heart is broken ! 
 
 THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS Cn\ 
 
 There's a youth in this city, it were a grea' 
 pity 
 That he from our lasses shorM wander awa ; 
 For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a' 
 
 And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
 His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 
 
 His fecket j- is white as the new-driven snaw : 
 His hose they are blae, and his shoon like tht 
 slae. 
 And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a.' 
 His coat is the hue, §'c. 
 
 For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 
 Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted 
 and braw ; 
 But chiefly the siller, that gars liim gang till hef 
 
 The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a' 
 
 There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a 
 haen him, 
 And Susy whase daddy was Laird o* the ha ; 
 
 ■ The young Hipliland rover is supposed to be th 
 young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward. 
 t An under-waistcoat with sleeves. 
 

 ] 
 
 238 BURNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 There's lang-tocber'd Nancy maist fetters his 
 
 But weel the watching lover marks 
 
 fancy, 
 
 The kind love that's in her ee. 
 
 —But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a*. 
 
 this is no my ain lassie, §c. 
 
 His coat is the hue, Sfc. 
 
 
 THE TOCHER FOR ME. 
 
 THERE WAS ONCE A DAY 
 
 Tunt—" Balinamona Ora." 
 
 Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 
 
 AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
 
 There was once a day, but old Time then wai 
 
 The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arras ; 
 
 young. 
 
 0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
 
 That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
 
 0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 
 
 From some of your northern deities sprung. 
 
 Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for 
 
 (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- 
 
 a lass wi' a tocher, 
 
 vine ?) 
 
 T/uH hey for a lass wi' a tocher j the nice 
 
 From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
 
 yellow guineas for me. 
 
 To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she 
 
 
 would : 
 
 Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 
 
 Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. 
 
 blows, 
 
 And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 
 
 And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
 
 it good. 
 
 But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 
 
 
 knowes, 
 
 A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 
 
 Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie wliite 
 
 The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 
 
 yowes. 
 
 Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — 
 
 ThcH hey, Sfc, 
 
 " Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 
 
 
 shall rue!" 
 
 And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
 
 With tiJlaije or pasture at times she would sport. 
 
 The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 
 
 To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
 
 But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordic im- 
 
 corn ; 
 
 prest. 
 
 But chiefly the woods were here fav'rite resort, 
 
 The langer ye hae them — the mair tbey'r; ca- 
 
 Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
 
 rest. ' 
 
 horn. 
 
 Then hey, SfC. 
 
 
 
 Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers 
 
 
 A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand ; • 
 Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
 
 
 
 They darken'd the air, and they plundered 
 
 THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 
 
 the land : 
 
 
 Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 
 
 I SEE a form, I see a face. 
 
 They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : 
 
 Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
 
 She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, 
 
 It wants, to me, the witching grace,, 
 
 The daring invaders they fled or they died. 
 
 The kind love that's in her ee. 
 
 
 this is no my ain lassie, 
 
 The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. 
 
 Fair th(,ur/h the lassie be ; 
 
 The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
 
 O wed hen I my ain lassie, 
 
 the shore ;f 
 
 Kind love is in her ee. 
 
 The wild Scanrlinavian boar issued forth 
 
 
 To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:^ 
 
 She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
 
 O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 
 
 And lang has had my heart in thrall j 
 
 vail'd. 
 
 And aye it charms :ny very saul, 
 
 No arts could ippease them, nor arms could 
 
 The kind love that's in her ee. 1 
 
 repel; 
 
 this is no my ain lassie, ^c. 
 
 But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd. 
 
 
 As Largs well can witness, and Loncartic 
 
 A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
 
 te!i.§ 
 
 To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
 
 
 But gifg as light are lover's ecn, 
 
 The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her rejwse. 
 
 When kind love is in the ee. 
 
 With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; 
 
 this is no my ain lassie, §*c. 
 *t may escape the courtly sparks^ 
 
 
 • The niim.ins. t The Saxons, t The Daiic^ 
 { Two famous battles, in wliidi the Danes or Nof 
 
 >t may et>cape the learned clerks ; 
 
 wegians were dcicat^l. 
 
 ■ J 
 
,■ — 
 
 SONGS. 23S 
 
 Piovolvcil beyond bearing, at .ast she arose, 
 
 Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
 
 And roljUM him at om-i of his hopes and his 
 
 Ye spak na, but gaed by like stouro ; 
 
 life:* 
 
 Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
 
 ITie Anglian lion, the terror of France, 
 
 But feint a hair care I. 
 
 Oft prowling, ensanguiu'd the Tweed's sil- 
 
 Tibbie, I hue, ^c. 
 
 ver flood ; 
 
 
 But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 
 
 T doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 
 
 He learned to fear in his own native wood. 
 
 Because ye hae the name o' clink. 
 
 
 That ye can please me at a wink, 
 
 Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, 
 
 Whene'er ye like to try. 
 
 Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
 
 Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 
 
 For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 
 
 
 I'll piove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: 
 
 But sorrow tak him that's sae mean. 
 
 Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose. 
 
 Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
 
 The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
 
 Wha follows ony saucy quean 
 
 base ; 
 
 That looks sae proud and high. 
 
 But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 
 
 Tibbie, I hae, lJ-c. 
 
 Then ergo she'll match them, and match 
 
 
 them always, f 
 
 Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
 
 
 If that he want the yellow dirt. 
 
 
 Ye'll cast your head anither airt. 
 An' answer hiin fu' dry. 
 
 
 
 Tibbie, I hae, §"c. 
 
 THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. 
 
 Tune—" Fee him. Father." 
 
 But if he hae the name o' gear, 
 
 
 Ye'll fasten to him like a brier. 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 
 
 Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
 
 Thou hast left me ever ; 
 
 Be better than the kye. 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 
 
 Tibbie, I hae, &-c. 
 
 Thou hast left me ever. 
 
 
 Aften hast thou vow'd that death 
 
 But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
 
 Only should us sever ; 
 
 Your daddie's gear maks you sae nvXt 
 
 Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — 
 
 The deil a ane wad speir your price, 
 
 I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
 
 Were ve as poor as I. 
 
 I'll see thee never. 
 
 Tibbie, I hae, |-c. 
 
 Thou hast ine forsaken, Jamie, 
 
 There lives a lass in yonder park. 
 
 Thou hast me forsaken ; 
 
 I wouldna gie her in her sark 
 
 Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 
 
 For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
 
 Thou hast me forsaken. 
 
 Ye need na look sae high. 
 
 Thou canst love another jo. 
 
 Tibbie, I hae, ^'c. 
 
 While my heart is breaking : 
 
 
 Sjon my weary een I'll close. 
 
 
 Never more to waken, Jamie, 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 Never more to waken. 
 
 
 
 TO MARY IN HEA\T.N. 
 
 Tirou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn ! 
 
 TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
 
 
 
 Again thou usher'st in the day. 
 
 lUIS SONG I COMPOSED ABOUT THE AGE OF 
 
 ]My JMary from my soul was torn. 
 Oh, JNIary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 
 SEVENTEEN. 
 
 Tunt—" Invercald's reeL 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 
 
 Sec'st thoa thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 O Tibbie, I hat seen the day 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast f 
 
 Ye wwlna been sae shy ; 
 
 
 For hiih o' gear ye lirjhtly me. 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget ? — 
 
 But trowth, 1 care na by. 
 
 Can I forget the hallow'd grove. 
 
 
 Wheie, by the windiiig Ayr, we met. 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 
 • Tlie Highlanders of the Isles. 
 
 t This singular figure of poetry, taken from the 
 
 mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py- 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 
 thagoras, tlie 47th of Euclid. In a nsht-anjled tri- 
 
 Thy image at our last emlirace ; — 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 anple, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal 
 to the sQu.ires of the two other sides. 
 
 1 
 
2-tO 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 A;t, {^iirc;lin;j, kiss'ij his peW)!eiI shore, 
 
 O'riliiin^ with wild wo. kI^ thickening green ; 
 Thv rr:ig;r.vnt hirch, t'.ie hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twinid amorous roiitul the raptured scene. 
 The ftoMers sprung wanton to he prest, 
 
 Tlie birds sung love on every spray ; 
 Till ton, too soon the glowing west 
 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 
 StiM o'er these sf-enes my memory wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ; 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear 
 My I\Iar;,-, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?• 
 
 TRUE HEARTED WAS HE. 
 
 Tune—" Bonnie Dundee." 
 
 FsuE hearted was he, the sad swala o' the 
 Yarrow, 
 And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
 Ayr, 
 But by the sweet side o' the Nitli's winding 
 river, 
 Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
 To tqual young Jessie seek Scotland all over : 
 
 To eiiual young Jessie you seek it in vain, 
 Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
 'And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
 
 fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 
 
 And sweet is the lily at evening clo-e ; 
 But iu the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 
 
 Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
 Love fits 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'. 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 Tune — " Here awa, there awa." 
 
 Here awa, there awa, wandering WiUk ! 
 
 litre awa, there awa, hand awa hame ! 
 Come to iiitf btisom, my aiii onbj dearie ; 
 
 Tcii me thou briny st vie niy Willie again. 
 
 Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part- 
 ing ; 
 Feari for my Willie brought tears in my ee : 
 P/elcotne now, s.pimer, and welcome, my Willie ; 
 The summer to nature, and Willie to me. 
 Jlerr. awa, ix. 
 
 Rest, ye wild storms, in the caves of your •lam 
 hers ! 
 How your dread howling a lover alarms! 
 Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
 And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms 
 Here awa, §t. 
 
 But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds ni his Nanniei 
 Flow still between us, thou dark Iteaving main ! 
 
 May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
 
 13ut, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 
 Here awa, Sfc. 
 
 WAE IS MY HEART. 
 
 Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
 Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
 Forsaiien and friendless my burden 1 bear, 
 And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear 
 
 Love thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ; 
 Love thou hast sorrows ; and sair hue I proved ; 
 But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 
 
 breast, 
 I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 
 
 O if I were, where happy I hae been ; 
 Down by yon stream anrl you bonnie castle green : 
 For there he is wand'iing and musing nn me, 
 Wha wad soon dry thi te.ir frae his Phillis's e» 
 
 • To Mnrv Campbell, one of lliirni;'s earliest and 
 "Tfxt bi'Ioveil nitstres-ic'S, a ilairy-in lid in llie nogli 
 
 b''Mrli<)<>.l if Mossjjiel. 
 l-ifi- 
 
 ■ hee farllicr luriieulars in tiic 
 
 WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
 Wr AN AULD MAN. 
 
 What can a young lassie, what shall a ycr.iig 
 lassie, 
 Wliat can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
 Bad luck on the jiennie tliat teni|'teii n;y minnie 
 To sell her poor Jenny tor siller an' lau' ! 
 Had luck on the pe7inie, §'c. 
 
 He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin. 
 He hosts and he hiiples the weary day l.ing. 
 
 He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his lihiul it is frozen, 
 O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
 Had luck on the jiennie, §"C. 
 
 He hums and he hankers, he frets and he canker* ; 
 
 I never can please hini, do a' that I can ; 
 He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows, 
 
 O, dool on the day, I met wi' an aulJ man ! 
 Had luck on the jtcnnie, i^c. 
 
 My auld aui»tie Katie i;pi>n me takes pity, 
 
 I'll do my endeavour to lolUiw her plan ; 
 I'll cross him, and wrack him, until 1 heart- 
 break him, 
 AnA then his auld brass will buy me a new pun 
 Had luck un the jiennie, fjC, 
 
SONGS. 
 
 241 
 
 VrilX IS THAT AT MY ROWER D0O«. 
 
 Tins tune is nl-o) kncwn by tlie name of Lass 
 til I come mar t/iee. The words lire mine. 
 
 Wha is tliat nt my bcnvor Joor ? 
 
 O whii is it but Finillay ; — 
 Tlioii gao your gate ye'si- nae be here ! 
 
 luileed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
 What mak ye sae like a tliief ? 
 
 O come and see, quo' Findlay ; — 
 Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 
 
 Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
 
 Gif I rise and let you in ? 
 
 Let me in, quo' F"indlay ;^ 
 Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 
 
 Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
 In my bower if ye should stay? 
 
 Let me stay, quo' P'indlay ;— 
 I fear ye'll bide till l)reak o' day ; 
 
 Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
 
 Here this night if ye remain ? 
 
 I'll remain, quo' Fiadlay ; — 
 I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 
 
 Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
 What may pass within this bower; 
 
 Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; — 
 Ve maun conceal 'till your last hour ; 
 
 ludeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 
 
 WHEN GUILDFORD GOOD i 
 
 A FRACJIENT, 
 
 T^nt—" KillicrankJe. 
 
 When Guildford good our pilot stood, 
 
 And did our helm thraw, man, 
 Ae iiifiht, at tea, began a plea, 
 
 Within America, man : 
 Then up they gat the raaskin-pat. 
 
 And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
 An' did nae less, in full Congress, 
 
 Than quite refuse our law, man. 
 
 Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 
 
 I wat he was na slaw, man : 
 Down L,i>writs burn he took a turn, 
 
 Add C'ur/eton did ca', man : 
 But yet, wlut-reck, he, at Quebec, 
 
 ]\lontgiiiiiery-like did fa', man ; 
 Wi' sword m hand, before hii band, 
 
 Amang his enemies a', man. 
 
 Poor Tammy Garje, within a cage. 
 Was kept at liostim lia\ man ; 
 
 Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 
 For I'hilndeljihia, man : 
 
 Wi sw(jrd an' gun he thought a sia 
 Gitd CSristiau blood to draw, moo; 
 
 Hut at A'ie*. York, wi' knife and fork. 
 Sir-loin he hacked sma*, man. 
 
 Dnrcinyne gaed jp, like spur an' whip. 
 
 Till Fraser l)rave did fa' man ; 
 Then lost his way, ae misty day. 
 
 In Saraioyii shaw, man. 
 C'irmvaUis fought as lan;;'s he dought, 
 
 An' (lid the buckskins claw, man ; 
 But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 
 
 He hung it to the wa', man. 
 
 Then Montague, an' Guildford too. 
 
 Began to fear a fa', man ; 
 And Sackville doure, wha stood the 8toure> 
 
 The German chief to thraw, man ; 
 For Faddy Burke, like onie Turk, 
 
 Is'ae mercy had at a', man ; 
 An' Charlie Fox threw by tlie box. 
 
 An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 
 
 Then Rockingham took up the game ; 
 
 Till death did on him ca', man ; 
 When Shtlburne 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 bof.-, 2iim to the wa*, man. 
 
 Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carter 
 
 He swept the stakes awa', man. 
 Till the diamoiid's ace of Indian race, 
 
 Led him a iair faux pas, man : 
 Tlie Saxon lads, wi' loud pljcads. 
 
 On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
 And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 
 
 " Up, Willie, waur them a', man 1" 
 
 Behind the throne then Grenrilk's gone, 
 
 A secret word or twa, man ; 
 While slee Dundas arous'd the class 
 
 Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
 An* Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graitb, 
 
 (Inspired bardies saw, man) 
 Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 
 
 Would I ha'e fear'J them a', man ?" 
 
 But word an' blow, North, For, and Ci». 
 
 GowT'd Willie like a ba', man, 
 Till Suthrons raise, and coost their chise 
 
 Behind him in a raw, man ; 
 Au' Caledon threw by the drune. 
 
 An* did her whittle draw, man ; 
 An* t.woor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 
 
 To make it guid in law, m&o. 
 
 n 
 
242 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAE MET 
 IN THE MORNLNG. 
 
 Tune — " Saw ye my father." 
 
 Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 
 That daiice-l to the lark's early song ? 
 
 Where is the |)eace that awaited my wandering. 
 At evening the wild woods among ? 
 
 No more a-windinjr the course 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. 
 
 Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 
 
 And glim 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 discorer. 
 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 Iliipe dare a comfoit bestow : 
 
 Come then, euainour'd and fond of my anguish, 
 Enjoy raeut I'll seek in niy woe. 
 
 WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
 MY LAD. 
 
 O u-hhile and I'll come to ymi, my lad' , 
 O wliisth and I'll came to i/iu, my lad ; 
 Tito'' father and mitlicr and a should qae mad, 
 O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad. 
 
 13l't warily tent when ye come to court me, 
 And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; 
 Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, 
 And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
 Anti come as ye were nae couiin' to me. 
 O whistle, §c. 
 
 At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
 Ging by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
 Rut steal me a blink o' your buuiiie black e'ec, 
 Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
 Yet look as ye were nae loukin' at me. 
 O whistle, §'C. 
 
 Aye vow and protest that ye care na for mp. 
 And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
 Rut court nae anither, tho* jokin ye be. 
 For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
 For fear that she wyle your fancy frae inc. 
 O whistle, l^'C. 
 
 • In some of the MSS. the first four lines run tlius ; 
 O whisdc and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
 <) whistle iiiiil I'll cimic to tliec, my jo; 
 'I liii' f.ither anil mother ami a' shoiilil say no, 
 O Ahitlle and I'll come to Ihec, my Jo. 
 
 WILLIE BREWD A PECK O' MAUT 
 
 This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— > 
 The occasion of it was this : — iMr. Wm. Nicol, 
 of the High School, Edinburgh, during the au- 
 tumn vacation, being at Motfat, honest Allan, 
 who 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. Masterton and I 
 agreed, each in our own way, that we shouli 
 celebrate the business. 
 
 O Willie brew'd peck o' mant. 
 
 And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
 Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 
 Ye wad na find in Christcndie. 
 
 We are na J'oii, we^re na that fort, 
 
 Ihtt just a drappie in nur ee ; 
 The cock may craw, the day may dav 
 And ay we'll ta-'fe the barley bree. 
 
 Here are we met, t'uree merry boys, 
 Thiee merry boys I trou are we ; 
 
 And mony a night we've merry been. 
 
 And mony mae we hope to be ! 
 
 We are na fou, §'c. 
 
 It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
 That's blinkin in the lift sae hie. 
 
 She shines sae blight to wyle us hams, 
 But by my sooth she'll wait a we ! 
 We are iia fou, §-c. 
 
 \Mia first shall ri>e to gang awa', 
 
 A cuckold, coward louii is he ! 
 Wha last beside his chair shall fa*, 
 
 JJe is the king amang us three ! 
 We are na fou, §-c. 
 
 WILT TIIOU BE MY DEARIE. 
 
 Tune—" The Sutor's Dochter." 
 
 Wilt thou be iiiv dearie : 
 
 M'hen sorrow wrings tiiy gedtle heirtt 
 
 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, 8ay thou lo'es me ; 
 Or if thou wilt na 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 lo'es me ; 
 Lassie let me quickly ilie, 
 Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 243 
 
 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY 
 MARY? 
 
 Tune—" The Vowc-buchts." 
 
 VFiLL re go to tlio Indies, my Mary, 
 
 Anil leave auM Scotia's sliore ? 
 Will ye go the Indies, my ]\Iary, 
 
 Across the Atlantic's roar ? 
 
 Oh, su'cct 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, my Mary, 
 I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 
 
 And sae may the heavens forget me. 
 When I forget my vow ! 
 
 O, plight me yonr faith, my l\Iary, 
 And plight me your lily-white Iiaad ; 
 
 O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
 Before I leave Scotia's strand. 
 
 We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 
 
 In mutual affection to jnin ; 
 And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 
 
 The hour and the moment o' time !• 
 
 YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS, 
 
 Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. 
 That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 
 
 Clyde, 
 Where 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, Sfc. 
 
 Not Cowrie's rich valley, 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. 
 
 For there, §-c. 
 
 Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 
 
 path, 
 Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 
 
 strath ; 
 For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
 W hile o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o' 
 
 love. 
 
 For there, §*c. 
 
 * ^Vhcn Bums was designing his voyace to the 
 West Imlics, ho wrote this sung as a farewell to a girl 
 whom he happened to regard, at the time, with con- 
 siderable admjration. He aJtcrwanls sent it to Mr. 
 Thomson for publication in liis splendid collection of 
 the Datiunzl music and musical poetry of iicotland. 
 
 She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
 O* nice education but sina' is her share ; 
 Her parentage humble as humble can be; 
 But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es ma 
 Her parentage, tec. 
 
 To beauty what man but maun yield him a 
 
 prize, 
 In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 
 
 sighs ; 
 And when wit and refinement hae polished her 
 
 darts. 
 They dazzle our een, as they file to our hearts. 
 And when zvit, §-c. 
 
 But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
 ling e'e, 
 
 Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
 
 And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd it 
 her arms, 
 
 O, tJiese are my lassie's all-conquering charms ' 
 And the heart-beating, ifc. 
 
 YOUNG JOCKEY. 
 Tunt—" Jockie was the biythcat Uak*^ 
 
 Young Jockey was the blithest lad 
 
 I.T B* o'lr town or here awa ; 
 Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 
 
 Fu' lii;htly danc'd he in the ha' J 
 He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 
 
 He roos'd my waist sae genty srns ; 
 An* ay my heart came to my mou. 
 
 When ne'er a body heard or saw. 
 
 My Jockey toils upon the plain. 
 
 Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost Bad snaw 
 And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 
 
 When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
 An' ay the nijjht comes round again, 
 
 When in his arms he taks me a' ; 
 An' ay he vows he'll be my ain 
 
 As .'ang's he has a breath to draw. 
 
 YOUNG PEGGY 
 
 Young Pegjy blooms our bonniest lam. 
 
 Her blush is like the morning, 
 The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 
 
 With eaiiy gems adorning : 
 Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 
 
 That gild the passing shower, 
 And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 
 
 And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 
 
 Her li])s more than the cherries bright, 
 A richer die has grac'd them, 
 
 They charm th' admiring gazer's s)"hx 
 And sweetly tempt to taste them; 
 
£A 
 
 bVUMi' \\ ORKS. 
 
 Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, ^ 
 When feather'd pairs are courting, 
 
 And little lambkins wanton wild, 
 In playful bands disporting. 
 
 Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 
 
 Such sweetness would relent her. 
 As blooming spring unbends the brow 
 
 Of surly, savage winter. 
 Detraction's eye no aim can gain 
 
 Her wiiming pow'rs to lessen : 
 >jld fretful envy grins in vain, 
 
 Ths poison'd tuol h to fasten. 
 
 Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, snd TiTra^ 
 
 From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
 Inspire the highly favour'd youlii 
 
 The destinies intend her ; 
 St'Jl fan the sweet connubial flame 
 
 Responsive in each bosom ; 
 And bless the dear parental name 
 
 With many a filial blossom.* 
 
 • This wat one of the poefs earliest compositions 
 It is coDied from a MS. book, which he had before hif 
 fiift puuicatiuo. 
 
TIIE CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 ' 
 
 NOTICE. 
 
 Or the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
 erable number were transmitted for publication, 
 ky the individuals to whom they were addressed ; 
 out very few have been printed entire. It will 
 •asily be believed, that in a series of letters writ- 
 ten without the least view to publication, va- 
 rious passages were found unfit for the press, 
 from different considerations. It will also be 
 readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly 
 at the same time, and under the same feelings 
 to different individuals, would sometimes fall 
 into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
 expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious- 
 oess of such repetitions, it has been found ne- 
 cessary to mutilate many of the individual let- 
 ters, and sometimes tj exscind parts of great 
 delicacy — the unbridled eflFusionsi of panegjTic 
 and regard. But though many of the letters 
 are printed from originals furnished by the per- 
 •ons to whom they were addressed, others are 
 printed from first draught-s, or sketches, found 
 among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge- 
 neral no man committed his thoughts to iiis 
 correspondent? with less consideration or effort 
 than Burns, yet it appears that in some instances 
 he was dissatisfied with his first essiys, and 
 wrote out his communications in a fairer cha- 
 racter, or perhaps in more studied language, ! 
 In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the 
 original sketches were found ; and as these 
 sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be 
 considered as the oflfspriug of his mind, where 
 they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 
 place in this volume, and they have been in- 
 serted, though they may not always correspond 
 exactly with the letters transmitted, which have 
 been lost or withheld. 
 
 Our author appears at one time to have form- 
 ed an intention of making a collection of his 
 letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- 
 ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
 them into a book, which he presented to Ro- 
 Dert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these 
 Was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. 
 Mi'ore, and printed in the Life. In copying 
 from his imperfect sketches (it does not apj)ear 
 that he had the letters actually scut to Lis cor- 
 "«*iXJudents before him) he st-ems to have occa- 
 
 sionally enlarged his observations, and altered 
 his expressions. In such instances his emenila.. 
 tions have been adopted j but in truth there are 
 but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, 
 to be found in the present volume, the rest be- 
 ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit 
 for the public eye. 
 
 lu printing this volume, the Editor has found 
 some corrections of grammar necessary ; but 
 these have been very few, and such as may be 
 supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even 
 of literary characters, who have not been in the 
 habit of carrying their compositions to the press. 
 These corrections have never been extended to 
 any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, 
 even where his phraseology may seem to violate 
 the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- 
 guage, which he wrote in general with great 
 accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found 
 in this respect in his earlier and in his later 
 compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the 
 progress of his style, as well as the history of 
 his mind. In this Edition, several new letters 
 were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition, 
 and which have been taken from the works of 
 Cromek and the more recent publishers. The 
 series commences with the Bard's Lnve Lcttcn 
 — the first four being of that description. They 
 were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : wliy, 
 has not been explained. They have been held 
 to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. 
 He states the issue of the courtship in these terms: 
 — " To crown my distresses, a bdlejilk whom I 
 adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me 
 in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu- 
 liar circumstances of mortification." Mr. Lock- 
 hart remarks of the letters: — " They are surely 
 as well worth preserving, as many in the Col- 
 lection ; particularly when their eaily date is 
 con>iclered." — He then quotes from them large- 
 ly, and adds, — " In such excellent English did 
 Burns woo his country maidens, in at most his 
 20th year." But we suspect the fiult of the 
 English was, that it was too good It was too 
 coldly correct to suit the taste ot tlie f lir maiden ; 
 had the wooer u^ed a sprinkling of his iiativ* 
 tongue, with a deeper infusion of hiscoustitutiou. 
 al enthusiasm, he might have had more success 
 
LETTERS, 8cc, 
 
 10 VE LETTERS. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 (WRITTE>f ABOUT THE YEAR 17S0.) 
 
 1 rEaiLY believe, my deiir Eliza, th:it the pure 
 U'luiiie foelings of love, are as rare in the 
 Rorhi as the pure genuine |)rinciples of virtue 
 lii'J |)iety. This, 1 hope, will account for the 
 incommon style of all my letters to you. Bv 
 incoininon, I mean, their being written in such 
 I serioui manner, which, to tell you the trutli, 
 las nia'le me often afraid lest you should take 
 ne for a leilous bi'j;i)t, who conversed with his 
 Distress as he would converse with his minis- 
 er. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for 
 hough, except your company, there is nothing 
 )n earth that gives me so much pleasure a.s 
 rriting to you, yet it never gives me those 
 ciddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
 1 have often thoiitfht, that if a well-grounded af- 
 fection be not really a pait of virtue, 'tis some- 
 thing extremely a-kin to it. Whenever the 
 tl'jught of my I'^li/a warms my heart, every 
 fi*fling of liumanity, every principle of genero- 
 «i.:y, kindles in my brnast. It extinguishes every 
 illty spark of malice and envy, which are but 
 too apt to infest me. 1 grasp every creature 
 in the arms of universal benevolence, Hn<l equal- 
 ly participate in t!ie pleasures of the happv, and 
 •ympathise with the miseiies of the unfortunate 
 I assure you, my dear, I often look up to tlie 
 divine Disposer of events, with an eye of gra- 
 titude fur the blessln'4 which I hope he intends 
 U. bestow on me, m bestowing you. I sincere- 
 ly wish that he may ble^s my endeavours to 
 maks your life as comfortable and happy as 
 possible, Ijoth in sweetening the rouglier ]iart» 
 of my natural temper, and bettering the un- 
 kindly en cuinstaTices of my fortune. This, my 
 dear, is a pas-ion, at least in r / view, worthy 
 of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- 
 tian. The sordid earth-woim may profess love 
 to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af- 
 fection is centered in her pocket ; and the sla- 
 vish (budge may go a-Wijomg as he goes to the 
 Dorse- market, to choose one who is stout and 
 firm, and, as we may saj of an old horse, one 
 *ho will be a good drudge and draw kindly. 
 distlain their liity, pvy ideas. I would be 
 
 heartily out of humour with myself, if ( tnoug* 
 I Were capable of h.iv.ng s.i poor a notion o- 
 the sex, which were designed to crown the 
 plea.'iures of society. Poor dev''« ! I don't envy 
 them tlieir happiness who have such notions 
 For my part, I propose quite other pleasuii* 
 with my dear partner 
 
 No. II. 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 MV HEAR ELIZA, 
 
 I DO not remember in the course of your ge- 
 quaintance and mine, ever to have heard youi 
 opinion on the ordinary way of filling in love, 
 amongst people of our st3ti(m of life : . do not 
 inciin the persons who proceed in the way of 
 b.irgain, but those whose afTectiun is rea ly pla- 
 ced on the |)erson. 
 
 Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
 very awkward lover myself, yet as I hav; some 
 oj)purtunities of observing the conduct of others 
 who are muth better skilled in the ;ilfair of 
 courtship than I am, I often flunk it is owmg 
 to lucky diance more than to good manage- 
 ment, that theie are not mure unhappy mar- 
 riages than usually are. 
 
 It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
 acquaintance of -.he female-, and custoniai'v for 
 him to keep tliem company when occasion servev ; 
 some one of them is more agreeable to hnii tlian 
 the I est ; there is something, he kiuiws not 
 what, pleases him, h kfiows net how, in her 
 comuany. This 1 take to be what is called love 
 u ith the grsatest part of us, arid I must own, 
 my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one aj 
 you have to play when you meet with sudi a 
 lover. You cannot refu.se but be is sincere, aiid 
 yet though you use iiim ever so favourably, per- 
 haj)s in a lew months, or at farthest in a \i-;u 
 or two, the same unaccountable fincy mav m.ike 
 him as (listracteiily fond of another, whilst you 
 are quite fcrgof. I am aware, that pei hap- the 
 next time 1 have the pleasure of seeing you, you 
 may bid me take my own )e>soii h(ime, and te!! 
 me tha^ the jiassion I have piofesscd for vou is 
 perhaps one uf tho^H transient ilashtk ] havf 
 
248 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 l)ecn (Ic'iTihinp^ ; hut T hope, niy dear Eliza, 
 you will do me the jii->tice to believe me, when 
 I assure you, that the love I have for you is 
 Touiified on the sacred principles of virtue and 
 nonour, and hy coi.sequence, so long as you con- 
 tir-j- possessed of those amiable qualities which 
 first inspired my p.ission for you, so long must I 
 continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it 
 is love like this alone which can render the mar- 
 ri«'d state hapiy. People may talk of fliuies and 
 raptures as long as they please ; and a warm 
 fancy with a fli^w of youthful spirits, may make 
 them feel sometLing like whai '"^"v describe ; 
 but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, 
 with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be 
 the foundation of friendship, 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 s|)are us to 
 the latest periods 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 indifferent to nie, 
 I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest af- 
 fection, and for this plain reason, because she 
 is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
 proved to a much higher degree, which first 
 inspired my affection fur her. 
 
 " O : .^^'■"v itat", when souls each other draw, 
 " When love is liberty, and nature law." 
 
 I knr-w, were I to speak in such a style to 
 many a girl who thinks herself posse**sed of no 
 small share of sense, she would think it ridi- 
 culous — but the language of the heart is, my 
 dear Eliza, the only courtship I Hhall ever use 
 to jrou. 
 
 When I look over what I have written, I am 
 sensible it i^ vastly dllFerent from the ordinary 
 style of ciiurtship — but I shall make no apulo- 
 gy^I know y<iur good nature will excuse wLttt 
 voui guud sense may see atuiss. 
 
 No. III. 
 TO THE S.-VME. 
 
 Mr PEAR EIlfA, 
 
 I llA%K often thought it a peculiarly un- 
 lucky circumstance in love, that though, in 
 every other situation in lite, telling the truth is 
 not only the safest, but actually liy far the easi- 
 est way of proceeding, a lover is never umler 
 greater diffuulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
 expression, than when his* passion is sincere, 
 and his intentions are honourable. I do n<it 
 think that it is very difficult for a person of or- 
 dinary capacity t<i talk of love and fondiu's*, 
 which are imt frit, ami tu make vowm of roii- 
 ■tancy and fidelity, which are never intended to 
 
 be performed, if he In! villain enout^fi to orac. 
 tise such detestable conduct : but to a rna^ 
 whose heart glows with t!ie principhs of in> 
 tegrity and truth ; and who siuceiely loves a 
 woman of amiable 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 forebod.ng feais, and distrust- 
 ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in 
 your company, or when I sit down to wiite to 
 you, that what to speak or what to write I am 
 iltogether at a loss. 
 
 There is one rule which f have hitherto prac- 
 tised, and which I shall invariably keep with 
 you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain 
 truth. There is something so mean and nn- 
 manly in the arts of dis-;iiiiiilation and falsehood, 
 that I am surprised they can be used by any one 
 in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous 
 love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea- 
 vour to gain your favour by such detestable 
 practices. If you will be so good and so gener- 
 ous as to admit me for ymir partner, your com- 
 panion, your bosom friend through life ; there 
 is nothing on this side of eternity shall give ma 
 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 i)ereiii|)tary refusal, 
 or cure me of my fears by a geneioiis consent. 
 
 It would oblige nie much if you would send 
 me a line or two when convenient. I shall on- 
 ly add further, that if a behaviour regulated 
 (though perhaps but very imiierfectly) by the 
 rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
 love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
 to promote your happiness ; and if these are 
 qualities you would wish in a friend, in a hus- 
 band ; I hope you shall ever find them in \cnit 
 real friend and sincere luvcr. 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1 OUGHT in gooil manners to have acknoyr- 
 leilged 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 tlumghtj 
 so as to write to you en the subject. I will not 
 attempt to describe what 1 felt on receiving you/ 
 letter. I read it over and over, a','ain and again 
 and though it was in the politest language of re- 
 fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry 
 you could nut make me a return, but yuu wish 
 mc" wha-, witlumt you, I never can obtain, 
 " you wish me all kind of happiness. " It wonld 
 lie weak and uiiiii.iiily to sav, iliit without wu 1 
 never ciu be happy ; but sine I am that Jkmr 
 
.> 
 
 CORRESPOXDENCE. 
 
 ing lifo with yon, woulil luivo givi.'ii it a relish, 
 tli.it, vvan'iii^ yoii, I novor cm ta>tc. 
 
 Yciiir iiuciiiiinuin personal advantages, and 
 your superior good sense, do not so niuih strike 
 nie ; these, possiljly in a few instances, may he 
 met with in others ; hut that amiahle goodness, 
 that tinder feminine softness, that endearing 
 fwuctness of disjjosition, with all the charming 
 ofhiuring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
 again expect to meet with in such a degree in 
 this world. AH these charming qualities, heigh- 
 tened hy an education much beyond any thing 
 I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar- 
 ed to approach, have made an imjiression on my 
 heart that I do not think the world can ever ef- 
 face. IMy imagination has fondly flattered itself 
 with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
 hope, that possihly I might one day call vou 
 mine. I had fovme<l 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 expect. I must now think uo 
 more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask 
 to be admitted as a fiiend. As such I wish to 
 be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 
 remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, 
 I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I 
 wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if 
 an expression should perhaps escape me r^ither 
 to(i warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon 
 
 it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear 
 
 espresbion for once.) 
 
 LETTERS, 1783, 1784. 
 
 No. V. 
 TO JIR. JOHN MURDOCH, 
 
 SCHOOLMASTER, 
 STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
 
 DFAR SIR, Lnchhe, \5t/i January, 1793. 
 
 As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
 letter, without putting you to that expense 
 which any production of mine wimld but ill re- 
 pay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that 
 ' have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the 
 many ohiications I lie under to your kindness 
 atid friendship. 
 
 I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to 
 know what ha^ been the result of all the pains 
 of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; 
 and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with 
 such a recital as you wiiuld be pleased with ; 
 but that is what I am iifraid will not be the case. 
 I have, indeeii, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- 
 bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my comluct 
 will not disgrace the eilucation I have gotten ; 
 but as a man of the world, I am most miserably 
 deficient. — One wouM have thought, that bred 
 M i have been, under a father who has figured 
 
 [iretty well as tin homme. ilcs nJTaires, 1 mighl 
 have been what the world cads a pushing, ac- 
 tive fellow ; but, to tell you the truth. Sir, 
 there is hanHy any thing more my reverse. I 
 seem to bt one sent into the world to see, and 
 observe; and I very easily compound wiih the 
 knave who tricks me of my money, if tl'.eie be 
 my thing original about him which shows me 
 human nature in a diircrent light fr.un any thing 
 I have seen before. In short, the joy of my 
 heart is to " study men, their manners, and theit 
 ways ;" and for this darling subject, I cheer- 
 fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am 
 quite indolent about those great concerns that 
 set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and ii 
 I have to answer for the |)iesrnt liour, 1 am very 
 easy with regard to aiiy thing further. Evi n 
 the last, worst shift ' of the unfortunate and 
 the wretched, diies not mu(di terrify me : I know 
 that even then my talent for what country folks 
 call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti- 
 fied hy a hoary head, would procuie trie so much 
 esteem, that even then — I would learn to he 
 happy. However, I am under no apiirchensions 
 about that ; for, though inilolent, yet, so far as 
 an extremely delicate constitution permit-, I am 
 not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta- 
 vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in- 
 deed for the sake of the money, hut one if the 
 princi|ial parts in niv com|)osit"ion is a kind (jf 
 pi ide of stomach, and I scorn to fear the f.icf 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, whc 
 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. ^)y 
 favourite authors are of the sentiinent.il kind, 
 such as S/icTistnne, particularly his £/ci;ics ,- 
 Thomson ; Man nf Fieliiitf, a book I ])rize next 
 to the Bible; Man of the Worltl ; Sterne, 
 especially hs Seutimcntat Jonritvij ; Miicjihtr- 
 siins Ossian, §-c. These are the glorious mo- 
 dels aftt 'vhich I endeavour to form mv con- 
 duct ; and 'tis mcogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- 
 pose that the man whose mind glows with sen- 
 timents lightened up at the r sacred flame — the 
 man whose heart distends with ber.evolence to 
 all the human race — he " who can soar above 
 this little scene of things," cm he descend to 
 mind the paltry concerns abcv» which the »err«- 
 tilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves? 
 
 how the glorious triumph swells my hiart ! 
 
 1 forget that I am a poor in-igu'ficant devil, un- 
 noticed and unknown, stalking up and down 
 fairs and maikits, when I h.ippen to he in them, 
 reading a page or two of mankind, and " catcl;- 
 ing the manneis living as they rise," whilst the 
 men of business jostle me on every side as an 
 idle cncunibranc in their way. — Hut I dare say 
 I have by this time tired your |)atience ; so 
 shall conclude with Degging you to give Mrs, 
 
 • The last shift alliideil to here, must lie the condi 
 ion of <ui itinerant begpar 
 
 K 2 
 
250 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Murdoch — not niy compliments, for that is a 
 mure coinnuin-])Iac,'; story, but — my warmest, 
 kindest \v•i^!,es for Iivr welfare; aud accept of 
 the same fur yourself, from, 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Youi-s, &c. 
 
 No VI. 
 
 [the rOLLOWIVG IS TAKEN FROM THE MS. 
 PROSE niESENTED BV OUR BARD TO SIR. 
 RIDDEL.] 
 
 On rummajjing over some old papers, I ligjlit- 
 ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had 
 determined to write myself out, as I was ))laeed 
 by fortune among; a class of men to whom my 
 ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
 that the book should have Iain by me, in the 
 liSitid hope that, some time or other, even after I 
 WAS no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
 hi n'is of somebody capable of appreciating their 
 val.ie. It sets off thus : 
 
 Obi'ervdtions, Hints, Sonrjs, Scraps of Poe- 
 try, ^c. b>j II. B. — a man who had little art in 
 making n.oney, and still less in keeping it ; but 
 was, howevtr, a man of some sense, and a great 
 deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
 every creature, rational and irrational. As he 
 was but little indebted to scholastic eilucation, 
 qnd breil at a |)lough-taJl, liis performances must 
 be strongly tinctured with bis unpolished rustic 
 way of li'e ; but as I believe they are really his 
 owiiy it may be some entertainment to a curious 
 observer of human nature, to see how a plough- 
 man thinks ar.il feeN, nndcr the ])rcssure of love, 
 ambition, un;;iety. gi ief, with the like caies and 
 j)assi'./ns which, however diversified by the 
 "rtri'Js and mininers <jf life, operate pretty mudi 
 ;t;.ke, I believe, on all tbe species. 
 
 " There are numbers in the world who do 
 not want sense to make a figure, so much as an 
 opinion of their own abilities, to put them U|)on 
 recording their observations, and allowing them 
 the s.-.ii'.e importance ^i hich they do to tliose 
 which ajjpear in lirint." — Siienstone. 
 
 " Pleasing, when yotith is lor/g expired, to trace 
 The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 
 
 Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
 Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 April, I78r?. 
 
 Notwitli*t.inding ail that has been said agiiu'^t 
 love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
 tt young inexperienced mind into; still I think it 
 in a great measure deserves the highest enco- 
 miums t-hat have been paH>ed on it. If any 
 thing on earth deserves the name of ia()tiire or 
 trai;>po;t, it is the fe<'!in<,'s ot green eighteen, in 
 khe cuinpa \y of the iiii.-tresi, o! hi> he.nt, u !>••. 
 
 she repays him with asa equal return of *Ei;e. 
 tion. 
 
 . iiipi/st. 
 There is certainly som.e connection between 
 love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, 1 
 have always thought a fine toucl of nature, tliat 
 passage in a modern love composition : 
 
 " As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'd along, 
 Her name was frequent in his song." 
 
 For my own part, I never had the least 
 thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got 
 once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song 
 were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of 
 my heart. 
 
 Septernber. 
 I entirely agree with that judicious philosn- 
 |)her, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory nj 
 Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
 painful sentimetit that can embitter the human 
 bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitmle may 
 bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, 
 in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
 had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes 
 have made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
 up with manly firmness, and at tbe same time 
 have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- 
 duct, is a glorious effort of self-corn mand. 
 
 Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
 That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- 
 guish, 
 Bevond comparison the worst are those 
 That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
 In every other circumstance, the mind 
 Has this to say — '' It was no deed of mine ;" 
 But when to all the evil of misfortune 
 This sting is added — '' Blame thy foolish self! ' 
 Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
 The torturing, gnawing ccmsciousness of guilt— 
 Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others 
 The young, the innocent, who finiilly Itived us. 
 Nay, more, that very love their cause of luin ! 
 
 burning hell ! in all thy store of tornients, 
 
 1 here's not a keener lash ! 
 
 Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
 Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
 Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
 And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
 Can fit inly force bis jarring thoughts to ]^eac* ' 
 O, happy ! happy ! envi.ible man ! 
 O glorious nuignaiiiniity of soul. 
 
 Mu, h, 1784. 
 
 I have often ob'icrved, in the course of my 
 
 Lxperience of human life, that every man, even 
 
 the wors*, has sdiiirthiiiL; good about him ; 
 
 tiKUii.'-h v >-y o!ten nothing el>e than a ha| ]i) 
 
 J 
 
CORR£?.PONDENCE. 
 
 251 
 
 temperaiMcnt cf constitution inclining liim to 
 tills or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
 tan say in what degree any other pei'son, be- 
 niiies himself, can be, with strict justice, calleil 
 wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
 regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
 paitially how many vices he has never been 
 guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
 for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
 cumstance intervening; how many of the weak- 
 nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
 was out of the line of such temptation ; and, 
 what often, if not always weighs more than all 
 the rest, how much he is indebteil to the world's 
 good opinion, because the world d.ics not know 
 all : I say, any man who can thus think, will 
 scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
 mankind around Viim, with a brother's eye. 
 
 I have often courted the acquaintance of 
 that part of mankind commonly known by the 
 i/dinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- 
 ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
 character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
 lity or headstrong passions, ha^e beej driven 
 to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
 sometimes " stained with guilt, .... 
 
 . . . ," I have yet found among thein, 
 in not a tew instances, some of the noblest vir- 
 tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
 friendship, and even modesty. 
 
 April. 
 As I am whit the men of the world, if they 
 knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
 tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
 joyment, which are, in a manner, jicculiar to 
 myself, or some here and there such other out- 
 of-the-way peison. Such is the peculiar plea- 
 sure I take in the season of winter, more than 
 the rest of the year. This, I l)elieve, may be 
 partly owing to my misfortunes giving iny 
 mind a melancholy cast ; but there is some- 
 thing even in the 
 
 " .Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
 Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 
 eaith," — 
 
 whrch raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
 fivdurable to every thing great and noble. 
 There is scarcely any earthly object gives me 
 more — I do not know if I should call it plea- 
 sure — but something which exilts me, some- 
 thing which enrap'.ures me — than to walk in 
 the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- 
 tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the 
 Bti.rmy wind howling among the trees, and 
 raving over the plain. It is my best season 
 for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind 
 of entluisia»ni to /Jim, who, in the poiniirus 
 language of the Ilehivw bard, "walks on the 
 wings ol the wind.' In on.' of these seastM-s i 
 
 just after a train of riisfortuneSj I composed 
 the following : 
 
 Tiie wintry west extends his blast, &c. 
 
 See Songs. 
 
 Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
 writ without any real passion, are the most 
 nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
 thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
 love-composition, except he himself, in one or 
 more instances, hive been a warm votary -jf 
 this passion. As I have been all along a 
 miserable dupe to love, and have been led into 
 a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for 
 that reason I put the more confidence in my 
 critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con- 
 ceit, from real passion and nati re. Whether 
 the following song will stand the test, I will 
 not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only 
 I can say it was at the time, genuine from the 
 heart. 
 
 Behind yon hills, &c. 
 
 See Songs. 
 
 I think the whole species of young men may 
 be naturally enough divided into two grand 
 classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
 merry ; though, by the bye, these terras do not 
 with ])ropriety enough express my ideas. The 
 grave I shall cast Into the usual division of 
 those who are goaded on by the love of money, 
 and those whose darling wish is to make a 
 figure in the world. The merry are, the men 
 of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial 
 lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have 
 any settled rule of action ; but without much 
 deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na- 
 ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo- 
 lent — in particular he, who, with a happy 
 siveetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va- 
 cancy of thought, steals through life — generally, 
 indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty 
 and olKcurity are only evils to him who can 
 sit gravely down and make a repining compa- 
 rison between his own situation and that of 
 others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such 
 are, generally, those heads are capable of all 
 the towerings of genius, and whose heart* are 
 warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 
 
 As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 
 an intercourse with that Being to whom we 
 ewe life, with -very enjoymeiit that can render 
 life delightful ; and to maintain an iute:,'ritive 
 conduct towards our fel ow-crcatuies ; that so, 
 by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 
 be fit members for that society of the pious and 
 the good, which nason and revelation teach us 
 to expect bcviihd the grave : I do not see tha: 
 the turn of mind, and puisults of any son of [lo. 
 verty and obscurity, are in the least nio'e iiilm' 
 
232 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 eal to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, 
 than the, even lawful, bustling and straining 
 after the world's riches and honours ; and I do 
 not see but that he nay gain Heaven as well 
 (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), 
 who steals through the vale of life, amusing 
 himself with every little flower that fortune 
 throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight 
 forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, 
 gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af- 
 tet all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more 
 conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his 
 heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil 
 he has left behind him. 
 
 There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
 tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which 
 shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : 
 and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
 refieet, that such glorious old bards — bards who 
 very probably owed all their talents to native 
 genius, yet have described the exploits of he- 
 roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- 
 ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — 
 that their very names (O how mortifying to a 
 bard's vanity!) are now "buried among the 
 wreck of things which were." 
 
 O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
 feel so stiongly and describe so well ; the last, 
 the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
 Kiougn tar inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
 path, and with trembling wing would sometimes 
 loar after y<iu — a poor rustic bard unknown, 
 pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
 Some of you tell us, wit'a all the charms of 
 ver.<e, that you have been unfortunate in the 
 world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the 
 loss of his Il::!e fortune, the loss of friends, and, 
 worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
 Like you, all his consolation was his muse; she 
 taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
 Happy couM lie have done it with your strength 
 of imagination and flow of verse ! Alay the turf 
 lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now 
 enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel- 
 dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings 
 of poesy and love I 
 
 This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and 
 moie than all. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LETTERS, 1786. 
 
 No. VII. 
 TO MR. JCHN RICHMOND, EniNnniu 
 
 MY I<KAIl SIR, MosS//!cl, Fill. !T, I7S(i 
 
 I HAVE not time at pic-ent to ojihiiil 
 
 for your silence and neglect ; I shall only «£.jr I 
 received yours with great pleasure. I have en 
 closed you a piece of rhyming ware for your 
 perusal. I have been very busy with the nmse* 
 since I saw you, and have composed, among se- 
 veral others. The Orilinniinn, a poem on Jlr. 
 M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch 
 Drink, a poem ; T/ie Cotter's Saturday Nirjlit; 
 An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise 
 completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not 
 shewn it to the world. My chief patron now 
 is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express 
 great approbation of my works. Be so good as 
 send me Fergusson, by Connel,* and I -.V'll re- 
 mit you the mviney. I have no news to ac- 
 quaint yo'j with about Mauchline, 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 particulars an- 
 other time. I am extremely happy with Smith ;!• 
 he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. 
 I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, 
 ziA I beg you will let me hear from you regu- 
 larly by Connel. If you would act your part as 
 a FRIEND, I am sure neither gond nor bad for 
 tune should strange or alter ine. Excuse haste, 
 as I got yours but yesterday. — I am. 
 My dear Sir, 
 Yours, 
 ROBt, BURNESS-t 
 
 No. VIIL 
 TO MR, M'WHINNIE, Writer, Atb. 
 
 Mossgiel, 17 'h April. 1786. 
 
 It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that 
 elegantly bear the impression of the good Crea- 
 tor, to suy to them you give them the trouble 
 of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
 you that I gratify my oicn feelings in requesting 
 your friendly oflices with respect to the enclosed, 
 because I know it will gratify yours to assist 
 me in it to the utmost of your power. 
 
 I have sent you fi>ur copies, as I have no les» 
 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 foiward with fear and 
 trembling to that, to him, important moment 
 
 • Connel— the Mauclilinecarrier, 
 
 t Mr. .fiimrs Smith, then a sli(>|i-krei>pr in Mauch- 
 line. It was to this yoniiH man 111 it Hur; i aililresied 
 .Aii: of his finest jierformances— " To J. ti " b& 
 
 ginning 
 
 " Dear S , the slcest, paukie thief." 
 
 Me (liec Jii Oie U'l'st-Inilics. 
 
 t This It the only letter the Kditnr ha« met with i" 
 whii h the l>()it .ulilii ihe tenni'ia'iiin en to hi» name 
 you as his tillier and family liad spelled iU 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 253 
 
 whicL stamps the die with — with — with, per. 
 haps the eternal disgrace of, 
 Wy dear Sir, 
 You hiinililed, 
 afflicted, 
 tonuented 
 
 robt. burns. 
 
 No. IX. 
 
 TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, Mauchline. 
 Monday Morning, Mossgid, 17S6. 
 
 MT l)EAR SIR, 
 
 1 WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re- 
 solved to take the opportunity of C.ipt. Smith ; 
 but . 'ound 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, upwards 
 of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
 throwing myself into a pleuritic fever iu conse- 
 quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these 
 accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, hut 
 a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sept. 
 right for the place of my destination. The Cap- 
 tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil- 
 ton's, and as good a fellow as heart cnuld wish : 
 with him I am destined to go. Where I shall 
 Bhelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the 
 Btorm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that 
 fears them ! I know their worst, aud am pre- 
 pared to meet it. — 
 
 I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
 As lang's I dow. 
 
 On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
 nuch 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 feel there is still happiness for me among 
 them. — 
 
 O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you 
 To temper man ! we had been brutes without 
 you ! 
 
 news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
 to mention or you to hear. 
 
 And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on hei 
 way home that is to take me out to Jamaica 
 ami then, farewell dear old Scotland, and fare- 
 well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will 
 I see you more. 
 
 You will have heard that I am going to com- 
 mence Pott ia print ; and to-morrow my works 
 go to the i)ress. I expect it will bo a volume oi 
 about two hundred pages — it is just the last foo - 
 ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise 
 man asfatt as possible. 
 
 Believe me to be. 
 
 Dear Brice, 
 Your friend and well-wiBher. 
 
 No. XI. 
 
 No. X. 
 
 TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 
 
 tKAR BRICE, Mosxgid, June 12, 178G. 
 
 I RECEIVED your message by G. Paterson, 
 knd as I am not very throng at present, I just 
 Write to let you know that there is such a worth- 
 less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, 
 still in the land of the living, though 1 can 
 scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no 
 
 TO JIR. AIKEN 
 
 (the gentleman to whom the cotter's 
 saturday night is addressed.) 
 
 SIR, Ayrshire, 1786. 
 
 I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
 and settled all our by -gone matters between us. 
 After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
 the offer of the second edition, on the hazard o{ 
 being paid out of thu first and readiest, which 
 he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
 thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven 
 pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
 teen : he offers to agree to this for the prmting, 
 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 
 epotha which, I think, will arrive at the pay- 
 ment of the British national debt. 
 
 There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
 in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
 not hav ng it in my power to show my grati- 
 tude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poen 
 of Tlte lirigs «f Ayr. I would detest mysel 
 as a wretch, if I thought I were canable, in a 
 very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, 
 and tender delicacy with which he enters into 
 my interests. 1 am sometimes ])leased with my- 
 self in my giatelul sensations ; but I buileve, on 
 the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
 gratitude is not a vii tue, the consequence of re- 
 tlectiim, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a 
 heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxima 
 and views to settle into selfish habits. 
 
 I have been feeling all the various rotationj 
 and movements within, rc-pecting the excise. 
 There are many things |)lead stron^'Iy against it ; 
 the uncertainty of getting soon into business, thi 
 consequences of my follies, whi.h may perhapl 
 make it impracticable for me to stay at home . 
 
254 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 snH besides 1 have for some time Dcen pininir 
 under secret wretchedness, from causes which 
 you pretty well know—the pang of disappoint- 
 ment, the sting of piide, with some wandering 
 stdbs 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 vaga- 
 ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
 mirth, iny gaiety is the madness of an intoxica- 
 ted criminal und'jr the hands of the executioner. 
 All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to 
 
 all these reasons I have only one answer the 
 
 feelings of a father. This, in the present nmod 
 I am in, overbalances every thing that can be 
 laid iu the scale against it. 
 
 Y(r; miy perhaps think it an extravagant 
 fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
 to niy very soul: though sceptical, ia some 
 points, of our current belief, yet, 1 think, 1 have 
 every evidence for the reality of a life beyond 
 the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if 
 so, then how should I, in the presence of that 
 tremendous Heing, the Author of existence, how 
 should I meet the reproaches of those who stanil 
 to me in the dear relition of children, whom I 
 deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in- 
 fancy ? O, thou gieat unknown Power ! thou 
 Abinghty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
 my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! I 
 Lave Jrequently wandered from that order and 
 regularity necessary for the peifection of thy 
 works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken 
 uie ! 
 
 gressive struggle ; and tliat, however I aight 
 possess a warm heart and inoffensive manner* 
 (which last, by the bye, was rather moi-e than 
 I could well bo;ist), still, more than these pas- 
 sive qualities, there was something to be cfone. 
 When all my school-fellows and youthful com- 
 peers Cthose misguided few excepted, who join- 
 ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachorex of 
 the human r-ace), were striking off with eager 
 hope and earnest intent on some one or other 
 of the many paths of busy life, I was «' stand- 
 ing idle in the market place," or oidy 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 
 weie a probability of mending them I stand a 
 lair chance ; but, according to the reverend 
 Westminster divines, though conviction must 
 precede conversion, it is very far from alwayi 
 imjjlying it. • 
 
 No. XII. 
 
 Since I wrote the for-egoing sheet, I liave 
 seen something of the storm of mischief thick- 
 ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, 
 my friends, my feeuefactors, be successfrr'l in 
 your ajjplications for me, perhaps it may not be 
 in my power in that way to reap the fnrit of 
 your friendly eff.irts. What I have written in 
 the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my 
 present resolution , but should inimical cir-- 
 cum^tances forbid me closing with your kind 
 ofier, or-, enjoying it, only threaten to ;nitail 
 farther misery-^ 
 
 To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
 this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
 has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. 
 I was, fur some time past, fjist getting into the 
 pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
 saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, 
 ihr inking ot every rising cloud in the chance- 
 directed attrrosphere of forturre, while, all de- 
 fenceless, I looked about in vairr for a caver. 
 It never occurred to me, at least never with the 
 force it deserved, that this world is a busy 
 icene. uml man a creature destiried for a pi o'- 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, 
 
 MADAM, Ayrshire, 17S6 
 
 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 complimeuts you ar-e pleased to pay 
 my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded tliat 
 there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
 alive to the titillations of a))plause 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 polite judges, honour him with 
 their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
 acquainted with me, Madain, you could not 
 have touched my darling heart-chord more 
 sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
 brate yorrr illustrious ancestor-, the Saviour oj 
 his Country. 
 
 " Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief." 
 
 The first book I met with in my ear-ly years, 
 whr(-h I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
 of ILtnnilml : the next was The History nj 
 Sir WilUiim Wallace : fir several of my ear- 
 lier yeais I bad kw other airthors ; atrd many a 
 solitary hour have I sto'e out, after the labori- 
 ous vocatiims of the day, to shed a tear over 
 their gloiious but unfortunate stories. In those 
 boyisir days I renrcmber in particular beirrg 
 
 • 'i"!iis bttcr was evidently written anocrthciU* 
 tress ot" niiiul ocwisioiieil by our Poet's sciiaratrorr froiB 
 Mrs. Uiiniii. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 253 
 
 itrurk with that part of Wallace's story where 
 these linss occur — 
 
 " Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
 To make a silent and a safe retreat." 
 
 I cho-ie a fine suminer Sunday, the only day 
 my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 
 of niile-i to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, 
 with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
 piim (lid to Liiretto : and, as I explored every 
 lien anil dell where I could su]ipn>j my heitiic 
 countrvniau to have lodged, 1 recollect (for 
 even thou I was a rhymer), that my heart glow- 
 ed with a wi>h to he ahle to make a song ou 
 him in some measure equal to his merits. 
 
 No. xiir. 
 
 TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 
 
 MAD\M, 17S6. 
 
 The hurry of my preparations for going a- 
 broad has hindered me from performing mv pio- 
 niise so soon as I intended. I have here sent vou 
 a i)arcel of songs, kc. which never made their 
 appearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
 Perhaps some of them niiiy be no great enter- 
 tainment to you : but of that I ara far from be- 
 ing ;m adequate judge. The song to the tune 
 ot Ettrivk Banks, you will easily see the impro- 
 priety of esposimr much even in manuscript. 
 I think, mysell, .t lias some merit, both as a to- 
 lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest 
 scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest 
 pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest in- 
 deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti- 
 ful young woman ;• but I have no common 
 friend to procuie me that permission, without 
 which I would not dare to spread the copy. 
 
 I am quite aware, Madam, what task the 
 world would assign me m chis .etter. The ob- 
 scure bard, when any of the great condescend 
 to take notice of him, should heap the alcar with 
 ihe incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
 their own great ami godlike qualities and actions, 
 should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
 description. This, Madam, is a task for which 
 1 ant altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- 
 qualifying pride tif heart, I know nothing of 
 your connections in life, and have no access to 
 where your real character is to be found — the 
 company of your compeers : and more, I am a- 
 fraid tliat even the most refined adulation is by 
 no means the roail to your good opinion. 
 
 One feature of your chaiacter I shall ever 
 with grateful pleasure remember- — the reeeption 
 1 got, when I had the honour of waiting on yoj 
 It Stall. I ara little acquainted with politeness ; 
 but I know a go»d deal ot be: evuli^nce of tem- 
 per and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in 
 exalted stations know how happy they could 
 make some classes of their inferiors by conde- 
 
 scension and affability, they vould never stand 
 so high, measuring out w h every looK the 
 height of their elevation, t)ut condescend ita 
 sweetly as did Mrs. Stewait of Stair.* 
 
 No. XIV. 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCK 
 
 THE REVEREND JIR. G. LOWRIE. 
 
 REVFKF.Nn AND DISAK Sill, 
 
 I OLciiT to have tcknowledged your favout 
 long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind 
 leiiuMiibraiice, but as it gave me an op[)ortunity ot 
 sharing one of the finest, and, peih ips, one of the 
 most genuine entertainments, of which the human 
 mind is susceptible. A number of avocations re- 
 tarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
 h'lwever, I have finished that pleas'ng perusal 
 Many instances have I seen of Nature's force and 
 beneficence exerted under numerous and foriniil- 
 ahle disadvantages ; but none equal to that with 
 wliich 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 
 ailmired, nor too warmly approved ; and I tliiidi 
 I shall never open the book without feeling my 
 astonishment renewed and increased. It was my 
 wish to havecxi)ressed my approbalion in veise; 
 but whether from declining life, or a temporary 
 depression of spirits, it is at present (iut of my 
 power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 
 
 IMr. Stewart, Professor (d' Morals in this Uni 
 versify, had formerly read me three of the poems, 
 and I had desired him to get my natiie 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 liim bv the 
 intervention of sonae mutual friend. It has been 
 told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the 
 performancL's, and who sought a coj)y with dili- 
 gence and ardour, that the whole impression is 
 aheadv exhausted. It were, therefore, much to 
 be wished, for the sake of the young man, that 
 a se<;ond edition, more numerous than the former, 
 could immediately be printed j as it appears cer- 
 tain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of 
 the author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
 versal circulat'.>n than any thing of the kind 
 which has been published within my memor\.-(' 
 
 Miss A- 
 
 • The song eneloseJ is tliat given ia tlie Life of out 
 Poet; br.'ginuing, 
 
 'Tw.is e'en — the (fewy fields were (rreon, ic. 
 
 t T,\c render will perceive that this is the leltoj 
 whicli i)ioduced ilie delerniiDaliou of our Bard to ^wt 
 up his sclu'ine of i;oiiig to the West Indies, and to try 
 the fate of a new edition of his r.iiems in Ednihurgli. 
 A "Ojiy of tills letter was seni Ijy Mr. Lowrie to Mr."^G 
 Ila. Hilton, and by him eoramunieated to liurns, unioiii 
 whose papers it was found. 
 
256 
 
 ^*»*\<^ 
 
 No. XV. 
 
 FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, 
 
 S".R, Edinburgh, ilh December, 1786. 
 
 I RECEivEii your letter a few days ago. I do 
 not pretend to much interest, but what I have 
 I shall be ready to exert in procuring the attain- 
 ment of any object you have in view. Your 
 chiiracter as a man (forgive my reversing your 
 order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to 
 the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. 
 I have been told you wished to be made a gau- 
 ger ; I submit it to your consideration, whether 
 it would not be more desirable, if a sum could 
 be raised by subscription, for a second edition of 
 your poems, to lav it out in the stocking of a 
 small farm. 1 am persuaded it would be a line 
 of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and 
 ju the end more satisfactory. When you have 
 considered this, let me know, and whatever you 
 determine upon, I will endeavour to promote as 
 far as my abilities will permit. With compli 
 meuts to my friend the doctor, I am. 
 
 Your friend and well-wisher, 
 JOHN WHITEFORD. 
 
 P. S. — I shall take it as a favour when you 
 bX any time send me a new production. 
 
 No. XVI. 
 
 FROM THE REV. MR. G. LOWRIE. 
 
 BEAR SIR, 22d December, 1786. 
 
 / LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black- 
 ..ock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
 you. I write this to you, that you may lose no 
 time in availing upon him, should you not yet 
 have Been him. 
 
 I rejoice to bear, from all corners, of your 
 rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower 
 gtiil higher by the uew publication But, as a 
 friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your 
 ihare of detraction and envy — a troin that al- 
 ways accompany j^reat men. For your comfort, 
 I am in great hopes that the number of your 
 friends and admirers will incjease, and that you 
 have some chance of ministerial, or even • • • • 
 patronage. Now, my friend, suidi ra|)ld success 
 is very uncommon ; and do you think yourself 
 )c uo danger of suffering by appliuse and a full 
 pur'« ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he 
 spoke from experience, " stronger is be thit con- 
 querti," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- 
 plicity and purity, like Telemachus by Mentor's 
 aid, m Calypso's isle, or even in that of t'y|)rui». 
 T hope i/au havt, ''>"> Minerva with you. I 
 neeil not U-\\ you how much a nioiK'st d iff deuce 
 imd in« iceible tcBperance adorn the must sbiu- 
 
 in» talents, and elevate the mind, a i exalt and 
 refine the imagination even of a poet. 
 
 I hope you will not imagine I speak froa 
 suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak 
 from love and good report, and good opinion, 
 and a strong desire to see you shine as much in 
 the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and 
 in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue. 
 This is my prayer, in return for your elegant 
 composition in verse. All here join in compli 
 ments, and good wishes for your further pros- 
 perity. 
 
 No. XVII. 
 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 
 
 MAUCHLINE. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786. 
 
 HONOURED SIR, 
 
 I HAVE paid every attention to your com 
 mands, but can only say what perha|)s you will 
 have heard before this rea"h you, that Mui'- 
 kirklands were bought by a John Gorilon, W. S. 
 but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Hau^^l 
 Mila, &c. by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup- 
 posed to be for Ballochrayle Laird, and Adam- 
 hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald'* 
 fjiks. — This is so imperfect an account, and will 
 be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
 discharge my conscience I would not tiouble 
 you with it ; but after all my diligence 1 cou]d 
 make it no sooner nor better. 
 
 For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
 coming as eminent as Thomas a Keni.is or John 
 Biinyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see 
 my birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
 events, in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Al- 
 manacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
 
 battle of Bothwell Bridge ]\Iy lord Glencairn 
 
 and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have 
 taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- 
 bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the 
 eighth wise man of the world. Through my 
 lord's influence it is inserted in the records ot 
 the Caledonian hunt, that they universally, one 
 and all, subscribe for the second edition. — My 
 sul>scri|)tion bills come out to-morrow, and vou 
 shall have some of them next post. — I have lue' 
 in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what SoNpinon 
 emphatically calls, " A friend that sticketh 
 closer than a brother." — The warmth with 
 which he interests himself in my affairs is of the 
 same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aikin, 
 and the few patrons that took notice of my ear- 
 lier poetic days, shewed for the poor unlucky 
 devil of a poet. 
 
 I always remember Mi-s. Hamilton anil Miss 
 Kenneily in my poetic prayersi but you both in 
 prose and verse. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 257 
 
 I 
 
 JT.iy c.nilil ne'er cttch you Imt • a Lap, 
 Nor Longer Imt in plcuty"i» lap ! 
 Aiucc ' 
 
 No. xviir. 
 
 TO DR. M'KEXZIE, I\Iauciiline. 
 
 (enclosing him the extempore verses on 
 dining with loud daer.) 
 
 DEAR SIR, Wednesday Morning. 
 
 I NEVER speiit an afternoon among great 
 (oiks with lialt' that pleasure as when, in com- 
 pany with yon, I had the h.onour of paying my 
 devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the 
 professor. j- I would be delighteil to see him 
 perform acts of kiiuiness 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 Shakespeare's 
 Brutus. 
 
 The foregoing verses were reallv extempore, 
 but a little corrected since. They may enter- 
 tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
 with which you arc so good as favour the per- 
 foriuauces of 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Your very humble Servant. 
 
 No. XIX. 
 
 TO JOHN BALL.\NTINE, Esq. Canker, 
 
 AVR. 
 
 Edinlmrgh, ]3th Dec. I78G. 
 
 MY HOVCtTRED FRIEND, 
 
 I WOULD not write you till I could have it 
 in my i)Ower to give you some account of my- 
 self and my matters, which by the bye is often 
 
 no easy task 1 an ived here on Tuesday was 
 
 se'niiight, and have sutfered ever siru;e I came 
 to town with a miserable liead-ache and 
 etomuch complaint, but am now a good deal 
 better. — 1 have foimd a worthy warm friend in 
 Mr. D ihymijle, of Orangeiield, who intrcjduced 
 me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and 
 biochetly kindness to me, I shall remember 
 wli>*n time shall be no more. — I?y his interest it 
 isp»»,-d in the Caledonian hunt, and entered 
 in their books, that they are to take each a 
 copy of the second eilition, for which thev are 
 
 to pay one guinea 1 have been introduced to 
 
 a good many of the Aoblesse, but my avowed 
 patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of 
 
 Gordon — The CouTitevs nf ('Ilenr-nim, with my 
 Lord, and L idy Hetty* — Tlie Dimii of I'.Huity 
 
 — Sir John U'lntefoonl. — I hive likewise wnia 
 frieiiils among the literati; Professors Stewart, 
 lilair, and Mr. MKenr.ie — the Man of Feeling. 
 
 — An unknown hind left ten guineas for th« 
 Ayrshire bird with Mr. Silibald, which I got. 
 
 — I since have discovered my geiiei oils unknown 
 fiieiid to be P.itrick Miller, l',si|. Imitlier to tiie 
 Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of claret with 
 him by iiivit ition at his own house yesternight. 
 I am n-early agreed with Creech to jjiint my 
 book, and I suppose I will begin on .Monday. I 
 will send a subscri|)tioii bill or two, next post ; 
 when I intend writing my fir^t kind pation, 
 .Mr. Aiken. I saw his sim to-d ly ancl he is 
 very well. 
 
 Diigald Stewart, and some of my learned 
 friends, put me in tlie periodical paper called 
 the Loimger.f a copy of which I here enclose 
 you — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with 
 your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I 
 should be ruined by being draggeil too suddenly 
 into the glare of polite and leirned obsei vation. 
 
 I shall certainly, my ever honoured ])ation, 
 write you an account of my every step ; and 
 better health and more s[)irits may enable me tc 
 make it something better thau this stu[iid mat- 
 ter of fact epistle. 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 G'ooil Sir, 
 Your ever grateful humble Servaai 
 
 If any of my friends write me, mv diiecti&O 
 ;8, care of .Mr. Creech, bookseiier. 
 
 • " Diit" is frequently Ufcd for " witliout ;" 
 wit/lout ciithvig. 
 t Professuf Uugald Stewart- 
 
 1 e. 
 
 No. XX. t 
 
 TO MR. AVILLIA.M CIIAL:MERS» 
 
 Writer, Arn. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 17S6. 
 
 Mr PEAR friend, 
 
 I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for whiih 
 there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
 friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
 all men living, I had intended to send you an 
 entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, 
 stupid powers, that in nodding, con ■eitud ma- 
 jesty, preside over the dull routine of Imsiness — 
 A heavily-solemn oath this ! — I am, and have 
 been, ever since I came to Eiliiiburgh, as untit 
 to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
 mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
 vine, who was banished to the Isle of I'atmos, 
 by the cruel and bloody Domitian, siui to Ve»- 
 pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
 Rome, and who was Limsclf an cmpiMor, ami 
 
 • LaiJy Betty Cunningham. 
 
 1 ITie paper here alhuled to, wrwi written b' Mr. 
 M'Keiuie, Iho celebrated auUior of the Man of iwU 
 
 % Thti letter is now prcscntixl ontiie. 
 
258 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 raised the second or third persecution, I forget 
 which, against the Christians and after throw- 
 ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle 
 James, commonly called James the greater, to 
 distinguish him from another James, who was, 
 on some atcoi-.nt or other, known by the name 
 of James the less, after throwing him into a 
 raldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- 
 raculously preserved, he bar.ished the poor son 
 of Zehedee, to a desert island in the Archipe- 
 lago, where he was gifted with the second sight, 
 aud saw as many wild beasts as I have seen 
 since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- 
 stance not very uncommon in story-telling, 
 brings me back to where I set out. 
 
 To make you some amends for what, before 
 you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- 
 ed ; I enclose you two pnems 1 have carded and 
 spun since I past Glenbuck. 
 
 One blank in the address to Edinburgh — 
 •' Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- 
 ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have 
 had the honour to be more than once. 
 
 There has not been any thing nearly like her, 
 in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and 
 goodness, the Great Creator has formed, since 
 Blilton's Eve on the fust driy of her existence. 
 
 My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
 chant, Bridge- Street. 
 
 LETTERS, 1T87. 
 
 No. XXI. 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 
 
 Edinhirgh, Jan. 14, 17S7. 
 
 1A\ HONOURED FRIEND, 
 
 It gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
 mv^elf that 1 am not yet so far gcme as Willie 
 G.iw's skate, " past redemption ;"* for I have 
 still lK\% favourable symptom of grace, that when 
 my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells 
 me I am leaving eomething undone that I ought 
 to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. 
 
 I air. still " dark as was chaos" in respect to 
 futurity. ]\Iy generous friend, Mj. Patrick Mil- 
 ler, has been talking with n;e about a lease of 
 some fiim or other in an estate called Dal>win- 
 tnn, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. 
 Some life-rented cmbitteiing recollections whls- 
 pet nie thit I will be hap|iier any where than 
 in my old neighbonrhuod, but Mr. Miller is no 
 judge of land ; and though I dare say he iiu'aiis 
 to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi- 
 nion, an advantageous bargain, that may luiii 
 nie. I am to take a tour by Diiinfiics as I re- 
 turn, and have ])''oinisecl to meet Mr. Miller or. 
 his Ian-is some time in .May. 
 
 • This is one of a Rrcat noinber of old sntrs tlint 
 liioiis, wlier. a lad, nad pii'lu'ii up fKini liis ii;iii1ilt, 
 of wl\:ch tlie yooil old v^oinan liad a vast collection. 
 
 I went to a Jlason-lodge cesternight, where 
 the most Worshipful-Grana IMaster Charters, 
 and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotlaad visited.— 
 The meeting was nuinerous and elegant ; all tha 
 different Lodges about town were present, in all 
 their pomp. The Grand IMaster, who presided 
 with great solemnity and honour to him.self as a 
 gentleman and Mason, aiuong other general 
 toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
 
 Brother B ," which rung through the whole 
 
 assembly with multifilied honours and repeated 
 acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
 would happen, I was downright thunder-strutk. 
 and trembling in every nerve made the best re- 
 turn in iny power. Just as I had finished, seme 
 of the grand officers said, so loud that I could 
 hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very 
 well indeed !" which set me something to rights 
 i^ain. 
 
 I have to-d.iy corrected my ]52d page. My 
 best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
 I am ever. 
 Dear Sir, 
 Your much indebted humble Servant 
 
 No. XXIL 
 
 TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 
 
 MY LORD, Edinhurghs Jan, 17S7. 
 
 As I have bi't slender pretensions to philoso- 
 [diy, I cannot risn to the exalted ideas of a ci- 
 tizen of the world ; but have all those national 
 prejudices which, I believe, glow ])eculiarly 
 strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is 
 scarcely any thing Co 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 verie>t shades of life ; but ne- 
 ver did a heart pint more aidently than mine, 
 to be distinguished ; though, till veiy lately, I 
 looked in vain on every side for a r.iy of light. 
 It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra- 
 tified with the countenance and approbation of 
 one of niv counfrv's most illustrious sons, when 
 Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the 
 part of your lordship. Your munificence, my 
 lord, ceitainly deserves my very grateful ac- 
 knowledgments; but your patronige is a boun- 
 ty pecidiarly suited to my feelings. 1 am not 
 master enough of the etiquette of life to know 
 whether there be not soiue iinprojjriety in 
 troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but 
 my heart whisi)ered me to do it. From th» 
 euMitions of my inmost soul I do it. Sel(i-h in 
 gratitude, I hope, I am incapal)le of; and mcr 
 cenary servility, I trust, I sh.iH ever have so 
 much honest pride as to detest. 
 
CORRESPONDEXCE. 
 
 259 
 
 >o. xxiir. 
 
 rO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 m-jtM-KfU Hdlnhurcih, }bth Jan. 17S7. 
 
 YouKS of the 9th ciincnt, which I am this 
 mdnu'nt honomt'd witli, is a deep reproach to 
 nu' for iingritefiil neglect. I will tell ymt the 
 re.il truth, for I am miscrahly awkward at a 
 fill : I wished to have written to Dr. Moore 
 before I wrote to you ; but thoua;h, every d.iy 
 »inee I received yours of December 30th, the 
 i<l;'a, the wish to write him, has constantly 
 pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my 
 foul set about it. I know his fame and charac- 
 ter, and I am one of " the sons of little men." 
 To wiite him a mere matter-of-fact atT.iir, like 
 a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit- 
 tle character I h ive ; and to write the author 
 of The View of Society and Manners a letter 
 of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs cold 
 at the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
 him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- 
 sition in my behalf I have ulready experienced, 
 as a gentleman waited on me the other day, <m 
 the part of L(>rd Eglinton, with ten guineas bv 
 way of subscription for two copies of my next 
 edition. 
 
 The 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 im- 
 <jro|)er epithet. I distrusted my own judgment 
 on your finding fault with it, 'ami applied for 
 the opinion of some of the literati here, who 
 honour. me with their critical strictures, and 
 »c-iy all allow it to be proper. The song you 
 ksk I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of 
 it. I have not composed any thing on the^'reat 
 Wallace, ex<-ept what you have seen in print, 
 anil the enclosed, which I will print in this edi- 
 tion. • You win see I have mentioned s(<me 
 others of the name. When I composed mv 
 1 Vismn, long ago, I had attempted a description 
 of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a 
 part, as it originally stood. i\Jy heart "-lows 
 with a wish to be able to do justice to the iiie- 
 lits of the Siirioiir of /lis Cuuntri/, which, 
 sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. 
 
 ward rusticity and crude unpolished Ideis on mv 
 head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemlile 
 when I tell you I tremble for the conse(<ueiices. 
 The novelty of a jxiet in my obscure situation, 
 without any of those advantages which are 
 reckoned tieccssiry for that character, at least 
 at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of 
 public notice, which has borne me to a height 
 where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
 abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too 
 surely do I see tliat time when the same tide 
 will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far belovt 
 the mark of truth. 
 
 Your ))atronizing me, and interestirtg your- 
 self in my fame and character as a [joet, I re- 
 joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
 whether you can or cannot aid me in my sub- 
 seription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription, 
 bill any charms to the heart of a' bard, compar- 
 ed with the pitronage of the descendant of the 
 immortal Wallace? 
 
 No. XXIV 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 
 You are afraid I shall grow into.xicated with 
 my prosperity as a poet. Alas! Jladam, I 
 know myself and the world too well. 1 do not 
 mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am wil- 
 ling to believe that my abilities deserved some 
 notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed 
 »ge and nation, when poetiy is and has been 
 the study of men of the first natural genius, 
 Jidcd with all the powers of polite learninir, 
 polite boolcs, and polite company — to be drag- 
 ged forth to the full glare ot le irned and polfte 
 observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 
 
 » Stanzas in tho Vmnn, l(ef;inninj tliiril stanza, 
 Hy stately tov-er j: julacefair.- and ending wiUi tlie 
 I Brit duan. 
 
 SIR, i7g7_ 
 
 IMrs. Dunt.op has been so kind as to send m 
 extracts of letters she has liad from you, whera 
 you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
 him and his works. Those who have felt the 
 anxieties and solicitudes of authorshi|v, can only 
 know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such 
 a manner by judges of the first character. Your 
 criticivns. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only, 
 I urn sorry they mostly came too late; a peccant 
 passage or two, that I would certainly have al- 
 tered, were gone to the press. 
 
 The hope to be admired for a.ges is, in by far 
 the greater part of those even who are authors 
 of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, 
 my first ambition was, and still my strongest 
 wish is, to please my comiieers, the rustic in- 
 mates of the hamlet, while ever changing lan- 
 guage and m,iuners shall a'low me to be relished 
 and understood. I am very willing to admit 
 that I have some poetical abilities; and as few, 
 li' any writers, either moral (,r jjoetical, tre inti- 
 mately acipiaiiitcd with the closes of mankind 
 aj»ong whom I have cliieHy mingled, I ir.ay have 
 seen men and ■.iiaiuiers in a difieioiit phi-is fri;m 
 what is common, \\hich may a-sist originality 
 of thought. Still I know very well the novelty 
 of my charactir has by far the greatest share in 
 the learned ai.d polite notice I have lately had ; 
 and in a linguage where Pope and ChurcliiU 
 hive lai-ed the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray 
 drawn the tear — where 'I'homsori and Beattie 
 have pauited the landscape, and Lyttleton and 
 Collins deseiib.d fh • heart, I am' not vain e. 
 nougl- to hope for distinguished poetic fame. 
 
260 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 No. XXV. 
 
 FROM DR. MOORE. 
 
 SIR, Clifford Street, Jan. 23, 1787. 
 
 I HAVE just rufeived your letter, by which I 
 find I hii'e reason to complain of my friend 
 Mis. Diinio]) for transmitting; to you extracts 
 fruni my letters to her, by much too freely and 
 too careles>ly written for your perusal. I must 
 forgive her, however, in consideration of her 
 good intention, as you will torgive me, I hope, 
 for the freedom I use with certain expressions, 
 in consideration of my admiration of the poems 
 in generd. If I may judge of the author's dis- 
 position from his works, with all the other good 
 qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem- 
 per ascribed to that race of men by one of their 
 own number, whom you have the happiness to 
 resemble in ease and curious fdicity of expres- 
 sion. 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, th.it feeling sensibility to 
 all the objects of humanity, and the independent 
 spirit which breathes through the whole, give 
 me a most favourable impression of the poet, 
 and have made ine 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 
 fur niiny years. 
 
 I rejoice v«rv sincerely at the eiicouragemerit 
 you receive at J^dmburgh, and I think you pe- 
 culiarly fortur.ite in the i)atronage of Dr. Blair, 
 who, I am informed, interests himself very much 
 for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no- 
 body can have a warmer regard for th it gentle- 
 man tiian I have, which, independent of the 
 worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
 the meniorv of our common friend, the late Mr. 
 George B e. 
 
 Before 1 received your letter, I sent enclosed 
 in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Wil- 
 liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote 
 on reading your flJountain-Daisy ; j)erhaps it 
 may not displease you. • 
 
 1 have been trying to add to the number of 
 your subscribers, but 1 find many of my ac- 
 quaintance are alrearly among them. 1 have 
 oiily to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
 teem, and most cordial good wishes, 
 I am, 
 
 Your obedient humble servant, 
 J. MOORE. 
 
 • The sonnet is as follows:— 
 
 Wiiirj! soon the garden's flaunting flowers de- 
 cay, 
 
 And ecattered on the earth neglected lie, 
 Die " Mouiitain-I)ai»y," chcnslicd by the ray 
 
 A iioct drew from heaven, shall never die. 
 Ah, like that lonely floucr the poet rose ! 
 
 'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale; 
 
 He felt each storm that on the mountain blows. 
 
 Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
 By genius in her native vigour nurst, 
 
 On nature with iinpassion'd look he gazed ; 
 Then through the cloud of adverse fortune buisl 
 
 Indignant, and in light unbnrrow'd blazed. 
 Scoiia! from rude affliction shield thy bard, 
 
 His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will 
 guard. 
 
 No. XXVI. 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 
 SIR. Edinburcih. \bth Feb. 1787. 
 
 Parbox iny seeming neglect iu d»lay:ng so 
 long to acknowledge the honour yoa have done 
 me, in your kind notice of me, January S3d. 
 Not many months ago, I knew no other em- 
 plovraent than following the plough, nor could 
 boast any thing higher than a distant acquaint- 
 ance with a country clergyman. Jlere great- 
 ness never embarrasses me : I have nothing to 
 ask from the great, and I do not fear their 
 judijment ; but genius, polished by learning, 
 and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of 
 the Vt'orld, this of late I frequently meet with, 
 and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affec- 
 tation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. 
 That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I 
 see, with frequent wringing* of heart, that the 
 novelty of mv character, and the honest national 
 prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to 
 a height altogether untenable to my abilities. 
 
 For the honour IMiss W. has done me, please. 
 Sir, return her in my name, my most grateful 
 thanks. I have more than once thought of p.iy- 
 ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the 
 idea in hopeless despondency. I had never be- 
 Sire heard of her ; but the other day I got her 
 poems, which, for several reasons, some belong- 
 ing to the head, and others the offspring of the 
 heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
 little pretensions to tritic lore: there are, I 
 think, two characteristic features in her poetry 
 — the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 
 and the querulous, suinhre tenderness of " time- 
 settled sorrow." 
 
 I only know what pleases me, often without 
 being able to tell why. 
 
 No. XXVIl 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Air. 
 Edinhuryh, Feb. 24, 1787 
 
 MY HONOURED FIlIKNn, 
 
 I WILL soon be with you now in (juid Hack 
 prent ; in a week or ten days at farthest — 1 aic 
 obliged, againiit my own wish, to print sul>. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 261 
 
 •cfiiiers names, so if any of my Ayr friends 
 h.ive s\iliscri|)tion I)ills, tiny must be sent in to 
 
 CVfei-h (lirei'tly 1 am iiL'ttin;; my phiz <liitie Jiy 
 
 m eniiiieiit erfjraver ; and if it c.in lie ready in 
 ".'viw. I will a|)])ear in my book looking like other 
 fojls, to my title paf^e.* 
 
 1 have the honour to be, 
 
 liver your grateful, &c. 
 
 No. xxviir. 
 
 FROM DR. MOORE. 
 
 Clifford Street, 2Sth Ftb. 1787. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal 
 of pleasure. It is not suijirising that you im- 
 prove in correctness and taste, considering where 
 you have heen for some time past. Ar,d I dare 
 su't'ir there is no danger of your admittin'^ any 
 polish ulrch might weaken the vigour of your 
 native powers. 
 
 I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
 nauseous aftectatiot: of decrying your own merit 
 as a poet — an affectation which is displayed with 
 niii-t ostcnt.icion by tho^e who have the greatest 
 share of self-conceit, and which only adds utide- 
 ceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you 
 to deny the merit of your poems would be ar- 
 raigning the fixcil opinion of the public. 
 
 As the new edition of my Vieiv nf Society 
 is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
 edition, which, I beg you will a.-cept as a small 
 n.aik of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the 
 care o! Mr. Creech ; and, along with these four 
 voIi:nies lor yourself, I have also sent my HLdi- 
 ':nl Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
 Duidop of Dunlop : this you will he so obliging 
 as to transmit, or if you chance to pass iooa by 
 l)iinlo]), to give to her. 
 
 I am happy to hear tint your subscription is 
 'O ainjile. ami shall rejoice at every piece of goixl 
 lortnne that befills you : for you are a very 
 great favouiite in nty fimily ; and this is a 
 higher compliment than [lerhaps you are aware 
 of. Il includes almost all the professions, and 
 of course is a |)ro(jf that your writings are adapt- 
 ed to various tastes anil situation-*. My young. 
 est son who is at Winchester school, writes to 
 me that he is translating some stanzas of your 
 H'illiitci:'en into Latin verse, for thj benefit of 
 his comrades. This union of ta»te partly pro- 
 ceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scotti-h 
 partiality, with which they are all somewhat 
 tiiictured. Even i/our translator, who left Scot- 
 
 • This portrait is etigravod by Mr. Douro, an artist 
 who well nieriis the c ithet bes:o,vcil on hi;n b> Itie 
 pot'i, after a pictiiri' of \Ir. N;ismyth, wlilcli tic pinit- 
 eil con mil-, e, ami libt rally preseiileJ to Uurns. Tins 
 picture Ik ' f tlic cibniei Mzc 
 
 land too early in life for recollection, it not 
 without it. 
 
 I remain, with greatest Rincerity, 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 J. MOORE. 
 
 No. XXIX. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRX. 
 
 MY LORD, Etlinburg'u !787. 
 
 I WAKTEU to purchase a iirotile of your loi-H . 
 ship, which I was told was to be got in town • 
 but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
 painter has spoiled a " iuiman face divine.' 
 The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written 
 below a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
 I have been so happy as to procure one with any 
 thing (if a likeness. 
 
 ."^s I will socm return to my shades, I wanted 
 to have something; like a material oliject fur my 
 gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
 say to a frietid. There is my noble patron, my 
 generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
 publish these verses. I conjure your lordship 
 by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
 rous wish (if benevolence, by all the powers and 
 feelings which comiose the magnanimous mind, 
 do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your 
 lordship ; and what has not in some other in 
 stances always been the cise with me, the weigh 
 of the obligation is a pleasing load. I tru>t, 
 have a heart as independent as your lordship'^ 
 than which I can say nothing more : and 
 would not he beholden to f(vours that wou'i 
 i crucify my feelings. Your dignified charactet 
 in life, and manner of su|>p()rting that ch.iracter 
 are flattering lo my pride; and I would be jea- 
 lous of the purity of .iiy grateful attachment, 
 where I was under the pitmn ige of one of the 
 much fiy(nireil sons of f ntune. 
 
 .Mmo^t every poet has ce'ebrated his patrons, 
 particularly when they were names dear to fame, 
 and idustrious it) their country ; allow me, then, 
 my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
 merit, to tell the world tiow much I have the 
 honour to be 
 
 Your lordship's highly indebted. 
 And ever grateful humble servant 
 
 • It doce not appear that the Earl pranted this re 
 rjiiest, nor have the verses iJludud to been fuiiu4 
 among the MbS. 
 
262 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 No. XXX. 
 
 70 THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 The honour your lordship has done me, by 
 your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
 stant, 1 shall ever gratefully remember : 
 
 " Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with jcy to 
 
 boast. 
 They best can give it who deserve it most." 
 
 Your lordship touches the darling chord of 
 my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 
 at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish 
 for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
 grimaf^e through my native country ; to sit and 
 muse on those once hard- contended £elds, 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 phantom strides across my iuiagi- 
 natioB, and pronounces these emphatic words, 
 '' 1, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." 
 
 This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- 
 Vjrn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
 muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail, 
 Stiil, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
 heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
 nliich I boa>t my birth, and gratitude to those 
 her di>tiiigiiishcd sons, who have honoured me 
 to much « itli their patronage ami approbation, 
 fhaJI, while ste.'.ling through my humble shades. 
 ever distend my bosom, and at times draw 
 forth the swelling tear. 
 
 Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be toW 
 that the remains of Rob.-rt Fergusson, the ss 
 justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for 
 apes to come, will do honour to our Caledo- 
 nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the 
 ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. 
 
 " 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 Fer- 
 gusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have the 
 honour of paying. 
 
 " I petition you, then. Gentlemen, to permit 
 ine to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
 to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
 less fame. I have the honour to be. Gentlemen, 
 your very humble servant, (sic suhscribitur ), 
 " ROBERT BURNS." 
 
 Thereafter the said managers, in considera 
 tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
 of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
 did, and hereby do, unanimously grant power 
 and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect 
 a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
 Fergusson, and to la;ep up and preserve the 
 same to his memory in all time coming. Ex 
 tractcd forth of the records of the managers, by 
 William Sprott, Ckrk 
 
 No. XXXI. 
 
 Ert. Pr pertij in favour of Mr. Robert 
 BuRNC, to erect tinil keep up a Uendstoiie in 
 mtmory of Putt Fergusson, 17S7. 
 
 Session-lioiise, xrithin the Kirk of Ca- 
 voni/ntc, the ttceiity-secc-nii ituy of 
 J'll/rii'iri/, one t/inimund seven bun- 
 dled and eiyhty-stven years. 
 
 Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kiik- 
 yard Funds of Canongate. 
 
 Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
 proiluci'cl a letter from Mr. Robert liuriis, of 
 date the sixth current, which wa" read, and 
 appointed to be en^ro-scd in tlieir sedeiiiut- 
 boiik, 'iiid (if wliicli letter the tenor foilou^. 
 " To the Honourable Bailies of C'auongate, 
 
 No. XXXII. 
 
 TO 
 
 MY BEAR SIR, 
 
 You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
 selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so 
 many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
 and yet never putting pen to paper to say — 
 thank you ; l)ut if you knew what a devil of u 
 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 me so 
 unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
 Had the troublesome yelping cur powers tfti- 
 cient to prevent a mischief, lie might be ol 
 use ; but at the beginning of the business, bis 
 feeble elToits are to the woi kings of passion -it 
 tlie iiif lilt frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
 iinc'ouiled fervour of tbe rising sun : and no 
 sooner are the timiultiious doini;s of the wiiked 
 deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
 sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our 
 horrois, up starts conscience, and barrows w* 
 with the feelings of the d . 
 
 I h ive enclosed you, by way of expi ition, 
 some verse and pro~e, that, if they merit a place 
 in your truly entertaining nii^cell.iny. >ou are 
 "elcoine to. The [.rose extract is literally a» 
 .Mr. Sprutt scut 't me. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 263 
 
 Tilt Inscnptum on the Stone is as follows : 
 HERE LIES ROBEUT FERGUSSON, 
 
 POKT. 
 
 Bon. S'piaxbsr rilfi, \~J\—Died, Uth October 1771. 
 
 No soulptiircil mmble here, nor pompous lay, 
 " No stoiitd urn nor aniinatod bust ;" 
 
 This simple stone diiects pale Scotia s way 
 To puur her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 
 
 On the other side of the Stone is as foUoics : 
 
 " Ry special Rrant of the 5Iana;;ers to Robert 
 Burns, who erected this stone, ihis burial-place 
 is to remain £ir ever sacred to chc memory of 
 Robert Ftrjjusson." 
 
 No. XXXIII. 
 
 EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
 FROM 
 
 Sth March, 1 787. 
 
 I AM truly happy to know you- have found a 
 
 friend in ; his patronage of you does 
 
 h;iii great honour. He is truly a gofid man ; 
 by far the best I ever kne'v, or, ])erhaps, ever 
 sliall know, in this Vv-orld. Rut I must not 
 fpcak all I think of him, lest I should be thought 
 partial. 
 
 So you liave obtained liberty from the masjis- 
 trates to erect a stone over Fergu-soti's grave ? 
 I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as 
 Shakespeare says, " in the olden time :" 
 
 " The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown, 
 He a>k'd fur bread, and he received a stone.' 
 
 w(udd take a snujf, wcll-i.ircf. bed-i-oom lor me, 
 where I may have the pleasine of seeing you 
 over a mnrning lup of tea. Jiui, .lyall accouiits, 
 it will be a matter of some dilliculty to see you 
 at all, unless your c(Mn|iatiy is liespoki a week 
 bufnre-han.I. Tlure is a great riimiuir hire con- 
 cerning your <;reit intimacy with tlie Duchess ot 
 and other 1 idles of distinction. I am 
 
 really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands 
 each night ;" and, if you had one, I siipp,i>e 
 there would also be " bribes to your old secre- 
 tary. " It seer.is you arc resolved to make hay 
 while the sun shines, and avoid, if ])o-sil)le, tiie 
 
 fite of poor Ferijusson, 
 
 Qiimcndit ])ecitiii(i priinum est, virtus post num- 
 7niis, is a good maxim to thrive by: you seemed 
 to despise it while in this country ; but proba- 
 bly some philosopher in Edinbuigh has taught 
 you better sense. 
 
 Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- 
 ing ? — Are you yet seized 
 
 " With itch of picture in the front, 
 With bays of wickeii rhyme upon't !" 
 
 But I mu-^t give up this trifling, and attend 
 to matters that more concern myself : so, as the 
 Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryli/, ux sal drtnh 
 phan we meet.* 
 
 It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that 
 this is written. But how many brothers of 
 Parnassus, as well us pour Butler and pour Fer- 
 gusson, have asked for bread, and been served 
 with the same sauce ! 
 
 The magistrates gave, yon liberty, did they ? 
 
 o 
 
 g»nerous magistrates ! 
 
 celebrated 
 
 over the three kin;;donis for his jiublic S|iirit, 
 gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tornb to a 
 pour poet's memory ! — most generous ! , . . 
 once u on a time gave that .-aine jioet the mighty 
 sum of eighteen pence fur a copy of his works. 
 But then it must be considered that the poet was 
 at this time absolutely starving, and besought 
 his aid with all the earne-tness of hunger; and. 
 
 over and above, he received a worth, at 
 
 lea>t one-thini of the Value, in exchange, but 
 which, I believe the poet afterwards very un- 
 gratelully expunged. 
 
 Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
 eeeiiig yoa in Edinburgh ; and as my stay wili 
 ^ for ei^lit or ten days, I wish you or 
 
 No. XXXIV. 
 TO MR. JA.MES CANDLISII, 
 Stjbent :n Piiys.'c, Cci.llge, Gia.^&oW 
 EdirA.urgh, March 21, 17S7. 
 
 MY EVER DKAR OLD ACQt.' A I NTA NCK, 
 
 I WAS eipially sniprised and pleased at your 
 letter; though I dare say you will think by my 
 delaying so long to write to you, that I ain sc 
 droivned in the intoxication of good fortune as 
 to be indilFeient to old and once dear coi.nec 
 tions. The truth is, I was determined to wiitt 
 a good letter, fnil of argument, aiiipbficitinn, 
 erudition, and, as Bayes says, u/l t/i it. I tli(iii;,'!it 
 of it, and thought of it, but for my soul I can- 
 not : and lest you should mistake the cause of 
 my silence, I just sit down to tell yon ro. Don't 
 give yourself credit though, that the strength ot 
 your lo^ic scares me : the triitii is, I never- in, -an 
 to meet you on that ground at all. You have 
 
 • The abo e extract is from a letter of one of the 
 ahle-it of our poet's eoiropoiuleiils, whieli e iiitaina 
 soiiieiiitercslinjjaneedoresof KerfiMss n, tliat .voliould 
 have been happy to have insene.l, if thev eoulil have 
 been avitlieiitieaied. '1 he writer ji. mi.-.t.ikcMi in .suiipos. 
 mg Kie magistrate^ of K.liiihur>;h liail an, sh.ire .n ihe 
 transaction res]iecti:ig tlie m inurienl ereer((l f.ir Ker- 
 (•Msson by our l)ar I ; ih'<, it i-i evidi-nt, |) -SNe-l l,-eiwpei» 
 Hiiiris .and the Ivirk beginn of the Canon-ate. Neiitiei 
 at Kdinbiirgh, nor anywhere e!-e, d;) ma]; s: rates usa 
 ally trouble themii-hcs to in(|iiire how rhe home of 
 poor poet is furniiheU. or how his grave i> adorneii 
 
264 
 
 BURKS' WORKS. 
 
 shewn me one fl.infj, whicJi was to he deinon- 
 st lilted ; tli.it jitiiitij! pritlu of reasoning, with a 
 little affectation of singularity, may mislead tlie 
 best (if liearts. I, likewise, since you and I 
 Were first aequaiiited, in tlie pride of despising 
 old wiimen's stories, ventured in " the daring 
 path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the 
 weakness, not tlie strcngtii, of human powers, 
 made nie gl id to grasp at revealed religion. 
 
 I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to 
 K wrong cause. 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 
 txpect to hear from you — welcome sense, wcl- 
 oome nonsense. 
 
 1 am., with the waimest sincerity. 
 My dear old friend. 
 
 Yours. 
 
 No. XXXV. 
 
 TO THE SAME, 
 
 MT TEAR FR^F.KD, 
 
 I F once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
 and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
 of that correspondence being renewed which has 
 been so long broken. At present 1 liave time 
 for notliing. Dissipation and business engross 
 every moment. I am engaged in assisting an 
 honest Scots enthusiast.' 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 woids and music are done by Scots- 
 men. This, you will easily guess, is an under- 
 taking exactly to my taste. I have collected, 
 begged, borrowed, 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 pub- 
 lished. 1 shall shew you the first nundn'r when 
 ] see you in Glasgow, which 'vill be in a fort- 
 night or less. Do be so kind as send me the 
 song in a day or two : you cannot imagine huw 
 Uiuch it will oblige me. 
 
 Direct to me at Jlr. W. Criiikshank's, St. 
 James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 
 
 No. XXXVI. 
 
 TO MRS. DUX LOP. 
 
 MADAM, EiUnhuTgh, March 22, 17S7. 
 
 I KF.AD your lettir with wateiy eyn. A lit- 
 tle, very little while ago, / Itad scarce a friend 
 iitt the atiilihorn pride of my own hosom ; now 
 ( am distingiiislud, pationized, befriended by 
 you. Your friendly advices, I will not give 
 
 *Jtfhtuan, Uieiiublisherof theScotiMuiica\ .Museum. 
 
 them the cold name of criticisms, I receire wita 
 reverence. I have made some small alteration! 
 in wliat I before had printed 1 have the ad 
 vice of some very iudiclous friends among tin 
 literati here, but with them 1 sometimes find it 
 necessary tn claim the privilege of thinking for 
 myself. The n(d)le Earl of Gl-^ncairn, to whom 
 I owe more than tn any man. does me the hon- 
 our of giving me his strictures : his hints v^ itb 
 respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
 plicitly. 
 
 Y'ou kindly intere'^t yourself in my future 
 views and prospects ; there i can give you uo 
 light ; it is all 
 
 " D.iik as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
 Was roli'd together, or had tried his beami 
 Athwart the gloom profound." 
 
 The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
 my highest priile ; to continue to tleserve it is 
 my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
 Scottish story are the themes 1 coiil.l wish to 
 sing. 1 have no dealer aim than to have it in 
 my power, unpl.igued with the routine of luisi- 
 iiess, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, 
 to make leisurely pilgt images through Cali'doma ; 
 to sit on the fields of her b.ittles ; to wander on 
 the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse 
 by the st:itely towers or venerable ruins, once 
 the honoured abodes of her heroes. 
 
 But these are all Utopian tlioughts : I have 
 dallied long enough with lite : 'tis time to be in 
 earnest. 1 have a fond, an aged mother to care 
 for ; and some other bosom ties perhajis equa'ly 
 tender. Where the individual only suffers by 
 the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
 dolence, or fiilly, he may bi* excus.ible : nay, 
 srhining abilitien, and some of the nobler virtues, 
 may half-sanctify a heedless character : but 
 where God ami nature have intrusted the wel- 
 fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sz- 
 cred, and the ties are dear, that man must l>e 
 far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to i Elec- 
 tion, whom the.se connections will not rouse to 
 exertion. 
 
 I guess that 1 shall dear between two and 
 three hundred jiouiids by my authorship ; with 
 that sum I intend, so fir as I may lie s.iid to 
 have any intention, to return to my old acipi lin- 
 tance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a 
 lea.se by which I can live, to comnienee farmer. 
 1 do not intend to give up poetry : being hied 
 to labour secures me independence ; and th« 
 muses aie my chief, sometimes have been my 
 only enjoymeiit. If my practiie second my re- 
 solution, I shall have principally at he.ii t the .se- 
 rious bu>iiiess of life : but « hlle lollowing my 
 |)lough, or building up iiiy shocks, 1 sha.l east a 
 leisure glance to ihit de.ir, that only feituie ol 
 my character, which gave me the notice of my 
 country and the patronage of a Wallace. 
 
 Thus, lionourtd mad. an, I have given yon th« 
 baril, his situation, and his views, native as thct 
 are in his own bosom. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 265 
 
 No. XXXVIL 
 
 TO THE SAAIE. 
 
 MAD KM, Edi'thurph, \^^lh AprH. 17S7. 
 
 There is an alfoctation of gratitmle which I 
 dislike. Tlie periods of Johnson and the pauses 
 of Sti'rne may hide a selfish heart. I'or niv 
 part, Madam, I trust I have too much pilde for 
 S;'rvihty, and too little ])rudence for sel'isliMcss. 
 I have th.is moment bri'ke o])en your letter, 
 but 
 
 " Ruile am I in speech, 
 
 And therefore little can I grace my cause 
 
 ]n s|)eaking for myself — " 
 
 so I sliall not trouhle you with any fine speeches 
 ind huiifed figcres. I shall just lay my hand 
 on mv lieart, ami s:iy, 1 hope I shall ever liave 
 the tr'iest, the warmest, sense of your goddness. 
 
 I come ahroa<l in print for certain on Wed- 
 nesday. Your orders I shall punctuallv attend 
 to ; only, by the way, 1 must tell you that I 
 was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W 's 
 ropies, through the medium of Commissioner 
 Cochrane in this |i!ace ; but that we can settle 
 wlien I have the honour of waiting on you. 
 
 Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
 aiorniug b'ifore I received your letter to him. 
 
 Mo. XXXVIII. 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 
 E'/inhnr/f/i, -23(1 April, 17S7. 
 
 I RECEIVED the books, and sent tlie one you 
 ir.entionfd to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in 
 bc-ating the coverts of imagination for metaphors 
 of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour 
 you 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 tii regard these volumes as 
 a 'nark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still 
 more supreme gratification. 
 
 I leave l!i'.*fil)urgh in the course of ten dayg 
 or a fortnight ; and afier a few pilgrimages over 
 some of the clas-ic ground of Caledonia, Cow- 
 den Kmiivts, JJiiit/is of Yurroic, Twefd, &'C. 
 I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
 bood never more to quit them I have formed 
 many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
 afraid they ar-e all of too tender a construction 
 to beat c.irri.ige a hundred aiid fifty miles. To 
 tile rich, tiie great, the fishioiiable, the polite, I 
 ' have no eijuivilent to olfer ; and 1 am afraid ' 
 my meteor appearanee will by no means entitle' 
 me to a settled coiiespondenee with any of you, 
 Tvho are the permanent lights of genius and li- 
 terature. 
 
 My mo'.t respectful compliments to Miss W 
 If once this tangent flight of mine wei-e over 
 and I were returned to my wimleil leisurely 
 motion in my old circle. I may probably endea. 
 vour to return her poetic coiupliinent in kind 
 
 No. XXXIX. 
 
 EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
 
 TO MRS DUNLOP. 
 
 EJinhuriih, nOth April, 17S7. 
 
 Your critieisins. Madam, I under- 
 stand very well, and could have wished to hive 
 pleased you better. You are right in your guesg 
 that I am nut very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
 much my superiors, have so 11 ittered toose who 
 possessed the adventitious (lualities of wealth and 
 power, that i am determined to Sattir no cre- 
 ated being either in prose or verse. 
 
 I set as little by , lords, cleigy, cri- 
 tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by 
 my hardship. I know what I may expect from 
 the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and i)er- 
 hai)s contem|.>tuous neglect. 
 
 I am happy, Madiiin, that some of my own 
 favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
 ticular approbation. For my Dream, wliieh 
 has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
 sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to h ive the 
 honour of appearing at Duuiop iu its defence, in 
 person. 
 
 No. XL. 
 
 TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIB. 
 Lawn-Market, Edinhurpt, 3il May, 1767. 
 
 REVEKENn AND MUCH RESfECTED SIR, 
 
 I LEAVE Edinburgh fo-n;orrow nwuiiing, but 
 could not go without troubiinu' you with half a 
 line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
 prti'onage, and fiiendship you have sliown me. 
 I often telt the enib.ii r.is-ment of mv singular si 
 tuatioa ; drawn forth from the veriest shade* 
 of life to the glare ot rernaik ; and honourefl by 
 the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
 try, whose works, while they are appl ludnl tc 
 the end of time, will ever insti net and mend the 
 heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
 appearance iu the wmld might attract nutice, 
 and honour me with the aeijuaintance of the 
 permanent lights of genius and literature, those 
 who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
 tcre of man ; I knew very well, that my utuio 
 merit was far un'^rjual to the task of pieservi 
 that character when once the njveltv wus ov# 
 I have made up uiy iiiiud, that abuse, or almc 
 
266 
 
 BURKS' WORKS. 
 
 rren neglect, will cot surprise nie in my 
 quirtfis. 
 
 I li.ive sent you a pioof imiircssion of Beu- 
 go's work fur ir.e, Jone on Indian piper, as a 
 trifling liut sincere te>tiniony with ubal beart- 
 warm gratitude I aai, &c. 
 
 No. XLI. 
 
 FROM DR. BLAIR. 
 
 Arffi/Ie- Square, Edinburgh, Mi May, 1787. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I WAS favoured tliis forenoon with your very 
 oh'.ijfins: letter, together with an impression of 
 your portrait, for which I return you iny hest 
 thani\S. Tile success you liave met with I do 
 nut thuik was heyond your merits ; and if I 
 have had any small hand in cimtriliuting to it, 
 it gives me gieat pleasure. I know no way in 
 which literary persons, who are advanced in 
 years, can do more service to the woild, 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 
 notice of tlie world, the poems of Ossian : first 
 by the Fraymttits of Ancitnt Poetri/, which 1 
 published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
 foot the undertaking for collecting and publish- 
 ing the Worhs if Ossian ; and 1 have aiw.iys 
 considered this as a meritorious action of my 
 life. 
 
 Your situation, as you say, was Indeed very 
 singular ; and, in being iirought out all at once 
 from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great 
 a share of public notice and observation, ynu 
 had to stand a severe trial. I am hapjiy that 
 yciu have stooil it so well ; and as fir as I have 
 known or heard, tbouj;h in the midst of many 
 temjitations, without reproach to your charac- 
 ter and behaviour. 
 
 You are now, t presume, to retire to a more 
 private walk of lil. ; and I trust, will conduct 
 yourself there with industry, prudence, and ho- 
 nour. You have laid the fouinlation for just 
 public esteem In the midst of those emidoy- 
 nients, which your situation will lender projier, 
 you will not, I Impe, neglect to promote that 
 wteeni, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
 ing to such productions of it as may luise your 
 ehaiacter still higher. At the tame time, be 
 aot in too pi eat a ha<te to come forward, 'lake 
 lime and leisuie to impmve uiid mature your 
 talents ; for on any second [iroduction you give 
 Jit: world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much 
 dcpnid. Tlicre is, no doul»t, a gloss of novel ry 
 which time wears off. As you very pro])erly 
 bint yourself, you are not to be Burprised if, in 
 }our r^ral retieat, you do not find yourself sur- 
 •ounded wit' that glare of notice and a|)|iliuso 
 which here sbmie upon you. No man can bu 
 j^.mk' pott vvilbiiut be-log somewhat of a phi- 
 
 losopher. He ma=t hy his account, tTjit ^nj 
 one, who exposes himself to public observafion, 
 will occasionally meet with the attacks of illi- 
 beral censure, which it is always best to over- 
 look and despise. He will be inclined some- 
 times to court retreat, and to disapjiear from 
 public view. He will not affect to shine al- 
 ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth 
 with more advantage and energy. He will not 
 think himself neglected if he be not always 
 praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, o( 
 an old man, to give advice and make reflection* 
 which your own good sense will, I dare say, 
 render unnecessary. 
 
 As you mention vour being iust about to 
 leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to 
 Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Jliller's 
 farms. I heartily wish the offers to be mad,' 
 you there may answer ; as I am persuaded you 
 will not easily find a more generous ami bettei^ 
 hearted proprietor to live under than I\Ir. r»lll. 
 ier. When you return, if you come this way, 
 I will be happy to see you, and to know con- 
 cerning your future plans of life. You will 
 find me, by the 2-2d of this month, not in mv 
 bouse ia Argvle Scpiare, but at a country-house 
 at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, 
 near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all 
 success and prosperity, I am, with real regdi J 
 and esteem, 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Youi3 sincerely, 
 
 HUGH BLAiR. 
 
 No. XLII. 
 
 TO WILLIAJI CREECH, Esq. 
 (^of Edinburyh,') London. 
 
 Selhlrh, ISth May, 1737. 
 
 MY HONOURED TRIE NO, 
 
 The enclosed* I have just wrote, nearly ex 
 tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a 
 miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over 
 most of East Lothian, Berwick, R.:xhurgli, and 
 Selkirkshire's ; and next week I begin a tour 
 through the north of England. Yesterday I 
 dined with Lady Harint, sister to my noble pa- 
 tron. Quern Dcus cvnservel / I woiilil write till 
 I would tire you as much with dull |)riise as I 
 dare say bv this time you are with wretched 
 verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a grite- 
 ful farewell, 
 
 I have the honour to he, 
 
 Good Sir, yours sincere'v* 
 
 • Elegy ou W. Creech ; ^ee tJie Poetry. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 267 
 
 No. XLIII. 
 FROM DR. MOORE 
 GUjford Street, May 23, 1787. 
 
 CTAR ilR, 
 
 I liAi) the pleasure of your K-tter by IMi'. 
 Crtedi, anil soon alter he sent me the new eili- 
 rion of your poems. You seem to think it \n- 
 juuilicnt on you to send to each subscriber a 
 number of eo])ies proportionate to his subseiip- 
 tion money ; hut you may (lei)enil upon it, few 
 lubsiTihers expect more than one copy, what- 
 ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how- 
 ever, that I took twelve copies for tho>e subscri- 
 bers for whose money you were so arxurate as 
 ti) send me a recei|)t ; and Lord Ei^linton told 
 me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he 
 wished to p;ive fiv« of them in presents. 
 
 .Sume of the poems you have added in this 
 last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- 
 ter Ni/jlif, the Address to Edinburgh, (ireeu 
 grow the Rushes, and the two songs immediate- 
 ly fiillowing ; the latter of which was exijuisite. 
 Vt\ the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta- 
 lent for such compositions, which you ought to 
 induli^c. * No kind of poetry demands uuu'e 
 delicieyor higher polishing. Horace is more 
 admired on account of his Odes than all his 
 other writings. But nothing now added is 
 equal to your Vision and Cutter's Satnrdny 
 Aiiiht. In these are united fine imagery, na- 
 tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of 
 language and thought. It is evident that you 
 already possess a great variety of expression and 
 cnmuiand of the English language ; you ought, 
 therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future 
 in the provincial dialect : — why should yuu, by 
 using thi:t, limit the number of your admiiers lo 
 those who understaiui the Scottish, when yo i 
 can extend it to all peisons of taste who under- 
 stand the English language? In my opinion, 
 you should plan some larger work than any you 
 have as yet attempted. I mean, leflect upon 
 some proper suliject, and arrange the plan iu 
 your miiid, witluuic begirming to execute any 
 p.ut of it till jou have studied most ot the best 
 , English poets, and read a little more of history. 
 The Greek and Rinnan stories you can read in 
 some abridgment, and soim become master of 
 the must brilliant ficts, which must h gbly de- 
 light a poetical mind. You shmttd also, aiul 
 very soon may, become master of the heathen 
 niyiliology, to which there are everlisting allu- 
 siiins iu all the poets, and which in itsell is 
 ch.irmingly fanciful. What will require to l)e 
 studied with more attention, is modern history , 
 that is, the lii>tory of France and Great Rntain, 
 from the begiuningof Henry the Seventh's reign 
 I knmv very well you have a mind capable of 
 ittuining knowledge by a shorter pic)ce>s than 
 w cummualy used, aiul I am certain you are ca- 
 
 • His siitisequcnt comjuKitions will bear testimony 
 ■a the ai-i'uraey of Dr. .NUiort's judyiutul. 
 
 pahle of making a better use of it, when attain 
 ed, than is generally done. 
 
 I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
 of writing to me when it is itieonrentnit, and 
 make no apoloiiv, when you do write, for ha- 
 ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however 
 that I shall always be happy to hear fiom you 
 
 I think my fiieuil Mr. to'd me tl.at yoi; 
 
 had some poems in manuscript by you of a siti- 
 rical and humorous nature (in which, by thfl 
 way, I think you very strong), which your pru- 
 dent fiieuds prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
 larly one called S(>inihi>di/'s Confession , if you 
 will entrust me with a sight of any of tliese, I 
 will |)awn my word to give no cojjies, and vvill 
 be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 
 
 I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
 make the useful and respectable business of hus- 
 bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will 
 not prevent your making occasional addresses to 
 the nine ladies who have shown you such fa- 
 vour, one of whom visited you in the r.idd chip 
 bii/t/i/i. Virgil, bet'iue you, proved to the world 
 that there is nothing in the business of husband- 
 ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope thai 
 you may alford an exam])le of a good poet being 
 a succes-fiil farmer. 1 fear it will nut be in my 
 power to visit Scotland this season ; when I ilo, 
 I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily 
 wish to see and converse with you. If ever 
 vour occasions call you to this place, I make no 
 doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may 
 depeiul on a very coidial welcome from this fa- 
 mily. I am, dear Sir, 
 
 Your friend and obedient servant. 
 
 J. MOORE. 
 
 No. XL IV. 
 TO MR. \V. MCOLL, 
 Master of the High-School, Edinburgh. 
 Ciirl'sle, June 1, 1TS7. 
 
 KIND, IIONFST-IIEARTED WILLIK. 
 
 I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty 
 miles riilin, e'en as furjesket and foriiiaw'd as a 
 forlougliten cock, to gie you some not mi o' my 
 land lowper-llke stravaguin sin the ^onowfu' 
 hour that I slieuk hands and puted wi' ada 
 lieeliie. 
 
 My auld, ga'd gleyile o' a meere his hucliy- 
 all'd up bill and down brae, in Scutland and 
 England, as teugh and birnie as a veia devil wi 
 me.' It's true, she's as pooi s a sang-maker 
 
 • This mare was the Poc's favnuriic Ji nnv On> 
 nis, iifwhiim lionnuraUle ami most hiiimimui lTlel^ 
 liuii Is ma>!e in a lellet, iiiserleil ill IU. Ciiriie's einUoiL, 
 vol 1. i>. li.5. 
 
 Tliisiilil ami faithful servant ol the Poct''i was named 
 by hiin, .ifui lie oil WMUiaii, *nu m her «ai <Ka>nsi 
 reli^ii us ii>iiii\aQoii, threw a stool ai tin' Ue.m <>< 
 K.',i:.l) ir^li's lie.il, wlieii lie aiteiiintnj iii 1 '.jT, to in 
 iroilu'f 'he bcoitish Litu ^y. •' On Sioulav, tne i.'.j4 
 
268 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 and as hanl's a kirk, and tippei-talpers when 
 she tdks the gate, first .ike a lady's gentlen'oinan 
 in a niiniiw.ie, or a hen on het girdle, but 
 she's a yauld, pnti'.herie Girran for a' that, and 
 has a sroniack like Willie Stalker's ineere that 
 wad hae dis'^eested tunihlcr-wheels, for she'll 
 vi'hip me afF her five stiniparts o' the best aits 
 at a d(!wn-sittiii and ne'er fa<h her thumb. 
 When anre her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks 
 and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, 
 beets til. and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. 
 I couhl wager her price to a thretty pennies 
 that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile 
 adi), the deil-stii-ket a five gallopers acqueesh 
 Clyde and Whithorn could cast s.ait on her tail. 
 
 I hae damler'il owre a' the kintra frae D;ini- 
 bir to Se craig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a 
 guid fi.low, aiid monie a wcelfar'd hizzie. I 
 met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' 
 them a son-ie, fine, fudgel lass, l)aith braw and 
 bonie ; the tither was a clean- shankit, straught, 
 tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhlte 
 on a fliiwerie thnrn, and as sweet and inode«t's 
 « new blawn plunirose in a hazle sliaw. Thev 
 Were liaitli bn (I to niaiiiers by the beiik, and 
 oiiie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum and 
 runiblgumtiun as the half o' some presbvtries 
 that yiiu and I baith ken. They play'ri me sik 
 a deevil o* a shavie that I daur say if my hari- 
 gals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the 
 heart o' nie like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a 
 castock. 
 
 I was ginn to write you a lang pvstle, hut, 
 Gude forgie nie, I gat mysel sae notouriously 
 bitchify'd the day after kail-time that I can 
 hardly stoiter but and ben. 
 
 IMy best respecks to the guidwife and a' our 
 comnuin fricns, espiciall Mr. and Mrs Cruik- 
 shank anil *l'4' bone-t guiilnian o' Jock's Lodge. 
 
 I'll be III iJimfries the morn gif the beast be 
 to the fore, aii.i the branks biile bale. 
 
 Gude be wi' you, Willie ! 
 
 Amen !— 
 
 j throe years, at thirty pounds sterling a-ye»r) 
 and am happy some unexpected accidents inter- 
 vened that prevented your sailing wlrh tiie vei 
 sel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Dou- 
 I glas's employ would by no means liave answer- 
 ed your expectations. I received a copv of your 
 publications, for which I return von mv thanks, 
 and it is my own opinion, as well as that o.' r-ach 
 of my fr'ends as have seeti them, they an- most 
 excellent :n their kind ; although some could 
 have wished they had been in the English style, 
 as they allege the Scottish ilialeet is now be- 
 ' coming obsolete, and therebv the eler;ance and 
 beauties of your poems are in a great measure 
 ■ lost to far the greater part of the comniuuitv. 
 Nevertheless there is no <loubt you harl sufficient 
 reasons lor your conduct — peihaps the wishes 
 of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your 
 patrons, who will always relish their own (Id 
 ccuintry style; ana y(mr own inclinations for 
 the same. It is evident from several pissages 
 in your works, you are as capable of writing in 
 the Engli-h as in the Scottish dialect, and I am 
 in great hopes your genius for poetry, ficim the 
 specimen you have alieady given, will turn out 
 both for profit and honour to yourself and 
 country.. I can by no means advise you now 
 ^ to think of coming to the West Iiulies, as, 1 
 I assure you, there is no encouragement fir a 
 ' man of leaining and genius here ; ami am very 
 ; confident you can do far better m Great Bri- 
 tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my 
 ; friends are well, and shall always be happy to 
 hear from you at all lonvenient opportunities, 
 wishing you success in all your undertakings. 
 I will esteem it a particular favour if v<ui will 
 send me a copy of the other edition you are now 
 printing. 
 
 I am, with respect. 
 
 Dear Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 JOHN HUTCHINSON 
 
 No, XLV. 
 
 FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. 
 Jamitica, St. Anus, \ilh June, 17S7. 
 
 KIR, 
 
 I iiECFivEn yours, dateil Ediid)urgh, 2d Ja- 
 nuary, I7S7, wherein yiui ac(juaiut me you were 
 engaged with Mr. Douglan of I'ort Antonio, for 
 
 of July, the l)c-n of Kilinbur(.»h prepared to ofFiciate 
 in St t;ile-'<. The eo:i(;ie^'ali(iM e'liiliniicil r|uic't 'ill 
 till- -erviee liejan, wliiii an old unman, iin|icllecl liy 
 suil.leii in.li nalion. sL:irIeil up. .mil exeUiiiiioK alood, 
 Vlll.tin! ■I<i-t ihoii siv ilic M is< at iiiv lui( '' llue.v 
 tile stool on which -lie h.id iK'ir. sittiiii;. at Ihe Dean's 
 lii-ail. A wild uproar eoiiiiiiciii ed that iiist.int. The 
 •i-rv.'io wa- mierrii|iied. Tlic woiiiru inv.iclod tlie 
 d<vl with exccr.i \,^u^, ancl onlcrics, a d the DtMii ili... 
 I'll! .iCeil hinisflf fiiin Iik siirpil e to isLMpc Itoin their 
 hand. "— tui/^/ji Uttl iif Scut and, vol. in. p. 122. 
 
 No. XLVr, 
 TO MR. W. NICOLL. 
 
 Mauchline, June 18, 1737. 
 
 My DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I AM now ai rived safe in mv native country 
 after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
 sure to find all my friends well. I Ureakfasted 
 with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
 Smitli; and was highly pleased both with the 
 coriii d welcome he gave me, and his most ex- 
 cellent appeaiance and sterling good sense. 
 
 I have been with .Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, 
 and am to meet him again in August. Fioin 
 my view of the I.inds and bis reception of my 
 bardship, my hopes in that bu-iness are rather 
 nurided ; but .still thev are but si •nder. 
 
 I am (jiiite charmed with Diimliies folkf— • 
 Air. HurimiJe, the clergyman, in particula.*, M 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 2G9 
 
 s Tnsn whom I jVi ill ever pjrjtefuUy rememlier ; 
 anil his wife, Guild foipjie me, I h.iil almost 
 broke llie tent'.i coinm.indiiient on her account. 
 Slriiplicity, tie!r:ince, good sense, sweetness of 
 disposition, good luinioiir, kind hos[)it,ility, are 
 tile constituents of her m:iniier and heart ; in 
 short — hut if I say one word more ahout her, I 
 sl'ill be directly in love with her. 
 
 I never, my frieiul, thought mankind very 
 capihie of any thini; generous ; but the stiteli- 
 ness of the Patiicians in Edinburgh, and the 
 servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per- 
 haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re- 
 turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit 
 altogether with my species. I have Iwught a 
 pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about 
 with me, in order to study the sentiments — the 
 dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield- 
 ing independence, the desperate daring, anil 
 noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- 
 sonage, S.vTA.v. 'Tis true, I have just now a 
 little cash ; t)ut I am afraid the star that hith- 
 erto has shed its m iligiiant, 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 my horizon. — 
 Mijifortune dodges the path of human life ; the 
 poetic mind finds it-elf miserably deranged in, 
 and iiiitit for the walks of business ; add to all, 
 that, thoughtless follies an<l hire-brained whims, 
 like so many ir/nes fatiii, eternallv diverging 
 from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle 
 with st2p-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing 
 eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he I 
 falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God 
 grant tkis may be an unreal picture with re- 
 spect to me ! but should it not, I have very j 
 little dependence on mankind. I will clo-e my 
 litter with this tribute my heart bids me piiy 
 you — the many tics of acquaintance and friend- 
 eliip which I have, or think I have in life, I 
 have felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they 
 are almost all of thuni of such "tail coutextuie, 
 that I am sure they would not stand the breath 
 of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but fiom 
 yiu, my ever dear Sir, I look with conlidence 
 for the A])ostolic love that shall wait on nie 
 " through good report and bad report" — the 
 love which Solomon emphatically says " Is 
 strong as death." My comj)liments to Mrs. ' 
 IS-Wl, and all the circle of our comiuon friends. 
 
 P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter 
 end of July. 
 
 No. XLVII. 
 TO GAVIX HAMILTON, Esq. 
 
 and Stirling, and am {eligbted with Ihelr ap- 
 pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, bai ley, 
 &c. but no harvest r.t all yet, except in one or 
 
 two places, an old Wife's Ridge Yestmday 
 
 morning I rode from this tcovr, iip the mean- 
 dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some 
 Ayrshire folks at Ilarvieston. After breakfast, 
 we made a party to go and see the famous Ciu- 
 dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
 about five miles above Harvieston ; and after 
 sjiending one of the most pleasant days I ever 
 had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the 
 evening. They are a family, Sir, thou;h I had 
 not liad any prior tie ; though they had not beea 
 the brother and si-ters of a certain geueroui 
 friend of mine, I 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 aa 
 tall as you are, but slender ratlier th.in other- 
 wise ; and I have the sitisfiction to inform you 
 that he is getting the better of those consump- 
 tive symptoms which I sujipose you know were 
 threatening hira. llis nuke, and particularly 
 his manner, resemble you, but he will still have 
 a finer free. (I put in the word still, to please 
 Mis. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at 
 the same time a just idea of that respect that 
 iirin 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 the Ome- 
 ga, he has a heai t might adorn the breast of a 
 poet ! Grace has a good figure and the look of 
 health and cheeifulne-s, but nothing else re- 
 nijikable in her jierson. I scarcely ever s.iw >o 
 striking a likeness as is between her aiid }(iur 
 l.ttle Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. 
 She is reserved at first ; hut as we grew hiU"' 
 acquaiiiti-d, I was del ghted with the native 
 frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense 
 of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot 
 speak in common terms of adniiratioa : she is 
 not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- 
 gant ; her features not regular, ijut tliey hive 
 the smile of sweetness and the settled compla- 
 cency of good nature in the highest degice ; and 
 her complexion, now that she has ha])|)i!y re-- 
 covered her wonted heal'h, is equal to Miss 
 Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding tc 
 the Falls, Charlotte waa exactly Dr. Donue'a 
 mistress : 
 
 " Her pure and eloquent blood 
 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so dislinctly 
 
 wrought. 
 That one would almost say her body thought.* 
 
 Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive ol 
 gO<id sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 
 
 I do not give you all this account, my good 
 
 ! Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. 
 
 Such relations the fir>t peer in the realm mit'ht 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, Stirling, 2Stk Aug. 1787. own with pride; then why ilu you not keej' up 
 
 Here am 7 on my way to Inverness. I have more correspondence witt these so amiable 
 
 raniblea over the rich, fertile car»cs of Falkirk young folks? 1 had a tlpusand qnestioiis te 
 
5f7C 
 
 BURNS' WORKS 
 
 answer about you a'l : I Imd to desciibe tliL' 
 little ones \v:t\\ the iv.iniiteiicss of an.iromv. 
 Thty were liiijlily rleliuhteil when I tolil thein 
 that J.)lm* \v,is so ^ood a bov, and so fine a 
 scholar, and that Willie f was goin-j on stili 
 very pretty ; but I have it in commission to 
 tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly 
 bauMe without she be good. Miss Chalmers I 
 had left in Eiiiii!)\ii-Lrh, but I had the pleasure 
 of ineetinnf \vith Mts. Chalmers, only Ladv 
 M'Kenzie beinsr rather a little alarmini^ly ill of 
 a sore-throat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment. 
 I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
 ]My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ha- 
 milton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I 
 shall probably write him fiom some stage or 
 other 
 
 I am ever, Sir, 
 
 Yours most gratefully. 
 
 No. XLVIir. 
 
 TO MR, WALKER, BLAIR OF 
 ATIIOI E 
 
 Inverness, 5th Sept. 1787. 
 
 MT DEAR Sla, 
 
 I HAVE just time to write the foregoing, | 
 and to tell you that it was (at least most part 
 of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at 
 Rruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I 
 have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. 
 
 N 's that, and the jogginjj of the chaise, 
 
 woulil allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
 as rhyme is llie coin with which a ])oet pays his 
 debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to 
 the noble fam ly 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, I 
 shall never forget. 
 
 The little " angel band ! — I declare I pray- 
 ed for them very sincerely to-diy at the Fall of 
 Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family- 
 piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, tlie truly 
 noble Ducliess, with her smiling little sera])ii 
 in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
 " olive |>lants," as the Hebrew bard finely says', 
 round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs 
 
 G , the lovely, sweet Jliss C. &c. I wish 
 
 I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! 
 My Liiid Duke's kind hos|iitality, markedly 
 
 kind, indeed Mr G. of F "s charms of 
 
 Co::versation — Sir W. M 's friendship— in 
 
 short, the recollection of all that jiolite, agree- 
 
 • This is tlie " wef cttilie Jchnnif," mentioned in 
 Bump's ilcilicaiion to Oaviti llanHlton, I•^(|. I'o this 
 gftitli'mnn, ami every branch of (he family, tlioFMiior 
 IS inilebteil for mmli intornintion resjieptinq the poet, 
 anil \ ery uratefully aeiiuowleilijes the kimlncss shewn 
 to him-elf. 
 
 t N..W married to the Rev. John Toci, Minister of 
 Mi'uelil Ml-. 
 
 t " 'I'ho humble Petition of Bruar-Water to the 
 Duke of -Mhole- 
 
 able company, raises an hon.'-c t:lo-.v in ihv tw 
 som. 
 
 Xo. XLIX. 
 TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ediuhurgh, llih Sept. \']%1 
 
 MY DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 I AHKivED here safe yesterday evening, aftet 
 a tour of twenty-two day-;, and tiavelling near 
 six j-andred miles, windings included. My 
 farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- 
 verness. I went through the heart of the 
 Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
 seat of Lord Breadalbaue, down the Tay, 
 among cascades and druidical circles of stones 
 to Dunkekl, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; 
 thence cross Tay, and up one of his tribvtary 
 streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
 Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
 ing nearly two days with his Grace and family; 
 thence many miles through a wild country, a- 
 mong cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy 
 savage glens, till I crossed Speyand went down 
 the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
 Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
 Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
 Sir James Grant and family ; and then cros-ed 
 the country for Fort George, but called by the 
 way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbe'ath ; 
 there I saw the identical bed in which, tradi- 
 tion says. King Duncan was murdered: lastly, 
 from Fort George to Inverness. 
 
 I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For- 
 res, and so on. to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone- 
 hive, whiMe James Burnes, 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 fa- 
 ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they have 
 had several letters from his son in New York. 
 William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow : 
 i)ut further particulars I delay till I see you, 
 which will be in two or three weeks. The 
 rest of my stages ara not worth rehearsing : 
 warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I 
 had seen his very grave, what cared I for fish- 
 ing towns or fertile carses .? I slept at the fa- 
 mous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined 
 at Gordon Ca^tle next day with the Duke, 
 Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
 my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
 l{on lid, at Glasgow ; b it you shall hear faithei 
 fiom me befoie I leave Edinburgh. My duty 
 and many comjiiinients from the north, to my 
 mother, and my brotherly compliments to tlie 
 rest. I lave been trying for a birtli for Wil- 
 liam, be; am not likely to be successfuL— - 
 FareweJ.. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 271 
 
 No. L. 
 
 FRO.M MR. R- 
 
 na, Ochtertyre, 22(/ October, 1787. 
 
 *TwAS only yesterday I i?ot Culonel Eiliuon- 
 jtdun's answer, that neitlier the words of 
 DuwH the burn JDavie, nor Dainty Davie (I 
 f(ir;;(it wlilcli vnn nu'iitioned), were written l)y 
 Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet liim, 
 I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. 
 
 Enclosed are tlie inscriptions you requested, 
 and a letter to !\Ir. Young, wliose company and 
 musical talents will, I a:n persuaded, be a feast 
 to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, 
 as to your present i)lan, than he. Receive 
 aJso Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make 
 such a deep impression on your imagination, 
 that I am not without hopes it will beget some- 
 
 " These Inscriptions, so much admiretl by Bums, 
 We below : — 
 
 WRITTEN IX 176S. 
 
 rC'R THE SALICTUM AT OCHTERTYRE. 
 
 SiLUDRiTATis voluptatisquc causa. 
 
 Hoc S.ilictum, 
 
 Palutiem olim infidam, 
 
 Mihi meisnue <le>icc() at exorno. 
 
 Hie, procul ueijotiis strepituque 
 
 Innoeuis dfiiciis 
 
 S;lviilas inter nasceiites reptantii, 
 
 .Xpiumque labnrcs suspicicncli, 
 
 Knior, 
 
 Hie, si fixit Dcus opt. max. 
 
 I'rope hunc fontera pelluciduin. 
 
 Cum qu.vlam jiiveiitutis amico superstite, 
 
 Sa;|ie conquiescam, senex, 
 
 .w<ittntu3 moiiieis, meoque Isetus! 
 
 Sin alitcr — 
 
 /Evique paululum supersit, 
 
 Vdssilvula-, et amici, 
 
 Caeteraque amcena, 
 
 Valete, diuque Ictaraini I 
 
 ENGLISHED. 
 
 To improve both air and soil, 
 
 I dram and decorate tliis plantation of willows, 
 
 W liich was lately an unprofitable marass. 
 
 Here, far from noise and strife, 
 
 1 love to wander. 
 
 Hovi fondly marking the i)rogrcss of my trees, 
 
 So.v studyini; tlie bee, its arts and manners. 
 
 Hero, if it |ilcases Alnui;lity God, 
 
 May I often rest in the evening of li.'e. 
 
 Near that transparent fountain, 
 
 With some surviv iiii; friend of my youSilt 
 
 Contented with a competciicy, 
 
 .And hapjiy with my lot- 
 If vain the>e humble wishes, 
 And life draws near a close, 
 
 Ve trees and friends. 
 
 And wh (tever else is dear, 
 
 FarCAcIi, and long may ye flourish. 
 
 ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE:. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 177-5. 
 
 Miai mei^qne utinam continga< , 
 
 Prope Taichi mAri^inem, 
 
 Avito in Agelio, 
 
 Rene vivere faustequa mori I 
 
 thin^ to delight the public in c,-.ie time : anJ, 
 no doubt, the circun.stances of this little tale 
 might be varied or extended, so as to make 
 part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
 iiiight have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
 conntrymcn were in the tield. His station 
 may be somewhat varied, without losinjj his 
 simplicity and kindness .... A group 
 of characters, male and female, connected with 
 the plot, might be formed from his f.imily, or 
 soine neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- 
 dispensable that the guest should be a man of 
 high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
 which he is engaged, of much importance, un- 
 less to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
 faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
 To introduce state affiirs, would raise the 
 style above comedy ; though a sina'l spice of 
 them would season the ctmveise of swains. 
 Uptm this head I cannot say more than to re- 
 commend the study of the character of Euma'us 
 in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's transla- 
 tion, is an exijuisite and invaluable drawin? 
 froin nature, that would suit some of our coun- 
 try elders of the present day. 
 
 There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
 discovery ; and peace and par-ion may be the 
 reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
 to misguided principles. When you have once 
 thought of a plot, and brought the story into 
 form. Dr. Blacklock, or ]\Jr. II. Mackenzie, 
 may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
 scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
 some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
 These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- 
 sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
 well-meant hints, let ine advise you to study 
 the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, • which 
 is natural without being low, and, utiilLT the 
 trammels of verse, is such as country peo))le in 
 tl-.eir situatiims speak every day. You have 
 only to bring down your own strain a very lit- 
 tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- 
 center all your ideas, which faciht.ites the exe- 
 cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 
 
 1 approve of your plan of retiring from din 
 and dissi[)ation to a farm of very mudeiate size, 
 .-ufficient to find exercise fcjr minil aiul body, 
 but not so great as to absorb better thin;^s. 
 And if s.mie intellectual pur-uit be well cliosen 
 and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
 than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
 me;.t. 
 
 L'pon this subject, as your well-wisher auil 
 admirer, permit iv.e to go a step fartl er. Let 
 
 ENGLISHED. 
 
 On the banks of the Tcith, 
 
 In the small but sweet inheritance 
 
 Of my fathers, 
 
 .May I and mnic live .ii peace. 
 
 And die in joyful hope ! 
 
 These in'oriiitions, and th; trinslatioas, are in tht 
 
 hand-wriliii!; of Mr. !l . 
 
 • Allan Ilamsay, in the Gentle Shephe:d. 
 
272 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 those l)rl;;lit tilcnts wli!(;h the Alinijhty has 
 bestoH'eil on you, \i; hcnct-fiirth einjiloveil ti> 
 the n(il)le piir|ji)se of su|ipi'rtiiig the caii>e of 
 truth and virtue. An iini^^inition so varieil 
 and forcible as yours, m ly <lo this in many dif- 
 ferent modes ; mir is it necessary to be always 
 serious, which you have been to gooil purpose ; 
 good morals may be recommended in a comedy, 
 or k'ven in a sonj. Great allowances are due 
 to the heat and iuexpeiience of youth ; — and 
 few poets can boa-it, like Thomson, of never 
 havi.ig written a line, which, dying, thev would 
 wisli to blot. In particular, I wish you to 
 keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which 
 makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, 
 and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed 
 to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- 
 duals to their sect or p irty. About modes of 
 faith, serious and excelletit men have always 
 difTered ; and there are certain curious ques- 
 tions, wliicli may aff.ird scope to men of meta- 
 physical he uls, b'.it selilom mend the heart or 
 temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- 
 man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- 
 cur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
 me for these hints. 
 
 Well ! what think you of good lady G. ? 
 It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so ItkHs- 
 tiiictly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
 sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- 
 pitaliiy and elevation of mind were conspicu- 
 ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I 
 shall be glad to hear fiou! you at times, if it 
 Were no more than to show that you take the 
 eiFusiotis of an obscure man like me in good 
 part. I heg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. 
 Bljcklock,* 
 
 And am. Sir, 
 
 Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 J. RA.MSAY. 
 
 Nc Lf. 
 
 FROM MR. W 
 
 • TALE OF OMERO.V CAMERON. 
 
 Iw one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland 
 ami the L irds of the Isles, Alex^iruler Stewart, Karl of 
 Mar (.1 distiiipuishe.l character in the tifreenth cen- 
 tury), and Donald siewail, Karl of Caithness, had the 
 conini.nul of the ro\al army. Tliey marched into 
 LoehabiT, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don. 
 aids, commanded by Donald Halloch, and' posted upon 
 an arm of the sea which intersects that conntrv. Hav. 
 iiig timely 'melligence of their approach, the iiisnr- 
 penLs got off precipitately to the opposite shore in their 
 turaghs, or boats covcrel with skms. The king's 
 troo|K cne.mipe.l n f ill ecurity; but theM'l")onalds, 
 rctionnig about midinglU. surprised them, killed the 
 Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the wliole 
 army. 
 
 The Karl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any 
 utteii'lanis, and made for the more hilly part of lh<? 
 comitry. In the course of his tiight he came to the 
 house of a poor man, uh^e name was Omeron Came- 
 r'.it. The landlord welcomed his guest with the nt-. 
 inosl kindness; b it, as ihe.c was no meat in the house, 
 he told his wife he w(nild directly kill Maol Otlluir, \ 
 to r.u-d the stranger. " K'll our only cow !" said she, 
 "our own and our little' dren's princiiia! siijiport !" 
 Moru attentive, however. ^.. the present call for hospi- 
 tality, than to the reiAonstraiices of his wife, or the 
 fii'ure exi^'encies of his familv, he killed the eoiv. 
 The best and tcmlcrtst parts weie immediately roasted 
 
 * Moot Odhar, (. t. the brown humble cow. | 
 
 Athoh House, 13M Sufte'nher, 17S-. 
 YoL'a letter of the .5th reached me only oj 
 the 11th; what awkward route it hid takeu ! 
 know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure 
 of writing to you in the manner vo i proposed, 
 as you must have left Dundee before a lerter 
 could possibly have got there. I hope your 
 disappointment on being forced to leave us \ra» 
 as gieat as appeared from ytmr expressions. 
 This is the best consolation for the greatness 
 of ours. 1 still think with vexatiim on that 
 ill-timed indi'-position which lost me a dav's 
 enjoyment of a man (I speak without flatteiy) 
 possessed of those very dispositions and talents 
 
 I most admire ; one 
 
 . . . . You know how anxious the Duke 
 wa? to have another day of you, and to let Mr. 
 Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation 
 as the best dainty with which he could enter- 
 tain an honoured guest. You know liliewise 
 the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
 but perhaps you do not know the si hems 
 which they devised, with tlicir usual fertility 
 in resources. One of the servants was sent to 
 your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull otT a 
 shoe from one of his horses, but the ambus'' 
 
 before the fire, and plenty of iinirich, or Highlani* 
 soup, prepared to conclude their mial. — The whol- r*- 
 niily and their gnest ate lieartily, and the evemiiu' was 
 silent as usual, in telling talcs and singing scmgs 1 e- 
 siileaL-hecrl'ul tire. l!ed-timc cnmej ()n'.ei\.n hnishcd 
 the hearth, spread the cow hide- iijion it, and de-iroil 
 the stranger to he down. The E.irl wrapped his pl.iid 
 about him, and slept souml on the hide, whiM the 
 family betook Iheinsclvcs to rest in a corner of the 
 same room. 
 
 Next morning they had a plt^nliful hrcakfnsr, and at 
 his departure his guest askcil Cameron, il he knei" 
 whom he had cnterUiined? " Ymi may prubatiiv," 
 answered he, " be one of the king's olTiccis ; hut who- 
 ever you ate, you came here in distrcs;, and herr it 
 was my duly to protect you. To what my cottage 
 aft'irded, you are most welcome." — " Vo'nr guest, 
 then," replied the other, " is the Earl of Mai : and if 
 hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not tocome 
 to the castle of Kildnimiiiic." — " M\ blessing be "ith 
 you I 1 oble stranger." said Omcion; " if 1 am ever in 
 distress, you shall soon see me." 
 
 The royal army was soon after re-assemblcd ; and the 
 insuigents, finding thcmschcs unable to make l:c,-:d 
 ag linst It, di-]H'rscd. The M'Donalds, however, got 
 notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and 
 forced him to lly the country, lie came with his wite 
 and children to'the gate of Kildrnmmie Cnslle, :ind 
 required admittance with a confidence which han ly 
 corresponded with his h.diit anil appearance. The 
 porter lold him rudely, his l.nrdsliip was at dinner, aid 
 mujt not be disturbed. Hi- bcaine noisy aid iiiipor- 
 tun.itc: at last his iiaine wasahnounced. Upon hear- 
 ingihat it wasOnipron Camco.n, the Eail st.irteil from 
 his S'.-at, and is said to have CNelaimed in asort of |ioc. 
 tical otanr.a, " I w.asanight in Ins house, and fircj 
 most plentifully: but linked of clothes w.is iiiv bid 
 Omeron from Hreugach is an excellent fellow !" He 
 was mtrodiiicl into the grcnt hall, and received with 
 the welcome he deserved- Up, in hearing ho.v I e had 
 been tr- ateit, ihe Earl gave him a four mcrk land ncai 
 thecasile; and it is said there are still in the countrj 
 a number of Cainerons descended of this llighlanc 
 £ urns us* 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 271^ 
 
 hilc'd. Proh minim ! The driver was incor- 
 ruptiUt, Your VLMsi's have f^ivt-n lis iiiui-li 
 dfliijlit, iiml I think will pinduce their ]>io;icr 
 effect.* Tlii'y |iroi!iioi.'d a ])i)\vi'rful one iiii- 
 mi'iiiatcly ; for the morning after I read tlieni, 
 we all set out in proee^'i.ni to the Bruar, where 
 none oF the ladies had bee » these seven in 
 eii;ht years, and a;.^iin enjuyed tliera theie. 
 The p.i'^sj^i.'s we nio^t admired are the descrip- 
 tion of the 'lying troiits. Of the high fall 
 " twisting strensjth," is a happy picture of the 
 upper part. The characters of the birds, 
 " mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The 
 benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safe- 
 ty I highly approve. The two stanzas be- 
 ginnini,' " Here haply too" — darkly dashing is 
 most descriptively Ossiaaic. 
 
 Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of 
 mentioning an incident which happened yester- 
 day at tlie Bi uar. As we |)assed the door of a 
 most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied 
 to us With ioiks of such povei ty, and sucii con- 
 tentment, that each of us iuvolunt.irily gave her 
 some money. She was astonished, and in the 
 confusion of her gratitude, in'-ited us in. Miss 
 C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy, 
 entered — but, good God, what wretchedness ! 
 It w IS a cow-house — her own cottage had been 
 burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood 
 peifectly sihut — looked at I\I;ss C. then to the 
 inonry, and burst into tears — Miss C. joined 
 her, anil, with a vehemence of sensibility, took 
 out her purse, and emptied it into the old wo- 
 man's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet 
 accomplished girl of seventeen in so angelic a 
 bitUiition ! Take your pencil and paint her in 
 ynur most glomng tints. — Hold her up amidst 
 the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the 
 icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, 
 witiii'Ut ever feeling one generous, one great 
 cniotiiin. 
 
 Two days after you left us, I went to Tay- 
 mouth. It is a chaiining place, but still I 
 ihink art has been too busy. Let me be your 
 Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you 
 will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked 
 nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
 Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 
 gave me most delight. But I think the last 
 has not been taken proper ;ulvantage of. The 
 hermitage is too nmch in the common-puce 
 style. Every body exp"cts the couch, the book- 
 press, a d the hairy gown. The Duke's idea 
 I think better. A rich and elegant apartment 
 is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine 
 horrors. 
 
 I must now beg your permission (unless you 
 have some other design) to have your veises 
 printed. They ajipear to me extremely cor- 
 
 rect, and some particular stanzas wojiM give 
 univeisil pleasure. Let me know, however, if 
 you incline to give them any farther touches. 
 
 Were they in some of the public papers, w« 
 could more easily disseminate them among our 
 trienils, which many of us are anxious to do. 
 
 N\'hen you |)ay your promised visit to the 
 Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr. and .Mrs. Graham of 
 B ilgowan beg to li.ive the pleasure of conduct- 
 ing you to the bower of Bessy licU and Mary 
 (iray, which is now in their possession. Tlie 
 Durhess would give any consideration fur an- 
 other sight of \»)ur letter to Dr. Moore ; we 
 must fall upon s(Miie methori ,f procuring it for 
 her. I shall enclose this to our mutual fiiend 
 
 Dr. B , who mav forward it. I shall be 
 
 extremely happy to hear from you at your first 
 leisure. Enclose your letter in a cover address- 
 ed to the Duke of Atholo, Dunkeld. 
 God bless you, 
 
 J W . 
 
 No. LIL 
 
 FRO:\I .AIR. A- 
 
 :\i- 
 
 siR, 6th October, 1TS7. 
 
 n.vviNo just arriveil from abroad, I had youf 
 poems put into my hands: the ple.isure I r». 
 ceived in reading them, has induce I me to »o. 
 licit your lilierty to publish them anumgst a 
 number of our countrymen in America, (tt 
 which |)lace I shall shortly return j, and wher« 
 they will be a treat of such excellence, tkit i 
 would be an injury to your merit and their feel- 
 ing to prevent their appeariiig in public. 
 
 Receive the following hastilv-writtaa liuei 
 from a well-wisher. 
 
 Fair fa' your pen, my dainty Rob^ 
 
 Your lei-om way o' writing. 
 Whiles, glowiing o'er vour warks I sob, 
 
 Vt'hilcs laugh, whiles downright gieeting 
 Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel, 
 
 Theii words are wondrous bonny. 
 But guid Scotch drink the truth dues si.^ 
 
 It is as guid as ony 
 
 Wi*' you this day. 
 
 Poor Mailie, troth, I'll, nae but think* 
 
 Yc (lid the poor thing wrang. 
 To leave her ttther'il on the brmk 
 
 Of st.mk sae wide and lang ; 
 Her dyitvg woids upbraid ye sair, 
 
 C'ly fye on. your neglect ; 
 Guid f.iitli ! gin ye had got play fair 
 
 This dttid had stretch'd your neck 
 
 That mounifu' da^ 
 
 • •■ The humble petition of 13ruar-W«tcr to ^.e 1 B"^„.Y'^'"' ""^' ^'"^ •'"^ ^ f*"' fa"'» 
 Duke of Athole." _ „ I Wi sic d wmsome baroje, 
 
 S 3 
 
27* 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Whi pront Ml' st'ir!^ bcj^jn to (l;iut, 
 
 And tik' liiiii by the giirdie ; 
 it SL'ts na ony liiwhmd chiel, 
 
 Like you to vtrse cr ihynie, 
 For few like you can fley the de'il, 
 
 And skolp aukl wither'd Time 
 On ony day. 
 
 It's fair to praise ilk canty callan, 
 
 X?e lie of puiest fame, 
 If Ke but tries to raise as Allan, 
 
 Aukl Scotia's bonny name ; 
 To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, 
 
 Iktter 1 canni gi'e. 
 And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, 
 
 Accept these lines frae me, 
 
 Upo* this day. 
 
 Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 
 
 Frae that e'en to the line, 
 In ilka place wb.ere Scotsmen bleed, 
 
 There shall your hardship shine; 
 I!k honest chiel \\ ha reads your buick. 
 
 Will there aye mutt a brither, 
 Fe lang; may seek, and lang will look, 
 
 Ere he fin' sic anitlier 
 
 On ony day. 
 
 Feart that my cruicket verse should spalrge 
 
 Bome wark of wordie inak', 
 J'se iiae mair o' this head enlarge. 
 
 But now my farewell tak' : 
 Lang Biay you live, lang may you write. 
 
 And sing like English Wcischell, 
 This prayer I do myself indite, 
 
 From >y.uurs still, A • M ., 
 
 This very day. 
 
 No, LIII. 
 FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 
 
 TO THE 
 
 REVEREND W. YOUNG, at Erskine. 
 
 LEAR Sin, Ochtcrtijre, 22d Oct. 1787. 
 
 Allow me to iutroduc*; Mr. Burns, whose 
 pneu's, I dare say, have given you much plea- 
 t-urc. Upon a ])ers()nal acquaintjnce, I doubt 
 tot, you will relish the man as much as his 
 works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- 
 lectual ore. ][c has heard some of our High- 
 land liiinic.'s or songs jjlayed, wliich delighted 
 hini so much that he has made words to one 
 (IV two of them, which will render these more 
 popular As lie has thought of l)cing in your 
 'i'laiter, I am persuaded you will not think it 
 labiHir lost to indulge the |ioet of nature with a 
 vauiple of those sweet artless melodies, which 
 only want to be murrivd (in MiLoti's phia.-e) 
 to congeiiial vords. 1 wisli we could conjure 
 
 up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into OUT 
 bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those ne- 
 glected airs, which do not suit the fastidious 
 musicians of the present hour. But if it h» 
 true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the 
 Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof 
 of their taste j — this, however, is going out of 
 my province. You can slow Mr. Burns the 
 manner of singing these same luhiigs ; and, il 
 he can humour it in words, I do not despair ol 
 seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the 
 original style, round a napkin. 
 
 I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
 dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
 greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
 one has so few opportunities (;f cultivating ac- 
 quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, 
 some time or other, to have the pleasure of 
 beating up your quarters at Erskine, and ol 
 hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile 
 I beg to be remembered to Mes.-rs. Boog lad 
 Mylne. 
 
 If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on 
 
 our friend IMr. Stuart, who, 1 presume, does 
 not dread the frown of his diucesun. 
 I am, Dear Sir, 
 Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 J. RAMSAY 
 
 No. LIV. 
 FROM MR. RAMSAY, 
 
 TO 
 
 DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 DEAR SIR, Ochlerti/re, 21ih Oct. 1787. 
 
 I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and givfi 
 you many thanks for giving me an opportunity 
 of conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
 will, I doubt not, let you know what passe<l be- 
 tween us on the subject of my hints, to which I 
 have made additions, in a letter se;it him t'other 
 (lay to your care. 
 
 You may tell Mr, Burns, when you see him, 
 
 that Colonel Edmonstoune t(/ld me t'other day, 
 lliat his cousin. Colonel George Crawfoid, was 
 iio poit, but a great singer of songs ; but that 
 bis eldest brother Robert (by a former mail iige) 
 had a great turn that way, having written the 
 words of Ike Hush ulioon Traquair, and 
 Twetdside. That tlie Mary to whom it was 
 addressed was Jlary Stewart of the Castleiiiilk 
 finiily, afterwards wife of Mr. John Uelehes. 
 Tiie Colonel never saw Robeit Crawford, though 
 he was at his burial fifty-tive yea's aro. Ha 
 was a pretty young man, and had liveil 1 >iiir i.T 
 1 ranee. Lady Ankei ville is his niece, and maj 
 know more of his poetical vein. Ad epitiph 
 
CORRESPONDEN'Cii. 
 
 276 
 
 Tir.nn.T lil<e me nii'^Tit moralize upon the v.inity 
 of liCi'. ;iMil tlie vanity of those swert rffn^ioMs. 
 — Hut I liavc liarilly room to otfer my l)ost com- 
 pliiiiiiiits to Mis. BliU'klock ; and I am, 
 Dear Doctor, 
 Your most oheilient humble servant, 
 
 J. RAMSAY. 
 
 No. LV 
 
 FROM MR. JOHN lAIURDOCII. 
 
 tiY DEAR SIR, L'tndnn, 2Sth Oct. 17S7. 
 
 As my friend, Mr. Brown, is goinc^ from this 
 [jlace to your neighhourhnod, I emhraee the op- 
 portunity of tellin;! you that I am yet alive, to- 
 Vralily uell, and always in cx|)ectation of being 
 l)etter. By the much-valued letters before me, I 
 see that it was my duty to have i,nven you this in- 
 telliijence aliout three vears aiul nine months a^o ; 
 and have nothin;i; to allej;e r.s an excuse but that 
 we |)oor, busy, l)nstliiig bodies in London, are so 
 much taken up with the Vdrious pursuits in which 
 we are here en^;aged, that we seldom think of 
 any person, creature, place, or thin;;^, that is ab- 
 sent. But this is not altoijether the case with 
 me; fiu- I often think of you, and Hirnie, and 
 I{)issel, and an nnj'athi»iud dipt/i, ami lowa/i 
 Iriinstiine, all in the same minute, althoutjh you 
 Hnd they ai'e (as I suppose) at a con»iderable dis- 
 tance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleas- 
 ing thought, that you and I shall meet some 
 time or other either in Scotland or Engl.ind. 
 If ever vou come hither, you will have the satis- 
 faction of seeing your poems relished by the Ca- 
 ledonians in London, full as much as they can 
 be by those of Edinburgh, We frequently re- [ 
 jie.it some of your verses in our Caledonian so- 
 ciety ; aiid you may believe, that I am not a | 
 bttlt vain that I have had some share in culti- 
 vating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- 
 tain that vou were the author, till a few days a- 
 po, when I m ide a visit to JSIrs. Hill, Dr. 
 IM'Comb's eldest (hur^hfer, who lives in town, 
 and who told me that she was inforined of it by 
 a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom 
 yoM had been in company when in that capital. 
 
 Pray let me know if you have any intention 
 of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis? It 
 would afford matter for a large poem. Here you 
 would hive an opportunity of indulging your 
 vein in the study of maidiind, perhaps to a gre it- 
 er degree than in any city ujion the face of the 
 globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you 
 kuow are a collection of all nations, kindreds, 
 and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre 
 ot their commerce. 
 
 took such uncommon pains to in.stil into your 
 minds from your earliest inf.incy ' May yo.l livE 
 as he did ! if you do, y(ui can never be unhappy. 
 I feci myself grown serious all at once, ai;d af 
 fected in a manner I cannot describe. I sh.i'! 
 only add, that it is one of the greatest |)lea'^uifS 
 I |)romise myself before I die, that of seeing the 
 family of a man whose memory I revere more 
 than that of any j)erson that ever I Wiis ac- 
 quainteil with. 
 
 I am, my dear Friend, 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 JOHN MURDOCH. 
 
 No. LVL 
 
 FROM lAIR. 
 
 SIR, Gordon Castle, Sist October, 17S7. 
 
 If you were not sensible of your fiult as v.-eil 
 as of your loss in leaving this jila'-e so sudiU'nlv, 
 I should condemn you to starve upon cauld had 
 Uiv ae tinnnont at least ; and as for Dick La- 
 tine,* your travelling companion, without ban- 
 ning him wi' a" the curses contained in your let- 
 ter, (which he'll no value a bawbee), I should 
 give him nought but Stra^bogie custucks to chew 
 for sax onks, or aye until he was as sensible of 
 his error as you seem to be of yours. 
 
 Present my respectful com])!iments to Mrs. 
 Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
 rest o' her amiable childien. May the Father 
 of the universe bless you ail with those princi- 
 ples and dispositioi. that the best of parenta 
 
 Your song I showed without producing the 
 author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be 
 the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of 
 it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson 
 in Badenoch, who sings Morag and all other 
 Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- 
 corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
 in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is 
 in cumpiny y^.ih a great many other poems and 
 versL's, some of the wi iters of which are no less 
 eminent for their political than fur their poetical 
 abilities. When t!ie Duchess was informed that 
 you were the author she wished you had written 
 tile versus in Scotch. 
 
 Any letter directed to me here will come t« 
 hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, 
 it will likewi>e ccune free ; that is, as longastlia 
 Duke is in this country. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 
 
 No. LVIL 
 
 FROM THE REV. JOHN SKLN'NER. 
 
 SIR, Linxhart, Wtli Nov. 1787. 
 
 YfUR kind return without date, but of post« 
 mark October 25th, came to my hand only thij 
 day ; and. to testify my punctuality to my ptn 
 
 • Mr, Xicoiu 
 
276 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 etic cng.igement, I sit down imm,?rfiately to an- 
 swer it in kind. Your ai-kr.owledgnient of my 
 poor but just encomiums on your surprising ge- 
 niu!=, ami your ojiinion of my rhyming excur- 
 sions, are lioth, I think, by far too high. Tlie 
 difference between our two tracts of education 
 and wavs of life is entirely in your favour, and 
 gives you the jjreference every manner of way. 
 ' know a classical education will not cieate a 
 veisifying t.i>te, but it mightily improves and as- 
 sists it ; and though, where both these meet, 
 there may sometimes be ground for approbation, 
 yet where taste appe;irs single, as it were, and 
 neitlier cramped nor sujjported iiy acquisition, 
 I will always sustain the ju.-ticeof its prior d.iiin 
 to aj»})l luse. A small portion of taste, this way, 
 I have liad almost from childhood, especially in 
 thv old Scottish dialect : and it is as old a thing 
 as I remember, my fondness for C/irist kirk o' 
 the Giien, which 1 had by heart ere I was 
 twelve years of age, and wiiich, some years ago, 
 I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I 
 was young, I dabbled a good deal in these thmgs ; 
 but, on getting the black go»vn, I gave it pretty 
 much over, till my daughters grew up, who, be- 
 ing all good singers, plagued nie for words to 
 some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted 
 these effusions, which have made a public appear- 
 ance beyond my expectations, and contrary to 
 my intentions, at the same time that I hope there 
 is nothing to be found in them uncharacter- 
 istic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would 
 aluays wish to se.- respected. 
 
 .'Vs to the assistance you propose from nic in 
 the ur.iiertaking you are engaged in,' I am sorry 
 1 cannot give it so far as I could wish, anil you, 
 perhaps, expect. IMy daughters, who were my 
 oiilv intelligencers, are all /i;r/s /'jm'V/a/c, and 
 tile old woinm their mother h is lost that t iste. 
 There are two from my own pen, which 1 might 
 cive you, if worth tiie while. One to the old 
 Scotch tune of Dumbiirlons Drums. 
 
 The other pel haps you have met with, as 
 viuir noble fi ieiid the Duchess has, I am told, 
 heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
 brother parson in her neighbourhood, to accoin- 
 mo.late a new Highland reel for the Marquis's 
 biith-day, to the stanza of 
 
 « Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 
 
 If this last answer your purpose, you niay 
 have it from a lirother of mine, 3Ir. James Skin- 
 ner, writer in Edinburgh, who, 1 believe, can 
 give the music too. 
 
 There is another humorous thing, I have heard 
 said to be ilone by the Catholic priest Geddes, 
 and which iut my taste mucl- : 
 
 '■ TL.'re was a weewifeikie was coming frae the 
 
 ftir. 
 Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her 
 
 meikle care ; 
 
 It took upo' the wifie's heart, and slie began tt 
 
 spew, 
 And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou 
 / iL-islt, §"e. ^c. 
 
 I liave heard of another new composition, Dy 
 a young ploughman of my acquaintance, thai 1 
 am vastly jileased with, to the tune of The hu- 
 mours of Gkii, which I fear won't do, as the 
 music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have 
 mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
 readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my 
 mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
 in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
 have only to notify your mind, and what you 
 want of the above shall be sent you. 
 
 Rleintime, while you are thus publiclv, I 
 may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
 proper and piercing weapon. Fronj what 1 
 have seen of you is already, I am inclined to 
 hope f'U- 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 miniled : 
 whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one of 
 the many, what comes will be admired. Ad- 
 miration will produce regard, and regard will 
 leave an impression, especially whm cxamph 
 gi.es along. 
 
 Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
 Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad 
 For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 
 And sic like fiy, 
 JIaun aye be harland in their trade, 
 And sae maim I. 
 
 Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, 
 and in my other character, all happiness and 
 heavenly direction, 
 
 I remain, with esteem, 
 
 Youi sincere fr-'^nd, 
 
 JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 • •■ A plnn of publishing a completa collection of 
 <«ot'Jsh bongs," Ate. 
 
 No. LVIII. • 
 
 FROM MRS. ROSS. 
 
 SIR, Kilravock Castle, SOth Nov. 1787. 
 
 I HOPE you will do me the justice to beliere, 
 that it was no defect in gratitude for your 
 punctual performance of your paiting promise, 
 that has made me so long in ackn. ivlcdging it, 
 but merely the difficulty I had in getting the 
 Hluhlaiid songs you wished to have, accurately 
 noted : they are at last enclosed : but how shaL 
 I convey along with them those graces they ac- 
 quired from tiie melodious voice of one of the 
 fiir spirits of the hill of Kildruuimie ! These i 
 mu-t leave to your imaginatiijn to siipjjly. I 
 has powers sufficient to transport you to hi'f 
 
CCRRESPONDEXCE. 
 
 277 
 
 ji<U>. to rccill her at rents, an J to make tliem 
 still viDrate in the ears of men ory. To l-.er I 
 etr. inilol)t(;(l for se;ting the enclnseil notes. 
 The/ are clothed with " thnuiilits that bre.ithe, 
 anil tcorils th;.t hurii." These, however, heiiijj 
 in ai\ nnknoirn ^K^\\'n^f■ to yo", you must ai^iiin 
 have recoiiise to *h\t same fertile iinacjinatioii 
 of y.iars to interpret them, anil suppose a lover's 
 (iescription of the heiiities of an adored mistress 
 — why did I say uiikiiovvn ? The langnaj^e of 
 love is an universal one, that seenw to have 
 escaped the eotifusion of B^bel, and to be un- 
 derstooil l)v all nations. 
 
 I rejoii-e to find tliat ynii were pleased with 
 so m my thinj^s, persons, and places in yonr 
 northern lour, heeause it leads me to hope von 
 may ho induced to revisit them ajriin. That 
 
 the old L..st!e of K k, and its iiihahitants, 
 
 were amontfst these, adds to my satisfiction. I 
 am even vain enim<!;h to admit your very fiat- 
 terinc; application of the line of Addison's ; at 
 anv rate, allow nie to helieve that " friendship 
 will maintain the 2'-ound she has occupied" iu 
 
 nicnits -^f ,I(ih, of afl1xtion-!)carir.!j memory, 
 when tlicv sat down with him seven .lays aitd 
 seven nij;hts, and spake not a word. 
 
 I am natural'y of a superstitious cast, anrt a« 
 soon as inv wonder-scareil im i'.;inatlr)n re;;ained 
 its consciousness and rcsumeil its functions, I 
 ca>t ahont what this in inia of yours mii,'ht por- 
 tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
 of possibility ; and several events, p;reat in their 
 mai;tiitu('.c, and important in their consequences, 
 oci-urred to my fincy. The downfil of the 
 conclave, or the iru^hius; of the cork rumps ; a 
 
 ducal coronet to Lord Georsje G and the 
 
 p'-i^estant interest ; or St. Peter's keys to . . 
 
 You want to know how I come on. I am 
 just in stutn quo, or, not to insult a gentleman 
 with my Latin, " in auld use an<l wont." The 
 noble Earl of olcncairn took me by the hand 
 to-dav, and interoted himself in my concerns, 
 
 with a goodness like that benevolent being, 
 both our hearts, in -pite of absence, anil that, whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
 when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of, stronger pioof of the immortality of the soul, 
 a score of years standing ; and on this footing, ' than any that philosophy ever prodaced. A 
 consider me as interested in the future course of mind like his can never die. Lot the worship- 
 your fame, so spleniliilly commenced. Any ful squire, H. L. or the reverend M iss J. i\L 
 communications of the progress of your muse go into their piimitive nothing. At best they 
 will be received with s>t-'at gratitude, and the me but ill-dige'<ted lumps of chaos, only one of 
 fire of your genius will have power to warm, them strongly tinged with hituuiinous particles 
 even US, frozen sisters of the north. and su'phuretnis effluvia. Dut my noble pa- 
 
 Tbe .friends of K k and K c \ tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimi- 
 
 unite in cordial regards to you. When you in- ty, and the generous throb of benevtdence, shall 
 ciine to figure either in your idea, suppose some look on with princely eye at " the war of ele- 
 of us re iduig your poems, and some of us singing ' ineiits, the wreck of matter, aad the crush of 
 your songs, and n «- little Hugh looking at your v,-orlds,'" 
 picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We re- 
 member Mr. N. with as mu( n good will as we 
 do any body, who hurried Mr. Burns from us. 
 
 Farewell, Sir, I can only contribute the j^^ following fragments are all that now ex- 
 wi'/<)u-\s mite to the esteem and admir.itiim ex- j^^ „f twelve oi fourteen of the fine-t letters 
 cited by your merits and genius, but this I give jj^ ,{ Burns ever wrote. In an evil hour, the 
 U she <lid, with all my heart— being sincerely originals were thrown into the (ire by the 
 VHurs, E. R. late .Mrs. Adair of Scarborough; the C/tar- 
 
 litte so often mentioned in this (orrespon- 
 dence. and the lacly to whom " Jhe Jiitnkt 
 of the JJtvon'' is addressed. E. 
 
 No. LX. 
 
 TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, 
 (now »irs. hav, of Edinburgh). 
 
 No. LIX. 
 
 TO. 
 
 -DALRYMPLE, Esq. OF 
 ORANGEFIELD. 
 
 I 
 
 BEAR SIR, Edinhvrffh, 1787. 
 
 1 scpposE tne devil is so elated with his suc- 
 ress with you, that he is determined by a coup 
 de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
 once, in making you a poet. I broke ojien the 
 letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; 
 
 and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- the heart. 1 am determined to pay Charlotte 
 Mifthey were very well : but when I saw at a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some 
 
 Sept. 26. 17S7. 
 SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
 soti<fS ; I would not wait lor the second num- 
 ber ; I hate deliys in little marks of friend- 
 ship, as I hate dissimulation in the laiiKuatje of 
 
 the bottom a name that I shall ever value will 
 grateful respect, " 1 gapit wide I ut naethlng 
 •l>aic" I was nearly as much struck as tlie 
 
 glorious old Scotch air, in number second.* 
 • of the Seoli Musical Museum. 
 
 JJ 
 
278 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 You will see a smal attempt on a shred of pa- 
 per in the hook ; nut tliough Dr. Blackhjck 
 comniendwl it very hijrhly, I am not just sutis- 
 6ed with it myself. I intend to make it de- 
 gcription of some kind : the whining cant of 
 kive, except in real par.sion, and hy a masterly 
 nand, is to me as iiisulTerahle as the preaching 
 6«nt of old Fatlier Snieaton, Whig-minister at 
 Kdmaurs. Darts, fl.imes, cnpids, 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 Tullochgo- 
 runi, John of Badenyon, &c. I suppose you 
 know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
 pjttic c(Mnpliment 1 ever got. 1 will send you 
 a copy of it. 
 
 1 go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to 
 wait on Rlr. Miller about hi.s farms. — Do tell 
 that to Lady IM'Kenzie, that she may give me 
 credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell 
 with ))rudence." What a blessed fire-side ! 
 How hapi)v should I be to pass a winter even- 
 ing under their venerable roof! and smoke a 
 pipe of tobacco, or drink water-giuel with them ! 
 What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
 giavity of phiz ' Wiiat sage remarks on the 
 ood-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
 cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
 we stiaitened the fire-side circle, on the u>es of 
 the poker and tongs ! 
 
 JNliss N. is very well, and begs to he remem- 
 bered in the old way to you. 1 used all my 
 eloquence, all the [lersuasive flourishes of the 
 hand, ami heart-melting modulation 
 
 B' 
 
 our family), I am determined, if rt.y Dum^riei 
 business fail me, to return info partnership witli 
 him, and at our leisure take another farm ia 
 the neighbourhood. I assure you 1 look fot 
 high compliments from you and Charlotte on 
 this very sage instance of iny unfathomable, in- 
 compiehensihh; wisdom. Talking of Charlotte,, 
 I must tell her that I have to the best of my 
 power, jiaid her a poetic compliment, now com- 
 ])letcd. The air is admirable : true ol 1 High- 
 land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song whicb 
 an Inverness laily sung me when I w \s there; 
 and I was so charmed with it that I begged hei 
 to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it 
 had never been set before. I a.n fixed that it 
 shall go in Johnson's next number; so Cha,.- 
 lotte and you nt-ed not spend your precious timt 
 in contradicting me. I won't saj the poetry is 
 first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very 
 well : and, what is not always the case with 
 compliments to ladies, it is not oidy sincere but 
 just. 
 
 {Here follows the song of " The Banks of thl 
 Devon.") 
 
 in my power, to urge litr out to Ilerveiston, 
 but all in vain. I\Iy rhetoric seems quite to 
 have lost its eflct iin the lovely half of man- 
 kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale 
 of other vears." — In my con>cierice I believe 
 that niv heart has been >o o!t on fire that it is 
 absolutely vitrified. 1 look on the sex with 
 suiiiething like the admiration with which I re- 
 gaid the starry sky in a frosty December night. 
 I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
 shij) ; I am charmed with the wild but grace- 
 ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish 
 them good night. I mean this with resi)ect to 
 a ceitaiii passion diint f iii tu Vhoiineur d'etre 
 vn mi^eriib/e esrhive : as for fiieiidsl.ip, you 
 and Charlotte have uiven me ])leaMire, perma- 
 nent pleasure, " wliiih the woild cannot ^ive, 
 nor take away," 1 hope; and which u'U ou. 
 Lst the heavens and the earth. 
 
 Edmhnrrih, Nov. 21, 1 7S7. 
 I HAVE one vexatious fiult to the kiudly- 
 welcome, well filled sheet which 1 owe to your 
 and Charlotte's goodness — it ccmtains too ui\,ch 
 sense, sentiment, ami good-sjielling. It :s im- 
 possible that even you f v>, whom 1 declare to 
 f periods j my God, I will givi cred't f..r a.-.y ■■}.:z'-''>' of 
 
 "Without (lute. 
 I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit 
 m^re shall be decided about a farm inthatcoun 
 
 e 
 
 1 
 
 an 
 
 excellence the sex are capi'de of attaining, it is 
 impossible you can go on to correspond at that 
 rate ; so like those who, Shenstme says, retire 
 because they have made a good speech, I shall 
 after a few letters hear no more o*" you. I in 
 sist that you sh.ill write whati-ver kmiics first 
 what ytm see, what you read, what you hear, 
 what you adn.ire, what you dislike, ti ilL-s, bag- 
 atelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a cm iitr, 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 ai:y : 
 though thank heaven I have found at last two 
 girls who can be luN-.iviantly happy in tluir 
 own minds and with one another, without ihat 
 commonly necessary appendage to female bl.ss, 
 
 A I.QVrK. 
 
 Char'.c*.te and you are just two favourite rest- 
 ing places for my soul in her wanderings through 
 the weary, thorny wddeiness of this world- 
 God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : i 
 gloiy in being a Pott, and I want to be thoughl 
 a wise man — I would foniily be generous, aiii 
 I wish to he rich. AUer all. I am afiaid I am 
 a lost subject. " Si;me folk h.ie a hunlic o 
 fauts, an' I'm but a m'er-do-weel." 
 
 ry 1 am rathi-i bipLl..ssiu it; but as my j ^IftiTiioon To close the nul.mcholy refl.-c- 
 
 jrothrr is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, tioiis at the end of last sheet, 1 shall just ad.l t 
 e.xceedin-ly prudent, scd) i m n. ((piilities piece of ilevotion ciminion'y known in CaiTick. 
 lich are only a jounger l;r..ther's foituue in by the title of the •' Wabster's grace." 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 279 
 
 '' f!f>nis say Trere (liiovo^, nnd o'en »ae arc \vc, 
 Some S1V Wc' lie, ana e fii sae ili) U'e ! 
 Guide f(irj:(.' u<, iinci 1 Hope sue will he! 
 V[t and to )our louiiis, lads." 
 
 EiUnhurgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 
 
 I AM here under the care ot" asurfjeon, with 
 1 hniisfd HtiiI) extfnd'cd on a ciishiiui ; and tlie 
 tints of my mind vyin;^ with the livid honor 
 prv-iedint( a midnight tluimifr-storin. A drun- 
 ken coachman was tlie c.iiise of the fust, and 
 inconiparalily the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- 
 dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed 
 a "Quadruple Alliance" to p;uarantee the other. 
 I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow- 
 ly Letter. 
 
 I have taken tooth and nail to the hihle, and 
 am got through the five hooks of Mosos, and 
 hilt w.iy in Joshua It is really a glorious 
 book. I sent for my bookbinder 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 eleg.mce of his craft. 
 
 I would give my best song to my worst ene- 
 my, I mean the merit of making it, to have you 
 and Ch.irlotte by n^-. You are angelic crea- | 
 tures, and would pour oil and wine into mv 
 wounded spirit. 
 
 I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of i 
 the Divon," which present with mv best wishes '. 
 to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills,'" you shall i 
 probably have next week lor yourself. None of 
 your tine soeeches ! 
 
 banners of iinagir, itioH: «liim, c.ipiice, anij 
 passion; anil the heavy -armed veteran regulars 
 of wisdom, pruc..nce ami fore-thought, move so 
 very, very slow, that I am almost iu a state of 
 perpetual warfare, and alas ! fre(iuent defeat. 
 There are just t^vo creatures ihit I would envy, 
 a horse in his wild state tiaveising the foresti 
 of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert 
 shores of Knrope. The oiit; has not a uisfa 
 without cnjoymeut, the other has neither wish 
 nor fear. 
 
 E'linhiirnh, Dec. 19, 17S7. 
 I BEGIN' this letter in answer to yours of the 
 I7fli current, which is not yet cold since i read 
 it. The atnio-pbere of my soul is vastly clearer 
 than when I wrote yiii last For the liist time, 
 yesterday I cros^eil the room on crutches. It 
 Would do your heart good too see my baidship, 
 not on my ptutic, but on my on/ten stilts; 
 throwing my best leg with an air ! and with 
 r.s much hilarity in my gait and countenance, 
 as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed 
 ridge, enjoying the fiagrance of the refreshed 
 earth after the long-expected shower ! 
 
 Editihnrgh, Ulrrch It, ]7f<8. 
 I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
 be pleased with the news when I tell you, 1 
 have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yester- 
 night I completed a bargain wi'h Mr. Miller, 
 of l),iNwlnton, for the farm of EHisI.imI, nn the 
 banks of the Nith, between five ,iiid six miles 
 above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsundjy to 
 build a house, drive lime, &c. and heaven he 
 my help ! for it will take a strong elfmt to 
 bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
 h ive dischiritcd all the army of r.iy former pur- 
 suits, f.incies ,md plea-nres ; a motley host ! and 
 have literally and strictly retained ordv the iileas 
 of a few frieiiils, whiih I have inco] purated into 
 a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's oliserva- 
 tion, " Where much is attempted, something is 
 done." Fiimness both in sntlerance and exer- 
 tion, is a character I woulil wi-h to be t!i(nu>ht 
 to possess ; and havt 'ihv.iys despiseil the whin- 
 ing yelp of con\i)laiiit, and the cowardly, feeble 
 resolve. 
 
 Poor Miss K, is ailing a good deal this win- 
 ter, and begged ine to reniendier her to you the 
 first time I wrote you. Suiely woman, anii.ible 
 woimin, is (ii-fen made in vain I Top delicite'y 
 formed for the roii<;her pursuits of ambition ; 
 too noble for the diit of avarice, and even too 
 geiitle for the rage of pleasure : foiiied indeed 
 for and highly susi eptihie of enjoyment and rap- 
 ture ; but that enjoyment, al is ! almost wholly 
 ut the mercy of the caprice, malevidence, stupi- 
 dity, or wickedness of an animal at all time* 
 comparatively unteuling, and oitjii brutal. 
 
 I can't say I am altogether at my ease when 
 I Rcc any where in my path, that meagre, squa- 
 lid, Afinine-faced spectre, poverty ; attendtd as 
 he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer- 
 inp contempt; but I have sturdily withstood 
 ji* l.uiTetings m my a hanl-labuwred day already, 
 a-.d still my motto is — I daiif. ! My worst 
 Hiieiny !s Moiinciiie. I lie so miserably open to 
 the inroaiis and incursinns of a mischievous, 
 ight-aniied, well-mounted banditti, under the 
 
 1 MaucUine, 7lh April. 17S8. 
 
 I I AM indebted to you and Mi«s Nimmo for 
 letting me know Miss Ki'n<'(ly. Strange ! how 
 apt we are to indulge pitji.ilices in our jud"-- 
 nients of one another ! liven I, w lio |il(jne uiv- 
 self on my skill in marking diaiaeters ; bei«use 
 I am too jjrnud of my chiiacter as a man, to be 
 dazzled in my judgment /ir glaring wealth ; and 
 too proud of my situriou as a pnor man to be 
 biassed ac/ninst sipialid poverty ; I was unac- 
 quainted with Jlisti K.*s very uneonimon worth 
 
ri 
 
 I am eoin£» on a jjood flc.il proc^esnive in mnn • pet any fliin^ to do. T wanted ».n Jiut, wliicb 
 grand but, tlie sober science of life. I have is a d.m^iToiis, an unh;i|)py sltii;itii>n. I go 
 lately made some sacrifices fi>r which, were I this without any hiinirinG; on, or mortifyina; -n)- 
 riv(t voce with you to paint the sit\iation and licitation ; it is ininiediate hn-ad, and thomrh 
 recount the circumstances, you would applaud ; poor in comparison of tiie last e'gliteen months 
 
 of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of oil 
 my preceding; life : besides, the counuissioneis 
 are some of them my acquaintances, and all of 
 tbein my firm friends. 
 
 N'o date. 
 
 Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, 
 jTiVseif. I have broke measures with 
 and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. 
 He replied in terms of chastisement, and pro- 
 mised me u|ion his honour that 1 should have 
 tlie account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, 
 and yet I have not heard a word from hnn. 
 Ciod I'.ive mercy on me ! a poor d-mned, in- 
 caiiti(nis, doped, unfortunate foul ! The sport, 
 the miserable victim, of rebellious pride ; hypo- 
 chiinilriac iinajjination, agonizing sensibility, 
 and bedlam pa-sions ! 
 
 " / wi.sli Unit I were dead, hut I'm no like 
 to die .'" 1 bad lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in 
 th' imminent dcailly breaeli" of love too. Thank 
 my stars 1 got off lieart-whole, " waur fleyd 
 than hurt." — Iitterruptitin. 
 
 I have this moment got a hint .... 
 
 I fear I am sometliing 
 
 like — undone — but 1 hope for the best. Come, 
 stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution ! ac- 
 company me througli this, to me, miserable 
 world ! You must not desert me ! Your fi iend- 
 •hip I think I can count on, though I should 
 date my letters from a marching regiment. 
 Kirly in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a 
 rciiiiting drum as my forlorn hope. Sericujsly 
 thouL'h, life at present presents me with but a 
 nularicbdly ])ath : Ijut — my limb will soou be 
 sound, and I shall struggle on. 
 
 NO. LXI. 
 TO MISS CHAOIERS. 
 
 MY DEAR MADAM, Edinliurijh, Dec. 17S7. 
 
 I JUST now have read yours. The- poetic 
 compliments I pay cannot be misunderstoc>d. 
 They are neither of them so particular as tc 
 point 7/ou out to the world at larije ; and the 
 circle of your acquaintances will allow all 1 
 have said. Besides I have complimented you 
 chiefly, almost solely, on your mental cliarms. 
 Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. 
 Personal attractions, Madam, yon have much 
 above par; wit, understandinsr, and woith, vou 
 possess in the first class. This is a cursed ilat 
 way of telling you these truths, but let nie hear 
 no more of yinir sheepish timi.litv. I know 
 the world a little. I know what they will say 
 of my poems; by second sight I sup])o>e ; for 
 I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you 
 may believe ine, my dear Madam, I would not 
 run any risk of hurting you by an ill-judged 
 compliment. I wish to show to the world, the 
 odds between a poet's friends and those of sim- 
 ple jirosemen. More for your information hnth 
 the pieces go in. One of them, " Vi'here brav- 
 ing all the winter's harms," is aheidv set — 
 the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
 cainey ; the other is to be set to an old High- 
 l.md air in D.iuiel Dow's " collection of ancient 
 .Scots music ; the name is lid n ('/idillich air 
 inn Dlieiith. My treacherous memory has for- 
 '^ot every circumstance about Les Incus, only 
 
 I think you mentioned them as being inC 's 
 
 possession. I shall ask him about it. 1 .iin 
 .ifciiid the song of " Somebody" will come too 
 late — as I shall, for certain, leave town in a 
 week for Ayrshire, and from that to numfries, 
 but there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
 dlrccticm in town, so any thinir, wheiever I am, 
 will reach me. 
 
 I saw your's to — ^-^— it is not too severe, 
 nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, 
 like a wldpt s])aniel, ho talks of being with you 
 
 in the Chiistmas days. Mr. has given 
 
 him the invitation, and he is determined to ac- 
 cept of it. O selfishness ! he owns in his so- 
 bci moments, that from his own volatility of 
 berfttioD. 'I be (piest on is not at wh it door of inclination, the circum>rances in which he is si- 
 fortui'.c's jialace slull we enter in; but what tnited and his knowledge of his talhei 'a dspo 
 duurn •low she oiM'ii to us? I was not likely to [sition, — the wholt 'jllair is chiinerica! — yet b 
 
 Eilinhiirijh, Sundiiy, 
 Tn-,MORRow, my dear Madam, 1 leave 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 1 have altered all my plans of future life. A 
 farm that I eoiild liv,- in, I cmilil not find ; anil 
 indeed, after the necessary support my brother 
 aid the rest of the family required, I ould not 
 venture on firming in that style suitable to my 
 feelings. You will condemn me for the next 
 step I have taken. 1 have entered into the ex- 
 cise. I stay in the west about throe weeks, and 
 th<n return to Kdinburgh fur six weeks instruc- 
 tions ; afterwards, fnr I git employ instantly, I 
 go oil a fiiiiit a Dien, — it nuin Jioi. I have 
 ghosen tl'.is, my dear friend, al'ler mature deli 
 
CORRESPCNDENCE. 
 
 281 
 
 trill gratify an ii!!o penchant at tlie enormous, 
 iTiiel ex|H-nsc of perh.ips ruining the peace ot" 
 llie vi'ty wdiiiin for wlioni lie professes tlie ee- 
 ni runs passion of love ! He is a f^entli'iiian in 
 Ills mini! ami manners, tant pis ! — He is a 
 volalilo sclioni-lioy : the heir of a man's for- 
 tni.i' vvlui will knows the value of two times 
 two ! 
 
 IVrii'tion seize them anil their fortunes, lie- 
 fore tliey shnulil make the amialile, the lovul\ 
 ■ the (leiitled ohjeet of their pnrse-inouil 
 
 coritenipt. 
 
 1 am (loulily happv to hear nf I\Irs. 's 
 
 recovery, lit cause 1 leally tlioiifjht all was over 
 with her. There are days of pleasure yet a- 
 Waiting her. 
 
 ' As I cam in l)y GUnap 
 I met «ith an aged woman ; 
 She hade me cheat up my heart, 
 For the be^t o' my days was coming;." 
 
 No. LXiI. 
 TO MISS 1\I 
 
 -N. 
 
 Sutart/inj Nou7i, No. 2. St. Jumes'is Sqr. 
 New- Town. lidinhiiTyh, 
 
 Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
 Btony attitude of jeiplexed stmly for tifteen vex- 
 atious minutes, my head a>kew, benilini; over 
 the inteniied caid ; my fixed eye insensible to 
 the very light of day poured around ; mv pen- 
 dulous goose- feather, loaded with ink, lian;;ing 
 over the future letter ; all for the impoi tant 
 purpose of writing a complimentary card to ac- 
 company your trinket. 
 
 Coir.pliments is such a miserahle Greenland 
 exjiression ; lies at such a chilly pol.ir distance 
 from the ton id zone of my cOMstitiitlon, that I 
 cannot, for the very soul of me, n-e it to arv 
 jii'iMin fur whom I have the twentieth ])art of 
 the e^tcen., every one must have for you who 
 knows you. 
 
 As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
 give nijsclf the pleasure of calling for you only 
 tor a minute. Tuod ly evening, sometime ahout 
 seven, or alter, 1 shall wait on you, fur your 
 fari-«ell commands. 
 
 The hinge of your hex, I put into the hands 
 of the proper Connoisseur. The broken glass, 
 likewi«e, went under review ; but deliberative 
 WisiloiQ thought it would too much endanger 
 tiie w' jle fabiic. 
 
 1 am, du.ir Madam, 
 
 With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 
 Your very humble Servaut. 
 
 No. LXIII. 
 
 TO I\IR. ROBERT AINSLIR, EniNBURCH 
 
 jmdinhiirrjlu Siuiilin/ J[i>rnii:g, 
 Niw. 2:3, ITt^V. 
 
 I BFG, my dear Sir, von would not make 
 any appointment to take us to Mr. .Muslie's to- 
 night. On looking over my engairements, con- 
 stitution, present state of my he.i'th, some little 
 vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I can't sup 
 abroad to-night. 
 
 1 shall be in to-day t\\\ one o'clock if you have 
 a lei-ure hour. 
 
 Yon will think it romr.ntic when I tell you, 
 that I find the idea of your friendship ainuist 
 necessary to my existence. — Yon assume a pro- 
 per length of face in my bitter hcnirs of blue- 
 devilism, and you laugh fuily up to my hiyhest 
 wishes at niv ponit t/iinr/s. — 1 don't know, upon 
 the whole, if you are one of the fust frllows in 
 God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
 this just now in the conviction that some in- 
 equalities in my temper atui manner inay per- 
 haps sometimes make you suspect that 1 am not 
 so warmly as I ought to be 
 
 Your /iicua. 
 
 No. LXIV. 
 
 TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 
 
 AVhii.e here I sit, sad and solitary, by the 
 side of a tiie in a little country inn, and diving 
 my wet clothes, in jiops a poor fellow of a soil-er 
 and tells me he is going to Ayr. By beavcns I 
 say I to myself, with a tiileof good spirit.s which 
 the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Avr, 
 cmijuied up, 1 will send my last song to Ml. 
 Ballantine. — Here it is — 
 
 ( The first sketch of " Ye liatiks and liraes a 
 
 liuniiie Dunn.") 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 No. LXV. 
 FROM THE POET TO DR. MOORE, 
 
 GIVING A SKETCH OF HIS MI'E. 
 
 SIR, Miiuchlinc, 2'/ Aug. ITS?. 
 
 For some months past I have been iamb- 
 ling over the country ; but I atn now confined 
 with some lingering complaints, originating, a& 
 I take it, in the stomach. To divert niys)nrit» 
 a little in this mineral) e fog of cw/j'.-j, I b.ive ta. 
 ken a whim to give you a histoiv of ui\sclf 
 My n^aie has made surae little noise in this coua> 
 
:;82 
 
 BTJRNS' WORKS. 
 
 try ; /au have (Tnne me the linnour to intcrept 
 Jduise t very waiiulv in my behalf; and I think 
 a faitli'nl atcount (if what diaratter of a man I 
 am; and how I camt' by that character, may ptT- 
 h«ps amn'e you in an idle nionunt. I will give 
 you an litmest nai native; though I know it wiil 
 he cffen at my own expense ; — for I assure you, 
 Sir, I liave, like Solomon, whose chaiactei', ex 
 ct'pt in the trifling affair of tciad'.m, I sonie- 
 tiines think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him, 
 tuntcil Jill/ ei/i.i to bthold madin'ss and fully, and, 
 like him too, frequently shaken hands with their 
 intoxicating friendship. . . After you 
 
 have perused these p ip;es, should you think them 
 triflin}; and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell 
 you, that tiie poor author wrote them under some 
 twitching quahns of conscience, arising from a 
 Biispici.m that he was doing what he ought not 
 to do ; a |iredicament he has moie tlian once 
 been in before. 
 
 I have not the most distant pretensions to 
 assume that character which the pye-coatcd 
 guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. \\'hen 
 at hdiiiburgb last winter, I got accjuainted in 
 tlie Herald's Office ; and, looking through that 
 giaaaiy of honours, I there fouiid almost every 
 name in the kinijdum ; but for me, 
 
 " Jly ancient but ignoble blood 
 
 Has ciept through scoundrels ever since tlie 
 flood." 
 
 Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. 
 My fatlu,'r was of the noith of Scot!and, the 
 son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
 fortunes on the woifd at large ; where, after many 
 years wanderings and sojouiiiings, he jdcked up 
 a pretty large quaijtity of observation and e.\|)e- 
 rieuce, to wh.ich I am indebted for most of my 
 little pretensions to wisdom. — I have met with 
 few who unileistood mtii, their vianiier!<, cint/ 
 t/teir uo!/s, equ il to liiin ; but stubborn, uugaiii- 
 Jy integr.ty, and head oug, ungovernable iiasci- 
 bility, are disqualifying circumstances ; coiise- 
 quently I was born a very poor man's son. Tor 
 the fust six or seven years of my life, my fa- 
 ther was a gardeiier to a worthy gentleman of 
 small estate in the neiglibciurli lod of Ayr. Ihid 
 be c(Miiinued in that stati.iii, I u.'ist have march- 
 ed cif to be one of the little unoeriiui'.s atiout a 
 farm-bouse; but it was his dearest wi^h and 
 prayer to have it in his jjower to keep li;s chil- 
 dren under his own eye till they could discern 
 between good and evil ; so, with the assistance 
 of his generous master, my father ventured on 
 a small f-iiai on his estate. At those years 
 I was l;y no means a favour ite w ith any body. 
 1 was a t;o(jd deal noted for a retentive menioiy, 
 a litubliorn sturdy sunuthiiig in my di«|iiisi;ii>n, 
 gild an enthu-ia-tie idiot peiy. I siy i'l'ot j'iety, 
 because 1 wan then but a child. 'Ihou^;!! it eo-t 
 the scboolinjster some thrasbings, ] made an tx- 
 3elieiit liiiglisli Kcliidar ; and liy tlie tiiiit; 1 was 
 ten oi eleven years of a^'e, I wa.s a critic in >ul>- 
 ttantives, vei bn, und puitici]des. In my ii.taiit 
 
 ' and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
 Woman wlio resided in the family, remark abli 
 for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. 
 I She had, I suppose, the largest i ollection ia tlie 
 country of tales and songs concerning devils, 
 ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
 ' sjiuokies. keljdes, elf-candles, dead -ligVits, wi aiths, 
 j ajiparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers, 
 (Iragon-i, and other trumpery.* This cultivated 
 ■ the latent seeds of poetry ; but hail so strong an 
 : effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in 
 ' my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp 
 j look-out in suspieioi's places ; and t'nough no- 
 body can be more sceptical than I am in such 
 masters, yet it often takes an effort of jihilosnphy 
 to shake of these idle terrors. The e irliest com- 
 position that I leeidlect taking pleasute in, wis 
 T/ie VUiuit of Mirza, and a hyniu of Addison's, 
 beginning, Hotv are thy Servants blest, O 
 Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza 
 which was music to my boyish ears — 
 
 " For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
 High on the broken wave — " 
 
 I met with these ])ieces in Mason's Em/lish 
 Collection, one of my school-books. The two 
 first books I ever read in private, and which 
 gave me more pleasute than any two books I 
 ever read since, were. The Life of llannbid, 
 and The History of Sir William Wallace. 
 Hannibal gave my \oung ideas such a turn, th.it 
 I used to strut in raptiiies up and down after the 
 reciuiting drum anil bjg-jiipe, and wish luyseif 
 tall enough to be a soldier ; while tiie story ol 
 Wallace [louied a Scottish prejudice into my 
 veins, which will bod along there till the flood- 
 gates of life shut in eternal rest 
 
 Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
 ting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious ol 
 shining in conversation parties (Ui Sundays, be- 
 tween sermons, at funer.ils, &e. used, a few years 
 afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much 
 heat anri indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry 
 of heresy against me, which has not ceasc^d tu 
 this hour. 
 
 My vicinity to .\yr was of some advantage 
 to me. ]\Iy S( cial <li;position, when not check- 
 ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, 
 hke our chatechi«ui-defiiiition of iufiuitude, 
 wil/ioiU bomids or limits. 1 formed several con- 
 nections with other younkers who possessed su- 
 perior advantages, the yoitncjliny actors, who 
 were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which tl ey 
 were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
 where, alas! I was destined to drudge behind 
 the seenes. It is not coiiimojily at this gieen 
 ace that our vouni!; L'eiury have a lust sense of 
 the immense distance between them and llieir 
 riggid play-fellows. It t.ikis a few dashes into 
 the wi'rid, to give the young great man that pio- 
 jier, dec-eut, unuoticing disregard tor the | oor, 
 insignificant, stupid devils, the iiiechanics and 
 peasantry around him, who were perh.ips Witn 
 in the same village. My young superiors ncveJ 
 
CORRESPONDEMCE. 
 
 283 
 
 msalted the clnnterlt/ appearance of my ploujli- 
 hoy c.ircass, the two extremes of wlm-li were of- 
 ten expo-ieil to .ill the inclemencies of all the sea- 
 tons. They u'ouid give me stray volumes of 
 looks amonc; them, even then, I could pick up 
 dome oIxervatioiH ; and one, whose heart I am 
 sure nut even the Mmuiii JJegum sceni-s h ive 
 tainted, helped me to a little French. I'artin;^ 
 with tliese mv young friends ami henefictors, as 
 they occasionally went off for the East or West 
 Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; hut I 
 was soon called to more serious evils. My fa- 
 ther's "enerous master died ; the firm proved a 
 ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the mi>furtune, 
 we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
 the picture I have drawn of one in my Tdle of 
 Twa Dogs. Jly father was advanced in life 
 when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
 children ; and lie, worn out by early hardships, 
 was unfit for libour. My fither's spirit was 
 soon irritated, but uot easily broken. There was 
 a fret'dom in his lease in two years more ; and to 
 weatlur these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
 penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter- 
 ous ploughman, for my aije ; and the next eldest 
 to me was a brother (Gd!)ert) who could drive 
 
 could make verses like printed ones, composed 
 by men who had Greek and Litin; but my 
 girl sun-^ a Sitn;^, which was said to be com- 
 posed by a small country laird's son, on one of hii 
 fither's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I 
 saw no reason wliy I might not ihvme as well as 
 he ; f )r, excepting that he could snieai' sheep, and 
 cast pears, his father living in the moor land?, 
 he had no more scholar-craft than my<e!f. 
 
 Thus with me began love and poetry ; 
 which at times have been my only, and till 
 within the last twelve months, h.ive been my 
 hi'.;hest enjoyment. Jly father struggleil on 
 till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
 he entered on a l.irger farm, about ten miles 
 farther in the country. The nature of the 
 bargain he maile was such as to throw a little 
 ready money into his hands at the commence- 
 ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would 
 have been inipracticalde. For four years we 
 lived comfortably here ; hut a d ffercnce com- 
 mencing between him and his landlord, as tc 
 terms, after three years tossing and whirling 
 in the vortex of lltigati(m, my f.ther was just 
 saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- 
 tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly 
 
 the plough very well, and help me to thr.ish the j stepped in, and carried him away, to where the 
 corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- Ui"t7.e(/ cense from troubling, and wJicre the 
 cd these scenes with souie s.itisfiction ; but saUceur!/ arc at rest. 
 
 did not I ; my indignation yet IkiIIs at the recol 
 lection of the s 1 factor's insolent threa- 
 
 tening letti.'is, which used to set lis all In tears. 
 This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
 hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
 si ive, brou:;ht me to my sixteenth year ; a lit- 
 tle before which period I first comuiittel the sin 
 
 It is (luring the time that we lived en this 
 farm th.it my little story is most eventful. I 
 was, at the beginning of this peri id, perhaps 
 the most ungainly, awkward boy in the pari.ih 
 — no Sdlituire was less acquainted with the 
 ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
 story was gatliered from Saliinins and (Juih- 
 
 of Ilhvme. You know our country cust in of t'ik's geo^ra|)liical grammars ; and tlie i.leas I 
 coupling a man and woman together as partners had formed of moilern tnanners, of litei.ituic, 
 in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth an- land criticism, I got from the Sjicctut r. Tlase 
 tumn my partner was a bewitching cieature a , with /^oyje'.v lf''.ir/;i, some plays of S'lakspeare, 
 year younger than myself. My scarcity of | Tull n/ul D'ckson on Agriculture, the I'lin- 
 English denies me the power of doin^ her jus- ] </(e -n, L che's Essmj on the Huiiuui l/n- 
 tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- ' '/er,s7aH'//«./, Stitchhouse's IHsti>rii of the 
 tish idiom — .-he was uliuniiie, siceet, sou.sie hiss. lhl:le. Justice's liritisk (iiirdeutr's .'. iriclot^. 
 In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, i Pnyle's Lectures. AUan llams'iys W iks, 
 iiiitrited me in that delicious p:s-i,)ii, which, in j Tui/I r's Scrijture ZJoi trine if Oiii/i^a/ Sm, 
 spite of acid disajipointment, gm-hor.-e prudence, x-1 Uttict LUtUctinn vf l£n<jlisU Shikjs, una 
 and book-worm philosophy, I hold to he i\\e .Hcrrcy's Medituti'.ns, \vm\ fuimcd the whole 
 irst of human joys, our de.ire-it blessmg here , of my reading. The c(dlection of songs w.is my 
 
 below ! How she c.iught the contagion. I can- 
 not tell : you meihcal peo|de talk much of in- 
 fection fro.n l)reathiog the same air. the touch, 
 &c. ; hut I never exjuessly slid I lovcd her. 
 Indeeil. I d.d not know my.-elf woy I liked so 
 muidi to loiter behind witn her. wh.ii return- 
 ing in the evening from our labours ; why the 
 
 v>tile nucuiii. 1 pored over them, driving my 
 cart, or wa'kin,' to lalxnir, song by s.ing, versa 
 by ver-e ; careful y mitiog th.c true tender, or 
 suilime, from alVectation anil fns:iiu. I am 
 convinced I owe to tli;s practice much of my cri- 
 tic cr.ift, such as it is. 
 
 Ill my -eventeeiith year, to give my manners 
 
 tones of her voice made my heart-string- thrill a brush. I went to a country daucing-schoo; — . 
 like an i1*;ulian harp ; and particol.ir y why my Aly father h.id an uiucctmntablc antipathy 
 pulse beat such a turious ratan wlien 1 looked , ag.iinst these meetings; and my giung wa.s, 
 »nd fiugered over her little li.iiid to |iick out the i wh,:t to this inoment 1 ripent, in 0|ipos tion to 
 cruel nettle-stings and thi-tles. Among her his wishes. My father, as 1 said before, was 
 r)thei l.ive iiispinog qualltie-, she sung .-weetly ; .subject to >troug pa->ions ; fioin that iii^t.iiics 
 tvd it was her tavourite reel, to which I at- j of (l:sol>edicnce in me, he look a soit of dislike 
 tempted givin.; an embodied vehicle in rhyme. ; to me, which I believe was ime cause of the di» 
 I Was oi't so presumptuous as to imagine that I ^ >ipat.ou which marked my — — v^-d'ng years 
 
284 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 »ay Hissipitinn, coTn,)aiati,rcIy with the stiipt- 
 ness, aim M)l)iitty, and rtijulaiity of I'lt-.-byte- 
 rlaii cDuntiy life ; fur though the Will-o'-Wisp 
 motivjis of thoughtless whim were almost the 
 sole li_i;lits of my p.ifh, yet early ingrained piety 
 and virtue kept me for several years afterwards 
 wltliin the liiie of innocence. The great inis- 
 f.irtune of my life was to want an aim. I had 
 felt early some stirrings of amhition, hut they 
 were the btinil po|)ings of Homer's Cyclops 
 roiinti tnt walls of his cave. I sitw my lather's 
 situation entr.i'.ed on me perpetual labour. The 
 onlv two openings hy which I crould enter the 
 teniple of Fortune, was the irate of niggarilly 
 economy, or the path of 1 .tie chicaning haigain- 
 niaking. The first is so contracted an aperture, 
 I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last 
 I always hited — there was contamination in the 
 very entrance ! Tims abandoned of aim or view 
 in life, with a strong a petite for sociability, as 
 well from native hiliiriry, as from a priile of ob- 
 servation anil rem Ilk ; a constitution il melan- 
 choly or hypiichondriasm that made me fly so- 
 litude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
 repiitali(m for bocdvish knowledge, a certain 
 wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, 
 someljiiiig like the rudiments of gooil sense; 
 and it will not seem surprising that I was ge- 
 nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any 
 great wonder that, always where two or three 
 nut together, there was I among them. Hut, 
 far bevond all other impulses of my heart, w.is 
 itn pcnc/iiint ii I'ailnrable mnitie <Ju gviire hu- 
 main. My lieart was completely tiniler, ancl 
 was eternally lighted up by some goddess or 
 other ; and as in every other warfare in this 
 uoiid my furtuiie was various, sometimes I wis 
 received with favour, and sometimes I was nior- 
 tilijd with ■• icpii'se. At the plough, scythe, 
 or reap-lio(d<, I feareil no competitor, anil thus 
 I set absolute want at detiance ; and as ! never 
 c.ired flit her for my labours than while I was 
 in actual exercise. I s|)ent the evenings in the 
 way after my own heart. A cointry lad sel- 
 dom carries on a iove adventure without an as- 
 sisting coiilidaiit I possfssed a curiosity, zeal, 
 and intrepid ilexferity, that recommended me as 
 a proper secoiul on these occasions ; and I d.ire 
 say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the se- 
 ■^ri.'t of ha'f the l.ves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
 ts ever d d st.itesmen in knowing the intrigues 
 of liilf the courts of Europe — The very goose- 
 fciitlier in my hind seems to know instinctively 
 the Well worn |ia'h of my iui.iginution, the fa- 
 vourite theme of mv song; and is wiih dithrul- 
 tv restrained from giving you a couple nt p ira- 
 gtipls on the love adveiitures of my compeeis, 
 tlie humble 'Tiriates of the f.irin-house and cot- 
 tage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, 
 nr av.irice, baptize tlie^e tilings by the iiime of 
 folli,'-. To tlie sons and diughters of labour 
 liid poviiry, ihcy are ni.itter> of the "W-t seri- 
 ous iiitiiie; to them, the .iidelit Impe, the sto- 
 en inteivie\»', the tnd'. r I ire'vejl, arc tliegreat- 
 •lat uiid most di:licioiis partk uf theii' etiiovmentb. 
 
 Anot.ier cinnmstance in my iife wn^ii 
 made some alteration in my mind and inanners, 
 was, that I spent my nineteenth siunnier on a 
 smuggling coast, a good distance f--' tii home, at 
 a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, 
 dialling, &c. in which I made a prettv good 
 progress. But I made a greater progress in the 
 knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
 was at that time very successful, and it some- 
 times happened to me to fall in with those who 
 carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and 
 roaring dissipation were till this time new to 
 me ; but I was no en -my to social life. Her» 
 though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix 
 without fear in a drunken si)uabble, yet 1 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 yi/e^/e, 
 who lived next door to the school, overset n>y 
 trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
 the sphere of my studies. 1, liowever, striigglej 
 on with my sines, and cosines, for a few ihiys 
 more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
 ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met 
 ray angel, 
 
 " Like Proserpine, gathering flowers. 
 Herself a fairer tlower. " 
 
 It was in vain to think of doing any more 
 good at school. The rem lining week I staid, 
 I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
 about her, or steal out to meet her ; and tlie 
 two last nights of my stay in the country, had 
 sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this mo- 
 dest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 
 
 1 returned home very considerably iiiipiov- 
 ed. Mv reading was enlarged with the very 
 important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
 stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a 
 new pliasis ; and I engaged several of my 
 school-fellows to keep up a literary corresjjon- 
 dence with me. This improved me in compo. 
 sition. I had met with a collection of letters 
 by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and 1 poied 
 over them most devoutly : I kept copies of any 
 of my own letters that pleased nie ; and a com- 
 parison betvveen them and the composilion ol 
 most uf my corres|)onilents flattered my vanity. 
 1 carried this whir.i so far, that though 1 had 
 not three farthings worth of business in the 
 world, yet almost every post brought me as 
 many letters as if I hid been a biojd plodding 
 son of dav-book and ledger. 
 
 My life flowed on much in the same course 
 till my twenty-third year. Vn-e ruiiidur, H 
 V ve la biiyiiiille, were iiiv so)e piinci|des I'f ac- 
 tion. The addition of two nii.re autbois to my 
 library j;ave ire great pleasure ; S/cine and 
 AI' herizie — Tristniin H/ui/kIij and J In: Mint 
 'if I-'edin i — were my bosom favourites. I'uesy 
 w,is still a darling walk for :i v mind ; !iut it 
 was only indulged in accoidng to the liiimoui 
 id' the hour. I lud iisu.illy hall a dozen or iiiort 
 piecen on baud ; I took u^' one oi otber, ih p 
 
CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 2c»o 
 
 jirtivl ttip momptitary tone of the mind, an.l 
 fli<iiussi.'(l the work as it hordored dii fatii^iic. 
 My ]).issii)iis, wlit'ii once li,;;hteJ up, raiji'd like 
 so niiir.y devils, till they got vent in ihvine ; and 
 then t!ie conninj^ over my verses, like a sj)i.'ll, 
 snotlied all into rjuiet ! None of the rhymes of 
 tlitwe i\d\< are in print, exeept Winter, a Uirijv, 
 the elile^t of my printeil pieces ; Tlie Diuitli (if 
 Poor Mui''e, Jiilin Jiarlei/cnrn, and Son.;s, 
 Cist, seeont , and third. Son;^ second was the 
 ehullition of that passion which ended the fore- 
 montioned schoul husiness. 
 
 My twentN-thinl year w;is to me an import- 
 ant era. I'artly throuj^li whim, and partly 
 that I wislu'il to set ahout doing something in 
 life, I joined a flaxdresser in a neighhonring 
 town (Irvine) to learn liis trade. This Wis 
 an unlucky affair. My ; and, to 
 
 finisli the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
 carini--il to the new year, the shop took fire, 
 and iinriit to ashes ; and I was left, like a true 
 pot t li t worth a sixpence. 
 
 1 V.MS o')!igcd to give up this scheme : the 
 clouils o; iiii-lortune wert gathering thick round 
 my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, 
 he was visihly far gone in a consumption ; and, 
 to crown my distresses, a belle Jllle, whom I 
 adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
 me in the ficM of matrinaony, jilted me, with 
 peculiar circumstances of nioitification. The 
 finishing evil that brought up the rear of this 
 infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
 being increased to such a degree, that for three 
 months I Was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
 envieil by the hopeless wretches who have got 
 their iii;ttinius — Depart from me, ye cursed ! 
 
 Fiooi this adventure, I learned something 
 of a town life; but the principal thing which 
 gave my mind a turn, was a friendship 1 form- 
 ed with a young fellow, a very noble character, 
 but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the 
 son of I simple mechanic ; but a great mm in 
 the neighbourhood taking him under his |)a- 
 tronage, gave h:m a genteel education, with a 
 view of bettering his situation in life. The 
 patron flying ju>t as he was ready to launch (>ut 
 into the world, the poor fellow in despiir went 
 to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill 
 foitiine, a little liefore 1 was acquainted with 
 bim, he hid been set ashore by in American 
 privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, 
 strip])ed of every thing. 1 cannot quit this jioor 
 fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this 
 time master of a large West Indiaman belonging 
 U the Thames. 
 
 His mind was fraught with independence, 
 m.ignaniuiity, am every manly virtue. I loved 
 and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, 
 anil of couise strove to imitate him. In some 
 measure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but 
 he taught it to flow in prop«r channels. His 
 knowledge of the world was vastly superior to 
 mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was 
 tUe only man I ever saw who was a greiter 
 fool tliau mystdf, \vJ>ere wom.ui was the presid- 
 
 ing star ; tint V.e s|)oke ( illicit fovi; with the 
 levity of a siilor, which hitherto I hid rcgirdeij 
 with hiuror. Here his friendship did me a mis- 
 chief; and the consequence was, thiit soon after 
 I lesuiiied the plough, I wrote the fuel's Wil- 
 ciime.' My reailing only iiu rea-^cd, while in 
 this town, by two stray volumes of /•'./dic///, and 
 one of Fentiniut'l Count J'ulliom, which gave 
 me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
 religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
 up ; but meeting with Ferr/nsson's Scottish 
 I'oems, I struiig anew my wililly-soutiding lyre 
 with emulating vigour. When my fatl.er died, 
 his all Went among the hell-hounds that jirowl 
 in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shif" 
 to collect a little money in the family amongst 
 us, with which, to keep .(s together, my brother 
 and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
 wanted my hair-brained iina.;ination, as well a? 
 my social ar.d amorous madness; but, in good 
 sense, and every sober qualification, Ijc was far 
 my superior. 
 
 I entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
 Cinie, go to, I ivill be wise.' I read finning 
 hooks; I calculated crops ; I attendi-d markets ; 
 and, in short, in spite of tlic devil, and ike 
 world, and tlie flesh, I believe I should have 
 been a wise man ; but the fiist year, from un- 
 fortnn itely buying bad seed, the sfcmid, from a 
 late harvest, we lost halt'o'ir crops. This over- 
 set all my wisdom, and I returned, lih the dog 
 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 fir>t of 
 my poetic off-^priiiij that saw the light, was a 
 burlesque lamentation on a quarrel l)ciween two 
 reverend Calvinists, both of them ilnimntis per ■ 
 soncE in my Hohj Fnir. I had a imtion my- 
 self, that the piece had some merit ; but to pre- 
 vent the worst, I gave a co|)y of it to a friend 
 who was very fond of such things, and tolil him 
 that I could nut guess who was the author of 
 it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
 a certain description of the clergy, as well as 
 laitv, it met with a roar of ajiplau'e. I^'l;/ 
 Willie's Player next made its appearance, and 
 alarmed the kiik-se.ssion so much, that they 
 held several meetings to look over their spiiitual 
 artillery, if haply any of itmi:lit be pointed 
 against jjrofane rhymers. Unluckily for me, 
 my wanderings led me on ancither side, witliin 
 point blank shot of their heaviest iiu tal. This 
 is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my 
 printed poem, Tlie Lament. This was a ni(i>t 
 mclanchiily affiir, which I cannot yet be.ir to 
 rcfl.ct on, and had very neatly givm me one or 
 two of the principal qn ilificatioiis for a place 
 among those who h.ive lost the chart, and nns- 
 taken the reckoning of Rationality. I gave up 
 my part of the farm to my brotlier ; in truth it 
 was only nominally mine ; atid n'ade what little 
 
 • Ilob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Uagtarc 
 CiiiM. 
 
28G 
 
 BURN5' WORKS. 
 
 preparation was in my power for Jim.iica. But, 
 bef,)re leaviaj; my native country fur evjr, I re- 
 »o!v(.'(l to publish my poems. I weighed my 
 proiluctions as impartially as was in my power : 
 I tliou;:;ht they had merit ; and it was a deli- 
 cious idea that 1 should bo called a clever fel- 
 low, even thoUijh it should never reach my 
 »ais — a poor negro-driver, — or perhaps a vie- 
 .iui to that inhospitable clime, and gone to tlic 
 world of spirits ! I can truly say, that panvre 
 iacoiinu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as 
 high an idea of myself and of my works as 1 
 have at this moment, when the public has de- 
 cided in their favour. It ever was my opini- 
 on, 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 jny- 
 self, had been all along ray constant study. I 
 weighed myself alone ; 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 ; but, at the %vorst, the roar of 
 the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, 
 and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me 
 forgot neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
 of which I h 1(1 got subscriptions for about three 
 hundred and fifty. — ^ily vanity was higlily gra- 
 tified by the reception I met with from the 
 pubiic ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses 
 deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
 caine very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- 
 denting niy?elf, for want of money to procure 
 mv passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
 guineas, tlie price of wafting me to the torrid 
 zone, I took a steerage passage in the iirst ship 
 that was to sail from tlie Clyde ; for 
 
 " Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 
 
 I had been for some days skulking from 
 covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; 
 as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
 Kierci'ess pack of tlie law at iny heels. I had 
 taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my 
 chest was on the road to Greenock ; I h id com- 
 posed the last song I should ever mea^ure in 
 Caledonia, The (jlomny Jiirj/U is gatherhig fast, 
 when a letter from Dr. Blackiock, to a friend 
 of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
 new prospects to my poetic ambition, 'i'lie 
 D.ictor belonged to a set of critics, for whose 
 applause 1 had not dared to lio])e. His opi- 
 Dum that I woulil meet with encouracri'meut in 
 Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me sc 
 much, that away 1 posted for that city, with- 
 out a fiiigle acquaintance, or a single letter of 
 Jntrodujtion. The baneful star, that lud so 
 ••jiig shed its blasting influence in my zenith, 
 f T iiiice made a rcvoluticvn to the nadir ; and 
 a kind I'rovidence jilaced ;ne undei the patron- 
 
 age of one of the noblest of rnek, the Earl o( 
 Glencairn. Oiblie moi. Grand Dleu, si jo 
 mtiis je I'otiblie ! 
 
 I need relate no farther. ,\t Edinburgh 1 
 was in a nev/ world ; I mingled among many 
 classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
 I was all attention to calch the characters and 
 the manners liv'uig as they rise. Wliether I 
 have profitedi time will sbow. 
 
 My most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
 Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot an- 
 swer at present, as my presence is requisite ic 
 Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.* 
 
 No. LXVI. 
 FROM GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 A RUN'NI.NG COMMENTARY ON THE FORK- 
 GOING. 
 
 The farm was upwards of seventy acres -f 
 (between eighty and ninety English statute 
 measure), the rent of which was to be forty 
 pounds annually for the first six years, ancl af- 
 terwards forty-five p lunds. My father endea- 
 voured to sell his leasehold property, for the 
 purpose of stocking tliis farm, but at that time 
 was unable, and !\Ir. Fo!gns>)n lent him i. hun- 
 dred pounds for that )nirpose. He removed to 
 his new situation at Whitsuntiile, ITOCJ. It was, 
 I thiidv, nut 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 services being useful on tlie farm, 
 my fither undertook to teach us arithmetic in 
 the winter evenings, by cai^dle-light; and in this 
 way my two eldest sisters got all the education 
 they received. I remember a circuinst.ciice ttiat 
 happened at thi«i time, which, thou','h 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 intc 
 Carrick. He brought us, as a present and me- 
 morial of him, a small compendium of English 
 Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus Amtroiii- 
 ciis ; and by way of passing the evening, he be- 
 gan to read the play aloud. We were all atten • 
 tiou for some time, till presently the wh.ole pn'- 
 ty was dissolved in tears. A female in the play 
 (I have but a confused remembraiice of it) had 
 
 • There are various copies of this letter, in the 3ii> 
 thor's ti.Mulwritiiij; ; ami one of lliese, e\ iilciniy cor- 
 reetej, is in the book in which he hail eopiiMi ^everaJ 
 of liis letters. This has been useil for the press, with 
 some <)inis>ii)iis, snd one sliglit allenilioii suggested by 
 (Jilbert liurns. 
 
 t Letter of Gilbert Rums to Mrs. Diiulop. 'Ilu 
 name of llii. faiin is Mount Ohph.iut, in A>r paiisii. 
 
CORRESPONDEXCE. 
 
 281 
 
 htr hinds chopt off, and her tring'.ie cut out, 
 jnd tliin was insultingly dusiieii to call for wa- 
 ter to wash lier lumds. At this, in an agnny of 
 distro-s, we wiili one voice desired he w<iuld 
 read no more. My father ohserved, that if we 
 would not hear it out, it would be needless to 
 leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if 
 it was loft he would burn it. l\ly father v/as 
 ^olug to chide hiui for this ungriteful return to 
 his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch interfered, de- 
 claring that he liked tf) see so much sensibility ; 
 and he left T!te School for Love, a comedy 
 (translated, I think, from tlie French), in its 
 place. 
 
 Nothing could be more retired than our ge- 
 neral manner of living at Mount Ollphant ; 
 we rarely siw any body but the members of 
 our own family. There were no boys of our 
 own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. 
 I/idcrd the greatest part of the land in the 
 vicinity was at that time possessed by shop- 
 keepers, and people of that stamp, who had 
 retirsd from business, or who kept their farm 
 in the country, at the same time that they f\)l- 
 lowed business in town. My father was for 
 •ome time almost the only companion we had. 
 lie conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, 
 as if we had been men ; and was at great pains, 
 wlale we accompanied him in the labours of the 
 farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects 
 as mi;;ht tend to increase our knowledge, or 
 confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
 Sulmon's GLor/rajihicdl Grammar fur os, and 
 endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
 »ituarion ami history of the ditferent countries 
 in the world ; while, from a book-society ia 
 Ayr, he procured fur us the reading of Der- 
 Ar/m'i P/ii/sico and Astro - TIieoIo(iy, and 
 Roy^s Wisdnm of God in the Creation, to 
 give us some idea of astronomy and natural his- 
 tory. Robert read all tiiesc boidis with an avi- 
 dity and industry scarcely to be equalleil. I\Iv 
 father had been a subscribtr to Stuckhozise's 
 liistorr/ of the Bible, then lately published by 
 James Menros in Kilmarnock : from this 
 Robert collected a competent knowledge of an- 
 cient history ; for no book was so voluminous 
 as to slacken his industry, or so antiijuitated as 
 to (lamp his researches. A brother of my mo- 
 ther, who had lived with us some time, and 
 had learnt some arithmetic by our winter even- 
 ing's candle, 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 write letters. Luckily, in place of The 
 Com/j/ete Letter- Writer, he got, by mistake, 
 & small collection of letters by the most emi- 
 nent writers, with a few sensible directions for 
 tttaining an easy epistolary style. This book 
 Was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
 inspired him v/ith a strong desire to excel in 
 letter-writing, while it furnished him with mo- 
 dels by some of the first writers in our lao- 
 
 My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, ] 
 
 when my father, regretting that we wtvite M 
 ill, sent us week about, ilui ini( a summer cjuar- 
 ter, to the parish sclioo of Daliymple, which, 
 though between two and three miles distant, 
 was the nearest to us, that we might have an 
 opportunity of remedying this defect. Abcmt 
 this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's 
 procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- 
 ardson's Pamela, which w:fs the first novel we 
 read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
 my brother was acquainted with till towards 
 the peiiod of his commencing author. Till that 
 time too he remained unaciiuainted with Field- 
 ing, with Smollet, (two volumes of Ferdinand 
 Count Fathom, and two volumes of Ptrec/rint 
 Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Rubeitscm, 
 and almost all our authors of eminence of the 
 later times. I recollect indeed my father bor- 
 rowed a .volume of English history fnini Mr. 
 Hamilton of Bourtree-hill's gardener. It treat- 
 ed of the reign of James the First, and his un- 
 fortunate son Charles, bat 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 Muidoch, our for- 
 mer teacher, after having been in dillerent 
 places in the countiy, and having taught a 
 school some time in Dumfrlts, came to be the 
 established teacher of the English language in 
 Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence 
 to us. The remembrance of my father's former 
 friendship, and his attachment to my brother, 
 made him do every thing ia his power fur our 
 improvement. He sent us Piij)e's woi ks, and 
 some other poetry, the first that we bad an op- 
 portunity of reading, exce])ting what is cou 
 taiiied in The Lnytish Collection, and in the 
 volume of The Ldinburr/h 3Iai;azine (or 1772 ; 
 excepting also th jSe excellent new so7i(/s that 
 are hau kcd about the country in baskets, or 
 exposed on stalls in the streets. 
 
 The sumnu-r after we h id been at Dalrym 
 j)!e school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to 
 revise his English graiumar, with his former 
 teacher. He had been there only one week, 
 when he was obliged to return, to assist at the 
 harvest. When the harvest was over, he went 
 back to school, where he remained two wee'tvs ; 
 and this completes the account of his school 
 education, excepting one sunuuer quarter, some 
 time afterwards, that he attended the parish 
 school of Kiik-O.swald (where he lived v. ilh a 
 brother of my mother's) to learn surveyicg. 
 
 During the two last weeks that he was with 
 ^Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
 French, and he communicated the instructions 
 he received to my brother, who, when he retur n- 
 ed, bri uglit home with Iiim a French dictlouirv 
 and grammar, and the A.dientures of TeleW'i- 
 chus in the original. In a little while, by the 
 assistance of these books, he had acquiieil such a 
 knowledge of the language, as to read and un- 
 derst.'nd nny French author in prose. Thil 
 .vas cons:(iered as a sort of pnidii'y, and, through 
 the medium of iMurdnch, procuied him the iC' 
 
^88 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 ^uiintance of several krls in Ayr, who were at 1 IMmint Ollpliant, the farm my fatTier possessed 
 thit tune giibblin;^ French, ami the notice of in the pari^h of Ayr, i* alnio-t the very poorest 
 
 some families, [)articul irly that of Dr. Malcolm 
 where a knowledjje of FieQ.;h was a recommen- 
 dation. 
 
 Observing the facility with which he had 
 acquired the French language, IMr. Robinson, 
 the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. 
 Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac- 
 quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin 
 language by his own industry, witliout ever ha- 
 vi:i" learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
 the same attem|jt, promising him every assist- 
 ance in his power. A.greeably to this advice, he 
 purchased T/ie Rudinieiits of the Lntin Tongue, 
 but finding this j-tuiiy dry and uninteresting, it 
 was quickly laid a^ide. He frequently returned 
 to liis Riidimtnts on any httle chagrin or dis- 
 appointment, paiticuhnly in his love affairs; 
 but the Larin sel(h)m precKiminated more than a 
 day or two at a time, or a week at most. Ob- 
 serving 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 canuut now recollect, but they all ended, 
 
 " So I'll to my Latin again.* 
 
 Thus vou see Jlr. Murdoch was a princi|)al 
 means of my brother's improvement. Worthy 
 man ! though foreign to my present purpose, I 
 cannot take leavi- of him without tracing his 
 future history. He continued for some years a 
 respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
 evening that he liati been overtaken in liquor, 
 he hap])ened to spe.ik somewhat disrespectfully 
 of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had 
 not paid him that attention to which he thought 
 hiiiself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
 spoken blasphemy. He f mnd it proper to give 
 up his a|ipointnient. He went to London, v.'here 
 he still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
 has been a considerable time married, and keejis 
 a sliop of stationery wares. 
 
 The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at 
 Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, 
 and was one of the established teachers in Ayr 
 when my father settled in the neighbouihood. 
 He early recognised my fither as a fellow na- 
 tive of tlic noith of Scotland, and a certain de- 
 rce of intimacy sulisisted between them during 
 Mr Paterson's life. After his death, his wiilow, 
 who is a very genteel woman, and of great 
 worth, delighted in doing what she thought her 
 huslwud would have wished to have done, and 
 assiduously kept up her attentions to all his ac- 
 quaintance. She ke|)t alive the intimacy with 
 cur fimily, by ficqueiitly inviting my father and 
 n, other to her house on Sundays, whco she nut 
 tlicni at churcii. 
 
 When she came tn know my brother's passion 
 fiir bonks, she kindly offered us the use of her 
 husband's library, and from her we got the 
 
 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 
 va'ue of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- 
 siderable sum laid out in improving it by the 
 prnpiietor, let, a few years ago, five poiii.ds per 
 annum lower than the rent paid for it liy my 
 father thirty years ago. My father, in conse- 
 quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which 
 were increased by the loss of several ol Ins cattle 
 by accidents and disease. — To the biifFetings of 
 misfortune we could only oppose hard l.dxmr and 
 the most rigid economy. We lived very spa- 
 ringlv. For several j'ears butcher's meat was a 
 stranger in the house, while all the members of 
 the family exerted themselves to the utmost of 
 their strength, and rather beyond it, in the la- 
 bours of the farm. My brother, at the age of 
 thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, 
 and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
 farm, for we had uo hired servant, male or fe- 
 male. The anguish of minil we felt at our ten- 
 der years, under these straits and difficulties, 
 was verv great. To think of our father grow- 
 ing old, (for he was now above ii'ty), bioke.i 
 down with the long contimrd fitigues of his 
 life, with a wife and five other children, and in 
 a declining state of circumstances, these reflec- 
 tions produced in my brotlier's mind and nine 
 sensations of the deepest distiess. 1 doubt not 
 but tlie hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
 riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause 
 of tliat depression of sjiirlts with w.liH-h Robert 
 was so often afflicted through his whole li/e af- 
 terwards. At this time he was almost con- 
 stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
 headache, which, at a future ))eriod of his life, 
 was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, 
 and a threatening of fiintiug and sufTucation in 
 his bed, in the night-time. 
 
 By a stipulation in my fither's lease, lie had 
 a right to throw it up, if he thought |ifoper, at 
 the end of every sixth year. He atvempted to 
 fix himself in a better *arm at the end of the 
 first six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
 continued where he was for six yean, nuire. He 
 then toidi the farm of Lochica, of 130 acres, at 
 the lent of twenty shillings an acre, in the ))a- 
 
 rish of Tarboltoni of IMr. , then 
 
 a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant 
 in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at 
 Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
 years. No writing had ever been ntade out of 
 the conditions of the lease , a misunderstanding 
 took Jilace respecting them ; the subjects in dis- 
 |)ute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- 
 cision involved my father's alTaiis 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 February, 1784, 
 _ ^ The seven years we lived in Tarbol ton parish 
 
 Sprciiilor, Pope's Triinsliitiiin of llnZr, and (extending from the seventewith to the twei.ty. 
 *i;veral other books that were of use to us. | fourth of my brother's age), were not mat ied 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 289 
 
 br iniirn iitcrarv improvement ; Imt ilurlna; 
 tnis tiiiK' tlio fiHHid.itidn was 1 liil of crrtain lia- 
 bitu in iiiv bintlii-r's flianicter, which afterwards 
 beeame Imt too |)roiiiinent, ami whicli malice 
 and envy have taken delii^iit to enlarge on. 
 T!'.oui;h, when young, he was hashfiil and awk- 
 »-;rd in his intercourse with women, vf t when 
 he approacneil maniiooii, his attachment to their I 
 eocitty liecame very strong, and he was con- 
 stantly t le victim iif some fair enslaver. The 
 symptoms of his passion were often such as 
 nearly to cipial those of the celehrateil Sapjiho. 
 I never indeed knew that hv fainted, iunk, and 
 died away ; Iiut the agitations of his minil and 
 body exceeded any thitig of the kind I ever 
 knew in real life. He had always aparticular 
 jealousy of people who were richer than him- 
 self, or who had nrore 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 p.tasure, to whom 
 he should piy his particular attentiim, she was 
 instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
 charms, out of the ])lentiful stores of his own 
 imagination ; and there was often a great dis- 
 similitude hetween his fiir captivator, as she 
 S[ipeired to others, and as she seemed when in- 
 vested with the attributes he gave her. One 
 generally reigned paramount in his affections ; 
 but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 
 
 Madime de L at the remise door, while 
 
 the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
 Robert was frequently encountering other at- 
 tractions, which formed so many under plots in 
 the drama of his love. As these connections 
 were governed by the strictest rules of virtue 
 jnd modesty (from which he never deviated till 
 he reached his 23d year), he became anxious to 
 be in a situation to marry. This was not likely 
 to be soon the case while he remained a farmer, 
 as the stocking of a 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 
 fcr several years taken land of my father for the 
 purpose of raising flax on our own account. In 
 the course of selling it, Robert began to think 
 of turning flix-dresser, both a-* being suitable to 
 his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- 
 lervient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
 wrought at the business of a flax-dresaer iu 
 Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
 period, as neither agreeing with bis health nor 
 inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
 acquaintance of a fieei manner of thinking and 
 living than he ha<l been used to, who>c society 
 prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid 
 virtue which bad hitherto restrained him. To- 
 wards the end of the period under review (in 
 his 24th year), and soon after his father's deith, 
 he Was furnislied with the sulijeit of bis epistle 
 to John Ratikin. During this period also he 
 became a freemason, which was his first intro- 
 duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, 
 Botwith&tanding these circumstance!, and the 
 
 praise he has bc*tow"d on Scofch drink (which 
 seems to have misled his hi>toriaris), I do nol 
 recollect, (luring these seven >i'ars, nor till to- 
 wards the end of his comniencir.g author { whea 
 his growing celebrity occasioned his being oftea 
 in coin])any), to have ever seen him intoxicated, 
 nor was be at all given to drinking. A stronger 
 proof of the general sobriety of his conduct netd 
 not be required tli in wh it I am about to give. 
 During the wliole of the time we liveii in tiie 
 firm of Lochlea with my fither, he allowed my 
 brother and me such wages for our labour as he 
 gave to Other labourers, as a jiart of which, 
 every article of our clothing manufactured in 
 the fimily was regularly accounted for. When 
 my fither's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
 and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 
 1 18 acres, at the lent of ȣ9() jier annuiii (the 
 farm on which I live at jiresimt) from Mr. Ga- 
 vin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in 
 case of the worst. It was stocked by tlie pro- 
 perty and individual savings of the whole family, 
 and was a joint concern among us. Every mem- 
 ber of the family was allowed ordinary wai.;<'» 
 for the laliour he pL-rfirmed on the farm. .N'y 
 brother's allow.mce and mine was seven pociidi 
 ])er annum each. And during the whole tune 
 thisfdiiiily concern lasted, wliich was four J'imih, 
 as well as during the preceding period at L»n,h- 
 lea, his exjienses never in one yeir exceeded his 
 slender income. As I was intrusted with the 
 keeping of the f.imily accounts, it is not possi- 
 ble that tlieie can be any fillacy in this state- 
 ment in my brother's fivour. His teniperance 
 and frugality Avcre every thing that could be 
 wished. 
 
 The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, ami 
 mostly on a cold wet bottom. 'I'he first iV-iir 
 jear's that v.e were on the firm were very froity, 
 and the spring was very late. Our crops in 
 consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not- 
 withstanding our utmost (liiigence and econoinv, 
 we found ourselves obliged to give \x\) our Lir- 
 gain, with the loss of a consideralile part of our 
 original stock. It was during these four years 
 that Robert formed his connection with Jeau 
 Armour, afterwards .Mis, Burns. This connec- 
 t on could no loilffcr be caucealed, about the 
 time we came to a final determin.ition to quit 
 the firm. Robert durst not engage with a 
 family in his |)oor unsettk'd state, but was an- 
 xious to shield his partner by every means in 
 his power from tlw consequences of their im- 
 lirudence. It was agreeil therefore betweeo 
 them, that they shoulil make a legal acknow- 
 ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; 
 that he should go to Jamaica, to jnah Ais 'i-r- 
 tiuie ; and tint she shoiiUi remain wjtii ]\tt 
 fither till it might ]ilease Providence to put th» 
 means of supporting a family in his power. 
 
 Mrs. Rums wa^ a great favourite of her fa- 
 ther's. The intimation of a private niarriapj 
 was the first suggestion he received of her ri.-a 
 situation. He was in the greatest distress, ao<l 
 fainted^ away. The marriage did not aujiea/ tu 
 
290 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 fcim to make the matter any better. A hus- 
 band in Jamaica appeared to him anil to his wife 
 little better than none, and an efTectual bar to 
 any other prospects of a settlement in life that 
 their daughter might have. They therefore ex- 
 pressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
 which rc-pectcd the marriage should be cancel- 
 led, and thus the marriage rendeied void. In 
 her moitfacholy state she felt the deepest remorse 
 at having brought such heavy affliction on pa- 
 rents 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 
 ills daily labours could provide for them ; that 
 being the only means in his power. Even this 
 oiler they did not approve of; for, hund)le as 
 Miss Armour's station was, and great though 
 her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes 
 of her partial parents, might look to a better 
 connexion than that with my friendless and un- 
 hippy brother, at that time without house or 
 hiding-place. Robert at length consented to 
 their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion 
 were of the most distracting nature ; and the 
 impression of sorrow was not effaced, till by a 
 regular marriage they were indissolubly united. 
 In the state of mind which this separation pro- 
 duced, he wished to leave the country as soon 
 as possllde, and agreed 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 sufficient money to pay his pas- 
 sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was 
 to procure a passage for him was not expected 
 to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him 
 to publish his poems in the meantime by sub- 
 scription, as a likely way of getting a little mo- 
 ney to provide him moie liberally in necessaries 
 for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advic", sub- 
 scripti(m bills were piinted immediately, and 
 the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, 
 his preparations going on at the same time for 
 his voyage. The reception, however, which 
 his poems metvv'ith in the world, and the friends 
 they procureii him, made him change his reso- 
 lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised 
 to go to Eilinburgh to publish a second edition. 
 On bis return, in happier circumstances, he re- 
 newed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and ren- 
 dered It permanent by a union for life. 
 
 Thus, .Madam, have I endeavoured to give 
 you a sim[)le narrative of the leading circum- 
 stances in my brotlier's early life. The remain- 
 ing part he spent in Edinburgh or in Dumfries- 
 shire, and its incidents are as well kiu)wn to 
 you as to me. Ills gi'nius having procured him 
 your patronage and fjiend>hip, this gave rise to 
 the correspondencp between you, in which, I 
 believe, his «entimcnts were rleliveied with the 
 most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, 
 and which oulv tcruiinotcd with the list days of 
 iis life. 
 
 No. Lxvn. 
 
 FROM MR. MURDOCa 
 
 TO 
 
 DR. MOORE, 
 
 AS TO THE poet's EARLY TUI7I0K. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I WAS lately favoured with a letter from onf 
 worthy friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which 
 he requested me to communicate to you what 
 ever particulars I could recollect j'oncerning 
 Robert Burns, the Ayrshire piK't. JMy business 
 being at present multifarious and harassing, my 
 attention is consequently so much divided, and 1 
 am so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts 
 on paper, that at this distance of time I can give 
 but a verv imperfect sketch of the early part of 
 the life of that extraordinary genius with which 
 alone I am acquainted. 
 
 William Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
 born in the shire of Kincardine, an<l bred a 
 gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten 
 or twelve years before I knew him, and had 
 l>een in the service of I\Ir. Crawford of Dooa- 
 side. He was afterwards employed as a gar- 
 dener 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 road side, a Scotch mile and a hilt from 
 the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the 
 bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a puce 
 of land, consisting ot about seven acres, part of 
 which he laid out in garden ground, and ])art 
 of which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still con- 
 tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. 
 Upon this little farm was erected a humble 
 dwelling, of which William Burnes was the ar- 
 chitect. It was, with the exception of a little 
 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 Niyht, will 
 give some idea of the temper and manners that 
 pievailed there. 
 
 In 17G5, about the middle of March, .Mr. 
 W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school 
 where I was improving ia writing under my 
 L'Ood friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would 
 come and speak to him at a certain inn, and 
 bring my writing jook with me. This was 
 immediately complied with. Having ex.imined 
 my writing, he was pleased with it — (you will 
 readily allow he was not difficult), and told me 
 that he h id received very satisfactory itiforni a- 
 tion of Mr. Tennant, the master of the Eng- 
 lish school, concerning my impi-ovement in 
 English, and in his method of teaching. Ia 
 the mouth of JLiy following, I was engaged by 
 Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, 
 and accordingly began to teach the little school 
 ;.•• 'VUoway, whicb was situated a fevy yard* 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 291 
 
 from tlie arajillaceoiis fihric above mcntioni'd. 
 Mv five ctiiployers iiiulortnok to lioanl lue l)y 
 tiiiTis, and to make up a certain salary, at tlie 
 end of the year, provided my quarterly piy- 
 meuts from the different pupils did not amount 
 to til it sum. 
 
 My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
 six and seven years of asfe ; his preceptor about 
 eii^hteen. Robert and his younsjer brother (lil- 
 bei't, had been sjrounded a little in Eriijlish be- 
 fore they were put under my care. They both 
 inade a rapid procjress in reading, and a tolerable 
 pni'jjrcss in writing. In reading, dividing words 
 into sylLibles by rule, spelling without book, 
 parsing sentences, &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 S])dltn(} Ilooft, the iVcw Testament, 
 the Sible, Muson's Collection of Prose and 
 Verse, and Fisher's Eiinlish Grammar. They 
 com nitted to ir .-mory the 'jymns, and other 
 poems of that collection, with uncommon facili- 
 tv. This facility was partly owing to the me- 
 thod pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
 ing them, which was, to m ike them thoroughly 
 acquainted with the meaning of every word in 
 each sentence that was to be committed to me- 
 mo'v. 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 ; some- 
 times to substitute synonymous expressions for 
 poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. 
 These, you know, are the means of knowing thut 
 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 possess a 
 n'ore livelv imagination, and to be more of the 
 wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a 
 little chiHch music. Here they were left far be- 
 hind bv all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
 in particular, was remarkably dull, and bis voice 
 untunable. It was long before I could get them 
 to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's 
 countenance was generally grave, and expressive 
 of a serious, contem[ilative, and thoughtful mind. 
 Gilbert's face said. Mirth, with thee I mean to 
 live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the 
 two boys, had been asked which of them was 
 the most likely to court the muses, he would 
 surely never have guessed that Robert ha<l a 
 propensity of that kind. 
 
 In the year 1767, INIr. Burnes quitted his 
 mud e<iifice, and took possession of a farm 
 (Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
 in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
 being at a considerable distance from the school, 
 the boys could not attend regularly ; ami some 
 changes taking place among the other sup- 
 porters of the school, I left it, having conti.med 
 to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 
 
 In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one 
 of five candidates who were examined) to teach 
 
 the English school at A\t ; and in 177."?, Robert 
 Hums came to board and hdge with nw, f(U' the 
 purpose of revising English grammar, &c. that 
 he might be better qualified to instruct Uiu \iro- 
 thers and sisters at home. He was now with 
 me day and ni',dit, in school; at me ils. and in all 
 lily walks. At tlu- end of one week, I told him, 
 that, as he was now pretty much master of the 
 parts of s])eech, fee, I should like to teach hiiu 
 something of French |ironnni;iation, that when 
 he should meet with the name of a Fiench town, 
 ship, officer, or t.he like, in the newspapers, he 
 might be able to pronounce it something like a 
 French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro- 
 posal, and immeiliately we attacked the French 
 with great courage. 
 
 Now there was little else to be he;ird but the 
 declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, 
 &c. When walking together, and even at meals, 
 I was constantly telling him the name? of differ- 
 ent objects, as they ])resented themselves, in 
 French ; s', that '.le was hourl/ laying in a stock 
 of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, 
 he took such jileasure in learning, and I in teach- 
 ing, that it was difficult to say which of the two 
 was most zealous in the business ; and about the 
 end of the second week of our study of the 
 French, we began to read a little of the Adven- 
 tures of Telem-nclttts, in Fewelim's own wonls. 
 
 But now the plains of Tiiount Oliphant began 
 to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relin- 
 quish th.e |)leasing scenes that surrounded the 
 grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to 
 seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of 
 Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about 
 fifteen, I was told that he performed the work 
 of a man. 
 
 Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
 and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
 end of thiee week-', tjne of which was spent en- 
 tirely in the study of English, and the other two 
 chiefly in that of French. I did not, however, 
 lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant 
 at his father's house, when 1 had my half-holi- 
 day, and very often went accompanied with one 
 or two persons more intelligent than mv-e!f, that 
 good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. 
 — Then the labouring oar was shifted to some 
 other hand. The fither and the son sat down 
 with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, v.-hcre- 
 in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mo- 
 derate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely 
 blended as to render it palatable to all parties. 
 Robert liad a hundred questions to a-k me about 
 tlie French, &c. ; and the f.itber who had al- 
 ways rational information in view, had still 
 some question to propose to iny more learned 
 friends, ujion moral or natural philosophy, or 
 some such interesting subject. Mrs. Burnes 
 too was of the party as much as possible ; 
 
 " But still the Louse affairs would draw her thenca. 
 Which ever as she could with haste dispatch. 
 She'd come again, and, with a greedy car 
 Devour up their discourse." 
 
292 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 tr.d pai ticularly that of her husband. At all 
 times, and in all companies, she listened to him 
 with a mm e maiked atteutioi than to any body else. 
 When under the necessity of being absent while 
 lie was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real 
 loss, thit she had missed wliat the good raiin 
 had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, 
 had the most thorough esteem for her husband 
 jf any woman I ever knew. I can by no means 
 wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I 
 mysrlf have always considered William Burnes 
 as by far the best of the human race that ever 
 had the pleasure of being acquainted with — 
 and many a worthy character I have known. 
 1 can cheerfully join with Robert in the la^t line 
 of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 
 
 * And even his failings leau'd to virtue's side." 
 
 He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
 
 and perpetuate the memory of those who excei 
 in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what an 
 called heroic actions : then would the mausoltv 
 ura of the friend of my youth overtop and sur- 
 pass most of the monuments I see in Vy'estmia- 
 ster Al)bey. 
 
 Although I cannot do ju-^tice to the charac- 
 ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
 from these few particulars, whiit 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 neigh- 
 bours I do not recollect any of their coteinpo- 
 raries, at my little seminary, who afterwaids 
 made any great figure as literary ch.iracters, ex- 
 cept Dr. Tenant, who was chaplain to Colonel 
 from his assiduous attention to the ease and ! Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the 
 comfort of his a^orthy partner, and from Vier i East Indies. He is a man of genius and learn- 
 affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her ling; yet affib'e, and free from pedantry, 
 unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he 
 
 He was h tender and affectionate father ; he had overrated Mount Ollphant, anil that he 
 took pleasure in leading his children in the path could not rear his numerous family ujjon it.^ 
 of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents After being there some years, he removed to 
 do, to the performance of duties to whicn they Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, 1 
 themselves are averse. He took care to iihd believe, Robert wrote most of his poems, 
 fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he i But here, Sir, you will permit me to pause, 
 did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of I can tell you but little nure relative to our 
 reverential awe. A look of disapj)rol)ation was poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you 
 felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe ; a copy of one of his letters to me, about the 
 
 with the tau'f, even on the sklit of the coat, 
 gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamenta- 
 tion, and brought forth a Hood of tears. 
 
 He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
 good-will of those that were labourers under 
 him. I think I never saw him an'^ry but 
 twice . the one time it wa- with the foreman of 
 the band, for not reaping the field as he was de- 
 sired ; and the other time, it was with an old 
 man, for using smutty iiuiindoes and double en- 
 tentirts. Were eveiy foul-mouthed old man to 
 receive a seasonable check in this way, it would 
 be to the advantage of the rising generation. 
 As he was at no time overbeaiing to inferiors, 
 he was equally inca])able of that ])assive, ])itifu!, 
 paltry spirit, that induces some people to kttp 
 booing iind booing in the presence of a great 
 man. He always treattd superiors with a be- 
 coming resj)ect ; but he nevjrgave tlie smallest 
 encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But 
 I must nut pretend to give you a description of 
 all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris- 
 tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. 
 
 year 1783. I received oue since, but it is mis- 
 laid. Please remember me, in the best man- 
 ner, to niy worthy friend Mr. Adair, when you 
 see him or write to him. 
 
 Hart Street, Bloom--burv SqiiarCj 
 Loudon, Feb. 22, 1 799. 
 
 No. Lxvni. 
 
 FROM PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART 
 
 TO 
 
 DR. MOORE, 
 
 CONTAINING HIS SKETCHES OF THE POET. 
 
 The first time I saw Robert Burns was on 
 the 2'id of October, 1786, when he dined at my 
 house in Ayi shire, together with our commoQ 
 fiienrl Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch- 
 
 Time would fail me. I shall oidy add, that he] line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure ol 
 tarefuUy piactised every known duty, and avoid- I his acquaintance. I am enabled to nientiiui the 
 fd every thing that was criu'inal ; or, in the 'date particularly, by some verses which Burtis 
 »I)ostle*s words, Herein did lie exercise A/hi- ! wrote after he returned home, and in which the 
 telf, in livinr; a life void of iff nee lownrds ^t]iiy of our tneeting is recorded. My cxcellLiit 
 Gild and towards men. O for a world of men | and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord 
 of sudi dispositions ! Vfe should then have no Daer, hap))ened to arrive at Catrine the same 
 Wars. 1 liive often wished, for the good of day, and by the kindness and frankness of hit 
 tnankind,. that it were as customary to honour J manners, left an imjiression on the mind of th» 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 293 
 
 nooti whic ni /er w.is cffdccd. The verses I 
 ailiiJe lo aie among the ino^t imperfect of his 
 pier«?s , but ;i few stanzas may pel haps he an 
 ohiect of curiosity to you, botli on acoMint of 
 the character to which they relate, and of the 
 !ii(l'.t whii'h they throw on the situation and 
 feeliiifjs of tlie writer, before his name was 
 kniiwri to the puhl c. * 
 
 I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
 time, wlutlier, at the period of our first ac- 
 quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems 
 h.id been just published, or was yet in the press. 
 I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have 
 ttill in my possession copies in liis own hand- 
 wrino!;, or some of his favourite performances ; 
 particularly of his verses " on turnini^ up a 
 Mouse with his pIouq;h ;" — " oa the Mountiin 
 D.iisy ;" and " the Lament." C)n my retutn to 
 Edinburi^h. I showed the volume, and mention- 
 ed what I knew of the author's history, to se- 
 veral of my friends, and aniorig others, to Mr. 
 Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him 
 to pulilic uotice in the 97th number of The 
 Louiii/cr. 
 
 At this time Buins's prospects in life were so 
 extremely ploomy, that he had seriou>ly forined 
 (I plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble 
 situ ition, not, however, without lamenting, that 
 liis want of patronage should force him to think 
 of a project so repugnant to li's feelmgs, when 
 his ambition aimed at no higher an object than 
 the station of an e.xciseman or ganger in his own 
 country. 
 
 His manners were then, as they continued 
 ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
 dent ; stiongly expressive of conscious genius 
 and worth ; but without any thing that indica- 
 ted forwardness, airogance, or vanity. He took 
 his >liare in conversation, but not mere than 
 belonged to him ; aiui listened with apparent 
 attention and defeience, on subjects where his 
 Want of ediicatiiui depiiveii him of the means of 
 information. If there bail been a little more of 
 gentleness and accommodation in bis temper, he 
 would, I think, hive been still more interest- 
 ing ; but he h id been accustomed to give law 
 in the circle of his ordinary acquaint .nee ; arid 
 his dread of any thing aiiproacbing to meanness 
 or servility, leiideied his /iianncr somewhat de- 
 cided aiid hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more 
 remarkable among his various attainments, than 
 the fluency, and precisiim, and originality of 
 his language, when he spoke in company ; more 
 paiticulaily as lie aimed at purity in his turn of, 
 e\pres>iou, and avoided more succe-sfuily than 
 most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish ■ 
 phraseology. I 
 
 He '-ame to Eilinburgh early in the winter' 
 following, and remained there for several montli». 
 By vchose advice he took this step, I am unable! 
 .o sav. Peihajis it was suggested only by bis 
 ^Wll curiosity to see a little more of the world ; 
 Dut. I confess, I dreaded the conseijuentes from 
 
 • See sonj;s, [>. 210. 
 
 the first, and aiways wi-hed that his pursiii»y 
 and h ibils should confimie the same as in thi? 
 former part of life; with the addition of, what 
 I considered as then completely within his reach, 
 a good farm on inoderate terms, in a part of the 
 country agreeable to his taste. 
 
 The attentions he nceived during his stay ic 
 town from a'l r.inks aii<l descriptions of persons, 
 were such as would have turned anv head but 
 his own. I cannot sav that I ccuild perceive 
 any unfavourable effect which they left on his 
 mind. He retained the same simplicity of man- 
 ners ar.; appearance which had struck me so 
 forcibly when I first saw him in tlie country ; 
 nor dl<l he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
 portance from the niiaiber and rank of his new 
 acijiiaintance. His dress was pcrfectiv suited to 
 his station, plain and unprettiiding, with a suf- 
 ficient attention to neatness If I recollect right 
 he always wore boots ; and, when on more that: 
 usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. 
 
 The variety of his engagements, while in 
 Edinburgh, [irevented me from seeing him so 
 often as I could have wi-hed. In the course of 
 the sjiring he called on me once or twice, at 
 my reiinest, early in the morning, and w.ilked 
 with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood 
 of the town, when he charmed me still more by 
 his private conversation, than he had ever done 
 in comp inv. He was passionately fimd of the 
 beauties 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 witnessi-d, like himself, the happiness and 
 the woith which tliev contained. 
 
 In his political priucijiV's he was then a Ja- 
 cobite ; which was perhips owing partly to 
 this, that his father was originally fioni the es- 
 tate of L<'rd Mansih.ill. Indeed he <liil not 
 appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
 nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
 sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
 the levity with which he had heard it treated 
 ociasionarv in some conviv al meetings which 
 he frcijuentcd. I speak of him as I.e wa.s in 
 the winter of I7S()-7; f.ir afterwards we met 
 but se'dom, and our conversat.oas turned chief- 
 ly on his literary projects, or his private? affairs. 
 
 I do not recollect whether it app^'ars or not 
 from any of your letters to me, that you had 
 ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluous 
 for me add, tli.it the idea wliich his conversa 
 tion conveyed of the povvers of his mind, ex- 
 ceeded, if possible, that which is suggisred by 
 his writings, .\mong the p ets whom I have 
 hapjiened to know, I have been struck, in more 
 than one instance, with the un,iccouiitable dis- 
 piritv between their general talents, and the oc- 
 casional inspir.itioiis of tlieir more favoured mo^ 
 ment-.. But all the facultiLS of Burn^'s mind 
 were, as far as I could judg-, equ illy vigorous; 
 and his piedllectioii tor poetry was r.itber the 
 result of his own enthumastic and impassioned 
 
294 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 temper, than of a jreiiius exclusively adapted to defjree of true crenius. tTie extreme facility zni 
 that species of composition. From liis couver- good nature of liis taste, in judging of the com- 
 eation I should have pronounced him to he fit- positions of otheis, where there was any rea. 
 ted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he ground for praise. 1 repeated to him many 
 had chosen to exert liis abilities. { i)assages of English poetry with which he was 
 
 Anion? the sulijects on whidi he was accus- , unacquainted, and hive more than once wit- 
 tomed to'^dwell, the characters of the iiidividu- nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with 
 als with whom he happened to meet, was plain- wliich he heard them. The collection of songs 
 ly a favouiite one. Tlie remarks he made on jby Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, 
 them were always shrewil and jiointed, though ihe read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
 frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His his former efforts in that very difficult species 
 
 praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri- 
 minate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, 
 proceeded rather from the caprice and humour 
 of the moment, than from the effects of attach- 
 ment in blin<iing his judgment. Ills wit was 
 ready, and always impiessed 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 per- 
 formances, perhaps, that he has produced, to- 
 tally unworthy of his genius. 
 
 In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
 Ayrshire, and saw Hums occasionally. I think 
 that he made a pretty long excursion that sea- 
 son to the Highlands, and that he also visited 
 what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of .Scot- 
 land, upon the baidcs of the Teviot and the 
 Tweed. 
 
 I should have mentioned before, that not- 
 withstanding various re|)orts I heard during the 
 preceding winter, of Burns's ])redilection for 
 convivial, and not very select society, I should 
 have concluded in fivour of his habits of so- 
 briety, from all of him that ever fell under my 
 own observation. He told me indeed himself, 
 that the weakness of his stomach wis such as 
 to deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem- 
 perance. I "vas however somewhat alarmed 
 about the effect of his now comparatively seden- 
 tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to 
 ine, the first night he spent in my house after 
 his winter's campaign in town, that he had been 
 muidi disturbed « hen in bed, by a palpitation 
 at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint 
 to whi(di he had of late become subject. 
 
 In the course of the same season, I was led 
 bv curicsitv to attend fiir an hour or two a Ma- 
 son-Lodge in Mauchliue, where Buins presided. 
 He had occasion to make some short unpre- 
 meditated ciimiilimeuts to ditferent individuals 
 from whom he ha I no reason to exjjcct a visit, 
 anil every thing he said was ha|>pily conceiveil, 
 and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If 
 ] am not mistaken, he to'd me, that if *bat 
 village, l)efore going to Eiliid)urgb, he had be- 
 longed to a small club of such of the inhabi- 
 tants ,-is had a taste fiir books, when they uM-d 
 to conver-e and debate on any interesting ques- 
 tions that occurred to them in the course of 
 vheir reading. His manner of sjieaking in |Mib- 
 lic had t viilently the marks of some practice in 
 extenip'iie elocution. 
 
 I must not omit to nu-ntion, whit I have al- 
 wuis considereil as characteristical in a high. 
 
 of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had 
 some effect in polishing his subsequent compo- 
 sitions. 
 
 In judiing of prose, I do not think his taste 
 was equally sound. I once read to him a pas- 
 sage or two in Franklin's Works, whidi I 
 thought very happily executed, upon the modeJ 
 of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or 
 to perceive the beauty which they derived from 
 their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them 
 with indifference, when compared with the 
 point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. 
 The influence of this taste is very perceptible 
 in his own prose compositions, although the.r 
 great and various excellencies render some of 
 them scarcely less objects of wonder thi^n 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 inemory was uncommonly retentive, at 
 least for [loetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
 quently long compositions with the most mi- 
 nute accuracy. They were chiefly balh'.d-^, and 
 other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part 
 of them (he told me) he had learned in his 
 childliood, from his mother, who delighteil in 
 such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude 
 
 it prcibably was, gave, it is presumable, the 
 first direction to her son's genius. 
 
 Of the more polished verses which acciden- 
 tally fell into his hands in his early yeais, he 
 nu-ntioned particularly the recommendatory 
 poems, by different authors, prefixed to Ilirvir/s 
 Mcdital'ions. ; a book which has always had a 
 very wide circulation among such of the coun- 
 try people of Scotland, as affect to unite so>— 
 degree of taste with their religious studies. And 
 these poems (altJioug^ they are certainly below 
 medioi-iity) he continued to read with a degree 
 of lapture beyond expression.. He took notice 
 (if this fact himself, as a proof how much the 
 taste is liable to be influenced by accidental cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 His father appeared to me, from the account 
 be gave of him, to have been a respectable and 
 worthy character, possessed of a mind superior 
 ro what mii,'bt have been expected from his 
 station in life. He ascribed much of his own 
 priiu-ipl.'s and feelings to the early imines-lons 
 lie had received from his instructions and evim- 
 ]i!e. I recollect that lie once applied to him 
 (and he added, that the passi'ie wa« a litera. 
 statement of fact, ) the two last lines of the fol 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 •295 
 
 iowing passap;e in il>e Minstrel ; the whole of 
 wliitl: be rcpcati'il witb great uiithusiiism : 
 
 " Shall I lie left foigo'ten in the dust, 
 
 When fate, rcieiitin!,', I"ts the flower revive ; 
 Shall i.atiire's voice, to man alone unjust, 
 
 Bid him, though dooni'd to perish, hojjc to 
 live ?" 
 Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
 
 With (lisa]i|)oiiitnieat, pcnuiy, and pain? 
 No ! Heaven's ininiortal spi in^ shall yet arrive ; 
 
 And man's maje-tic beauty bloom aijain, 
 Bfiglit *hrmigh th' eternal year of love's trium- 
 phant reigu. 
 
 This tndli sublime, Ills simple sire had tauyht : 
 In south, 'tii-as utnwst all the shtjiherd knew. 
 
 With respect to Buins's early ediicat'on, I 
 cannot say any thing with ceitainty. He al- 
 ways spoke with respect and gratitude of the 
 school-master who h id taught him to read Eng- 
 lish ; and u ho, finding in his scholar a moie 
 than ordinary ardour for knowledge, h id b-,en 
 at pai;is to instruct him in the graiiimati'.\il 
 principles of the language. He began the study 
 }{ Latin, but drop; ed it before he hid fiuislud 
 the verbs. I have sometimes heaid him quote 
 u few Latin words, such as omnia vincit umor, 
 fifc, but they seemed to be such as he had 
 caught from conversation, and which he re- 
 ])eateil by rule. I think he hail a project, after 
 he came to Ediidjurgh, of pnisi ciiting the study 
 under his intintate friend, the late JMr. Nicoll, 
 one of the master> of the grainniar-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 any thing, 
 it was iu introducing occasionally a woid or 
 phrase from that language. It is possible that 
 his knowledge in this respect might be more 
 extensive than I suppose it to be* '"ut this yon 
 cia learn from his moie intimate acquaintance. 
 It would be worth while to inquire, whether 
 he was able to read tiie French authors with 
 such facility as to receive from them any im- 
 piovt-meiit to his taste. For my own part, I 
 doubt it iiiiicli — nor would 1 believe it, but on 
 very strong and pointed evideme. 
 
 If my memory does not fail me, he was well 
 instructed in arithmetic, and kiiew something 
 of practical geometry, particularly of smveying. 
 — All his other attainments were entirely his 
 Dw a. 
 
 The last time I saw him was during the win- 
 ter, J7S&-S9; when he jiasstd an evening with 
 ni>' at Drumshtu_v;h, in the neighbourhood ot 
 Edini)iiri;h, where I was then living. My friend 
 l\lv. .•Vhsoii was the only other person in com- 
 pany. I never saw him more agieeable or in- 
 teresting, A present which Mr. Alison sent 
 him afurwaiu^ if his Kssuys on . uste, drew 
 Irom Burns i letter of aiknowledgmeut, which 
 1 reuiim'",r to I'dve read »vilh some legree of 
 
 surprise at the distinct c(>nieptioc he nppeired 
 from it to have formed, of the general princi- 
 ples of the doctrine of ussociutinn. When I 
 eaw Mr. Alixn in .Shropslnre last autumn, I 
 forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist- 
 ence. If it is, you m.iy easily procuie it, b> 
 means of our friend Mr. llouiurooke. 
 
 No. LXIX. 
 FROJI GILBERT BURNS 
 
 TO 
 
 DR. CURRIE. 
 
 GIVING THE IlISTOKY OF THE OillGIN OF TJH 
 I'KlNCirAL rOEMS. 
 
 It may gratify curiosity to know some partu-u- 
 lars ot the history of the preceding Poems, 
 on which t!ie celebrity (;f our Baril has been 
 hitlurto founded ; and with this view the 
 fcillowiiig extract is made from a letter of 
 Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, and 
 his fiieiid and confidant from' his earliest 
 yeais. 
 
 DEAR SIR, Mossfiid, 2'/ yljiril. 1793. 
 
 Youii letter of the 14th of March I leceiveil 
 in due course, but, fioiii the hmry of the sea- 
 son, have been hitheito hindeied ficiii answer 
 ing it. I will now tiy to give you what satis- 
 faction I can iu regard to the particulais you 
 mention. I cannot pretend to be very accurate 
 in respect to the dates of the poems, but none 
 of them, e.\cept Winter, a DIrrje, (whicli was 
 a juvenile production), the JJmth innl Di/uifj 
 W(,nls if your Jiluilie, and some of the songs, 
 weie composed before the year ITS'i. Tlie cir- 
 cumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much 
 as he has described them. He had. partly by 
 way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs fnaa 
 a neighbojr, and she was tethered m a lield ad- 
 joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were 
 going out with our teams, and our two younger 
 lirotliers to drive fiu- us, at mid-d.iy, when 
 Hugh Wilson, a curioys looking awkward boy, 
 clad in |dai'ling, came to us with much anxiety 
 in his face, with the information that the cue 
 had entangled heiself in the tether, and was ly- 
 ing in the ditch. Ilobert was ii.uch tieLI"(l 
 with IJii(,h'ic's appearance and postiues on the 
 occasion. P<K)r Mailie was set to right', and 
 when we returned troiii the p!(>ii'.;h in the even- 
 ing, he repeated to me )ier JJta h und Uijiiiy 
 Wards pretty much in the way they now staii.i. 
 
 Among the earliest of his poems was tbe 
 7i;,/.>//e to Udvte. Kobei t often ci.mposi-d wirli- 
 out any regular pi, in. When iuiy It iiig i:iade a 
 strong lUipr^vsiun on his uuml. so a; ai rous* il 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 w poetiR exertion, he woiiM give wiiy to tiie 
 iiii|)iiNt>, and eiiilK)(ly the thought in rhyme. 
 Il lie hit on two or tiiree stanzas to please him, 
 lie woulil then think of proper introductory, 
 connectinir, and concluding .stanzas; hence the 
 middle of a poem was often fir^t pniduc-ed. It 
 was, 1 tliink, in suiiimer 17S+, when in tlie 
 'ntevvi! of harder lahoiir, he and I were weed- 
 ing in tlie garden (k.iilyard) that he rejieited to 
 me t!ie principal part of this epistle. I helieve 
 the first idea of liohert's hecoiuiug an author 
 was started on this occasion. I was much 
 pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was 
 of opinion it would hear being printed, and 
 that it would he well received by people of 
 taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not 
 superior, to many of All in Ramsay's ejiistles, 
 and that the merit of these, and much other 
 Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in 
 the knack of the expression — hut here, there 
 was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the 
 Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af- 
 fected, hut ai)peared to be the natural language 
 of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly 
 some novelty in a pott pointing out the conso- 
 lations that were in store for him when he 
 sliould go a-begging. Robert seemed very well 
 pleased with iny criticism ; and we talked of 
 smding it to some magazine, but ts this plan 
 atToided no opjiortanity of knowing how it 
 would take, the idea was dropped. 
 
 It was, 1 think, in the winter folKtwIng, as 
 we Were going together with carts for coal to 
 the family tiie (and I could yet point out the 
 particular spot), that the author tirst repeated 
 to nie the Aildress to the Deil. The curious 
 idea of such an address was suggested to him, 
 Ijy riiuning over in his mind the many ludicrous 
 accounts anil repiesentations we have, from va- 
 rious (juaiters, of this august personage. Death 
 and Dr. llnriiliixik, though not published in 
 the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in 
 the vear ITH.o. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton 
 parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allowed 
 to that u--eful class of men, had set up a shop 
 of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in 
 with some medical books, and become most 
 holibv-horsically attached to the study of iiiedi- 
 ciiK, hi- hid aclded the sale of a few nieilicioes 
 to his little trade. He had git 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 wis at a mason- 
 meeting, in Tarbolton, when the " Dominie" 
 nnfortun itely made too ostentatious a disjilay of 
 his ine>lical .skill. As he parted in the evening 
 from this mixture of pedantry and physical 
 the place where lie describes his meeting with 
 Death, one of those floating ideas of apparition, 
 he menticus in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed 
 fils mind ; this set him to work for the rest of 
 the wav home. These circuuistanc.es he relat- 
 ed when he repeated the verses to me next af- 
 Wriviuu, -a* 1 was holding the plough, and he 
 
 was lettiig the wate; ofT the field bwide me 
 The Epistle iiJiifin Lapraih w.is prcdacfd 
 exactly on the occasion described bv the authoi. 
 He says in thit poem. On fasten e'vn he hail a 
 rcickin'. I believe he has omitted the word 
 ri>cking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
 from those primitive times, when the country- 
 women employed their spire hours in spinning 
 im the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument 
 is a very portable one, and w»li fitted to the so- 
 cial inclination of meeting in a neiijhhour's 
 house ; hence the phrase of going a-rockini; or 
 with the rock. As the connection the phrase 
 hid with the implement was forgotten whec 
 the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the 
 phrase came to be iiseil by b ith sexes on socia. 
 occasions, and men talk of going with their 
 rocks as well as women. 
 
 It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
 when we had twelve or fifteen young people with 
 their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginnings 
 " When I ujion thy bosom lean," was sung, 
 and we are informed who was the author. 
 Upon this Robert wrote his fir>t epistle to Lap- 
 raik ; and his second in reply to his answer. 
 The verses to the Afiuse and Mounttiin-Daisy 
 were composed on the occasions mL'ntioiied, and 
 while the author was holding the plough ; ' 
 could point out the particular spot where each 
 was composed. HoMlog the plough was a fa- 
 vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo- 
 sitions, and some of his best verses were pro- 
 duced while he was at that exercise. Scveial 
 of the poems were produced tor the purpose of 
 bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the 
 author. He used to remark to me, that he 
 could not well conceive a inor« mortifying pic- 
 ture of human life than a man seeking work. 
 In casting about in his mind how this sentiiiietit 
 might be brought forward, the elegy ?tlnn was 
 imide to Miiurn. was composed. Robert hid 
 freijuently remi ked to me, thit he thought 
 theie was jo.^,'hing peculiarly veneiab'e in the 
 phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a de- 
 cent sober head of a family introducing f.imily 
 worship. To this sentiment of the author the 
 world is indehti'd for the Colter's Sat;:rday 
 A'ii/ht. The hint of the plan, and the title of 
 tiie poem, were taken from Feigusson's Fiinnera 
 Inijle. When Itobert had not some plea-iire iv 
 view in which I was not thoiulit tit to jiar'ici- 
 pate, we used frequently to w.ilk toge'her when 
 the weather was f.ivourable, on the Sunday af- 
 ternoons, (those jirecious breathing-times to the 
 labouring part of the commuuity), and enjoyed 
 such Sundays as would make one regret to see 
 their number abridged. It was in one of these 
 walks that I first had the pl.M^ure of heiiiii;.' 
 the author rejie.it the Cotter's Sitnrdty Nn/ht. 
 I do not recohect to have read or he.ini any 
 thing by which I was more highly electrified, 
 The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
 thrilled with peculiar ec>tasy through my soul 
 I mention tins to you, thai you m ly see wtiat 
 hit the taste of v^Ieltcred criticism. I should 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 297 
 
 ke C'*"' •" U.Ti"', if -lie en.ightcneil minil ami 
 rffirifii ta-iti' (if .Mr. Kiiscoe, whit h is liorm- siu-li 
 'n>':i'iuiMi):t; tc^itiiiuitiy to tliis poem, usjiti's ultli 
 nil' 111 tin- Micction. I-Vrs;u«.s(>n, in his llnlhiw 
 J-cir of IvIiiiliiH i;li, I lii'lii've, likewise fiiiiii«li- 
 i"(i :i liiiit of tlu' title and plan of tlie //"/// Fuir. 
 The fiieieal scene tlie jioet there fleseiihes 
 wa>i often a favoiiiite field of his observation, 
 and tl e most of the incidents he mentions 
 had ai-tii.illy passed before his ejes. It is searee- 
 Iv necess'ii V to mention, that the Lament was 
 compo-efl <>ii that Uiifoi tunate p issage in his ma- 
 trinioni.il history, whieh I have mentioned in 
 my leffir to Mrs. Diiiilo]), after the first distrac- 
 tion of Ills lielintjs had a little subsided. The 
 7' lie of Tint D'li/s was composed after the re- 
 solution of piiblishinc; was nearly taken. Robert 
 h.id had a doj, whieh lie called Luiitli. that was 
 a ijreat favourite. The dog had been killed bv 
 tl;e wanton enielty of some person the night be- 
 fore my fither's death. Robert said to me, that 
 he sluiiild like to confer such immortality as he 
 could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and 
 th.it be had a g;reat n.ind to introduce soniethinn; 
 info the book un<ler the title of Slunziis ti> the 
 Jilmiiri/ of a qiitnhtipvd Friend ; but this pl.in 
 Wis given up for the Title as it now staruls. 
 Casitr was merely the creature of the poet's 
 imagination, cieated for the purpose of holding 
 chat with his favourite Lmith. The first time 
 Roliert heard thespimu-t plaved upon, was at the 
 house of Dr. l.awrie, then miuisier of the |)arish 
 of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up 
 the |i.iiisli in fivour of his son. Dr. Lawne 
 lias several d iii'^hters ; one of them ])la\ed ; the 
 f.itlur ami mother led down the dance ; the rrst 
 of the sisters, the brother, the poet, ai;il the 
 other guest, mi.\ed in it. It was a deiiglittiil 
 family scene for our poet, then lately introilueed 
 to the world. His mitiil was roused to a pnetic 
 enthusiasm, and the st.mzas, p. AG, were left in 
 the room where he slept. It was to Dr. Law- 
 rie that Dr. Blaekhick's letter was addressed, 
 which my buother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, 
 mentions as the re.ison of his going to Edinburgh. 
 When my inthw fetieil his little projierty near 
 \lloway Kirk, the wall of the ihurehyard had 
 gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- 
 turing in it. My father, with two or three other 
 neighbours, i:nnL(l in an application to the town 
 council of A\r, who were superiors of the ad- 
 joining laud, lor liberty to rebudil it, and raised 
 by sub-cription a sum for enclosing this ancient 
 cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con- 
 sider it as his burial-place, and we learned that 
 reverence for it, people generally have fur the 
 buri.d-pi.'ice of their ancestors. My brother was 
 living ill Kllislaiid, when C.iptain Grose, or. his 
 peregrin itious through Scotland, s.aid some time 
 St Curse-house, in the neighbuiirhood, with 
 Captain Holiert Riddel, of Glen-Uiddell, a parti- 
 tul.ir friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian 
 ind the Poet were " U:icj pack and 'hick the- 
 jiiher. ■* Robert r-iju'isreil I'f Cajitaiu Grose, 
 ivhea he sbuald couih cu Ayrihir-:, lodt he would 
 
 make a drawing of Alloway Kiik, as it was the 
 burial-place of his fitlier, ami where he liimsell 
 had a sort ol claim to lay down his bones when 
 tluy slioiil,! he no longer serviceable to hiin ; 
 and added, by way of eiK'onr igcment, that it 
 was the scene of many a good story of witches 
 and ajiparitious, of which he knew the Captair 
 was very fond. The Oiptain agreed to the re- 
 quest, provided the Poet would furnish a witch- 
 story, to be printed along with it. Tmn i>' 
 Sliunlir was ])ro(liiced on this occasion, and was 
 first ])ublished in Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
 land. 
 
 This poem is founded on a traditional story. 
 The leading circumstances of a man riding home 
 very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing 
 1 light in Alloway Kirk, his having the curiosity 
 to look in, his seeing a d.iiice of witches, with 
 the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the 
 scanty covering of one of the witches, which 
 made him so far forget himself a.5 to cry — " Weel 
 loupeu, short saik !" — with the melancholy ca- 
 tastrophe of the piece ; is all a true story, that 
 can be well attested by many respectable old 
 people in that neighhom hood. 
 
 I do not at present recollect any circnmsi.tncei 
 respectig the other poem", that coiiM be at all 
 interesting ; even some of tliose I have mentioa- 
 ed, I am afraid, may appear tiillmg enough, but 
 you will only make use of what appears to you 
 of cimsequence. 
 
 The following Poems in the first Edinliurgii 
 edition, were not in that published in Kilmar 
 nock. Dentil and Dr. /lornbou/t ; The Jirii/i 
 of Ai/r ; The Cnlf ; (the pott had been with 
 Mr. Gavin Hiniilton in the morning, who said 
 jocul.irly to him when he was going to church, 
 in allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
 their children, that he must be sure to bring 
 him a note of the sermon at mi(l-il,iy ; this ad- 
 dress to the Revere-jd Geutlemaii on his t«.\t 
 was accordingly produced ). The Ordination; 
 The Address to the Unco Gnid ; 'J'uni Sam- 
 son's Ele[iy ; A Winter Niylit ; tstanzu.i on 
 the same occasion as the jircceiliiig prayer ; 
 Verses left at a Jieverend Friend's house. ; J'ht 
 frsl I'sulin i I'rai/er under the jiressure of vio- 
 lent anii'iisli ; The fir>t sij. verses (f tlie nine- 
 teiiith Ps'ilin ; Verses to Miss Luyan, with 
 JJmttie's J'oems ; To a ilaayis ; Address to 
 Edinburyh ; John Jjarleycorn ; W/ien (iiiil. 
 fird Guifl ; Jiehind yon /(.//< ichire Stinchar 
 flows , Green grow the Rushes ; Ayam re- 
 jiilciny Nature sees ; The yluomy Niyht ; Nt 
 Churchman am I. 
 
 No. LXX. 
 FROM GILIiEUT BURNS 
 
 TO 
 
 DR. CURRIE. 
 Di-nniny, Dumfriesshire, 2 K/J Oct. IBOO. 
 
 UEA a SIR, 
 
 Yoi'iis of the ITtii iustant came to tny haiul 
 T2 
 
298 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 yesterilay, antl I sit down this affernnon to write 
 you in return; hut when I shiill he al)!e to 
 tiiil-h ill! I wish to say to you, I canniit tell. I 
 am sorry ynur i-onvictiou is not cO!ii|jK'te re- 
 SjU'cting fmh. Tliure is no douht tliat if you 
 Take two English words whicli appear synuuy- 
 ni'ius to in>inij feck, and jiidxe by tlie rules of 
 English constiui tion, it \v;ll appear a barbarism. 
 I btlieve if you take this mode of translating 
 from any language, the effect will frequently be 
 the same. But if you take the expres^ion moi.y 
 feck to have, as I li.ive stated it, the same mean- 
 ing with the Engli-h expression very muni/, 
 (and sueli license every translator must be al- 
 lowed, especially when he translates from a 
 simple dialect which has never been subjected 
 to rule, and wheie the precise meaning of words 
 is of conseijuence not niinutelv attended to), it 
 will be well enough. One thing 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 maniiers, the simple melodies, and the 
 simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated 
 by foreign intercourse, " whose soul pioud 
 science never taught to stray," ever discovered 
 barbarism in the sotig of Etrick Banks. 
 
 The story you have heard of the gable of my 
 fjthei's house fallin;^ down, is simply as fol- 
 lows . — When mv father built his " clav bi"^- 
 gin," he put in two stone-jambs, as they are 
 called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in 
 bis cl ly- gable. The conseipience 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 
 divs old, a little before diy-light, a part of the 
 gable lell imt, and the rest appeared so shatter- 
 ed, that my mother, with the young poet, hid 
 ti) be carried through the stonn to a neighbour's 
 house, where they remained a week til their 
 own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
 think too meanly of this house, or of n:y fa- 
 ther's taste in building, liy supposing the jmet's 
 description in the Vision (winch is ei.tlrely 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 
 Lad constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, 
 with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- 
 tciials with the house, anil, when altogetiier cast 
 over, uutsule and in, with lime, it had a neat, 
 c.'imfortable ajipeirance, such as no family of the 
 same rank, in the piesent impioveil style of 
 living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I 
 wish likewise to tike notice in |iassiiig, that al- 
 thojgh the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, 
 is un exact cojn' of my father in Jii^ manners, 
 his tiuiily devi.tion, and exhoita ions, yet the 
 other parts of the description do not apply to 
 our family. Nnue of us were ever " at service 
 out iniang the iieehors rouii." IiiBfead of our 
 de, (isitiiig our " sair won peniiv-fee" with our 
 y^rents, my fallier laboured liaid, and lived with 
 
 the most rigid economy, that he might be sbU 
 to keep his children at home, thereby having an 
 opportunity of watching the progress of our 
 young minds, and forming in them early habit* 
 of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone 
 did he engage in farming, the source of all his 
 difficulties and distresses. 
 
 When I threatened you in my last with a 
 long letter on the subject of the books I recom- 
 mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects 
 of refinement of taste on the laliouring classes 
 of men, I meant merely that 1 wished to write 
 you on that subject, with the view thit, in some 
 future communication to the public, you might 
 take up the subject more at large, that, by means 
 of your happy manner of writing, th.e 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, be- 
 fore I had finished my harvest, having a call 
 from i\Ir. Ewart, with a message from yttu, 
 pressing me to the performance o. this ta^k, 1 
 thought myself no longer at liberty to decline 
 it, and re^olved to set about it with my first 
 leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay 
 before you what has occurred to my mind on a 
 subject where 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 
 pel haps be led sometimes to write mine in the 
 manner of a person communicating information 
 to you which you did not know l/efore, and at 
 other times more in the style of egotism than I 
 would chouse to do to any person in whose can- 
 dour, and even personal good-will, 1 had less 
 confidence. 
 
 There are two several lines of study that ojien 
 to every man as he enters life : the one, the ge- 
 neral science of life, of duty, and ot happiness ^ 
 the other, the paiticular arts of his euiplnviiiep? 
 or situation in society, and the several br.inclies 
 of knowledge therewith connected. This last is 
 c>rtaioly indispensable, as nothing can be more 
 disgraceful than ignorance in the w ly of oui-'o 
 own profession ; and whatever a ni.in's specula- 
 tive knowledge m ly be, if he is ill inforiiied 
 there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- 
 aide member if society. It Is nevertheless true, 
 that " the proper study of mankind is mm ;" 
 to consider what duties are encuiiibeiit on him 
 as a rational creatuie, and a member of society ; 
 how he may increase or secure his h.ippioess ; 
 and how he may prevent or soften the many 
 miseries incident to human life. 1 think the 
 pursuit of happiness is too frequently confined 
 to the endeavour after the acipii.>itlon of wealth. 
 I do not wi'h to be considered as an idle de- 
 claimer against riches, which, after all that can 
 be said against them, will still be consldiied by 
 men of common sense as objects of iniportioce ; 
 and |)overty will be felt as a sore evil, alter ali 
 the tine tliingii that can be said of its advaa 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 29S 
 
 tages ; on the contrary I am of opinion, that a 
 grcMt proportion of the niiseriL-s ol' life arise from 
 the want of economy, and a prudent attention 
 to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pur- 
 suit of it. But however valuable riches may be 
 as the means of comfort, indejiendence, ami 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 that sacrifices 
 are made in the pursuit which the acquisition 
 cannot compensate. I -emember iK-anflg iily 
 Worthy teacher, Mr. IMiird.icli, relate an anec- 
 dote to my father, which I think sets this mat- 
 ter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori- 
 gin, or at least tended to promote this way of 
 thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left Al- 
 loway, he went to teach and reside in the fimily 
 of an opulent farmer who had a nuniber of sons. 
 A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of 
 conversaticm asked the father how he meant to 
 dispose of his suns. The father replied, that he 
 hid not determined. The visitor sairl, that were 
 he in his place he would give them all good 
 education and send them abioad, without (per- 
 hapsj having a precise idea where. The fatlier 
 objected, that many young nien lost their health 
 in foreign countries, and many their lives. Tiue, 
 replied the vi^itor, but as you have a number of 
 sons, it will be strange if some one of them does 
 not live and make a fortune. 
 
 Let any person who has the feelings of a fa- 
 ther 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 shijiping otf their sons, (and who would | 
 do so by their (laughters also, if there were any 
 demand fur them), that they may be rich or 
 peri>h ? 
 
 The education of the lower classes is seldom 
 considered in any other point of view than as 
 tlie means of raising them from that station to 
 which they were born, and i f making a lortiine. 
 1 am ignorant of the niystei ies of the art of ac- 
 quiring a fortune without any tiling to begin with, 
 and cannot calculate, with any degree of ex.ict- 
 Dess, the d fficulties to be surmounted, the mor- 
 tifications to be suffered, and the degradation 
 of character to be submitteil to, in lending one's 
 Bclf to be the minister of other |ieojile's vices, or 
 in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or 
 diss'.mul.itiun, in the progress ; but even when 
 the wished for end is attained, it m ly be ques- 
 tioned whether happiness be much increased by 
 the change When I have seen a fortunate ad- 
 venturer of the lower rank- of life returned fiom 
 the Ei^l or West Indies with all the h.iuteur of 
 a vulgai mind aicusruined to be xi veil by slaves, 
 assuiiMiig a chiractiT, which, from the early ha- 
 bits of life, he is ill fitted to support, displaying 
 magnificence which raises the envy of some, and 
 the CO:. tempt of others ; claiming an equality 
 with the great, « Inch tln-y are unwilling to al- 
 low ; iiiiv p uing at the pie^ edence o the heie- 
 ditjry gentry ; maddened by the pcdi>hed inso- 
 knce of kome of the uiiwoi thy part of them; 
 
 seeking pleasure in the society of men who cac 
 condescend to flatter him, and li>ten to his ab- 
 surdity for the s ike of a good dinner and good 
 wine; I cannot avoid concluding, that his bro- 
 ther, or comiianion, who, by a diligent a])plica- 
 tioii to the labours of agriculture, or some use- 
 ful mechanic employment, and the careful lius- 
 banding of his gains, has acijuired a competence 
 in his station, is a much happier, and, in the 
 eye of a peison who can take an enlarged view 
 of mankind, a much more lesjiect ible in in. 
 
 But the votaries of wealth may be considered 
 as a great number of candidates striving for a 
 few piizes, and whatever addition the successiul 
 may make to their pleasure or happiness, the 
 disappointed will always have more to suffer, I 
 am afraid, th.in those who abide coiitented in 
 the station to which they wcie born. 1 wish, 
 therefore, the education of the lower clavse* to 
 be piomoted and directed to their iin|)roveiiieiit 
 as men, as the means of increasing their virtue, 
 and opening to them new and dignified sources 
 of pleasure and happiness. I iiave heard some 
 Jicojile object to the educiUion of the lower cl.is- 
 ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by 
 abstracting them from their jiioper buMiicss ; 
 otheis, as temliiig to make them saucy to their 
 superiors, impatient of their condition, and tai- 
 biilent subjects; wl.ile yon, with more iiuiiia- 
 nity, have your fe.irs alarmed, lest the delicacy 
 of mind, indui'ed by that sort of education and 
 reading I lecouimeiid, should render the eviU 
 of their Mtuation in upportable to them. 1 wi.>h 
 to examine the Validity of each of these o jec- 
 tions, beginning with the oijc you have men- 
 tioned. 
 
 I do nut mean to controvert your criticism ol 
 my fivour te books, the Mirror and Lounger, 
 although I understand there are people who 
 think themselves judges, who do nut agree with 
 you. The acquisition of knowledge, except 
 what is connected uitli human life and con- 
 duct, or the particular business of his employ- 
 ment, does not appear to me to be the fittest 
 pursuit for a peasant. 1 would say with tlie 
 poet, 
 
 '* How empty learning, and how vain is xrj,, 
 Save where it guides the life, or meuJs the 
 heart !" 
 
 There seems to he a considerable latitude in 
 the use of the word taste. I uiideistaiid it to 
 be the perception ami lelish of I eauty, order, 
 or any other thing, the contemid.ition of v.- hi, h 
 gives pleasure ami delight to the eiiiid. I >iip- 
 jio«e it is in this sense you wish it t.i be uiid< r- 
 stood. If I am right, the taste wiiich the^e 
 bonks are calcukited to cultivate, (beside the 
 t.iste for fine vvrit.ng, wliich niai.y of the pajiers 
 tend to improve and to gratify), i* what is pro- 
 per, consistent, and bi-coming in hiiuiin ch.i- 
 racter and couiluct, as almost every paper relate* 
 to tlie>e subjects. 
 
 I a.n sorry 1 have not these Looks bj me, 
 
800 
 
 BliRNS' WORKS. 
 
 that I raiglt point out some instances. I re- 
 mcr. her two ; one, the heautiful story of La 
 Rdcne, where, beside the pleasure one derives 
 from a heautiful simple stury tcild in M'Kenzie's 
 happiest iiicinner, the mind is led to taste, with 
 heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived 
 in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and 
 trust in Almighty Gud. The other, the story 
 
 of General \V , where the reader is led to 
 
 nave a high relish for that firmness of mind 
 which disregards appearances, the common forms 
 and vanities of life, for the sake of doina: justice 
 in a case which was out of the reach of hura»n 
 laws. 
 
 Allow me then to remark, that if the mora- 
 lity of these books is subordinate to the cultiva- 
 tion of ta-te ; that taste, that refinement of 
 mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are 
 intended to give, are the strona;est guard and 
 surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other 
 moralists s^uard, as it were, the overt act ; these 
 pa|)ers, by exalrins^ duty into sentiment, are cal- 
 cul ited to make every deviation from rectituile 
 and propriety of conduct, painful to the mind, 
 
 " Whose temper'd powers, 
 rtefine at length, and every passion wears 
 \ chaster, uulder, more attractive mien." 
 
 I readily grant you that the refinement of 
 mind which I ccintind for, increases our sensi- 
 bility to the evils of life ; but what station of 
 life is without its evils ! There seems to be no 
 such thing as perfect happiness inthiswdild, 
 and we must balance the plL'a>ure and the pain 
 which we derive from taste, befiiie we ran pro- 
 perly appreciate :t in the ca^ before us. I ap- 
 prehend that on a minu'e ex.iiriin.ition it will 
 appear, th f» "he evils peculiar to the lower rauk> 
 of life, derive their power to wound us, more 
 frcim the sugcesrions of false pride, and the 
 " c(>ntagiiin of luxury weak and vile." than the 
 refinement of our taste. It was a favourite re- 
 iriark of my brother's, that there was no part 
 of the constitutiun of our n.Jture, to which we 
 were more indebted, than that by which " c«a'- 
 l,iin iiii/kes tliiiiiiK familinr iinil ensij," (a copy 
 Ml-. i\Jurdi)ch usi-d to set us 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 
 empli'vinrnt, or floes not begm to compare his 
 situation with those he may see going about at 
 their ease. 
 
 Hut the man of eid irgcd mind fi'cls tlie re- 
 cpoct due to him is i man ; he has learned that 
 no employment is dishonourable in itself; that 
 while be performs aiiglit the duties of that sta- 
 tion in whith Gt'il has placttd him, He i* as 
 f leat "IS a king in the eyes of Him whom he is 
 piiucipdly disirous to pleise; for the man of 
 t.i>te, who in con^t.intly obliged to labour, must 
 of nece-sity be religi'ius. II voii teach h:ni only 
 to reaMiii, you may ii.akehim tii atheist, a ilcma- 
 gofjui', or any vile thiu'.; ; but if you teach him 
 *o Ital, hut feeliiii^s can only find tlieir proper] 
 
 and natural relief in devotioa iXA religinas n, 
 signation. He knows that those people wiio art 
 to appearance at ease, are not without theii 
 share of evils, and that even toil itself is not 
 destitute of advantages. He listens to the wordj 
 of his favourite poet : 
 
 " O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 
 
 Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ; 
 That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
 
 Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
 
 Although sometimes it makes thee weep and 
 wail, 
 .■\nd curse thy stars, and early drudge and late; 
 
 Withouten that would come a 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 del ive<l ineffable pleasure from the sweet 
 song of " Nature's dailing child." I can say, 
 from my own experience, that there is no sort 
 of farm labour inconsistent with the most re- 
 fined and pleasurable state of the mind that I 
 am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. 
 That, indeed, I have always considered as in- 
 supportable drudgery, and think the ingenious 
 mechanic who invented the thrashing madiine, 
 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 into this island. 
 
 Perh.ips the thing of most importance in the 
 education of the coninion people is, to prevent 
 the intrusi(m of artificial wants. I bliss the 
 memory of my worthy father for almost every 
 thing in the dispositio.'is of my mind, and my 
 habits of life which I can approve of; and for 
 none more than tlie pains he took to impress my 
 miiid with the sentiment, that nothing was more 
 unwortiiy the character of a man, than that his 
 hajipiness should ir. the least depend on what he 
 should eat or drink. So early did he impress 
 my mind with this, that although I was as fond 
 of sweetmeats as chiMren generally are, yet I sel- 
 dom laid out any of the half-pence which rela- 
 tions or neighbours g.ive me at fairs, in the pur- 
 chase of them ; and if 1 did, every mouthful I 
 swallowed was accompanieil with shame and re- 
 morse ; and to this hour I never indulge in the 
 use of any delicacy, but I feel a considfi able de- 
 gree of self-reproach and alarm for the degrada- 
 tion of the human character, .^uch a habit oi 
 thinking I consider as of great conseijiii nee, 
 both to the virtue and happiness of men iu the 
 lower ranks of life. And thus, Sir, I am of 
 opinion, that if their miods are eai ly and deeply 
 imprest with a sense of the dignity of man, as 
 such ; with the love of independence and of iu- 
 dustry, economy and tempei auce, as the most 
 ol.yio'.is means of making themselves indepen- 
 dent, and the virtues most l)ec(uning their situr 
 ation, and necessary to their liapj; iiess ; men ir 
 the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 30 
 
 »ure« tn be deiivcd from the perusal of books 
 calculated to iiii|H(iVL' the iiiiini and refine the 
 taste, witliout any d,iii;;er of bi'^oiniiig more un- 
 h,il)[)v in tlieir situation, or discontented with it. 
 Nor do I thiidc tlieie is any danger of their l)e- 
 roniing less useful. There are some hours every 
 day that the most constant labourer is neithi'r 
 St work nor asleep. These hours are either aj)- 
 pro])riated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste 
 for employing these hours in reading were cul- 
 tivated, I do not sup])ose that the return to la- 
 bour wo\dd be more difficult. Every one will 
 allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, 
 or even to sloth, has ,is powerful a tendency to 
 abstract men fiom their proper l.usiness, as the 
 attaclmient to books ; while the one dissipates 
 the mind, and the otlier tends to increase its 
 powers of self-government. To those who are 
 afraid that the inijirovement of the minds of the 
 common ])eopIe might be dangerous to the state, 
 or the established order of society, I would re- 
 mark, tli.it turbulence and commotion are cer- 
 taiidv very inimical to the feelings of a refined 
 mind. Let the matter be brought to the te.-t 
 of experience and ohservatlon. Of what de- 
 scription of people are mobs and insurrections 
 composed ? Are they not universally ow'ng to 
 the want of enlargement and improvement of 
 mind among the common j)eople ? Nay, let 
 any one recollect the characters of those who 
 formed the calmer and more deliberate associa- 
 tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the 
 government of this country. I suppose few ot 
 the common jjeojde who were to l,e found in 
 such societies, had the education and turn of 
 mind I have been endeavouring to retommcnd 
 Allow me to suggest (me reason for endeavour- 
 ing to erdighten the minds of the conmion peo- 
 ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded 
 by a sort of dim religious aw", which from a 
 variety of causes seems wearing off. I think the 
 alteration in this respect considerable, in the 
 short period of my observation. I have alreadv 
 given my opinion of the effects of refinement of 
 mind on mi;rals and virtue. Wiienever vilg ir 
 minds begin to shake ofi' the dogmas of the le- 
 ligion in which they have been educated, the 
 progress is (juick and immediate to downri;;ht 
 infidelity : and nothing but refinement of mind 
 can enahle thi-m to distinguish between the pure 
 essence of religion, and the gross systems which 
 men hnve been perpetually connecting it with. 
 In addition to what has already been done for 
 the education of the common people of this coun- 
 try, in the establishment oi' parish schools, I 
 wi^h to see the salaries augmented in some pro- 
 portion to the present expense of living, and the 
 earnings of peojile of similar rank, endowments 
 and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the 
 liberality of She present age will be no longer' 
 disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
 Buth encouiuigement as may make parish schools 
 worth the attenti(m of men fitted for the imjior- | 
 tant duties of that office. In filling up the va- j 
 ,ancies, I woiJd have more attention paid to the j 
 
 candidate's cajiaci'y of ti'ading .lif English Ian 
 guage with grace and propriety ; to his under 
 standing thoroughly, and having a high relisL 
 for the heauties of English authors, both in poetry 
 anil prose ; to that good sense antl knowledge 
 of human nature which would enable him to ac- 
 qvire some inlluence on the minds ami atfctions 
 of his scholars ; to the gener.il worth of his clia- 
 racter, and the love of liis king and his counti v, 
 than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latin 
 anil Greek. I would then have a sort of high 
 English class established, not only for the pur- 
 pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace- 
 ful and agreeable manner that might make them 
 find of reading, but to make them understand 
 what they read, and discover the beauties of the 
 author, in composition and sentiment. I would 
 have established in every parish a small ciicu- 
 lating library, consisting of the books which the 
 young people had read extracts from in the c<d- 
 lections they had read at school, and any other 
 books well calculated to refine the mind, improvo 
 the moral feelings, recommend the practice ct 
 virtue, and communicate such knowledge as 
 miirht be useful and suitable to the IdioLrinz 
 classes of men. I would have the scliool master 
 act as librarian, and in recommending Ijooks to 
 his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let- 
 ting in the light of them upon their voung minds, 
 he should have the assistance of the minister. 
 If once such education were become general. 
 tjie low delights of tlie public-hou-e, and othet 
 scenes of riot and depravity, would be contemn- 
 ed and neglected, while indii>try, ordei, cleanli- 
 ness, and every virtue whiidi taste and indepen- 
 dence of mind could recommend, would prevail 
 and flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and 
 eidii;htened popul.ice, with hi.;h iieii'.;ht I ^hollld 
 consider my native country as at the iiead of all 
 the nations of the earth, ancient or inodern. 
 
 Thus, Sir, have I execut.'d my threat to the 
 fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let- 
 ter. If 1 had not presumed on doin^ it more 
 to my liking, I should not have uudt-rtaken it ; 
 but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if 
 I would, am I certain that I should >ucceed any 
 better. I have learned to have less confiilence 
 in my capacity of writing on such subjects. 
 
 I am much obliged by ymir kind iiujuirics 
 about my situation and prospects. I am miu-h 
 pleised with the soil of this farm, and with the 
 terms on which I possess it. I receive great 
 encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, 
 and other conveniences, from my lindloifl Mr. 
 G. S. Monteith, whose general character and 
 conduct, as a landlord and country gentleuia. 
 I am highly pleased with. IJut the land is in 
 such a state as to require a considerable imme- 
 diate outlay of money in the puicha'e of ma- 
 nure, the grubbing of brush-Wood, removing of 
 stones, &c. which twelve years' st. uggle with a 
 farm of a cold ungrateful soil has hut ill prepar« 
 ed me for. If I can gvt these things done, 
 however, to my mind, I think there is next to 
 a certainty tlvat in five or six years I shall be if 
 
302 
 
 BURMS' WORKS. 
 
 B hopeful way of attaining a situation which I 
 think is eliijible fur happiuoa as any one I 
 know ; fur I luve always been of opinion, that 
 if a man, bred to the habits of a farming hfs, 
 who possesses a farm of good soil, on such terms 
 as enables him easily to pay all demands, is not 
 haDpy, he ought to look somewhere else than to 
 nis situation fur the causes of his uneasiness. 
 
 1 beg you will present my most respectful 
 compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember me 
 to Mr. and Mis. Roscoe, and Jlr. Roscoe jun. 
 whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, 
 
 I shall never forget 1 am, dear Sir, your most 
 
 obedient, and much obliged humble servant, 
 
 GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 DEATH AND CHARACTER OF 
 GILBERT BUR. VS. 
 
 This most worthy and ta'ented individual 
 fied at Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of 
 i-Lddington, and on the estate of Lady Blan- 
 -yre, for whom he was long factor, on Sund.iy 
 3th April 1827, in the sixty-seventh year of his 
 age.* He had no fixed or formed complaint, 
 but for several months preceding his dissolution, 
 there was a gradual decay of the powers of na- 
 ture ; and the infirmities of age, condjined with 
 severe domestic affliction, hastened the release 
 of as pure a spirit as ever inhabited a boman 
 bosom. On the 4th of January be lost a daugh- 
 ter who had long been the pride of the family 
 hearth ; and on the 26 th of Felnuary fulluu ing, 
 his youngest son, — a youth of great piumise, 
 died in Edinburgh of typhus fever, just as he 
 was about being licensed for the ministry. These 
 repeated trials were too much for the excellent 
 old man ; the mind which, throughout a lung 
 and blameless life, had pointed unweariedly to 
 its home in the skies, ceased as it were, to hold 
 coninjunion with things earthly, and on the re- 
 currence of that hallowed morning, which, like 
 his sire of (dd, he had been accustomed to sanc- 
 tify, be ex[)ired without a groan or struggle, in 
 peace, and even love with all mankind, and in 
 liund)!e confidence of a blessed immortality. — 
 The early life of Mr. Gilbert Burns is inti- 
 mately blended with that of the poet. He was 
 eighteen months younger than Robert — posses- 
 sed the same ])enetrating judgment, and, accord- 
 ing to Mr. Blurdoch, their first instructor, sur- 
 passed liim in vivacity till pretty nearly the age 
 of manhood. When the greatest of our bards 
 was invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh, 
 the subject of the present imperfect Memoir was 
 struggling in the churlish farm of Mossgiel, and 
 toiling late and early to keep a house over bis 
 aged mother, and unprotected sisters. In these ' 
 tircunistauces, the poe*.*s success was the first] 
 thing that stemmed the ebbing tide of the for- 
 luues of bis ianiily. In settling with Mr. Creech ' 
 
 in February 1 'JSS, hi received, as the profits nf 
 his second publication, about j£500, and with 
 that generosity, which formed a part of his na- 
 ture, he immed ately presented Gilbert witn 
 nearly the half of his whole wealth. Thus suc- 
 coure<l, the deceased married aMissBreckenridge, 
 and removed to a better farm (Dinning in Dum- 
 friesshire ), but still reserved a seat at the fami- 
 ly board fur his truly venerable mother, who died 
 a few yeai's ago. While in Dinning, he was re- 
 commended to Lady Blantyre ; and though our 
 memory does not serve us precisely as to date, 
 he mcst have been an inhabitant of East Lothian, 
 for very nearly a quarter of a century. Her 
 Ladyship's affairs were managed with the greatest 
 fidelity and prudence ; the factor and his con- 
 stituent were worthy of each other ; and in a 
 <listrict distinguished fur *he skill, talents, and 
 o]!ulencc of its farmers, no man was more re- 
 s|;ected then Mr. Gilbert Burns. His wife, 
 \vho still survives, bore him a family of six sons 
 anr' five f'.aught.rs; hat of Jiese, one Sjn, anci 
 four daughters, predeceased their father. His 
 means, though limited, were always managed 
 with enviable frugality, as a proof of which we 
 may state that every one of his boys received 
 what is called a classical education. 
 
 • This skctcli is bv Mr. Macriiarmid, of the Dum- 
 fries Courie.-, -n which Journ-jl it fifif appeared. 
 
 No. LXXL 
 
 THE POET'S SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 The Poet kept a Scrap-Book, which was 
 what the title imports, really a thing of shieds 
 and patches. In the following extracts, v.e 
 have not been quite so sparing as Dr. Currie, 
 whose extracts are above, nor so very jirotuse an 
 Mr. Cromek, who, in his Reliques, has turned 
 the book inside out. The jirose articles are 
 chiefly in the way of maxims or observations 
 th(!y have less of worldly selfishness, and more 
 of the religious feeling, than those of Rochfou- 
 caud : The poetical scraps are numerous — such 
 of them as are worth jireserving, and have not 
 already appeared amongst the poems, will be 
 found below. 
 
 MV^ FATHER WAS A FARMER. 
 
 Tune—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 
 
 Mv Father wag a Farmer upon the Carrick bo'der, O, 
 Aiul carefully he bred n>e in deceiicv ami urder, () ; 
 He bade nie act a manly part, tliouyli 1 liad ne'er a 
 
 farlliing, O, 
 For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth 
 
 regarding, O. 
 
 Then out into the world my course I did dctcrniine, O, 
 Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great wai 
 
 charminj;, O. 
 My taleiiti they were not the wors'. ; nor yet my edu- 
 
 eat'on, O : 
 R(soIv'd was 1, at least to try, to mend my r.'tuation, O. 
 
 In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's fa- 
 vour, () : 
 
 Some cau>ie uu'^ccn, still stept between, to frusirjte 
 caci eiido ;vi)ur, O ; 
 
 Scmelimcs liy foes I was o'eipow'rd; »)metimcs by 
 friends forsaken, O j 
 
 And whiM try Impe was at tlie top, I s;ill w.is wor»> 
 iniMtakei^ U. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 303 
 
 Hien sore Iiirass'd, and tir'i at last, with fortune's 
 
 v.iin ilelusion, O ; 
 I dropt uiv schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this 
 
 conclusion, O ; 
 riic pa^t was bad. and the future hid ; its good or ill 
 
 iintrved, O ; 
 But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would 
 
 enjoy it, O. 
 
 No help, nor hone, nor view had I ; nor person to be. 
 friend me, O; 
 
 So must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus- 
 tain me, O, 
 
 To pl(iuc;h and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
 me earlv, O ; 
 
 For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
 tune fairly, O. 
 
 Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro" life I'm 
 doimcd to wander, O, 
 
 Till down niv weary bones 1 lay in everlasting slum- 
 ber, 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-mor- 
 row, 6. 
 
 But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa. 
 
 jncc, o, 
 Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her 
 
 wonted malice, O ; 
 I make indeed, my daily bread, Uut ne'er can m.ike it 
 
 farther, O; ' 
 
 But as (iailv bread is all I need, I do not much regard 
 
 her, O. 
 
 Vhen sometimes by my labour I earn a little inoney,0. 
 Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon 
 
 me, O; 
 Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 
 
 folly, O; 
 But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 
 
 melancholy, O. 
 
 All you who fallow wealth and power with unremit- 
 ting ardiiur, O, 
 
 Then- ore in this you look for blUs, you leave your 
 view the farther, O ; 
 
 Had you the wialth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
 you, O, 
 
 A checVf il honest hearted clown I will prefer before 
 you, O. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 ROBERT RUISSEAUX.* 
 
 Now Robin lies in his last lair. 
 
 He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 
 
 Caidd poverty, wi' hungry stare, 
 
 Nae mair shall ff.ir him ; 
 Nor anxious fear, nor cankcrt care 
 
 E'er mair come near him. 
 
 To tell the truth, thev seldom fash't him. 
 Except the moment that they crush't him; 
 For sune as ehaiieo or fate had husht 'em, 
 
 Tho' e'er sae short, 
 riien wi a rhyme or song he lasht 'em, 
 
 And thought it sport.— 
 
 Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 
 
 Anil cniinted was baiih wight and stark. 
 
 Vet that was never Robin's mark 
 
 To mak a man ; 
 But tell hiin, he was a lenrn d dark, 
 
 V'e roos'd him then, f 
 
 Mehn>chrihj. — There was a certain period of 
 my life tli.it my spirit was broke Iiy rcpeateti looses 
 and disasters. wh:ch threatened, and indeed eflfcct- 
 ed, the utter ruin of my fortune. My liody too 
 Was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, 
 a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy : In 
 this \v I etched state, the recollection of which 
 
 • Ruls.'eaiiT — sfeains — ; 
 . Ve roos'd— ye prais'd. 
 
 play on his own nam*. 
 
 makes me yet s-hudder, I hiinp; my harp on tie 
 willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, ia 
 one of which I composed the following. ( Here 
 t'olliiws the prayer in distress, p. 73. ) — March 
 "17S4.. 
 
 Ildifjious Sentiment. — What ,a creature is 
 man ! A little alarm last night, and to-day, thai 
 I am mortal, has made such a. revolution on my 
 spirits ! There is no philosophy, no divinity, 
 that comes half so much home to the niinil. I 
 have no idea of courage that braves Heaven : 
 'Tis the wild ravings of an iniagiii.iiy hero in 
 Bedlam. 
 
 ]My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his 
 manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be 
 remedied — in short, the wild, broken fragments 
 of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. 1 meant no 
 mure by saying he was a favourite hero ol 
 mine. 
 
 I hate the very idea of a controversial divini- 
 ty ; as I firmly believe that every honest upright 
 man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the 
 deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, 
 but I love the religion of a man. 
 
 Nothing astonisnes nie more, when a little 
 sickness clogs the wheel of life, than the thoiiaht- 
 Icss career we run in the hour of health. 
 " IS'one saith, where is God, my raaktr, that 
 giveth songs in the night : who ttatheth i<.g 
 more knowledge than the beasts of the field, 
 and more uiideistandiug than the fowls of the 
 air." 
 
 jMy creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last 
 clause of Jamie Deans grace, an honest weaver 
 in Ayrshire ; " Lord grant that we may lead a 
 gude life ! for a gude life maks a gude end, at 
 least it helps weel !" 
 
 A decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
 approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one 
 firm trusty fiiend ; can any body that has these, 
 be said to be unhappy ? 
 
 The d-ignified and dignifying consciousness of 
 an honest m.an, and the well giounded trust in 
 approving heaven, are two most substantial 
 sources of happiness. 
 
 Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! 
 Give me to feel " another's woe ;" and con- 
 tinue with me that dcar-lov'd fiiend that feels 
 with mine ! 
 
 In proportion as we are wrung with gritf, or 
 distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compas- 
 sionate Deity, an .\lmighty Protector, are doubly 
 dear. 
 
 I have been, this morning, taking a peep 
 througli, as Young finely says, " the dark post- 
 ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twas a rueful i)ros- 
 pect ! Vi'hat a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak- 
 ness, and fully ! My life reminded me of a ruin- 
 ed temjile. What strength, what proportion ia 
 some parts ! What unsightly gaps, what pros- 
 trate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before 
 the Fatlier of IMercies, and said, " Father I 
 liave si ,ned against Heaven, and in thy sight 
 and am no morj worthy to be called thy son.' 
 I ro3»v eased, and strengthened. 
 
S04 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 TTERS, 1788. 
 
 No. Lxxir. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Edinhvrph, 2 1 at Jan. 1 7S8. 
 
 After six weeks' ronfinement, I am be"-in- 
 ising to walk across the lodin. They have been 
 «ix horrible weeks; ang:>iish and low spirits 
 made me unfit to read, write, or think. 
 
 I have a hundred times wished that one 
 could resign life as an officer lesigns a commis- 
 sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno- 
 rant wietch, by seUlnq out. Lately I was a 
 jixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
 wldier 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 journev, which 
 will I)e, I suppose, about the middle of next 
 week, I leave Edinburgh, ami s.xm after I shall 
 pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 
 
 but ypu are sure of being re»(«Li<»oit- — yon ca» 
 
 afford to pass by an occasion to dispi.iy you 
 wit, because you may de])eiid for fame on your 
 sense ; or if you choose to be silent, you know 
 you can rely on the gratitude of many and the 
 esteem of all ; but Goii help us who are wits ol 
 witlings by pi-ofession, if we stand not for fame 
 there, we sink unsupported ! 
 
 1 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. Beatlie 
 says to Ross the poet, of his .Muse Scotia, fioin 
 which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila: 
 ('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, 
 which j)erhaps you liave uever seen. ) 
 
 " Ye sbak your bead, but o' my fegs, 
 Ye've set auld Scotia on her legs : 
 Lang had slie lien wi' huffe jnd flegs, 
 
 Bombaz'd and d:zzie, 
 Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 
 
 Waes me, jtoor Lizzie.*' 
 
 No. LXXIIL 
 
 EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
 
 TO THE SA.ME. 
 
 Edhihiirgh, \2ffi Feb. 1788. 
 So^iE things, in your late letters, hurt me : 
 not that yiu sat/ t/iein, but that yiiu mistake me. 
 Religion, my honoured INIadam, has not only 
 been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
 dearest enjoyment. 1 have indeed been the 
 luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas i 
 I have ever been " more fool than knave." 
 A mathematician without religion, is a jjroba- 
 ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. 
 
 No. LXXIV. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 MAPAM, Mossf/iel, Ith March, 1788. 
 
 TiiK last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
 bniirv affi-rted inc most, so I shall begin my 
 answer where you ended your letter. That I 
 am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
 do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to 
 ao |)urpose, to find out when it was employed 
 Jijamst ynu. I bate an (inginerous sarcasm, a 
 treat de.il worse than I do the devil ; at least 
 «.•< IVinton describes liiin ; and though I may be 
 r;u-ca»iy euo'igh to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
 Belf, I cannot endure it in others. You, my 
 
 No. LXXV. 
 TO iMR. ROBERT CLEG HORN. 
 
 Mat/chline, 3\st March, 178S. 
 
 Yesterday, my dear Sir, as 1 was riding 
 through a track of melancholy jovlcss niuii-s, 
 between Galloway and Ayrshire, it lieiiig Sun- 
 day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, arid ' 
 hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite 
 air, Captain O'Aean, coming at length in mv 
 head, 1 tried these words to it. You will .see 
 that the first part of the tune must be repeated.f 
 
 I am tolerably pleased with tliese 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, that my muse baa 
 degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
 ever picked cinders, or followeil a tinker. When 
 I am tairly got into the routine of busiru'ss, I 
 shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; jierliips 
 with some queries respecting firming ; at pie- 
 sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
 that it has effaced almost every trace of the 
 in me. 
 
 Uly very best coiiiplimeuts and good wishes 
 to Airs. Cleghorn. 
 
 No. LXXYL 
 FROJI MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 
 Satipfitnn Mills, 271/1 April, 1788. 
 
 SIY DEAR BKOTIIER FARMER, 
 
 I WAS favoured with your very kind letter of 
 
 • A laily was m.aking a picture from the ilcscriptiot 
 of Coila in the fision. 
 
 , I /■ • 1 1 ,• , • I t Merc the bard gives thp flrst stanza Of the C/fi^ 
 
 bouuured Irieud, who cannot ajipear in any light, | lUr't Lament, 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 theSlst n't. and co.;siiU'r myself p:rp;itly ohlii;eil 
 to \iui, fur vdur atfiMitiiiii in sftidiiis; mo the 
 Bons^ to mv f'avuiiiite air, Ciiptuin O' Keiin. 
 1 lie wiir.l-. iloli>;lit mo muc!i ; tlioy fit tlie tune 
 to a liair. I wish you would soml mo a vorso 
 or two more ; and if yon have no olycction, I 
 winiUl liave it in tlie Jacohite style. Suppose 
 it shoul.l 1)0 -^uns; afcer the fatal field of Cullu- 
 don hv the upfoituii ite Charles : Tondiicci per- 
 sonates the lovely M.iry Stuart in the soni; 
 Qiieai Marys Luinentntion. — Why may not 
 1 siii'jj in the person of her great-great-great 
 grandson ?* 
 
 Any skill I have in country husiness you may 
 truly command. Situation, soil, customs of 
 countries may vary from each other, hut Fiir- 
 mer Attention is a f^ood firmer in every place. 
 I he;^ to hear fioni you soon. IMrs. Cleghoru 
 loins me \n host compliments. 
 
 I am, in the uuxt coiuprehensive sense of the 
 word, yo'ir very siiucere friend, 
 
 UOBEUT CLEGHORN. 
 
 No. LXXVlI. 
 TO MR. JAMES S.AITTH, 
 
 AVO.V PRINTFIEI.D, LINLITHGOW. 
 
 Manchllne, April 2S, ITS'?. 
 
 Beware of your Strashurgh, my good Sir! 
 Look on this as the opening of a correspondence 
 like the opening of a twenty-four gun l)attery ! 
 
 There is no understanding a man properly, 
 without knowing something of his previous 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 m isters of only one 
 idea on any given suljject, and hy far the great- 
 est <irt. of your acquaintances and mine can 
 barely hiiast of ideas, 1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some 
 such fractional matter), so to let you a little 
 Vito tlie secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
 must know, a certain clean-limhe<l, handsome, 
 bewitching voung hussy of your acijuaintance, 
 to whom I have lately and privately given a nia- 
 trLaonial title to my corpus. 
 
 " Bode a robe and wear it," 
 
 S.'.y* the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- 
 sige ill-luck ; and as my girl lias been dimbly 
 kinder to me than even the best of women 
 usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi- 
 lar 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 gossiiipings, twenty-four christen- 
 ings, (I mean one equal to two), and I hope by 
 the blessing of the uod of my fathers, to make 
 
 • Our Poet took this advicp. See iioctry for the 
 vAole ot that beautiful song— ilie CheTaiicr'i (uwMit. 
 
 tliem .venty-fo'ir dutiful cliildren tr> tbeir plfc- 
 rent'*, twenly-loiir u-eful iiuMiilpers of iiociet^, 
 and twenty-four approven servants id' their find ' 
 
 " Lij;hl's heart-ome," quo' tht 
 
 wife when she was stealing sheep. You see 
 whit a lamp I hive hung up to lighten your 
 paths, when you are iille enough to exploie tr.e 
 combinations and relations of my ideas 'Tis 
 now as plain as a pike-statf, why a tuenfy-four 
 gun battery was a metaphor 1 could readily 
 employ. 
 
 Now for business. — 1 intend to present Mrs. 
 Burns with a printed shawl, an articU ot woicb 
 I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
 sent to her since I have irrevocahly calleii ner 
 mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
 get her the said first present from an old and 
 uiiu'h valued fjiend of hers and 111100, a trusty 
 Trojdii, on who^e frieuilship I count myself 
 possessed of a lile-reut lease. 
 
 Look on lliis letter as a " beginning cf iior- 
 rows ;" I'll write you till your eyes ache with 
 reailing mmsense. 
 
 Mrs. Burns ('tis only her jirivate designa- 
 tion J, begs her best coiiiplimeuts to you. 
 
 No. LXXVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 MADAM, Mavchline, 28</t Ajiril, 1 'SS 
 
 Your powers of reprehension must be ereal 
 indeed, as I assure yon they made my heart 
 aclie with penitential pangs, even t!iou'.;h ii was 
 really not guilty. As I ronimence firmer at 
 Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be 
 jiretty I'Usy ; but tliat is not nil. A^ 1 got the 
 (lifer of the excise business without solicitation ; 
 and as it cost.s nie only six months' attendmce 
 for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; 
 which conimissiim lies by me, and at any futuie 
 period, on my simple petition, can he resumed ; 
 1 thou<;lit five and thiity pouiuls a-year was no 
 bail dernier resort for a pour poet, if loi tune in 
 her jade tricks should kick him down from the 
 little eminence to which she has lately helped 
 him up. 
 
 For this reason, I am at present attending 
 these instructions, to have them conviletcd he- 
 fore Whitsumlay. Stiil, Madam, I |ircpared 
 with the sincerest jileasure to meet yon at the 
 Mount, ami came to my brother's on Saturday 
 nitjlit, to set out on Suiid.iy ; but fur somj 
 night.s preceding I had slept in an apaitment, 
 where the force of the winds and rain was only 
 mitigated by being sifted through numher'es* 
 ajiertiiies in the windows, walN, Skc. In con- 
 sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part 
 'of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with a)} 
 ; the niiserabls eiluctii of a violent culci. 
 
S(G 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 You see, Midim, the trutn of the French 
 maxim, L,e vr.ji ti'est })as toi/jimrs le vrai-sem- 
 biuble ; yciiii- 1,1st was so lull of expostulation, 
 tntl was ^(>methinc; so like the languaete of an 
 offeiirled fiienil, that I began to tremble for a 
 corresponileiice, which I had with grateful plea- 
 iure set down as ont of the greatest enjoyments 
 of my future life. 
 
 Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry- 
 den, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ; 
 but of this more at large in my next 
 
 No. LXXIX. 
 
 FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 BEAR SIR, Linshart, aS'A April, 1788. 
 
 I RECEIVED your last, with the curious pre- 
 sent you have favoured me with, and would 
 have made proper acknowledgments before now, 
 out that I have been necessarily engaged in 
 matters of a different complexion. And now 
 that I have got a little respite, I make use of it 
 to thank you for this valuable instance of your 
 good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
 cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem 
 both the gift and the giver : as a small testi- 
 mony of which I have herewith sent you for 
 your amusement (and in a form which I hope 
 you will excuse for saving postage) the two 
 songs I wrote about to you already. Charming 
 Nuncy is the real production of genius in a 
 ploughman of twenty years of age at the time 
 of its appearing, with no more education than 
 what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- 
 ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of 
 natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- 
 field in tlie neighbourhood. And I doubt not 
 but you xvill find in it a simplicity and delicacy, 
 with some turns of humour, that will please 
 one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when 
 I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- 
 tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of 
 my own sentiments, and joii may make use of 
 one or both us you shall see good.* 
 
 • CHARMING N.VN'CV. 
 
 A gONO, BY A DUL'HAM PLOUGHMAN. 
 
 Tunc—" Humours of Glen." 
 
 /mil MMMu Hive* n» sriig in me iiiinu>urs or (/icn. 
 But iny (inly t'iuicy, is my pretty N.inov, 
 
 In ventinj^ my passion, I'll strive to lie plain, 
 I'll isk no more treasure, I'll seek no more pli'asurc, 
 
 Hut thee, my dear Nancy, giu thou wert my aio. 
 
 n isK no more treasure, 111 seek no more pli'i 
 But thee, my dear Nancy, giu thou wert my 
 
 Her be.Tf-ty dilights mc, ncr kindne.s invites me, 
 Her pleasant bellaviour is fine fioui all stain : 
 
 You will oblige me w presenting my respects 
 to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given 
 such high approbation to my poor Latinity 
 you may let him kuow, that as I have likewise 
 been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two 
 things that I would, if he desire* it, submit not 
 to his judgment, but to his amusement : the 
 one, a translation of Christ's Kirk 0' the Green, 
 printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, 
 Batriichnmyomachia Homen Latinis versibut 
 cum additamentis, given in litely to Chalmers, 
 to print if he pleases. JIi. C. will know Se- 
 ria non semper dekctant, nnn joca semper. 
 Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. 
 
 I have just room to repeat compliments and 
 good wishes from. 
 
 Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 No. LXXX. 
 TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
 
 SIR, MancMlne, Sd May, 1787. 
 
 I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga 
 telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
 tude have any influence with that great, un- 
 known Keing, who frames the chain of causes 
 and events ; prosperity and happiness will at- 
 tend your visit to the Continent, and return yoB 
 safe to your native shore. 
 
 VVherevei- 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 
 
 Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel. 
 Consent, my dear Na ey, and eoine be my ain : 
 
 Hor carriai,'e is comely, her language is homely. 
 Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main : ' 
 
 She's blooming in fiaturc, she's handsome in stature. 
 My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 
 
 Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning. 
 
 Her bright eyes are sparkling, lier brows are serene, 
 Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 
 
 My cliarming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain.' 
 The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 
 
 Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen. 
 She's well shaped and slender, true hearteil and teiukr. 
 
 My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my am '. 
 
 I'll seek through the nation for some habitation. 
 
 To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain. 
 With songs to my deary, I'll keep lier aye cheery, 
 
 My eharmin!;, sweet Nancy, gni thou'weit my air. 
 I'll work at my calling, to furnish lliy dwelling, 
 
 \\ ith ev'ry thing needful thy life tii sustain ; 
 Thou slialt not sit sniglc, but by a cK.ir uigle, 
 
 I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my am. 
 
 I'll rnake true affoction the constant direction 
 
 Of loving my Nancy while life doih reii ain : 
 Tho' youth will be wasting, true lo\ e sli:ill be Listing 
 
 My charming, sweet Nancy, gin lliou wert my ain. 
 But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 
 
 To (avour another lie forward and lain, 
 I will not coiiiiicl her, but plainly I'll tell licr, 
 
 Ucgoiie thou falsi' Nancy, thou'sc ne'er be rry Bia« 
 
 The Old Man's Song, (see o. 13jJ 
 
CORRESPONDENX'E. 
 
 307 
 
 more conifortaWe to tliose whom nature has 
 made dear to me, I shall ever regard your eouu- 
 tinance, your patronage, your frienilly good of- 
 fiee<, as the most valued consequence of my late 
 success iu life. 
 
 No. LXXXI. 
 
 EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 MADAM, Matichllne, ith May, 1788. 
 
 DiivrEN's Virgil has delighttd me. 1 do 
 not know whether the critics will agree with 
 me, hut the Gtorgics are to me by far the best 
 of Virgil, li -s indeed a species of writing en- 
 tirely new to me; and has filled my head with 
 a thousand fancies of enmlation ; but, alas 1 
 when I read thi Genrgics, and then survey mv 
 own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Sliethind 
 poney, drawn up by tlie side of a thorough-bred 
 hunter, to start for the ])late. I own I am dis- 
 appointed in the ^neid. Faultless correct- 
 ness may please, and does highly please the let- 
 tered critic ; but to that awful character I have 
 not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
 know whether I do not luizard my pretensions 
 to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I 
 third; \ irgil, in many instances, a servile copier 
 of Homer. If i had the Othjssei/ by me, I 
 could parallel many passages where Virgil has 
 evidently copied, but by no means improved 
 Homer. Nor can 1 think there is any thing of 
 this owing to the translators ; for, from every 
 thing 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 
 criticisms must be very inaccurate and imper- 
 fect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my 
 want of learning most. 
 
 No. LXXXII. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 Mauchllne, May 26, 17SS. 
 Mt hear friend, 
 
 I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I 
 have been from home, and horridly busy Iruying 
 and prepaiing for my farming business; over 
 and above the plague of my Excise instructions, 
 which this week will finish. 
 
 As I flitter my wishes that I foresee many 
 ifuture years" correspondence between us, 'tis 
 foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles : & dull 
 letter may be a very kind one. I have the plea- 
 «uie to tell jou tin. I have bsen extremely for- 
 
 tunate in all my liuyings and bargainings hither, 
 to ; Mrs. Bums not excejited ; wliich title I 
 now avow to the world. I am trulv p!ea<:cd 
 with this last affair : it has indeed adil.-d u> nj 
 anxieties for futurity, but it hasg.'ven :i s'll i^iiv 
 to my mind and resolutions, unknmvM ' .■'' rt- 
 and the |)oor girl has the most sacred .■lulm^i .sm 
 of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to 
 gratify my every idea of her deportment. 
 I am inteirujjted. 
 
 Farewell ! my dear Sir. 
 
 Nr» LXXXIII. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 MADAM, 27</t May, 1788. 
 
 I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no 
 purpose, to account for tliat kind partiality of 
 
 yours, which, unlike 
 
 , has followeil me in my 
 
 return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- 
 nevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting 
 hours (if my late wilbo'-wisp apjiearance, that 
 " here I had no continuing city ;" and but fi;r 
 the consolation of a iew solid guineas, could 
 almost lament the time that a momentary ac- 
 quaintance with wealth and s])lend.iur put me 
 so much out of conceit with the sworn com- 
 panions 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 mean in 
 what 1 see around me) than the importance the 
 opulent bestow on their trifling faiiidy affairs, 
 compared with the very same things on the con- 
 tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had 
 the honour to spend an hour or two at a good 
 woman's fireside, where the jilaoks that com- 
 posed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
 carpet, and- the gay table spirkle<l 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 n.iture with 
 madame ; are from time to time, their nerves, 
 their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
 experience, genius, time, nay, a good part oi 
 their very thoughts, sold for months and years, 
 
 not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but 
 the caprices of the important \\:\v.'' We talked 
 of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
 standing their general stupidity and rascality 
 did some of the poor devils the honour to com- 
 
 » Servants in Scotland are hired from term to jcrm. 
 i. e. from Whit^uuduv to Marliniiias, ike. 
 
308 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 mend them. But light De the turf upon ' is 
 breast, who taught " Reverence thyself." We 
 >oi)l\e<] down on the u])()lisheii wretches, their 
 inijiei tinint wives and chiiiterly lirats, as the 
 loidly hull dues on the little dirty ant-hill, 
 whose puny iiihahitants he crushes in the i-are- 
 lessness of his rainhle, or tosses in air in the 
 wantonness of his pride. 
 
 No. LXXXIV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 (at MR. DUNLOP's, KADDINGTON.) 
 
 EUhland, VMh June, 1798. 
 " Wliere'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
 Wy lieart, untr.ivell'd, fondly tuins to thee ; 
 Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at eadi remove a lengthen'd chain." 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
 that I have heen on my farm. A solitary in- 
 nute of an old, smoky sj>tnce ; far from every 
 ohject I love, or liy wliiim I am loved ; nor any 
 acquaintance older than yesterilay, except Jen- 
 ny (ieddes, the oM mare I ride on ; while un- 
 couth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my 
 awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
 Theie is a toggy atmosphere native to my soul 
 lu the hour of care, conseijueiitly the dreary ob- 
 jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensi- 
 bility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
 side l)y a series of misfortunes and dis:i|i))()iot- 
 ments, at tliat period of my existence when the 
 soul is laying in her cai go of ideas for the voyage 
 of life, is, 1 believe, the principal cause of this 
 unhappy frame of mind. 
 
 " Tlic valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
 Or what need he regard his siiiyle woes ?" 8cc. 
 
 Your surmise, Aludam, is just ; I am i&deed 
 a husband. 
 
 a good wife, though she shou' !] never have read 
 a pjge, but the Scriptures of the Old and Neui 
 Tfstameitt, nor have danced in a brighter a» 
 sembly than a penny pay-wedding. 
 
 I found a once inuch-Iovcd and still much- 
 loved female, literally and truly cast out to the 
 mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled 
 her to piirchiise a shelter ; and there is no 
 sporting with a fellnw-creature's happiness or 
 misery. 
 
 The most jdacid good-uature and sweetness 
 <f disposition . a warm heart, gratefullv devoted 
 with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
 and spiightly cheerfulness, set (iff to the best 
 advantage, liy a nicne than common h indxune 
 ^j^ure ; iIksc. 1 think, in a woman, may make 
 
 No. LXXXV. 
 TO MR. P. HILL. 
 
 MY DEAR HIM., 
 
 1 SHALL suy nothing at all to your mad pre- 
 sent — you have so long and otten been of im- 
 portant Service to me, and I suppose you mean 
 to go on conferring obligations until I shall not 
 be able to lift up my face before you. la the 
 meantime, as Sir Roger de Coveiley, because it 
 happened to be a cold day in which he made 
 his will, ordered his servants great coats for 
 mourning, so, because I have been this week 
 plagueil with an indige>tion, I have seut 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 suc- 
 cosful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the 
 niiise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
 When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
 the han<l, the feeling spoils my dinner ; tlie 
 proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it 
 chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilWd, 
 feathered, pert coxcomb, is so di?gustful in my 
 nostril that my stomach turns. 
 
 If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
 sensations, let me pre-cribe for you ])atitnce and 
 a bit of my cheese. 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 out friend SuuUie, a man po- 
 sitively of the first abdities and greatest strength 
 of mind, as well as (me of the best hearts and 
 keenest wits that I have ever met with : when 
 you see him, as, alas ! he too is .smarting at tl"« 
 pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravate! 
 
 liy the sneer of contumelious greatnes a bit of 
 
 my cheese aUme will not cure him, but if you 
 add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a 
 magnum of right Op(uto, you will see his sor- 
 rows vanish like the morning mi^t before the 
 summer sun. 
 
 C h, the earliest friend, except my only 
 
 brother, that 1 have on earth, and one of the 
 worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
 the name of friend, if a luncheim of my cheese 
 would help to rid him of some of hi.s su|ier;»- 
 buiidant modesty, you would do well to gi'.e it 
 him. 
 
 David • with his Courant come«, tr », across 
 my recollection, and I beg you will nelp him 
 
 • Printer of the Eilniburgli Kvcnnig Coura»U 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 SOS 
 
 An^ely from the s.iiil cu'e-tnilk cTiee«e, to ena- 
 ble him to diijest tlio^e hcilauliiiij; paia- 
 
 giapli-i with which lie is eteinilly I.iicliii;; the 
 l<Mii i-h:irai'tcMS of certain sj'"'-'-'' "'*'" '" ■^ certain 
 ^le.U town. I grant yon tiie iieriods are very 
 well turned : so, a fresh es:'j; is a very j^ood 
 inin;; ; hut when thrown at a man in a pillory 
 \t does not at ail improve liis figure, not to nien- 
 rion the irreparahle loss of the egg. 
 
 Jly facetious friend, D r, I would wish [ 
 
 also to lie a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, 
 for that he laughs o'T, hut to digest his l.ist 
 night's wine at the last field-day of the Croch- 
 xHan corps. * 
 
 Among our commim friends I must not for- 
 get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
 The hrutahty, iu<oIince, and selfishne-s of a 
 world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
 is m it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if 
 yon can help him to any thing that will make 
 liim a little easier on that score, it will he very 
 obliging. 
 
 As to honest J S e, he is such a 
 
 contented happy man that I know not what can 
 annoy him, exce|)t perhaps he may not have got 
 the lietter of a parcel of modest anecdotes which 
 a certain poet gave him one night at sup[)er, 
 the 1 1st time the said poet w is in town. 
 
 Though I have mentioned so many men of 
 law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
 fessedly — the Faculty are beyond my presc-rip- 
 tion. As to their clienti, that is another thing ; 
 God knows they have much to digest ! 
 
 The di'rgy I p iss by; their profundity of 
 erudition, and their lilierahty of sentiment ; 
 their total want of pride, and their detestation 
 of hypociisy, are so proverbially notorious as to 
 place them far, far aliove either my praise or 
 censure. 
 
 I was going to mention a man of worth, 
 whiim I have the honour to call friend, the 
 Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spiiken to 
 the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to 
 have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- 
 iiillk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
 Dunifriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest 
 the Duke of Queeusberry's late political con- 
 duct. 
 
 I have just this moment an o|ipi)rtunity of a 
 private hand to Ed.nburgh, as perhaps )ou would 
 out digest double postage. 
 
 No. LXXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 Eltisliind, June I i. ITH8. 
 This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
 that 1 have sojourned in these regioiiH ; and (lu- 
 ring these three days you have occiipi'-d inoie 
 ef iiiv thoughts than in ihree weeks preceding : 
 
 • A club o. choice si'irlts. 
 
 In Ayrshire I have several V'trinltans of friend- 
 ship's compass, here it points invari.ibly to the 
 
 pole My firm gives n:e a good many uncouth 
 
 cares and anxieties, but I hate the language o. 
 complaint. Jub, or sduie one of bis Iriends, 
 says well — " Why should a living man cma- 
 jdain ?" 
 
 I have l.itely been njuch mortified with ("on- 
 temjdating an urducky impel fectiou in the very 
 framing and coiistructitm of my sdiil ; namely, 
 a blundering iiiaeciiraey of her olfactory lugana 
 in hitting the scent <d" cralt or design in my 
 fullow creatures. I do not mean any C(mi|ili- 
 inent to my ingenuousness, or to liint that the 
 defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious sim- 
 plicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it 
 to be, in some way or other, an inip'Tf.'Ction in 
 the mentd sight ; or, metaphor apait, some 
 mo(lific«ri(in of dulness. In two or three sinal 
 instances iatcly, I have been most shamefully 
 out. 
 
 I have all a'ong, hitherto, in the waifare of 
 life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — 
 the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars 
 and higlilandcrs td" the biniii ; but I am firmly 
 resolved to .v<// out of these gidily battalions, who 
 have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, oi 
 of a siege but stoiniiiig the town. Cost wli.it it 
 will, I uin determined to buy in among the grave 
 sijuadrims of heavy-armed thought, or the artil- 
 lery corps of plodding coiiti ivance. 
 
 What books are you reading, or what is tha 
 subject of your thoughts, bes;iles the great stu- 
 dies of vour [iro!e>sio:i ? Yon said something 
 1 bout religion in your last. 1 don't exi.ctly le- 
 ti. ember what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- 
 shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, 
 but nobly tbouiiht. You will make a noble fel- 
 low if once you were married. 1 make no re- 
 seivation iif your being (/■e//-marrieil : You have 
 so much se se, and knowledge of human nature, 
 that though you mviy not lealize |ierhaps the 
 ideas of ruuiaiice, yet you will never be ill-mar- 
 ned. 
 
 Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish si- 
 tuation resjiecting provisinn for a family ot chil- 
 dren, I am decidedly of opiiiion that the step I 
 have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 
 I look to the excise scheme as a certainty ol 
 maintenance ; a maintenance, luxury tu what 
 either Airs. Iturus or I were born tu. 
 
 Adieu. 
 
 No. LXXXVII. 
 
 TO xMR. MORISON,' Wriaht, 
 Maui.'iii.ine. 
 
 EMslund, June 22. 17S8. 
 
 MV DKAR SIR, 
 
 NtcESMtv obliges wi to go into my new 
 
 • This Idler refers to ff.dirj aiitl other articles oi 
 furaiiuie wlueli llie i'uel ti.iil< rUeied. 
 
SIO 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 hnu^e, even before it \k plistarpd. I will inha- 
 bit the one end until the oti:er is finished. About 
 three weeks more, I think, will at farthest, be 
 my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this 
 present bouse. If ever you wished to deserve 
 the blessing of him that was rcaily to perish ; if 
 ever you were in a situation that a little kind- 
 ness wnulil have rescued you from many evils ; 
 if ever you hope to find lest in future states of 
 jntried being ; — get these matters of mine rea- 
 . dv. My servant will be out in the beginning of 
 uext week for the clock. RIy compliments to 
 Mrs. Morison. 
 
 I am, after all my tribulation, 
 
 Dear Sir, yours. 
 
 No. LXXXVIII. 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 Ellhland, Jane 30, 1788. 
 
 Mr DEAR SIR, 
 
 I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and 
 to take vengeance on your laziness, 1 have, you 
 see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
 have bi'gim at the top of the page, intending to 
 Bcrilihle on to the very la'^t corner. 
 
 I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but 
 dare not enlarge on the subject until you send • 
 me your direction, as I sup|xi-ie tiiat will he al- 
 tered on your late master and friend's death. I 
 am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I 
 fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re- 
 gjM^i-t — for an old man's dying, except be have 
 been a very benevolent character, or in some 
 particular situation of life, that the welfare of 
 
 t!ie poor t.T the helpless depeniled on him, I ""S''" • , ,, , r , , , .. . , 
 
 think it an eve.,t of ti.e most trithng moment to , ^^'^'■^^ '■ ""'' a" ^l^)' ^^"1^=* ^ l''^'^ thee entuely 
 the worl.l. JIan is naturally a kitid benevolent "''''^^ "" 
 
 animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- , , ^ c ■ \ 
 
 U.n here in this vexatious world, and has such ; ^^'i^ " prostituted business, that none,t fnend 
 a whoreson, lumgry. growling, multiplying pack ! ^'"l". >« l>^:r sincere way._ must have recourse to 
 (if nece^s.t es, ap, elites, passions, and desires 
 aoo^v nim, rea ly to devour him for want of 
 other food ; that in fact he must lay aside his 
 cares for others, that be may loi k properly to 
 himself. You have been imposeil upiui in pay- 
 
 iiij; Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. H. I 
 
 uid not mention it in my letter to you, nor did 
 I ever t:ive .Mr. M any such order. I have 
 
 hours, who has made himself absoluteTy cor 
 temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous 
 pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my 
 own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as 1 
 would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- 
 thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pietend, 
 forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence, but 
 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. 
 Still, iniprudence respecting money matters, is 
 much moie pardonable than imprudence respect- 
 ing character. 1 have no objection to prefer 
 prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; 
 but 1 appeal to your observation, if you have 
 not met, and often met, with the same littk dis- 
 ingenuousness, the same hcdlow-heai ted insin- 
 cerity, and disintegritive ilepravity of principle, 
 in the hackney'd victims of profusion, as in the 
 unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every 
 possible reverence for the much-talked-of woild 
 beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
 believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter 
 cf fact — But in things belonging to and teinii- 
 nating in this present scene of existence, man 
 has serious and interesting business on hind. 
 Whether a man shall shake hands with wel 
 come in the distinguished elevation of respect, 
 or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of 
 insignificance ; whether he shall wantim under 
 the tro|iic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
 comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
 starve in the arctic circle of dreary poveity; 
 whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness 
 of a self-a|)proving mind, or sink beneath a gall- 
 ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- 
 natives of the last moment. 
 
 You sec how 1 preach. You u<ed occasion- 
 ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in 
 charity, favour me with a sheet f^ll in your own 
 wav. 1 admire the close of a letter L rd Bo- 
 loke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear 
 
 ffoit to love me with all iiiuiel' 
 Humble seivaiit, and all that trumpery, is now 
 
 her primitive, simple, — farewell ! 
 
 No. LXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. GEORGE LOCKIIART, 
 Merchant, Glasgow. 
 
 no objictinii to lose the iiioricy, but I will nut 
 have any such profile in my possession. 
 
 1 desired the carrier to piy you, but an I 
 mentioned only 15s. to him, I will latlier in- 
 close you a guinea note. I have it not indeed 
 to »|iare here, us lain only a ..ojcuirner in a thing's lor you. 
 itrange land in this place ; liut in a day or two in Ediiiburgb. " Fair and Kively are thy woi ks, 
 1 leturn to Mauchiine, and there 1 have the Lord God Almighty! Who would not piaisa 
 bank notes through the house, like silt permits. , Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the 
 
 There is a i;ieit d.'uiee of folly in ta king un- sons of men !" It neerhd not your fine taste to 
 neceftsanly of one's p; iv.ite atfa'rs. 1 have just ' ailiuirc 'l-cm. I declare, one day 1 bad the 
 uow been inlerrupteil by one ol my new neigh- j honour of dining at Mi. lUilie's, I was ahnosi 
 
 MY DTAR SIR, MaucliUne, July 18, I7n8. 
 
 I AM just going "or Nithsdale, else I would 
 certainly h ive transcribed some of my rhyminr 
 The Miss Bailies 1 have seen 
 
CORRESPONDEXCE. 
 
 3l: 
 
 in the jircdicmncnt of the cliildicn (if Israel, 
 when fliey could not look on Moses's fice for 
 the gloiy that shone iu it when he descended 
 from Mount Sinai. 
 
 I did once write a poetic address from the 
 falls (if Hmar to his (irace of Athole, when I 
 Was in the Hiijhlands. When ymi return to 
 Seotl.ind let me know, and I will send such of 
 my pieces as please myself hesf. 
 
 I return to Maucliline in ahout ten davs. 
 
 My compliments to Mr. Purdea. I am in 
 truth, but at present in haste, 
 
 Yours sincerely. 
 
 No. XC. 
 
 TO MRS. DUXLOP. 
 
 MauchUiie, 2d Aug. 17S8. 
 
 lIONOUREn MADAM, 
 
 Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, 
 to Ayishire, I am indeed seriously angiy with 
 you at the rjunntum of your luckpenny ,- liut 
 vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- 
 ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for 
 the missed napkin. 
 
 I would write you from Nithsda'e, and give 
 you my direction there, but I luive scarce an 
 opportunity of calling at a po»t-offi'.'e once in 
 a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
 am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
 little ac(|U.i;ntance in the neighlxmi hood. Be- 
 sides, I am now very busy uii my farm, build- 
 ing a dwelling-house ; as at piesent I am al- 
 most an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for 1 have 
 scarce " where to lay my head." 
 
 There aie some passages in your last that 
 brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- 
 eth its own sorrows, and a stranger inferined- 
 dleth not ".herewith." The repository of these 
 " sorrows of the heart," is a kind of suiictnm 
 sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
 that too at j)articuiar, sacred times, who dares 
 enter into them. 
 
 " Heaven oft tears the h(i«om chords 
 That nature finest strung." 
 
 You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
 of tile author. Instead of enteiing on this sub- 
 ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I 
 wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman 
 in my Nithsilale neighbourlioo(L They aie al- 
 most the only favours the muse has conferred 
 Da me in that country. 
 
 ( T7ie lines on Friar Carse hermitage, he- 
 ginging 
 
 Thou whim chance may hither lead.) 
 
 Since 1 am in the waj of truiscribing, the 
 
 following were the production of yester(J ly as 
 I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
 nock. I intended inserting tliein, or something 
 like them, in an epistie I am going to write to 
 the gentleman on whose frieiuKliip my excise 
 hopes depend, Mr. (jrahain of I'iiitry ; one 0/ 
 the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- 
 men, iiot only of this country, but I will dare 
 to say it, of this age. The following are just 
 the first crude thoughts " unliousel'd, uiiaQ- 
 oiuted, uuaneird." 
 
 Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
 Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
 The woild were blest, did bless on them de- 
 pend ; 
 Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 
 
 friend !" 
 The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
 Unhke sage, proverb d, wisdom's hard-wrunsr 
 
 boon. 
 Let jn-udence 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 tool 1 
 Who make poor wil! ilo wait upon / slioiila , 
 We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 
 good ? 
 
 Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
 God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy 1 
 But come 
 
 Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
 what you tell me of Anthony's writing nie. I 
 never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex i;ie 
 much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
 shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
 1 have just room fur an old Roman farewell I 
 
 No. XCI. 
 TO THE SAME. 
 Matic/iline, \Ot/i August, 1788 
 
 MY MUCH HONOURED KRIKND, 
 
 Yours of the i4th June is before me. I 
 found it, as well as another valued friend — iP7 
 wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : 1 
 met both with the sinecrest jileasure. 
 
 When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down 
 to answer every [laragrajih of youis, by lehuing 
 every s.'iitiment, like the fairhful commons ol 
 Great Biitain in parliament assembled, answer- 
 ing a speech from the best of kings ! I express 
 myself in the fulness of my heart, and may per- 
 haps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind 
 inquiries ; but not fidin your very odd reaMm 
 that I do not read your letters. Aii your epistle* 
 for several monllu have cost me nutbiuj^, er 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 wpt a HTcl'Irij; tlirob of pratitude, or a dccp- 
 fclt wiitiiiii'iit lit VHiicratidn. 
 
 Airs. Burus, .Madam, is the identical womaa 
 
 Wlien she fir«t found herself " as women wish 
 to l;e wliii love their lords ;" as I loved lier 
 ue:irly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
 vate marriafje. Her parents got the hint ; and 
 not only forhade ine her company and their 
 house, but on my rumo\ired Wfst Indian voy- 
 age, got a warrant to ])ut me in jail, till I should 
 fiud security in my al)out-to-l>e paternal rela- 
 tion. You know my lucky reve-'se of fortune. 
 On my eclatint return to M.nichline, I was 
 made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
 consequences began to bettay her ; and as 1 was 
 at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, 
 slie w.is turned, literally turied out of doiirs, 
 and I wrote to a friend to shelter her. till my 
 return, when our marriage was declared. Her 
 ha])])iness or misery was in my ii inds, and who 
 could trillc with such a deposit ? 
 
 I can e.-LsIly fancy a more agreeable compa- 
 jiion for my journey of life, i)ut, upon uiy ho- 
 nour, I Lave never seen the individual instance. 
 
 Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
 got a female partner for life, who could have 
 eiitered into my favourite studies, relished my 
 favourite authors, &c. without probably entail- 
 ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, 
 fantastic caprice, perliapa apish alTeetation, with 
 all the other blessed boarding-school anpiire- 
 iiients, which (jiartlonnez mni, Mailame) are 
 sometimes to be found among females of the up- 
 j)er ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
 uiLsses ol the would-be-gentry. 
 
 I like your way in your cliurch-yanl iiicii- 
 brationx. Tliii\ii;lit8 that are the spontaneous 
 result of accidental situations, cither respecting 
 health, place, or com])any, have often a strength, 
 and always an oi igmalrly, that would in vain 
 be looked for in fancied circnuistances and stu- 
 died paragraphs. For me, 1 have often thought 
 of keeping a letter, in prorjressian, by me, to 
 »pnil you when tlie sheet w.-is written out. Now 
 I la'.k of Bl.ects, i must tell you, my reason for 
 writing to you on p.i]ierof tins kind, is my pru- 
 rieni-v of writing to you at large. A page of 
 post is on Riirh a dissiical, narrow-minded scale, 
 tl.at I cannot abide it ; and doulilc lelleiM, at 
 least ill my iniwellaneous revene manner, are a 
 Cioiiitious Cut in a cIom: curreiipoDdeuce. 
 
 No. xrri. 
 
 TO THE S.^.VE. 
 
 Ellhliw!, \<ith A'wiist, 17SH. 
 I AM in a fine disjiosition, my honoured friend, 
 so send you an e!egi;'.c epistle ; and want only 
 geuius to make it quite Sheiistonian. 
 
 " Why droops my heart with fancied woes for. 
 lorn ? 
 Wliy sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ?" 
 
 INIy increasing nres in this, as yet, stiatige 
 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 v/lie and chililrcn : — 
 I could indulge tln'se reflections, till my liuuiour 
 shoulil ferment into the most acrid clugiin, that 
 would corrode the very thiead of life. 
 
 To counterwork these b.ineful feelings, I have 
 sat down to write to you ; as I declare u)ion 
 my soul I always find that the must sovereign 
 balin for my wounded spirit. 
 
 I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for 
 
 the first time. .My reception was quite to try 
 mind ; from the l.idy of the house quite flatter- 
 ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet oi two, 
 iinprcnnptu. She repeated one or two to the 
 admiration of all present. My suffrage as a 
 professional man was expected • I for once went 
 agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- 
 don me, ve, my adoreii household gods, Imle- 
 pendenee of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In 
 the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical 
 Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the 
 music, was talked of. We got a song on the 
 harpsichord, beginning, 
 
 " Ravinir winds around her blowing." 
 
 The air was much admired : the lady of the 
 bou^e asked me whose were the words—" Mine, 
 .Mad.un — they are indeed my very best verses :" 
 she took not the sm illest notice of tlieiii ! Ths 
 old Scottish pioveib says, well, " king's call is 
 better than ither folks' corn." I was going to 
 make a New Testament quotation about " ca>-t- 
 ing peails ;" but that would be too virulent, 
 for tlu; iady is actually a wom.iu of sense and 
 taste. 
 
 After all that has been said on the other side 
 of the question, man is by no means a bapwy 
 creature. I ilo not speik of the selci ted few, 
 fivoiued by partial be.iven, whose scuils are tun- 
 ed to gladness amid riches and luinonrs, .ii.d piu- 
 dence and wisdom — I S|ieak ot the ncglccteij 
 many, whose nerves, wliose sinews, whose day* 
 are sold to the minions of fortune. 
 
 If 1 thought, you had uevci' seen it 1 would 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 313 
 
 tTiii«(TilM» f()"vo>i n stinza of an oM Scoti'sli] 
 b«llai|, c'lllril The L,>j'e and Aje of jMuit, hv- 
 g;i\i]ing tliuii, 
 
 " 'T«-:i« in the sixtornth luindcT yeiir 
 
 Of r,n,\ anil fifty three, 
 FiJt Cliii^t u-;w l)nrn, that bought us dear, 
 
 As wiiting't testifie." 
 
 1 li:iil nn olil sjnind-uncle, with whom niv 
 tniitlier lived a while in her !^irli>h years ; the 
 pond old man, for such lie was, w.is lung Mind 
 erf he dii'd, during which time, his highest en- 
 joyment was to sit down and ciy, while iiiv mo- 
 ther won.n} sini; the simple old song of T/ie life 
 unil A(/e of Alan. 
 
 It is this way of tl-.inking — it is those mel in- 
 choly truths, that make religion so pieeions to 
 the poor, n\iser,il)te children of men — If it is a 
 ni'Te phaiit.'in, existing ou!y iu the heated iiiiu- 
 giiiitioii of enthusiasm, 
 
 " What truth on earth so precious as tiie lie'" 
 
 I\Iv idle reasonings sometimes make me a lit- 
 tle sceptic il, hut the necessities of my heart al- 
 ways give tlie cohl Jihilosophizings tlie lie. 
 U'lio looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
 the soul affianced to lier God ; the conespon- 
 eiii-e fixed with heaven; the pious supplica- 
 tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the 
 vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
 meet with these in the couit, the p ilace, in the 
 glare o*' puhlic life? No: to find tliein in their 
 precious in^portaiice and divine efficacy, we inu-t 
 jcarch among the obscure recesses of disajij)oint- 
 UK'nt, alfliction, poverty, and distress. 
 
 I am sure, ilcir .Madam, you are now more 
 than plea«ed with the htit/tli of my letters. I 
 Jlfurn to .Ayrshire, middle of next week : and 
 it quickens mv pice to think that there will Ik; 
 a letter t"ii)iii you waiting me tlicie. I must he 
 here aguiu very soou for my harvest. 
 
 No. XCIII. 
 rO R, GRAHAM, OF FIMRY, Esu. 
 
 WnES I hail the honour of being introduced 
 hn yon at Athole-house, 1 did not think so soon 
 of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in 
 Sli ikspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to 
 !);• in his service, he answers, " Uecause yon 
 have tiiat in your face which I could like to 
 call master." For some such reason. Sir, do I 
 now solicit your patronage. You know, I daie 
 MV, of an application I lately made to your 
 Hoaril to he admitted an officer of excise. i 
 Uive, accordini; to form, been examined by a 
 "Upervisor, and to-day I gave in Ins ceitificute, 
 u-iih a reuuest for an order for iniiUuctioiui In 
 
 this afl'ilr, if I snccrpr], I nm afr/iid I sb.ill biri 
 too much need a pationi/inn friend. Proprroty 
 of coniliict as a man, and fidelity and attmtlon 
 as an officer, 1 ilare engage for : Init with any 
 thin:;; like businc-s, except manual lahuur, 1 aui 
 totally unacquainted. 
 
 I bad intended to have closed my late ap- 
 pearance on the staiTc of life, in the character 
 of a coumtry farmer ; but after disch irging 
 some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
 only fiijlit for existence in that miserable man- 
 ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- 
 ble parent into the jaws of a j lil ; whence death, 
 the jioor man's last and often best fiiend, rescu- 
 ed 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 affiir, till I be 
 appointed to a division, where, by the help ol 
 rigid economy, I will try to su.'poit that inde- 
 pendence so dear to my soul, but winch has 
 been too oftua so distant from my situation. 
 
 When nature her great master- piece ilesigncd, 
 And fram'd her last, best work, t!ie human iniud; 
 Her eye intent on all the mazy jilan, 
 She forra'd of various parts the various man. 
 
 Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
 Plain plodding industry, and ^obcr woitli ; 
 Thence ])casants, firmers, native sons of eaith, 
 .And merdiandise' whole genus take their birth; 
 Each prudent cit a warm ex steiice fimls, 
 .And all unchanics' many apioiied k.nds. 
 Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
 riie leid and bimv are neelful to the net: 
 The cojini iiii>rt'iiiiii of gro^s desires 
 iVIal es a materi.il, for mere kiiii,dits and scpiires . 
 The martial ])lins])liiu us is tiiii;lit to Ihiw, 
 She kneads the lump:s!i phil()>o))hic dough, 
 Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de* 
 
 signs, 
 Law, ph\sics, politics, and deep divines: 
 Last, slie sublimes th* Aurora of the poles, . 
 The flashing elements of female souls. 
 
 The orilei'd system fair before her stood. 
 Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; 
 Hut ere she gave croatin:^ labour nVr, 
 Half jest, she tried one curious labour iDore. 
 Some spumy, fieiy, i^/tus fntuus matter; 
 Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter J 
 With arch alacrity anil conscious glee 
 ( Nature mav have her whim as will as we, 
 Iler Hogarth-art perhaps slie meant to show it) 
 .Slie forms the thing, ami christens it — a poet. 
 Creature, tho* oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
 When hless'd to-day urimindlu! r.f to-morrow. 
 .A JK-ing lorm'd t,imu>e his giaver friends, 
 .Adii'.ired and praiseil — and tht-re the huniij^ 
 ends : -^ 
 
314 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 A morfal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
 Yet oft the sport (.f all tlie 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 frequent all unheeded in his own. 
 
 But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
 She Liugh'd at first, then felt for lier [loor work. 
 Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
 She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
 And to support his helpless woodbine state, 
 Attach'd him to the generous truly great. 
 A title, and the only one T claim. 
 To lay stiong hold for help on bounteous Gra- 
 ham. 
 
 Pity the tuneful muses* hapless train, 
 Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
 Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
 That never gives — tho' humbly, takes enou"U ; 
 The little fate allows, they share as soon. 
 Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 
 
 boon. 
 The u-oild were bless'd, did bless on them de- 
 
 jiend. 
 Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 
 
 friend!" 
 Let prudence nundier o'er each sturdy son, 
 Wlio life and wisdom at one race begun, 
 Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
 (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
 Who make poor will dn wait ujjon I slioull — 
 VVe own they're prudent, but who feels their 
 
 good ? 
 Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
 God's image rudely etcli'd on base alloy ! 
 But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
 H.'a/en's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! 
 Whi.se irmsof love would graspthe human race: 
 Come tlwu who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; 
 Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
 Piop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
 Why shrinks my soul lialf blushing, half afraid. 
 Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
 I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
 I Clave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
 
 But there are such who court the tuneful nine 
 
 Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! 
 Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
 Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
 M:irk, how their lofty independent spirit, 
 Soais on the s])urning wing of mjured merit ! 
 Sick nut tlie proofs in private life to find ; 
 Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! 
 So, to heaven's gates the laik-shrill song ascends, 
 But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
 In all the cl.im'rous cry of starving want. 
 They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
 Oblige them, pationite tlieir tinsel lays, 
 Tliiy persecute you all your future d.iys ! 
 F.ie my ])oor poiil such deej) damnation stain, 
 My homy fist a.ssiime ihe plough again ; 
 The jiie-b.iH'd jacket let nie pitch once more ; 
 Ou eighteen pence a-weck I've lived before. 
 
 Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even tliat Ian 
 
 shift, 
 I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: 
 That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for htight, 
 V\'here, man and nature furer in her siu'ht. 
 My muse in iv imp her wing for some sublimes 
 
 flight.* 
 
 No. XCIV. 
 TO MR. BEUGO, Engraver, Edinburgh. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, EUisliind, Sept. 9, 17S8. 
 
 There is not in Edinburgh above the num- 
 ber of the graces whose letters would have given 
 me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, 
 which only reached me yesternight^. 
 
 I am here on my farm, busy with my har- 
 vest ; but for all that most pleasurable p.irt ol 
 life called social com5iunication, I am here 
 at the very elbow of existence. The only things 
 that are to be found in this country in any da- 
 gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. 
 Pro~e, they only know in graces, jirayers. &c. 
 and the value of these they estimate as they do 
 their pl.iiding webs — by the ell ! As for the 
 muses, they have as much an id^'a of a rhino- 
 ceros as of a poet. For my old capriciou 
 good-natured hussy of a muse — 
 
 By banks of Nith I sat and wept 
 
 When C'oila I thought on. 
 In midst thereof I hung mv harp 
 
 The willow trees upon. 
 
 I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
 with my '• darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
 iutervals, 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 well send you " The Fortunate Shepherd 
 ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for tlieifi 
 I keep it with other precious treasure. I snnn 
 send it by a careful hand, as I would not for 
 any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do 
 not wioh to serve you from any benevolence, or 
 other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- 
 fi>h gratification of my owa feelings whenever 
 I think of you. 
 
 If your better functions would give you lei- 
 sure to write me I should be extremely happy; 
 that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a 
 
 • Tliis is our poet's first epistle to GralmiTi of Fin. 
 try. ll is not eiioal to ilie steoiid, but it loiilains too 
 iiiucti of rtie cliara'Meiisiic vi(;oiir of n,s;iiitlior .o b« 
 fcopinesseit. A lillle more luiowlidj^c ■■( 'n.itui;il lii.>'.(> 
 ry or if ctiemistry wst w.-.n.i.d lo <pat''c 'mn to »> a 
 cul« the oritjinaJ loneepuoii torrccLlv 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 315 
 
 re!»jlir correspondence. I hate the iih-a of being 
 ohliycd to write a litter. I sonietiines write a 
 fric'iil twice a week, at other times ouce a 
 luaiter. 
 
 1 am exceeilinc;!)- pleased with your fancy in 
 nnkin;; the author you mention phice a map of 
 Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : 
 Twas a glorious idea. 
 
 Ciuild you conveniently do me one tliinc;; — 
 Whenever you tiniNh any head I could like to 
 have a proof copy of it. I mi^ht tell you a 
 long story about your fine genius ; but as what 
 every body knows cannot have escaped you, I 
 shall not say one syllable about it. 
 
 No. XCV. 
 
 TO MISS CHALMERS, Edinburgh. 
 
 EUislnnd, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 17S8. 
 Where are you ? and how are you ? and is 
 Lady M'Kenzie recovering her health? for I 
 have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
 will not think you have forgot me, Madam ; 
 aud for my part — . 
 
 " When thee Jerusalem I forget. 
 Skill part from my right hand !" 
 
 ^ Jly heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
 careless as that sea " I do not make my pro- 
 gress anu)n« mankind as a bowl does among its 
 fellows — rolling through the crowd without 
 bearing awav 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 ycu aud your sister 
 onte did me the honour of interesting yourselves 
 much a rei/urd tie moi, 1 sit down to beg the 
 continuation of your goo<lness, — I can truly say 
 that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw- 
 two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings 
 of uiv soul — I will not say, more, but, so much 
 as Lady M'Kenzie and Mi^s Chalmers. When I 
 think ofyiiii — hearts the best, niiuds the noblest, 
 of human kind — un ortunate, even in the shades 
 of life — when I think I have met with you, and 
 have lived more of real life with \oii iu eight 
 days, than I can ilo with almost any body I meet 
 with in eight years — when I think on the Im- 
 pidbability of meeting you in this world again 
 — I coulcl sit down and cry like a child ! — If 
 ever you h(moiire<i me with a place in youri 
 esteem, I trust I can low plead mure des rt. — 
 1 am secure agiin-t ihat ciu-hng grip of iron 
 poverty, whico. alas ! is le~s or more fatal to the 
 native worth and puiity of, I (cdi; the i, oldest 
 souls ; and a hite. important stej) in my life has 
 kindly taken nie out of the way of those un- | 
 grafeful iniipities. which, however ovei looked 
 in losha'iuab.e lic/;u.-e, or varnished in fdsliiun- j 
 
 able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deejioi 
 shades of vii.i.Ai <y. 
 
 Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
 married " my Jean." This was not in con-se- 
 quence of the attachment of romance peihaps ; 
 but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
 ture's ha]ipiness (u- misery iu my def<'i mination, 
 and I durst not tiifle with so important a ile|)o- 
 sit. Nor have I any cause to repent it II I 
 have not got polite tattle, modish manners, atul 
 fashionable ihess, I am not sickened and d sgu-t- 
 ed with the multiform curse of boaiding-sehool 
 affectation ; and I have got the handsomest fi- 
 gure, the sweetest temper, the soundest cmisti- 
 tiition, and the kindest heart in the county. 
 Mrs. Hums believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
 I am le jiltis bel esprit, it It jiliis lionnitt hor,une 
 in the univeise ; although she scarcely ever in 
 her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and 
 New Testament, and the Psilms of David in 
 metre, sjicnt five minutes together on either 
 prose or verso. I imi^t except also from this 
 last, a certain late publication of Scots poems, 
 which she has perused very devoutly ; and ad 
 the ballads in the country, as she has (() the 
 partial lover ! you will cry) the finest " wood- 
 note wild" I ever heard. — I lui the more parti- 
 cular in this lady's character, as I know she 
 will henceforth have the honour of a share in 
 y(uir best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as 
 I am building my house ; for this hovel thit I 
 shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to 
 every bl 1st that blows, and eveiy sh.ower that 
 falls ; aud I am only preserved from being chill- 
 ed to death, by being suffocated with suuike. ] 
 do not find my firm that pennyworth I was 
 taught to expect, but I l.'elieve, in time, it may 
 be a saving bargain. You will be jde.ised to 
 hear that I have laid aside idle ectut, and bind 
 every day after my reapers. 
 
 To save me from that horrid situat'on of at 
 any time going down, in a losing bargain of a 
 faim, to misery, I have taken my excise iiisti iic- 
 tiiins, and have my commission in my pocket 
 for any imergency of fortune. If I cmild set iil\ 
 before your view, whatever disrespect you in 
 couimon with the world, have for this business, 
 1 know you would approve of my i ea. 
 
 I will in.ike no apdlogy, dear Madam, for this 
 egoti>tic detail : I know you and your sister 
 will be iiiteiested in every cireuintance of it. 
 What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wea'th, 
 or the ideal trumpery of greatness. \Vi,eii S 1- 
 low pait.ikeis of the s.ime nature fear the sami! 
 God, have the same benevolence of heart, the 
 same o.ihleness of soul, the same detestation at 
 every thing dishonest, and the same skum - 
 eve y thing unworthy — if they are not in tne 
 dependance of absolute beggary, io the niii e of 
 cuiiimon sense are they niit eijuals? Ai.d U 
 the bi IS, rhe instinctive l)ias of their smiN run 
 the same wiy, why may they not be khikniis? 
 
 Wlien I may have .lu opportunity of seinlmg 
 yiui ihis. Heaven only kiiows Slniistone sivs, 
 " U'Leu one is coiitii.ed idle witliiu duurs by ba<J 
 
316 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 weaflier, the liest antidote aa;ainst ennui is, to 
 rea<l the letters of, or write to one's frienils ;" 
 in that case then, if the weather continues thus, 
 I may scr-nvl you half a quire. 
 
 I very lately, to wit, since harvest he<;an. 
 wiote a poem, not in imitation, but in tlie man- 
 ner of Po]>e'.s Moral Ep sties. It is only a >hort 
 essay, just to try the stren:;th of my Muse's |)i- 
 nion in tint way. I will send you a copy of it, 
 v/nen once I have heard from you. I. have like- 
 wise been layin;^ the fuimdation of some pretty 
 laroe poetic works : how the supeistructure 
 will come on I leave to that great maker and 
 marier of projects — time. Johnson's, collection 
 of Scots s<mgs is going on in the third volume ; 
 and of conse<|uence finds me a consumpt for a 
 gre.it deal of iille metre. — One of the m ist to- 
 lerable tilings I have done in that way, is, two 
 stanzas that I made to an air, a musical gentle 
 man ' of my acquaintance composed for the ai- 
 niversary of his we<^ldiiig-day, which happens on 
 the seventh of November. Take it as follows : 
 
 The dav returns — my linsom bmns. 
 
 The blissful day we twa did meet, &c. — P. 90. 
 
 I shall give over tliis letter for shame. If I 
 should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this 
 goes away, I shall make it another letter ; anc' 
 then you may allow your |iatience a week's re- 
 spite between the two. I have not looni for 
 mure than the old, kind, hearty, farewell ! 
 
 To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdnmes, 
 tor <lragging you on to this second sheet ; and to 
 relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied 
 arid unciMiectible prose, I shall transcribe you 
 some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have, 
 chese eight w ten months, done very little that 
 way. Oi:e i! ly, in an heimitage on the banks 
 of Nilh, behing.ng to a gentleman in niy ne'tgh- 
 bo'irl lod, who is .so gixid as give me a key at 
 pleasure, I wrote as fullnws ; supposing myself 
 the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the 
 lonely mansiun. 
 
 ^ Liines Kr'Uten in Friar s Carse Hermitage.^ ) 
 
 than once ; hut scarcely ever with more ^jlea- 
 sure than when I received yours of the 12th in- 
 stant. To make myself understood ; I had 
 wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem ad- 
 dressed to him, and the same post which fa- 
 voured me with yours, brought me an answei 
 from him. It was d ited the very d iv he had 
 received mine ; and I a;n quite at a loss to s,)> 
 whether it was most polite or kind. 
 
 Your criticisms, my honoured benefactiess, 
 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 impartiility, balancing with un- 
 feeling exactitude, the pro and con of an au- 
 thor's merits; the.v aie the judicious observa- 
 tions of animated friendship, selecting the beau- 
 ties of the piece. I have just arrived from 
 Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was 
 on horseback this morning by three o'clock ; 
 for between my wife and my firm is ju>t forty- 
 six mi'es. As I jogged on in the daik, I was 
 taken with a poetic fit, as follows : 
 
 "Mrs. F ofC 's lamentation for the 
 
 d-iath of her son ; an uncommonly promising 
 ycuth of eighteen or nineteen years of age." 
 
 ( Here follow the verses, entitled, " A Mo- 
 'iter's lvalue lit for the Loss (f her Son.") 
 
 You will not send me your poetic rambles, 
 b H, you see, I am no niggard of mine. 1 am 
 sure your impromptu's give me double ))lei- 
 sur> ; what falls from your pen, can neither bt 
 un.-n'ertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 
 
 'ihe one fault you found, is just ; but I can- 
 not please myself in an emendation. 
 
 AV ha"; a life of solicitude is the life of a pa- 
 re.it ! Vou interested me much in your young 
 coujilc. 
 
 I womd ntt take my fidio pa])er for this 
 ejiistle, L^il Eov I repent it. I am so j uled 
 with my dirty Innj^ jaurncy that I was afraid to 
 drawl into tiie essence of dulness with any thing 
 larger than a quaito, I'ld so ! riust leave out 
 another rhyme of ihir nooning's ''ifncfartare. 
 
 I will i>ay t'.ie siMiiei-'icofn*^ Ge-^rge nios>« 
 cheerfully, to hear fruiu jou tre 1 l«aTe A^J 
 shire. 
 
 No. XCVI, 
 
 TO MRS, DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 
 
 MonchUne, 2"lh Si-pt. 1 7RR. 
 I HAVE rcceiveil twins, dear Madam, nunc 
 
 No. XCVII. 
 TO MR. P. HILL. 
 
 • Captain Riililcl of nienriddc. 
 
 t Tile |iiieiie leiiipcr.iineiit Is "'ver prpdifiposcd to 
 iros;i(ioiis i>f the " liorrihle ;iii(l Mwful." IJuins, in 
 tciiiriiii E frniii lii» \iMts at (ilciiiiddel tot., .arm at 
 Ellisliiiid, ha I ic p.iss Uiriiii;;h .i little wil.l wood in <1 
 
 wliieli stiicd ilie Miriiiila.e- WlitMi tlie niglii w.is i,^.'.„ jjjg >> Address 
 (lark iiiiil drrary it nas m- eustoin peiierallv to sdin-it i i- - 
 
 »ti a.l.liiioi.al |iiriinn (-'I 'ss to fortify hi- Kpirils and "''''i' "" obliging as to seni 
 
 keep ii|i In- OMiir.ice. I hi- ums rel.iteil 1)\ a ladv, a p;iniielled one of the author's jury, to determin 
 rie.ir ul Ikmi nf Caiitaui Ridilel'.ii, who liad fridiiiit i r. . .i ' ■ r 
 
 Oi.,.ortuuiUu. o( Juiethi..alu.«ry practice kelopli- l"s crim.uality resp. Cing the s,n of poesy, ni; 
 flcJ . verdict Khoulu l)e " iruilty A poet ot Nature 
 
 ManchUnc, \st Oc*oJ>->r 17SS. 
 
 I HAVE been here in this cotintiy about three 
 
 ys, and uli that time my chief reiding has 
 
 to Loch Lomond," you 
 
 were so ohlimm; as to send to me. Were I ini- 
 
 e 
 
 y 
 
 guilty ' A poet of Nature'* 
 
CORRESPOXDENCE. 
 
 317 
 
 inakinrr!"Tt is nn exrcllcnt nu-tlunl for im- 
 puiviiULTit, and what 1 l)L'lieve every |)i)et does, 
 to place sdiiie favourite classic autlior, in his 
 own wii'ks of stiiily ami composition, l)efore him, 
 as a model. Thonnjh yi'i" author had not men- 
 tinned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
 guessed his model to he Thomson. W ill my 
 hrotlier poet Ibigive me, if I venture to hint, 
 that his imitation of that immortal hard, is in 
 two or three places rather more servile than 
 ueh a genius as his required. — e. g. 
 
 To soothe the madding passions all to peace, 
 
 ADUKKSS. 
 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
 mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
 to the SeiiSDns. Like Thomson, too, he has 
 looked into nature for himself: you meet with 
 no C(jpied descri|>tiun. One particular criti- 
 cism I made at first reading ; in no one instance 
 has he said too much. lie never flags in his 
 progress, hut like a true poet of Nature's mak 
 ing, kindles in his cour.-e. His begiiming is 
 sinijde, and nuidest, as if distrustful of the 
 stieiiiith of his piuion ; only, I do not altoge- 
 ther like 
 
 " Truth, 
 
 The soul of every song that's nobly great." 
 
 Fiction is the soul of many a song that is no- 
 bly great. Pirhaps I am wiong : this may be 
 but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in li)ie 
 7, }"i(/ir 6, " Great lake," too much vulganzrd 
 by every-day language, for so sublime a jioem ? 
 
 "Great mass of waters, theme fur nobler song," 
 
 is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
 a cimiparison with other lake*, is at once har- 
 monious 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 digres>ion on the yew-tree — - 
 *' Ben Lomond's lolty cloud-enveloped hejd," 
 &c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
 which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his 
 gi-and picture, has nteijtcted a circumstance, so 
 far as I know, entirely original : 
 
 " The gloom 
 Deep scam'd witU frequent streaks of moving 
 file." 
 
 In his preface to the storm, " the glens how- 
 dark between," is noble liighland landscape ! 
 The *' lain plowing the red mould," too, is 
 beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's " kjfty. 
 
 pathless top," is a good expression ; anil tlit 
 surrounding view fraui it is tiuly great j the 
 
 " Silver mist, 
 Beneath the beaming sun,' 
 
 is well described ; and here, lie has contrived to 
 eiillvfti his j)oem with a little of that [)assion 
 which bids f.iir, I think, to usurj) the modiin 
 muses altogether. I know not how far this epi- 
 sode is a beauty upon the wh(de, Imt the swaiii's 
 wish to carry " some faint ide* of the vision 
 bright," to entertain her "pirtial listening ear," 
 is a pretty thought. But, in my o|iinion, the 
 mo^t beautiful passages in the wlnde poem, are 
 the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch 
 Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling 
 round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and 
 the glorious des( ription of the s])ortsmaii. Thia 
 last is equal to any thing in the Seusiins. The 
 idea of " the floating tribes distant seem, far 
 glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he 
 is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic 
 genius. " The howling winds," the " hideoui 
 roar" of " the white cascades," are all in the 
 same style. 
 
 I forget that while I am thus bidding forth, 
 with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
 am ])eiha| s tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
 however, mention, that the last verse of the six- 
 teePvh ^age is one of the most elegant cumph- 
 nients i have ever seen. 1 must likewise notice 
 that beautiful paragraph, l.'cginning, " Tlie 
 gleaming lake," &c. 1 dare not go into the 
 particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, 
 but they are admirably fine, and tiu'v (>>sianic. 
 
 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 ; hut, 
 whoever he be, please present him with my 
 ijratefid thanks for the entertainnient he has af- 
 forded me. * 
 
 A frienii of mine desired me to commission 
 for him two hooks, Lttttrs on tlie lielii/io/i. <s- 
 seyitiiil to ?tlan, a book you sfnt me be!o;e; 
 and. The World Untiim-heil, or llie Pliilosiphcr 
 ilie (/reiitest C/ieid. Send me them by the first 
 ojipoitunify. The Bible vou sect me is truly 
 elegant ; 1 only wish it had been in two volumes. 
 
 No. XCVIil. 
 
 TO -MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOltiillAM 
 MALN'S. 
 
 .MADAM, Mauildiite, ]3lh Xov. ]788. 
 
 I iiAn the very preat pleasure of (lining at 
 Dunlop yesterday. JMen are said to Hatter wo- 
 
 ♦ The pncm entitled An Adrlress to I.och I, mnnd, 
 U sanl to be written h\ a per.l!ein;in, now mie nf ilie 
 maslersof the Ili'^ti Seliool M Kclinburijli, and U'esam* 
 who tianslatdl llie be->utirulstorv of the Puria, as ))ub 
 hslieil lu ihe Bee of Dr. Aiiilcrson. 
 
318 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 men because tliey aip weak; if it 's so, poets the ruling features of wTiose adtnioistritinn h»vt 
 must he weaker still; for Misses R. and K. ever been, mildness to the suoiect, ana tifldtrntst 
 and Miss G. 1M"K, with their flattering atten- of his rights. 
 
 tions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned Bred and educated id revolution pr'nciplea, 
 my head. I oivn they did not lard me over as the principles of leason and common sense, it 
 
 many a poet does his patron , pou'd noc be any silly political prtjudice which 
 
 but they so intoxicated me with j made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive man- 
 
 their sly insinuations and delicate inuendos of ner, in which the reverend gentleman mention- 
 
 compliment, that if it had not been for a lv«ckv 
 recolliction, how much additional weight and 
 lustre your good opinion and friendship must 
 give me in that circle, 1 had certainly looked 
 upon myself as a person of no small consequence. 
 I ilare not say one word how much I was charm- 
 ed with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
 manner, and acute remark, lest I shoulil be 
 thought to balance my orientalisms of applause 
 over against the finest quey * in Ayrshire, which 
 he made a present of to help and adorn my farm, 
 stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am deter- 
 mined annually as that day returns, to decorate 
 her horns with an ode of gratitude to tha family 
 of Duulop. 
 
 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, un- 
 der the guarantee of the major's hospltalitv. 
 There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
 permanent distance between us ; and now that 
 your friendship and friendly correspondence is 
 entwisted with the heart-strings (d' my enjoy- 
 ment of life, I must indulge myself in a liap|)y 
 day of " the feast of reason and the flow of soul." 
 
 No. XCIX. 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR, November 8, 1 783. 
 
 NoTWiTHSTANniNG the opprobrious ejiithets 
 with which some of our philosophers and gloomv 
 sectaries have branded our nature — the princi- 
 ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all 
 evil, they have given us ; still, the detestation 
 in which inhumanity to the distiessed, or inso- 
 lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
 shows that they are not natives of the human 
 lieait. — Even the unhappy ])artner of our kind, 
 who is undone — the bitter consequence of liis 
 follies or his crimes — who but sympathises with 
 the miseries of this rvined profligate bnitber ? 
 we forget the '"' .nes, and feel for the man. 
 
 I went last Wednesday to my parish church, 
 most cordially to join in grateful acknowledge- 
 ments to the AuTiioii OF ALL Goon, for the 
 ronsequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
 To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
 our liberties civil anil religious ; to it we are 
 sikewise indebted for the presecj Royal I'amily. 
 
 1 Heifer. 
 
 «d the House of Stuart, and which I am afraid, 
 was too much the language of the day. We 
 may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from 
 past evils, without cruelly raking up the a.sbe3 
 of those, whose misfortune it was, perhaps as 
 much as their crime, to be the authors of those 
 evils ; and we may bliss God for all his good- 
 ness to us as a nation, without, at the same time, 
 cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
 harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most 
 of us would have done, had we been in their si- 
 tuation. 
 
 " The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart," 
 may be said with propriety and justice when 
 compared with the jiresent Royal Family, and 
 the sentiments of our days ; but is there no al- 
 lowance to be made for the manners of the 
 times i Were the royal contemporaries of the 
 Stuarts more attentive to their subjects' rights? 
 Might not the epithets of " bloody and tyranni- 
 cal" be, with at least equal justice, applied to 
 the House of Tudor, of York, or any other oi 
 their predecessors ? 
 
 The simple state of the case, Sir, seems tc oe 
 this — .\t that peiiod, the science of govei mneiit, 
 the knowledge of the true relation between king 
 and subject, was, like other sciences and other 
 knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from 
 dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 
 
 The Stuarts only contended fur prerogatives 
 which they knew their pndecessois eniuved, and 
 which they saw their contempoiaries enjoying ; 
 but: these premgatives were inimical to tiie li.ip- 
 piness of a nation, and the rights of subjects. 
 
 In this contest between prince and people, 
 the consequence of that light of science, which 
 had lately da'wned over Europe, the monaich 
 of France, for example, was victorious over the 
 struu'gbng liberties of his people : with us, luc kily 
 the nioiiarch failed, and his unwai raiitabie pre- 
 tensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and lirjipi- 
 ness. Whether it was owing to the wisdmn 
 of le.iding individuals, or to the jiistling of par- 
 ties, I cannot pretend to determine; but like- 
 wise, happily for us, the kingly power was shift- 
 ed into another branch of the family, who, as 
 they owed the throne solely to the call of a frer 
 people, could claim nothing inconsistent « ith 
 the covenanted terms which placed them there. 
 
 The Stuarts have been condemned and laugh- 
 ed at for the lolly and impracticability of tlitir 
 attempts in 1713 and 1743. Tli.it tbey failed, 
 I bless Gon ; but cannot join in the ridicule a- 
 gain>t them. Who does not know that tlie abi- 
 lities or defects of leaders and con mamlers art 
 oft«ii hidden until ]uit to the touchstone of v\'\- 
 gency ; and that there is a capiicecd' Iv.rtuns. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 319 
 
 tn oiriiipiifrncc In particular act-idents and ron- 
 functurcs al circuuistancfts, which exalt us as lie- 
 roes, or brand us as madmen, just as they arc 
 for or :ip;.iitist us ? 
 
 Jlan, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
 sonsistent being. Who would believe, Sir, tiiat. 
 in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
 InuMnent, while we seem so justly sensible and 
 jealous of our rights and liberties, atid animated 
 with such indignation against the very memory 
 of those who would have subverted them — that 
 a certain people, under our national protection, 
 should coiiiplairi not against our monarch and 
 a i<;\v favourite advisers, but against our whole 
 LEGISLATIVE iiODY, for similar oppression, and 
 almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers 
 did of the House of Stuart ! I will not, 1 can- 
 not enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare 
 say the American Congress, in 177ti, will be al- 
 lowed to be as able and as enlightened as the 
 English convention v/as in iGSS ; and that their 
 pos'^'rity '.'ill ce'ebrate the cf ntena' y of tl eir de- 
 liverance Inmi us, as duly and sincerelv as we 
 do ours from the oppressive measures of the 
 wroiig-headed House of Stuart. 
 
 To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a 
 tear for the many miseries incident to huniaui- 
 ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, 
 and unfoitunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
 let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- 
 aian), who ever looked with reverential pity on 
 the «iota;;e of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
 oiistakes of the kinss of his forefathers. • 
 
 No. C. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, Engraver, 
 
 EniNIiUKGH. 
 
 Mauchllne, Kuv. 13, 17S8. 
 
 >!Y TtF.AV. SI'S., 
 
 1 have sent you two more songs. — If you 
 have got any tunes, or any thing to correct, 
 l)li'ase send tliem by return of the carrier. 
 
 I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will 
 very prol^ibly have four vohiiiies. Perhajjs you 
 may not tind y(iur account Incrutively, in this 
 bw-iiie-s ; but you are a patriot for the music of 
 your ciiuiitiy ; and 1 am certain, posterity will 
 look on themselves as highly imlebted to your 
 public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on 
 correctly ; and your name shall be immortal. 
 
 I am I'leparing a fluniiig prefice for your 
 third vohinie. I see every d.iy, new musical 
 publications advertised ; but what are they ? 
 Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and theu va- 
 nish forever: but your work will outli\e the 
 monieiitarv neglects of idle fashion, and defy the 
 teeth of time. 
 
 n.ive you nc\ci i fair goihloss that leads you 
 a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
 nie know a few of her qualities, such as, whe- 
 ther she be either black, oi fair ; plump, or 
 thin ; short, or tall, &c. ; and choo>e your air, 
 and I shall task tny Muse to celebrate her. 
 
 No. CI. 
 
 TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. 
 
 REV. AND DTAR SIR, 
 
 As I hear nothing of your motions but thi 
 you are, or were, out of town, 1 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 had not found you, or, what I dread 
 more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too 
 precarious a state of health and spirits, to take 
 notice of an idle packet. 
 
 I hive done many little things fur Jolmson, 
 since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I 
 have finished one piece, in the way of P<ipe's 
 Moral Epistles ; but from your silence, I have 
 every thing to fear, so I have only sinit you two 
 melancholy things, which I tremble lest they 
 should too well suit the tone of your prtseut 
 feelings. 
 
 In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 
 Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at this 
 place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, 
 near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige nie 
 were it but half a line, to let me know how you 
 are, and where you are. — Can I be indifferent 
 to the fate of a man, to whom I owe so much? 
 A man whom I not only esteem but venerate. 
 
 My warmest good wishes aiid most respectful 
 comjjiiments to JMrs. Blacklock, and iNJiss John- 
 ston, 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, troiii my 
 happy exjieiience, I set down as a])othegi)is in 
 life. A wife's head is inimuteiial, com|)aied 
 wiih her heart — and — " Virtue's (for wi-dom 
 I what ])oet pretends to it) — ways are ways of 
 pleusautuess, and all her paths are peace." 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 (Here follow " The mother s Inmeyit for the 
 ] OSS if her son" p. 200, and the fong bcgin- 
 I ning, " The lazr/ mist hiinc/s from the brow oj 
 ' the hill, ' 1. 1>3-i.) 
 
 • Th-s letter was ?ent tr the publisher of the EJin- 
 biirg/i Eviming 0ourant.\ 
 
32C 
 
 J URNS' 
 
 WORKS. 
 
 No. CII. 
 TO AfRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellismnd. ITlh Dicemhcr, 17S8. 
 
 MY DEAR HONOUKEn FRIEND, 
 
 Yours, (iateci Edinhuigh, which I have just 
 read, makes me very unh,i|ipy. Ahiiost " lilinil 
 ami wholly deaf." ;ire nieliiuholy news of hu- 
 man n.iture; but when told of a much loved 
 and honoured friend, they c.iiry misery in the 
 sound. Goodness on your pirt, and gr.ititude 
 on mine, besr^in a tie, wliich hns gradually and 
 strongly ciitwisted itself among the dcare<>t 
 chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
 omens of yout late and present ailing habits 
 and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
 ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
 you, lest it .should hurt my worMly concerns. 
 My small scale of farming is exceeiiingly more 
 simj)!e and easy than what you have lately 
 seen at RIoreham i\Iains. But be that as it 
 may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of 
 the ])oet, are the two grand considerations for 
 which I live: if miry ridges, and dirty dung- 
 hills are to engross the best part of the func- 
 tions of my soul immortal, I had better been a 
 rook or a mag|)ie at once, and then I should 
 not have been pliigued with any ideas superior 
 to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs ; 
 not to mention bira-door cocks or mallards, 
 creatures with which I could almost exchange 
 
 lives at any time If you continue so de;Lf, I 
 
 »m afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
 either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 
 again as to he able to reli>h coiiversatiiin, look 
 y<iu to it, Midam, for I will make my tlireaten- 
 iiixs good ; 1 am to be at the new-year-day filr 
 of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, 
 fri'diid, I will come aud see you. 
 
 Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
 with y<nir old sclioolf( How and frieml, was tru- 
 ly llltere^tin:;. ()utu|i()n the ways of the world ! 
 — Tliey spoil these " social offsprings of the 
 heart." Two veter.ms of the " men of the 
 word" would have met, with little more heart- 
 woikings than two old hacks W(uii out on the 
 road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phiase, 
 " Auld lai'g syne," exceedingly expressive. 
 There is an old song and tu-ie whicli has often 
 thiilled through my sold. You know I am im 
 enthusiast in uh! Scutch songs. I shall give you 
 the verses on the other shi'ct, as I ■uj)pose fiJr. 
 Ker will save you the postage. • 
 
 Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
 ven-inspired poet who com|)osed this glorious 
 fragment ! There is more of tin.- fire of native 
 penius in it, than in half a dozen of nunlern 
 English liucchanaliaus. Now I am on mv 
 
 hobby horse, I cinnot help inserting tw) >th»> 
 old stanzas, which please me nngLtdy. 
 
 Go fetch to me a pint o wine. 
 An' fill It in a silver tassie. 
 
 • Here foUaws llie song of 4uid lang 3!/%e. 
 
 No. cm. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKINB* 
 BALLAD ON HER, ENCLOSING THAT BALLAEt 
 
 MADAM, December, 1783. 
 
 I UNDERSTAND my Very worthy neighbour 
 Air. Riddel, has informed you that 1 have made 
 you the subject of some verses. Thci e is some- 
 thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
 den of a ballad, that I do not tliink Job or 
 Moses, though such patterns of jjatlence and 
 meekness, couid have resisted the curiosity ta 
 know what that ballad was: so my worthy 
 friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say 
 he never intended ; and reduceii me to the un- 
 fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity 
 ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolisu 
 veises, the unfinished production of a r.iuduni 
 moment, and never meant to have met your ear 
 I have heaid or read somewhere of a gentleman, 
 who had some genius, niueh eccentricity, ant! 
 very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
 the accidental groups of life into which one i» 
 thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
 character in a more than (.rdiiiary degree con- 
 genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch ot 
 the face, meiely. he said, as a 7iOta bene to ])(uiit 
 out the agreeable recollection to his meniorv. 
 What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my 
 muse to me ; and the veises I do myself the 
 honour to send you are a meincrtto exactly of the 
 same kind that he indulged in. 
 
 It may he more owing to the fistiillotisness 
 of my caprice, than the delicacy of my t.iste, 
 that I am so often tired, di-gnsted, and luirt 
 with the iii'-i]iidity, affectation, and pride of 
 mankiiid, that when I meet with a person 
 " after my own heart," I positively feel wliat 
 an orthodox protestant v.ould call a S])ecies of 
 idolatry which acts on my fancy like insjiira- 
 tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on tlie 
 impulse, than an iEcdian harj) can refuse its 
 tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
 would he the consec|uence, though the ol.iect 
 which hit my fancy were g.-ey-l;o irded a.^e ; 
 but «herc my theme is youth and beauty, a 
 young lady whose personal charms, wit, and 
 nentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, 
 by heavens ! though 1 hail lived threescore year" 
 a mairiei man, and threescore years helore I 
 was a married man, my imagui.itiou would ha), 
 low the very idea ; and I am ti nly sorry that 
 the enclosed stanz,is have doiio such jioor iastic« 
 to such a subject. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 32] 
 
 No. CIV. 
 TO SIR JOHN WIIITEFOORD. 
 
 flK, Deremher, I7^fi. 
 
 Mr. M'Kfnzie, ill M.iuelilinc, my very warm 
 and wortliv IVicnd, lias iiiforiiiuil tiie Imw niiirli 
 Vdii are plea^iMl to iiitiTost ymirsell' in my fate 
 as a man, and, (wlia-t to me it incumjiaralily 
 dourer ) niy fame as a [icot. I iiave, Sir, in out 
 or two instances, been patronized by tliose of 
 your eliaracttT in life, when I was introdured 
 
 to tlieir notiee by friends to tliem, 
 
 and luinoiiiod acqiiainta'nci'S to me: but you 
 are the fir.-t pentliMuaii in the country whose 
 benevolence and <joodne^s of heart has interest- 
 ed Iiim for me, unsolicited and unknown. I 
 am not master enough of the etiquette of these 
 matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, 
 whether firmal duty bade, or cold j)ro])riety 
 disallowed, my thati'ting you in this ni.'r.ner, a> 
 1 am convinced, from the li^ht in which you 
 kindly view nie, that you wdl do me the justict 
 to !)elieve this lettet' is not the inanopuvra of 8 
 needy, sharping author, fasteninv; on those in 
 upper life, \yho honour hun with a little nuticf 
 of him or his wo.ks. Indeed the situation ot 
 poets is t;enerally such, to a (irov'erb, as may, 
 in some nieisure, jialliate tint [)rostifution of 
 heart and talents they have at times been guilty 
 of. I do not think prodigality is, by an means, 
 a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but 
 believe a careless, indolent inattention to econo- 
 my, is almost in»epara!)le from it ; then there 
 must be in the heart of every I'ard of Nature's 
 making, a certain modest sensiliiiity, mixed 
 with a kind of jiride, that wdl ever keep him 
 out of the way of those wiii'ltalls of fortune, 
 xt'liich fiequeiitly light oa hardy impudence 
 and foot- licking servility. It is not easy to 
 imagine a moie helpless state than his, whose 
 poetic fancy unfits him f.r the world, and whose 
 character as a scholar, gives him some l)ruten- 
 »iou8 to the palittsae 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 iude- 
 perwlent fortune at the plough-tail. 
 
 I was surprised to hear tint any one, who 
 pretended in the least to the mtin?icrs of the 
 gtnlh iiKin, should he so fo(disli, or worse, as to 
 Stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
 am, and so mhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle 
 with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part 
 of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank 
 you. Sir, for the warmth with which you inter- 
 po>e(l in behalf of my coiuhict. I am, I ac- 
 knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, 
 caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, 
 and integrity to my fellow-creatures, 1 liope I 
 shall ever preserve. I have no return. Sir, to 
 make you fur your goodness but one — a return 
 which, I ftrn persuaded, will not be unaccept- 
 »ijl«:— ^Ue honest, warm wisiiea of a grateful 
 
 heart for your happiness, and I'very one of tli.it 
 lovL-ly flock, who stand to vou in a filial rela- 
 ti<in. If ever calumny aim the poisoned Nliaft 
 at thei^i, may friendship be by to ward th« 
 blow ! 
 
 LETTERS, 1789. 
 
 No. CV. 
 FROM MR. G. BURNS. 
 
 DF.Aa BROTHER, Mnsscjicl, \st Jan. 17Sf>. 
 
 I HAVE just finished my new-year's-day 
 breakfast in the usual for.n, 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 vicissi- 
 tudes, " through the dark |iostern of time long 
 elapsed," 1 cannot help remarking to yoi", my 
 dear brother, how good the God of Skasons 
 is to us ; and that however some clouds may 
 seem to lower over the portion of time before 
 lis, we have great reason to Lope that all v/iU 
 turn out well. 
 
 Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
 second, join nie in the complimeiits of the sea- 
 son to you and Mrs. Hums, and beg you wil' 
 remember us in the same manner to William, 
 the fiist time you see him. 
 
 I am, dear brotlier, yours, 
 
 GILBERT BURNS, 
 
 No. CVI. 
 TO I\IRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 EllhlattJ, A'nc-Yeur.Dnj/ iMirrJnfj, 1789. 
 
 Tills, dear Jladam, is a moinjug of wishes, 
 and would to Gon that I came under the apos- 
 tle James's description! — the jirai/tr of a riijh- 
 teous man aviiileth mvch. In that case, ^"Ma- 
 dam, you should welcome in a year full of bles- 
 sings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs 
 traiKjuillity and self-eniojuient, should be re- 
 moved, and every jjleasure tliat frail humanity 
 can taste, should be yoars. I ovvn myself so 
 little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times 
 and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devo- 
 tion, for breaking in on that habituated routine 
 of life and thought, which is so apt to reiluce 
 our existence to a kind of instinct, or even 
 sometimes, aiii! with sonic minds, to a state very 
 little sujieiior to mere machinery. 
 
 This (iay ; the first Sunday ol May ; a breezy, 
 blue-skyed noon some time about th*" b.-ginning, 
 and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
 the end, of autumn ; these, time out of aut<<^ 
 have been with mc a kind of holiday. 
 
822 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 1 believe T owe this to that glorious paper in 
 the SjJO'^tatnr, " The Vision of Mirz.i ;" a 
 piece that struck my ynung fancy before I was 
 capable of fixin[( an idea to a word of three syl- 
 ]ai)les : " On the 5th day of the moon, which, 
 gccording to the custom of my forefathers, I al- 
 ways keep holy, after having washed myself, 
 and offered up my morning devotions, I ascend- 
 ed the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the 
 rest of the day in meditation and prayei." 
 
 We know nothing, or nt'Xt to nothing, of 
 the substance or structure of our souls, so can- 
 not account for those seeming caprices, in them, 
 that one should be particularly pleased with this 
 thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of 
 a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
 pression. I have some favourite flowers in 
 spring, among which are the mountain daisy, 
 tlie hare-bell, the fox- glove, the wild-brier rose, 
 the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, 
 that I view and hang over with particular de- 
 light. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle 
 of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild 
 mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
 autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation 
 of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poe- 
 tr)-. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this 
 be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
 like the jEolian harp, passive, takes the impres- 
 sion of the passing accident ? Or do these work- 
 ings argue something within us above the trod- 
 den clod ? 1 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 be- 
 yond death and the grave. 
 
 No. CVII. 
 FROM THE REV. P. CARFR.\E. 
 
 SIR, 2d January, 1783. 
 
 Ir you have lately seen Jlrs. Diinlup, of 
 Diitilop, you have certainly heard of the author 
 of the verses which accompany this letter. lie 
 was a man highly respectable for every accom- 
 plishment and virtue which adorns the charac- 
 ter of a man or a Christian. To a great de- 
 gree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
 was added an invincible modesty of temjier, 
 ■which j)revetittd, in a great degree, his figuring 
 in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
 his charactt-r ms\i\ talents to tlie small circle of 
 his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
 from us, a few xveeks ago, by an iiifiammatory 
 fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all, who 
 enjoyed his ac(|uaintance, and lamented by all, 
 who have any regard for virtue or genius. Tliere 
 iii a woe pronounced in Scripture against the 
 person whom k\\ men speak well of ; if ever 
 
 that woe fell upon the head of mortal ;Tian, * 
 fell upon him. He has left behind liim a con- 
 siderable number of compositions, chitfly poeti- 
 cal ; sufficient, I imagine, to make a large oc- 
 tavo volume. In particuhfr, two complete and 
 regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some 
 smaller poems on different subjects. It falls to 
 my share, who have lived in the most intimate 
 and uninterrupted friendship with him from my 
 youth upwards, to tiansmit 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 scrutoire, folded up witL 
 the form of a letter addressed to you, and I im- 
 agine, were only prevented from being sent hy 
 himself, by that melancholy dispensation which 
 we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will 
 not pretend to criticise when writing to a gen- 
 tleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to 
 judge of their merit. They are the oidy verses 
 he seems to have attempted in the Scottish 
 style ; and I hesitate not to say, in 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 unwoithy of the author, 
 and will be no discredit to you, it is the incli- 
 nation of Mr. Mylne's friends that they should 
 be immediately published in soine periodica! 
 work, to give the world a specimen of what 
 may be expected from his performances in the 
 poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterv/arda 
 published for the advantage of Lis family. 
 
 I must beg the favour of a letter from yon, 
 acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be 
 allowed to subscribe myself with great regard, 
 Sir, your most obedient servant, 
 
 P. C 
 
 No. cvni. 
 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 EUidand, near Dumfries, 4th Jan. 1789. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 As often as I think of writing to you, whicc 
 has been three or four times every week these 
 six months, it gives me something so like the 
 idea of an oidinaiy-sized statue ottering at a con- 
 versation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my 
 mind misgives me, and the afiair always miscar- 
 ries somewhere between puipose and lesiilve. ) 
 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 
 had any with me, except the business that bene- 
 volence has in the mansion of poverty. 
 
 The character and om])loyinent of a poet 
 were fcrmerly my ]ileasure, but are now my 
 pride. know that a very great d(dl of ui) 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 32S 
 
 fate eclat was owing; to tlie singularity of my 
 nitiKition, and the honest prejudict' of Sei)t»inen ; 
 but still, as I said in the |)i'ef,ii'e to my first edi- 
 tion, I do look upon myself as h.ivinj; some pre- 
 tensions from Nature to the poetic character. I 
 nave not a douht but the knack, the aptitude, to 
 .earn the Pluses' trade, is a gift bestowed by 
 Him " who forms the secret bias of the sou! ;" 
 • — but as I fii mly believe, that excellence in the 
 prjfession is the fruit of industry, labour, atten- 
 tion, and pains. At least I am resolved to try 
 my doctrine by the test of experience. Another 
 appearance from the press I put off to a very 
 di-tant day, a day that may never arrive — but 
 poe:«y I am determined to prosecute with all my 
 vigour. Nature has givt-n very few, if any, of 
 the professi.in, the talents of shining in every 
 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 befoie the 
 mental eye, that one loses, in a good measure, 
 the powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
 be;st ciiterion I know is a friend — not only of 
 abilities to judge, but witii 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 — heai t-breaking 
 despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
 imnietisely indebted to your goodness, ask the 
 additional obligation of your being that friend to 
 me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, ia a walk 
 of ])oesy to nie entirely new ; I mean the epistle 
 adilressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert Graham, of 
 Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, 
 to whom I lie under very great obligations. The 
 story of the poem, like most of my poems, is 
 connected with my own story, and to give you 
 the one, I must give you something of the other. 
 I cannot boast of 
 
 of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for 
 it was mere selfishness on my ])art ; ( was con- 
 scious that the wrong scale of the balance was 
 pretty heavily charged, atul I thought that 
 throwing a little filial piety, and fraternal affec- 
 tion, into the scide in my favour, might help to 
 smooth matters at the (jriuid reckoninrj. There 
 is still one thing would make mv ciicumstances 
 quite easy ; I have an excise officer's commis- 
 sion, and I live in the midst ot a country divi- 
 sion. My request to Mr. Grahim, who is ont 
 of the coumiissioners of eycise, was, if in his 
 power, to procure me that (division. If I were 
 very sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
 gieat patrons might procure me a treasury war- 
 rant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 
 
 Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweel 
 poetry, delightful maid," I would uonsecr<ue my 
 future days. 
 
 No. CIX. 
 
 I believe I shall, in whole, L.lOO copy-right 
 included, dear about L.-iOO some little odds ; 
 and even part of this depends upon what the 
 geiitlema.n has yet to settle with me. I give 
 you this information, because you did me the 
 honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. 
 
 To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
 married " my Jean," and taken a farm ; with 
 the first step I hav^ every day more and more 
 reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather 
 tl'.e reverse. I have a younger brother, who 
 fupports my aged mother ; another still younger 
 brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
 last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 
 L.180 to save them from ruin. Not that I 
 nave lost so much — I only interposed between 
 mv biothei and his impending fate by the loan 
 
 TO JIR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 Ellhlund, Jan. 6, 1789. 
 
 Many happy returns of the season to you, 
 my dear Sir . I\Iay you be comparatively happy 
 up to your comparative worth among the sons 
 of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make 
 you one of the most blest o-f 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 quotu you my two favourite passages, 
 which though I hive repeated them ten thou- 
 sand times, still tliey rouse my manhood and 
 steel my resolution like inspiration. 
 
 On Reason build resolve. 
 
 Th.it column of true majesty ia man. 
 
 YOUNQ. 
 
 Hear, Alfied, hero of the state. 
 Thy genius heaven's high will declare; 
 The triumph of the truly great 
 Is never, never to despair ! 
 s never to despair ! 
 
 Masque of Alfred. 
 
 » grant you enter the HnIs of life, to struggle 
 for bread, busintss, notice, and distinction, in 
 
 common with hundreds But who are they .' 
 
 i\Ien, like yourself, and of that aggregate body, 
 your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short 
 of your advantages natural and accidental ; while 
 two of those that remain either neglect their 
 parts, as floweis blooming in a desert, or mis- 
 sjiend their strength, like a bull goring a branv 
 ble bush. 
 
324. 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 But to cTiange the thetne : Tain still catering 
 for Jolinson's piiMication ; and among others, 
 I have l)ru>la'(l i:p the fdllowing old favourite 
 song a little, with a view to your worship. I 
 have only altered a word .•.ere and there ; hut if 
 vou like the humour of i :, we shall think of a 
 stanza or two to add to it. 
 
 No. ex. 
 
 TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
 EWslnnd, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. 
 
 VENEKABLE FATHER, 
 
 As I am conscious ;hat wherever I am you do 
 me the honour to interest yoiirxflf in my wel- 
 fare, it gives me pleasuie to mforin you, that I 
 am here at last, stationaiy in the serious busi- 
 ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
 leisure, hut 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 hut one side on which I was 
 haliitiuilly hlameahle, and there I have secured 
 myself in the way ))oiiited out liy Nature and 
 Nature's Go<l. 1 was sensible that, to so help- 
 less a creature as a pcor poet, a wife and family 
 were incumbrances, which a species of prudence 
 would bid him shun ; but when the alternative 
 was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on 
 account of habitual fi:Uies, to give them no worse 
 name, whiih no general e.\am])le, no licentious 
 wit, no sophistical infidelity would, to me, ever 
 justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitat- 
 ed, and a madman to have made another choice. 
 
 In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
 tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
 farm ; init should they fail, I have iin escise 
 commission, which on my simple jietitioii, will, 
 at any time, procure nie bread. There is a cer- 
 tain stigma affixed to the irharacter of an excise 
 officer, but I do not inteml to Dorrow nonour 
 from any jirofession ; and though the salary be 
 comparatively .iniall, it is great to any thing 
 that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
 me to exjiect. 
 
 Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
 yo\i may easily guess, my reverend and much- 
 lionoured frie«d, that my cliaracteristical trade 
 is not forgotten. I am, if jinssible, more than 
 Bver nti enth isiast to tlie muses. I am doter- 
 mined to study man ami nature, and in that 
 view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and 
 
 corrections of years c/in enable me to produce 
 something worth preserving. 
 
 You will see in your hook, which I beg yout 
 pardon for detaining so long, that I have l)een 
 tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
 larger poetic plans that are floating in my ima- 
 gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
 part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
 ing with you, which, if you are then in Edin- 
 burg, , I shall have ihout 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 whatever un- 
 concern I give up my transient connection with 
 the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing 
 notice of the learned and the good, without the 
 bitterest regret. 
 
 No. CXI. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellhland, Ath March, 1789. 
 Here am T, my honouied friend, returned safe 
 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 sicken- 
 ing disgust. 
 
 " Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you !" 
 
 AVhen I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
 rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
 should mangle me in the mire, I am temjitcd 
 to exclaim — " what merits has he had. or what 
 demerit have I had, in some state of pre-exlstcnce, 
 that he is ushered into this state of being with 
 the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in his 
 ]n;ny fist, and 1 am kicked into the world, the 
 -pint of folly, or the victim of pride?" I have 
 read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think 
 it was), who was so out of humour with the 
 Ptuleinean system of astronomy, that be said, 
 had he been of the Creatok's council, he could 
 have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 
 surdity, I will not defend this blaspiteinous 
 speech ; but often, as I iiave glided with humble 
 stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it 
 has siiggesteil itself to me, as an inij?rovemtiit 
 on the present human figure, that a man, in 
 proportion to his own conceit of his consequence 
 ill the wiprld, could have pushed out the longi- 
 tude of liis common size, as a snail pushes out 
 his horns, nr as we draw out a jierspective. 
 This trifling alteration, : ot to mention tlie pro- 
 digious saving it would be in the tear and wear 
 of the nerk and limb-sinews of many of his !\Ia- 
 ji'sty's liege subjects in the way of tossing the 
 head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently tura 
 out a vast adfautage, in enabling us at once U 
 
CORRESPONDl'^NCE. 
 
 ldjii«t the ceremonials in iTiakin<5 a Imw, or 
 niiikiii'^ way to a great man, and that too within 
 a seeonii of tlie precise sjilierical an<5le of reve- 
 renee, or an ineh of the pirtienlar point of rc- 
 spectfiil distance, whicli the important creatnre 
 it-.elf rc(piires ; as a nKMsnrini;-^! mce at its 
 towerin;; altitude would determine the affair hke 
 Jiscinct. 
 
 Yon are rif;ht, I\I,id,ini, in your idea of poor 
 Mylne's poem, wliich lie has addressed to me. 
 The piece has a good deal of merit, hut it has 
 Dne great fault — it is, iiy far, too Ion;;. He- 
 «ldt>s, my suf.eess has encouraged such a slioal 
 of ill-spawneil monsters to crawl into puUlic 
 notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, th.it 
 the very term of Scottish Poetry horders on 
 
 the liurlesque. When I write to IVIr. C , 
 
 I shall advise bim rather to try one of his de- 
 ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigi- 
 . ..ily honied with my own matteri, else I 
 would have requested a perusal of a.\\ Mylne's 
 poetic performances ; and would have offered 
 his friends my assistance in either selecting or 
 correcting what wmdd he proper for the press. 
 What it is that occupies me so much, anil per- 
 haps a little oppresses my present sjiitits, shall 
 fill up a paragraph in some tutiire letter. In 
 the iiiemtime allow me to dose this epistle with 
 a few lines dune l»v a friend of mine 
 
 I give you them, that as you have seen 
 the original, you may guess whether one or two 
 alterations I have ventured to make in them, be 
 any real improvement. 
 
 L'ke 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 aTi you are, my charming , seem. 
 
 Straight as the fox-glove, ere her hells disclose. 
 Mild as the maiden-ldushing hawthorn hlows. 
 Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
 Your form shall he the image of your mind: 
 Your manners shall so true your soul expresti, 
 That all shall long to know the woitli they 
 
 guess ; 
 Gnigenial hearts sliall greet with kindre<l love, 
 Aud even sick'niug envy must approve.* 
 
 No. CXII. 
 
 .ETTER FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE 
 PC-iTS BROTHER. 
 
 Til IS and thr»e letters which follow hereafter, are 
 the genulue and artle-s productiiuis of the poet's 
 yoiiiigei I5rotlier, Wii.i.iam Burns, a yniw^ 
 ni.in, who after having served an apprenti<-e 
 siiip to the trade rif a Saddler, took his lo.id 
 
 • hese l)eautn'ol linet, we have rp.\«in to believe, 
 »re the iiriiUieliuii v( ibe laAy Ui wlioin this letter u 
 tdre^ d 
 
 towards tl;e South, anc? having resided a 
 short time at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, arrived 
 in London, where he died of a putrid fevef 
 in the year 170(1.] 
 
 DEAlisiR, Lnnr/lnirn, Feb. L5, 17S9. 
 
 As I am now in a manner only eiitcriiig into 
 the world, I hegin this our correspondence, with 
 a view ol being a gainer liy your ailvice, more 
 than ever you can be by any thing I can write 
 you of what I see, or what I hear, in the course 
 of my wanderings. I know not how it hi|>- 
 peiied, but yon were more shy of your counsel 
 thin I could have wished the time I staid with 
 you : whether it was because you thought it 
 would disgust me to have my faults freely told 
 me while I was dependant on you ; or whether 
 it was because you saw that by my indolent dis- 
 position, your instructions would hive no effect, 
 I cannot determine ; but if it inoceeded from 
 any of tile above causes, the reaxin of u'ithholdiiig' 
 your admonition is now done awiy, tor t now 
 stand on mv (wn bottom, and that indolence, 
 which I am very conscious of, is something 
 rubbed off, by being called to act in life whether 
 I will or not ; and my inexperience, whiih 1 
 daily feel, makes me wish fur that advice which 
 yon are so able to give, and which I can only 
 expect Umw you or GIbert since the loss of the 
 kindest and ablest of fathers. 
 
 The morning after I went from tl-.e Isle, I 
 left Dumfries about five o'clock and came to 
 Ann in to breakfist, and staid about an hour ; 
 and I reached this place about two o'clock. I 
 h.ive got work here, aud ! intend to stay a month 
 or six weeks, and then go fmwird, as I \\\>\\ to 
 be at Yolk about the latter end of summer, 
 where I propose to spend next winter, and go 
 on fur London in the spring. 
 
 I have the piomise of seven shillings a week 
 fiiMii .Mr. i'roctor while I stay here, and six- 
 pence more if he succeeds himself, for he luia 
 only new begun trade here. I am to pay four 
 shillings |ier week of board wages, so that my 
 neat income here will be much the same as ia 
 Dumfries. 
 
 The enclosed you will send to Gilbert with 
 the first opjioi tiinity. Please semi me the tii>t 
 Wednesday after you receive this, by the Car- 
 lisle waggon, two of my coaise shirts, one of 
 my best linen ones, my velveteen vest; anil a 
 neckcloth ; write to me along with them, and 
 iliirct to me. Saddler, in Longtown, and they 
 will not miscarry, for 1 aoi boarded in the 
 w.iggoner's lioii-e. You may either let them 
 be given in to the w.igion, or send them to 
 {-onlth.ird and (ii llebourn's shop and they will 
 fiirward thr ni Priy write me oltc>n while I 
 i.tay lu-ie. — 1 wish yuu would send me a letter, 
 though never so small, every week, for they 
 will be no exjiense to me. ami but little trouble 
 to you. I'le.ise to give my best wishes to my sis- 
 ter-in-law, and believe me to be your affectionate 
 And obligid Brother, 
 
 WILLIA.M BURNS 
 
32G 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 P. S. The great coat y u gave me at parting 
 dill me singular service tlu d.iy 1 came here, and 
 merits my hearty thanks. From what has been 
 «ai(l the conclusion is this; that my hearty 
 thanks and my best wishes are all that you and 
 my eister must exjiect from 
 
 W. B. 
 
 No. CXIII. 
 TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 
 
 REVEREND SIR, 1789. 
 
 I iio not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
 veier pang of shame, than on looking at the 
 d.ite of your obliging letter, which accompanied 
 Mr. Wyhie's poem. 
 
 1 am much to blame : the honour Mr. IMylne 
 has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
 the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
 of its being the la^t production of his muse, de- 
 served a better return. 
 
 I have, as you hint, thought cf sending a 
 copv of the poem to some periodical publica- 
 tiiin ; but, on second thoughts, I am airaid 
 that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
 proper step. My success, perhaps as much ac- 
 cidental as meiited, has brought an inundation 
 of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. 
 Siibscriptioti-biils for Scottish poems have so 
 dunned, and dailv do dun the public, that the 
 very name is in danger of conti'ni|)t. For these 
 reasons, if publishing any of Mr. M.'s poems in 
 a maguzine, &c. be at all prudent, in my opinion 
 it certainly should not lie ,i Scottish poem. The 
 protits of the labnurs of a man of genius, aie, [ 
 hope, as honiuiral)le as any protits whatever ; 
 and Mr. Mvlne's relations are most justly en- 
 titled to that honest hai vest, which fite has ile- 
 aird himself to reip. Hut let tiie friends of Mr. 
 Mylue's fame (among whivm I crave the honour 
 of ranking myself), always ko'cp in eye bi< re- 
 fpectaliilitv as a man and as a poet, and take no 
 measure that, before the world knows any thing 
 •nbout him, would ri>k his name and ciiaiacter 
 being claH^ed with tlie fouls of the times. 
 
 I h ive. Sir. sonie experience of publishing; 
 anil the way in uhich I would proceed with 
 Air. Myine's poems, is this: — I woulil puhii-h, 
 in two or three ICnglish anil Scotti>h public 
 papers, any one of his Eoitlish ])oeuis which 
 ishuulil, by private jiiilges. be thought the most 
 exielleiit, arrd mention it at the same time, as 
 one of the |.roducti(Uis of a Luthiiiri farmer, of 
 r■:^pl■ctallle character, lately dece.ised, whose 
 I'lerris bis frieird> had it in idea to publish soon, 
 ^/ / sirb-cri|ition, for the s.ike of hi-< nurirerous 
 A. nrly : — not in pity to that family, but in jirs- 
 ta.'e tu what his friends think the poetic merits 
 
 of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most if 
 fectual manner-, to those tender connections 
 whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of thos« 
 merits. 
 
 No. CXIV. 
 
 TO DR. JIOORE. 
 
 SIR, Ellhland, 23d March, 1 '8J . 
 
 The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
 Sir. Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
 bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance o. 
 mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, 
 I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- 
 compense him for it in a way in which he much 
 needs your assistance, and where you can effec- 
 tually serve him : — IMr. Nielson is on his way 
 for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensbeiiy, 
 (m some little business of a good deal of impor- 
 tance to him, and he wishes for your instruc- 
 tions respecting the most eligible mode of tra- 
 velling, &c. for him, when he has crossed the 
 (!^hannel. I should not have dared to take this 
 liberty with you, but that I am told, by those 
 who hive the honour of your personal acquaint- 
 ance, 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 much pleasure. 
 
 The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
 mory of the late i\Irs. , of . You 
 
 l)riibably knew her personally, an hnnour ol 
 which I cannot boast ; but I spent my eaiiy 
 year's in her neighbourhood, and among her 
 servants and tenants. 1 know that she was de- 
 tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. How- 
 ever-, in the particular part of her- conduct which 
 rou'-ed mv poetic wrath, she was ir.oih less 
 blameable. In January last, im my nud to 
 Ayrshire, I had put up at Uiilie Wigham'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 ot snow 
 and drift. My horse and I were both much 
 fatigued with the labours of the day, and jusi a.< 
 rrry friend the Isailie and I weie bidding drtiance 
 to the storm, over a sriiokrng bowl, in wheels 
 the fuiieial pageantry of the late great Mis 
 , anil poor I am forced to brave all the 
 
 horrors of the tempestuous night, and j ule my 
 horse, niy young fivourite horse, whom I had 
 just christened Pe;;asus, twelve miles fartlier 
 on, through the wilde-t muiis and hills of Ayr 
 shire, to New Cumnock, the next inii. The 
 powers of jMiesy and pro-e sink under me, when 
 I would describe what 1 felt. Suffice it to s.iy, 
 \hat when a good fne, at New Cumnock, had 
 M> fir recover-ed nry frozen sinews, i sat dowj 
 and wrote the enclosed ode. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 327 
 
 1 was at Eilinhi-fgh lafely, and settled finally 
 Kith Mr. Crt'jcli ; and I iii'j'<t own, that, at 
 '■^t. he has bctu amicable uud fair with me. 
 
 No. CXV. 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 Ellisland, Id April, 1789. 
 I WILL make no excuses, my dear Bil)liopo- 
 us, ( Ciod foi'give me for niunlering language !) 
 that 1 have sat down to wiite you on this vile 
 paper. 
 
 It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
 prndence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
 either conijjose or borrow a panegyric. If you 
 are going to borrow, apply to 
 
 the glorious cause of LufRE, I will do any thing, 
 be any thing — but the horseleech of privuta 
 ojjpression, or the vulture of public robbery ! 
 
 Bat to descend from heroics. 
 
 to compose, or rather to compound, something 
 very clever on my remaikable tVugalify ; that I 
 write to one of my llio>t e.^teemed friends cm 
 tla» wretched paper, which was originally in- 
 tended tor the venal list of some drunken ex- 
 ci^etiian, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault 
 of un ale-Crllir. 
 
 O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
 ble-sini;s — thou cook of fat lieef and dainty 
 greens ! — thou niannficturer of warm Shetland 
 hose, aiul comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
 hmisewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
 thy ancient spectacles ( n thy aged nose ; — lead 
 me, hanri me in thy clutching |)alsied fist, u]) 
 tho>e heights, and through those thicket*, hi- 
 therto inaccessii)!e, and impervious to my anxi- 
 ous weary feet : — not tho>e rarnas^ian craggs, 
 bleak and barren, where the hungry wnrsbii)- 
 pers of fime are, breathless, clambering, hang- 
 ing between heaven and hell ; but those ghtter- 
 ing clitfs of Pot. si, where the all sufiicient, all- 
 powerful deity. Wealth, hidds his immediate 
 couit of joys and plcasuies; where the sunny 
 exposure of plentv, and the hot walls of profu- 
 sion, produce those blis-fnl fruits of luxury, 
 exotics in this woi Id, and n,iti\ es of |)aradise ! — 
 Thou uitheied sybil, my sage conductiess, usher 
 me into the refulgent, adored jiresence ! — The 
 I)ower, splen(li<i and |)otent ,is he now is, was 
 once the puling nursling of thy fiithful care, 
 aTid fender arms ! Cail me thy sun, thy cousin, 
 thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, 
 by the scenes ol his infant vear<, no longer to 
 lejiulse me as a sti.ingei, or an alien, but to fa- 
 vour me wiih his peculiar countenance and pro- 
 tection ! He daily liestows his greatest kindness 
 on the undeserving and the wottiiless — assure 
 'iim, that 1 bring ample documents of meritcri- 
 jus demerits Pledge yourself for me, that, for , 
 
 I want a Shakspoare ; I want likewise an Eng 
 lish dictionary— Johnson's, I suppose, is best 
 In these and all my prose conmiissions, the 
 cheapest is always the best for me. T here is 
 a small debt of honour thit I owe Mr. Robert 
 Cleghorn, in Sau^hton .Mills, my worthy friend, 
 and your well-wisher. Plea-e give him, and 
 urge him to take it, the fir>t time you see him, 
 ten shillings worth of any thing jou have to 
 sell, and place it to my account. 
 
 The liluary schetne *!iat I mentioned to you 
 is already begun, under the direction of Captain 
 Riddel. Theie is another in emulilion of it yo- 
 ing on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr, 
 Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a 
 greater scale than ours. Captain R give his 
 infant sticiety a great many of his old books, 
 elsn I had written you on that subject ; but, 
 one of these days, I shall trouble you with a 
 commission for " The Monkl.md Friendly So- 
 ciety" — a copy of Tilt Spictutur, Mirror, and 
 Liiiintitr i M'Ui of Fvilitiij, :i.'nn oj't/ic Wi.rld, 
 (jiit/iiits Geoyraplmal (iTUiiiiimr, with some 
 religious pieces, will likely be our first order. 
 
 When I grow licher, 1 will write to you on 
 gilt post, to make amends f )r this sheet, .^t 
 present, every guinei has a five-guinea errand 
 with 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 Your faithful, jjoor, but honest friend, 
 
 li. B. 
 
 No. CXV I. 
 TO JIRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellhland, 2d April, ]78». 
 
 I NO sooner hit on any poetic jilan or faac/ 
 but I wi>h to send it to you ; and if kno.viii;» 
 and reading these give hall tlie pleasure to vou, 
 that conimuuicating tiiem to you gives to u>c, 
 I am satisfied. 
 
 I have a poetic whim in my head, wliich ] 
 at present dedicate, or rather inscrilie, to the 
 Right H(m. C. J. I'' X ; but how long that 
 fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
 fiist lines I Lave just rough-sketched, us fol 
 lows : — 
 
328 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 iSKETCn (}? C. J. FOX. 
 
 How w:s('i)ni aiii! folly meet, mix, am! unite ; 
 How virt/ie aiid vico bli-ad their black and their 
 
 wiiite ; 
 How {reirus, th* illustrious fatlier of fiction, 
 Cotifounds rule and law, recuuciies contradic- 
 
 tiiiM — 
 I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
 
 hustle, 
 I care not not I. let the critics go whistle. 
 
 3ut now for a patron, whose name and whose 
 
 gloiy, _ 
 At once may illustrate and honour my story. 
 
 Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
 Yet whose jiarts and ac(j\iirunients seem mere 
 
 iui-ky hits ; 
 With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 
 
 strong'. 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 
 
 wrong ; 
 With passidiis 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 name offers fifty excuses. 
 
 Good I d, what is man ! for as simple he 
 
 looks, 
 Do but ti y to develope liishiinks anil his crooks ; 
 Vv'ith hi"* di-ptlis and his shallows, his good and 
 
 his tfvil, 
 All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 
 
 On his one ruling passion Sir Pope luigelv 
 
 labiiiirs. 
 That like tl;e old Ili'brew walking-switch, cats 
 
 up its iii'it;hboiirs : 
 M.itikiiid lire his '•how-box — a friend, wimld you 
 
 know bin; ? 
 Piill the string, ruling passion, the picture v.'ill 
 
 slio\v biin. 
 Vhnt pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
 One tnlbiii; paiticidar, truth, should have uiiss'd 
 
 liim ; 
 Fur, spite iif his fine theoretic positions, 
 Mankind is a science defies definitions. 
 
 .'soiriD sort all our qualities ea<'h to its tribe. 
 Ami lliink huiii.in nature liny truly ile>cribe ; 
 li.ive )iiu fniind ibis, or t'other ? tbeie's more 
 
 in tlie wiiiii. 
 As by one ilrunkeu I'ellow his comrades you'll 
 
 fiiiil. 
 Dot sorb Is the fiaw, or che ilepth of tiie plan. 
 In ih: make of that wondeiful creature tall'd 
 
 Rliu. 
 No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
 ^•llr even two ditb'rent hliades iil the same, 
 1 l.oii.'b like as was ever twin brother tobiother, 
 I'ussesbing the one shall imply yuu've the ulhei . 
 
 No. CXVII, 
 TO .MR. CUN.M.NGn.\M. 
 
 .MT TEAR siK, EUhland, Mh ^tiy, I7S9. 
 
 Your ilnty free favour of the 2(ith A(iril I 
 received two days a^o : I will not say I peru- 
 sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold compli- 
 ment of ceremony ; 1 jierused it. Sir, with deli- 
 
 cious satisfaction In short, it is such a letter, 
 
 that not you, nor your friend, but the lei,'i>!a- 
 ture, by express proviso in their pust.ige laws 
 should frank. A letter informed with the soul 
 of frienil>hii>, is such an honour to human na- 
 ture, that they should order it free ingre.'s and 
 egress to and from their bags, and malls, as ao 
 eiicourafiemeut and mark of distinction to su- 
 per-eminent virtue. 
 
 1 have just |uit the last hand to a little poem 
 which 1 think will be something to your taste. 
 One morning lately as ] was out pretty early 
 in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
 the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
 tation, and presently a poor little woumled hare 
 came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
 dignation at the inhuman fellow who could 
 shoot a hare at this seasim, wlu'n they all ol 
 thein have youns; ones, Iiuleed there is some- 
 thing in that business of destroying, for our 
 sport, individuals in the animal creation that 
 do not injure us materially, which I could never 
 reconcile to my ideas ol viitue. 
 
 ( See Poetry. ) 
 
 Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
 doubtful wliether it would not be an impmve- 
 ment to keep out the last slauiia but one alto- 
 gether. 
 
 C is a ghulons prnducticm of the author 
 
 of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel ol the 
 C F are, to me, 
 
 " Dear as the ruddy drojis which warm niy 
 bieast." 
 
 I have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
 to the tune of " l/iree yood J'dtous uyuHt tlu 
 ylen." 
 
 O.T '.he 20th rurrent I hope to liave the ho- 
 nour (.'f ussuiing you, iu person, how siuceiely 
 1 •III, 
 
 No. CXVHI. 
 
 TiJE poem, in ths preceding letter, had alM> 
 been sent by on- bard to Dr. (iregorv for hit 
 ctilicisui. '1 he following is thai geulleuiiia'* 
 re;ily. 
 
 FRO.M DR. GREGORY, 
 
 I'KAS SIR, ICiliiihur</h, 2tl June, 178P. 
 
 I" AKK the first leisure hour 1 ei uld conimanfl, 
 to thank y>>u tor jitiui letter, and the cnjiy of 
 Vi'ru.'S cnciuiuil IL' It. As there is leal pui:tic 
 
329 
 
 merit, f i.ipnn luitli fmcy, and tenderness, and 
 Kcime hiiipy I'xpressidns, in them, I think tliey 
 Well ilesi'ive that you shoiihl revise them care- 
 fully iiiiil polish rheni to tlie utmost. This I am 
 sure you can do if yoii please, for you li ive i^re.it 
 coiniiMtid hoth of expression and of rliviiies: ami 
 you may judije from tiie two last pieees of Mrs. 
 Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how nuieli 
 correctness anil liiijh polish enhance the value of 
 such couiposit'ons. As you desire it, 1 ishall, 
 with gieat freedom, give you my most riynrons 
 ciitieisms on your verses. I wish you would 
 give me another edition of tlieni, much amend- 
 ed, and I will send it to Mis. Hunter, who, I 
 am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. 
 Pray, give me likewise for myself, and her too, 
 a copy (as much amended as you please) of tlie 
 Witter Fiiwl on Lncli Turit. 
 
 The WointiLd Hare is a pretty good suhject ; 
 but the measure, or stanza, you have chosen for 
 it, is not a good one ; it does not Jlow will ; 
 and the rhyme (d' the fourth line is almost lost 
 h\ its distance from the titNt ; ami the two in- 
 terposed, close rhymes. If I were you, I would 
 put it iiito a dillerent stanza yet. 
 
 Stanza I. — The execrations in the first two 
 lines are strong or coarse ; but they may piss. 
 " .Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epltliot, 
 and not very inteihgihie. " IJlooil-stained," in 
 stanza ill. line \, has the same fault: Ji/ifiliiirj 
 bosom is infinitely better. You have accustom- 
 ed yoursrif to such epithets, and have nii notioTi 
 how sritf aad quaint they appear to others, aufl 
 how incongruous with ]ioetic fancy, and tender 
 Kiiti^iciits. Suppose Pope had written, "Why 
 that blood-stained bosimi gored," how would vou 
 have liked it .' Form is neither a poetic, nor a 
 dli'iiilied, nor a plain, common word : it is a 
 mere spoilsman's word; unsuitable tu pathetic 
 or serious poetry. 
 
 " M.mgied" 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 gianimar — it is not intelligible. Do 
 y>u mean " provide for that life which the mo- 
 ther had bestoweil 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 veises ; but even fellow 
 would be wrong : it is but a collocpiial and vul- 
 gar woid, un-uitd)ie to your sentiments. " .shot" 
 is imprnpcr too. — On seeing a person (or a 
 Kportsman ) wound a !iure ; it is tieedless to add 
 with what weajion ; but if you think otherwise, 
 you should Siy, with a faulinti-jjitce. 
 
 Let me see you when you come to town, and 
 I will show you some more of i\Irs. Hunter's 
 pocais. • 
 
 No. CXIX. 
 TO JIR. JAML.S HAMILTON, 
 
 CKOCEH, GLASGOW. 
 
 deah sir, j;il!s/anfl, Maij, 26, 1799. 
 
 I SFNi) you by John (;iover, carrier, the 
 above account for Mr. Turnbull, as I supjxme 
 you know his address. 
 
 I would fain olfer, my dear Sir, a word of 
 sympa;hy with your misfortunes ; hut it is a 
 tender strinsj, and I know not how to touch it. 
 It is easy to flourish a set td'high-flowa senfini'-nts 
 on the subject that would give ■;reat satisfa.f ion 
 to — a breast (pilte at ea-e ; but as onk obsiives, 
 who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
 life, " The hint knowctli its own sorrows, and 
 a stranger internuwidleth not tln'iewlth." 
 
 Among some di-tri-ssful emergencies that I 
 have ex|)erienced in life. I liave ever laid this 
 down as my foundation of comtort — That he 
 he who has livnl t.'ie life nf an hiutst man, has 
 by no means licvil in rain ! 
 
 With every wish for )our welfare and futur* 
 success, 
 
 I am, my dear Sir, 
 
 Siueerely yours. 
 
 • It must be ailnijtte<l, that this criticism is not 
 more ilisLMinuishe.l liy lis good sense, lliaii liy itsfrce- 
 Jimi from ceriin iiy. It is im|iossible ii.il to sinilc at 
 Ihe maniiei in winch thepoei may tie su|>|hisisI to have 
 <u.v.vcd It In laet il appears, a^ liie toilurt uy. \o 
 
 No. CXX. 
 
 . TO WM. CREECH, Esq. 
 
 SIR, Ellishnid, May 30, )79»>. 
 
 I HAD intended to have troidiled vou with a 
 long letter, but at piescnt the .lehglitful sensa- 
 tions of an omnipotent tooihach so engross all 
 my inner man, as to put it out of my power 
 even to write nonsense. — However, as in duty 
 bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- 
 ing in my hand — i feiv poetic clinches and a 
 song : — To e.\pect any other kind of offering 
 from the riivming TiaiiK, would be to know 
 them much less than you do. 1 do not [iretend 
 that there is much merit in these morceaux, but 
 I have two reasons for send ng them ; f;riino, 
 they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison wiih 
 my present feelings, whde lilfy tioops of infer- 
 nal spirits are driving post IVoin ear to ear along 
 my jaw-bones ; and sicnna'/y, the> are so short, 
 th.it you cannot leave off in the v.\ ddle. and -^ 
 hurt my pride in the ide.i th.it you found any 
 work of mine too heavy to get through. 
 
 I have a request to lieg of jou, and I not oa- 
 ly beg of you, but conj ue you — by all your 
 w.shes and by all your ho)ies, that the muse 
 
 have thrown hhn ^»/7^ rt-ioci'. In a letter which he 
 wrotcsoon after, hesays, " Pr. G is .igoi.d man, 
 
 but he crucifies me." — .Anil aeiiii, "I lx>lie\e in iha 
 iron jii.stiee of Rr. ( '■ - ■ ; hut hke the ilevsLs, I lx> 
 Ijeve anil tremble." However, he profiu-d by these 
 criticisms, as Ihe reailcr will liu.l, by coiiipanng ihii 
 first eililioi) uf the poeiu, wiih ihat ]ii.bli:Jied alUt 
 warat. 
 
330 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 will sp.ire tlie satiric wink in the moment of 
 your f(iil)les ; tli.it she will warble the song of 
 rapture round your hymeneil cnuch ; and that 
 she will shed on your turf the honest tear of 
 elegiac gratitude ! grant my request as speedily 
 as possilile. — Send ne by the very first fly or 
 coach for this place, three copies of the last edi- 
 lion of my poems ; which place to my account. 
 Now, niay the good things of prose, and the 
 good things of verse, come among thy hands 
 until thev be filled with the good things of this 
 tile ! prayeth 
 
 ROBt. BURNsS 
 
 No. CXXI. 
 TO MR. M'AULEY, 
 
 OF DUMBAUTO.V. 
 
 DKAR sm, ith Jtnie, 17S9. 
 
 TiiouoH I am not without my fears respect- 
 ing my f.ite at that grand, universal inquest of 
 right and wrong, commonly called The Lust 
 Dill/, yet I trust there is one sin, which that 
 arch-vairabond, Satan, who, I understand, is to 
 be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth 
 — I nieim ingratitude. There is 3 certain pret- 
 ty large quantum of kindness for which I re- 
 main, and from inab lity, I f,^ar, must remain 
 your debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
 debt, 1 assure yon. Sir, I shall ever warmly re- 
 member the obligation. It gives me the sin- 
 cerest jdeasure to hear by my old ac(|uaintance, 
 Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's 
 language, " Hale ami weel, ami living ;" and 
 that your charming fimily are well, and promis- 
 ing to be an amiable and respectable ailditiim to 
 the company of performers, whom the Great 
 Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing intn 
 acti<in for the succeeding age 
 
 With respect to my welfire, a subject in 
 which you once warndy and effectively inteiest- 
 ed yourself, I am here in my old way, holding 
 my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or 
 the healih of my dairy; and at times saunter- 
 ing by the delightful windings of the Nith, on 
 the maigin of which I have built my humble 
 domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or 
 holding an intrigue with the Muses ; the only 
 gA'pseys with whom I li.ive now any intercourse. 
 As I am entered into the li<dy state of m.itrimo- 
 3y, I trust my face is turned tom])!eftly Zion- 
 Ward ; and as it is a rule with all honest fel- 
 .<)W«, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the 
 .ittle poetic licences of former days, will of 
 course fall under the oblivious influence of some 
 pood-natureil statute tjf celestial prosci iption. 
 In my family divotioii, which, like a good pres- 
 byterlan, 1 occasionally give to my lionsehold 
 folkv. 1 am exneme!\ fund of the ptalm, " Let 
 fcot li.e errors of my youth," &c. and that other, 
 
 " Lo, children are God's neritage," kz. $5 
 which last Mrs. Burns, who, by the bye, has 1 
 glorious " wood-note wild" at either old song 
 or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Han- 
 del's Messiah. 
 
 No. CXXII. 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 ElUsland, June 8, 1 789. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 1 AM perfectly ashamed of myself when ] 
 lopk at the date of your la-t. It is not that I 
 fiuget the friend of my heart and the companion 
 of my peregrinations ; but I have been con- 
 demned to drudgery beyonil sufferance, though 
 not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have 
 had a collection of poems by a lady put into my 
 hands to prejjare them for the press ; which 
 horrid task, with sowing my corn with my own 
 hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plaisterers, 
 &c. to attenil to, roaming on business tlircmgh 
 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 8th. 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 family of children, when- 
 ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
 a father, will shew you that yonr piesint \m>t\ 
 anxious hours of solicitude are suent en trides. 
 The Welfare of those who are very dear to us, 
 
 whose only support, hope and stay we are this, 
 
 to a generous mind, is another sort of more im- 
 portant object of care thin any concerns what- 
 ever which centre merely \n the individual. On 
 the other hand, let no yi.. ng, unmarried, rake- 
 helly dog auu)ng you, make a song of his pre- 
 tended liberty and freedom from care. It the 
 relations we stand in to king, country, kinilied, 
 and friends, be any thing but the visionary fan- 
 cies of di'eaming metaphysici ins ; if religion, 
 virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity and 
 justice be aught but empty sour.ds ; then the 
 man who may be s.iid to live only for i.thers, 
 ior the beloved, honourable female whose teiiihT 
 I lithful embrace endi-ars life, and for tlie help- 
 Kss little innocents who are to be the men and 
 women, the worshippers of his God, the sub- 
 jects of his king, and the support, nay the very 
 vital existence of his Countky, in the ensuir.<» 
 ige ; — compile such a man with any fellow 
 wliatever, who, whether he bu'-tle and pii>li in 
 l/usiiicss among labourers, cli'iks. slafesmeii ; or 
 iiliether he roar and rant, and drink anil s:ng 
 in f.iverns — a fellow over whose grave no one 
 will breathe a sinjrie heigh-ho, except froia tin 
 
CORRESPCNDENCE. 
 
 331 
 
 :ol)web-tie of what is called gooil ft-nowship — 
 wild has no view nor aim but wluit teiii.Iii.iti's 
 in himself — it" there be any grovelling earthbcirn 
 wretch nf out speeies, a renegado to cimmxin 
 sense, who would fain believe that the noble 
 creature, man, is no better thaa a so:t of fun- 
 gus, gcneiated out of nothing, nobiidy knows 
 how, and soon dis-ipating in nothing, nobody 
 knows where ; such a stupid beast, sueh a 
 crawling reptile might halanee the foregoing 
 unexaggerated comparison, but no one else 
 would have the patience. 
 
 Forgive me, my dear Sir, fi-r this long silence. 
 To miike you amends, I shall send you soon, 
 and more encouraging still, withe Jt any postage, 
 one or two rhymeB of my later r.anufacture. 
 
 No. CXXIIL 
 FROM DR. MOORE. 
 
 DEAR SIR, Cliff >rJ Stiett, lOth Jiine,l7S<J. 
 
 I THA.NK you for the different communica- 
 tions jcu have made me of your occasional jiro- 
 iluctions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
 and some of them merit of a different kind from 
 what a|>|iears in tlie poems joii have published. 
 You ought carefully to preserve all your occa- 
 sional jiioductioiis, to correct and improve them 
 at voar leisure : and when you can select as 
 many of these as will make a vulume, publish 
 it cither at Edinburgh or London, by subscrip- 
 tion : On such an occasion, it may be in my 
 power, as it is very umch in my ini.lination, to 
 be of service to you. 
 
 If I were to olfer an opinion, it would lie, that 
 in vour future |)ioduetiiiiis yuu slmulil abandon 
 the Scottish staiza and dialect, and adojit the 
 measure and language of modern English poetry. 
 
 The stanza wli ch you use in iuiitation ol 
 Christ Kirk on tlit GVcew, with the tiresome 
 repitition of " that day," is fatiguing to English 
 ears, and I should think not very uJiceaLile to 
 Scottish. 
 
 All the fine satire and humour of your // hj 
 Fair is lost on the English ; yet, witiiout more I 
 trouble to yourself, yuu cou'd have conveyed the | 
 whole to them. The same istiueof some of ^ 
 
 your other poems. \n\\^wr Ejiihtle to J. S , 
 
 the Stan/as from that beginning with this iine, , 
 " This life, so f.i'b ] understand," to that which 
 cuds with, " Short while it grieves," are ea-y, ' 
 flowing, gaily philosuphicil, and of lloratiaii ele- 
 gan ". — the laiigua-e is En.;li>li, witha_/eR- Scot- j 
 tish vords, and koine of tho>e so lianno lious, | 
 •:> to add to ihe beauty : lor what poet would 
 nut prefer ylijniiiin(j to twili_^/it. 
 
 I imagine, that by carefuhy keeping, and oc- 
 casionally poh-hing and c Meeting t.'ii)>e veiscs, 
 which the iiiu-e dictates, y lU will witliin a year i 
 or two, have aii'iiUer voluui!- as large as the fii.-t, i 
 ceady for the ;> ; ami this, without diveitiug | 
 
 )oi. from every proper attention 'o the stud) 
 
 i.nd jiri-*'!-'" of husl drv, in which I iinder- 
 
 ;-tand you are very learned, and which I fincy 
 you will choise to adhere to as a vife, whiK 
 poetry amuses you troni time to tune as a mis- 
 tress. The former, like a prudent wife, mu>t 
 not show ill humour, although you retain a 
 sneaking kindness to this ugiee;U>le gipsy, and 
 pay her occasional visits, ivhich in no manner 
 alienates your lieai t from your lawful lijiouse, bat 
 tends on the contrary to promote her interest. 
 
 I de.-ired 3Ir. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
 to send you a copy of iiiliiro. T!iis perform- 
 ance has had great success here, but 1 sli.ill l.€ 
 glad to have your opinion of it, bec.iuse I know 
 you are above saying what you do not think. 
 
 1 beg you will offer my best wishes to my 
 very good friend Mis. Hamilton, who I vimler- 
 Ptund is your ne.giibour. If she is as happy aa 
 I wish her, she is ha]ipy enough. Make m) 
 compliments also to Mrs. Bums, and believe uia 
 to be, with sincere esteem. 
 
 Dear Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 No. CXXIV. 
 TO JIRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellidand, 2\st June, 1789, 
 
 DEAR MAnAM, 
 
 Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
 effusions of low sp rits, just as they tlow fioin 
 their bitter spring. I know not of any particu- 
 lar cause for this worst of all my foes besittiiig 
 me, but for some tone my soul has been be- 
 clouded with a thickening atmo»phere of evil 
 imaginations and gloomy presages. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 I have just heard .... give a seimon. 
 He is a man famous for his berievolence, and I 
 revere him ; but fioiii >ui-li ideas of my Cieator, 
 good Lord deliver iiie ! Rel gioii my honoured 
 friend, is surely a siinjile Iui>i!iess, as it cipjaily 
 concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor 
 and the rich. That them is an incomprehensi- 
 bly great Beipg. to whom I o« e my existence, 
 am! that he must be intimately accpiainted with 
 the operations and progress of the inteiiial ma- 
 chinery, and coiiseijueiit outward dejau tnieiit o( 
 this creature whicii he has made; these are, I 
 think, sell -e^ ident propositions. That there is 
 a I'HuI and eternal distinction between virtue and 
 vice, and consequently that I ant an aiciiiiiitable 
 creature ; that from tiie seeming nature ot th" 
 hiiinan mind, as well as from the evident iiu 
 perfection, nay, positive injustice, in tiie adnii- 
 nistration of atliirs, both in the iia'iiral and 
 movil wollds, there n iR>t be a retn'mrive seeraf 
 uf eci^tence beyond the grave; u.ast, I thiLlt 
 
32 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 be a!I( wfd by pvrry one who will ^ive himself a 
 mniuent's n-flei'tinn. I will go faitlier, aiid af- 
 £iin, that fnmi the siihlimity, excellence. iTi.d 
 purity of his iliictrine and precepts, unparalleled 
 by all the a^'^reg.ited wisdom and leurniiig of 
 many preceding ages, though, to appeurfincc, he 
 hiiusflf u'as the oliscurest and most illiterate of 
 our species J therefore, Jesus Christ was from 
 God. 
 
 Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
 the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
 goodness ; and whatever itijures society at large, 
 or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
 iniipiity. 
 
 What think you. Madam, of my creed ? I 
 tru^t that I have said nothing that will lessen 
 me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I va- 
 lue almost next to thi? approbation of my owu 
 iDiad. 
 
 No. CXXV. 
 
 FROM MISS J. L- 
 
 «R, Lomlim-Ilmse, \2th July, 1 789. 
 
 Tuoitr.H I have not the happinesj of being 
 personally acquainted with you, yet ainonsrst the 
 nuodHT i>f those who have read and admired 
 your p'dilications, may I be permitted to trouble 
 you with this. You nin-t know. Sir, I am 
 eoniewhat in love with the Muses, though 1 
 cannot lina-t of any favours they have deigned 
 to coiifir upo:) me as yet ; my situation in lite 
 has been v^.y much against me as to that, i 
 have spent m.i.ic years in and about Ecdefechan 
 (wl'fe my parents reside), in tlie staticm of a 
 seivant, anil am now come to Loudon-House, 
 
 at present possessed by Mrs. II : she is 
 
 daughter to Mis. Dunlup, of Dunlop, whom I 
 under>taiid you are particularly aeipiainted with. 
 As I had th'' pleasure of perusing your poems, 
 I felt a |iaitiality for the author, which I should 
 not have experienced had you been in moredig- 
 nilied station. I wrote a lew verses of address 
 to you, which I di<i not then think of ever pre- 
 senting : but as fortune seems to have favoured 
 nie in this, by bringing me into a family by 
 wloun VDii are well known and much esteemed, 
 ttiul where pel haps I may have an opportunity 
 lif seeing you ; I .-h dl, in hopes of your future 
 frieidHhip, take the hberty to transcribe thuiii. 
 
 Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
 The prile o* a' our Scottish plain : 
 TIiou gi'es us joy to hear thy strd u. 
 
 And note sae swett : 
 Uld RitiHiay's shade revived agaiu 
 
 In thee we [f.ect. 
 
 Loved Thalia, that delightf i' rau«e, 
 SeeniM lang shut up as a lecliise; 
 To all she did hc-r zr.A refuse. 
 
 Since Allan's day : 
 'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 
 
 To grace his lay. 
 
 To hear thy sang all ranks desire. 
 Sac weel you strike the dormant lyre } 
 Apollo with poetic fire 
 
 Thy breast does wai m • 
 And critics silently ailmire 
 
 Thy art to charm. 
 
 Csesar and Luath weel can speak, 
 'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek, 
 but into human nature keek. 
 
 And knots unravel : 
 To Lear their lectures once a-week, 
 
 Nine miles I'd travel. 
 
 Thy dedication to G. H. 
 
 An unco bonnie liamespun speech, 
 
 Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 
 
 A better lesson. 
 Than servile bards, who fawn and fieech 
 
 Like beggar's messon. 
 
 When slighted love becomes your themei 
 And women's faithless vows you blame* 
 With so much pathos you exclaim. 
 
 In your lament ; 
 But glanced by the most frigid dame, 
 
 She would relent. 
 
 The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; 
 And weel ye praise the whisky gill} 
 In vain I blunt my feckless quill, 
 
 Your fame to raise ; 
 While echo sounds from ilka hill, 
 
 To Burns's praise. 
 
 Did Addison or Pope but hear. 
 
 Or Sam, that critic most severe, 
 
 A ploughhoy sing with throat sae cleaTi 
 
 They in a rage, 
 Their works would a' in pieces inir, 
 
 And curse your page. 
 
 Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
 The beauties of your veise to paint, 
 My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 
 
 Their brilhancy ; 
 Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint 
 And weel may me. 
 
 The task I'll drop with heart sincere, 
 To heaven present my humble pray r 
 That all the blessings ninrtals share, 
 
 Mav be by turns, 
 Di'IxiDtuid by ii indulgent caie 
 
 To Hubert Burn*. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE,. 
 
 333 
 
 Sir, I hrpc yfu will p.iidon my ImUncss iti 
 this; my liaiul trfiiihlt-s .vliile 1 write to yoii, 
 conscious of my iiruvorthiness of what I woulil 
 most tMrnestly solicit, viz. your favour and 
 fricuilship ; yet ho|iing you will show rourscif 
 posscsseii of as much generosity and goo<l-nature 
 as will prevent your expo-ing what may justly 
 be fouiiil lialile to censure in this measuie, I 
 •Uiill take the liberty to subscr'be myself, 
 Sir, 
 Your most obedient hun Me servant, 
 
 J 
 
 P. S. — If you would condescend to honour 
 me with a few lines from your hand, I would 
 take it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
 at Loudon-IIouse, near Galsloch. 
 
 No. CXXVI 
 
 FROM MR. CUNNINGHAJI, 
 
 MY DF-ATv SIR, London, blh Avg. 17S9. 
 
 Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
 abilities which ynu possess, must render your 
 correspiinilence very acceptable to any one. I 
 can assure you. I am particularly proud of your 
 partialitv, and shall endeavour, by every method 
 in my power, to merit a coQtiouance of your 
 politeness. 
 
 When you can spare a few moments I should 
 be i)r()ud of a letter from you, directed for me, 
 Gerrard Street, Soho. 
 
 I cannot express my happiness sufficiently 
 at the instance of your attachment to my late 
 incstini.ihle friend. Bob Fergus.son, who was 
 partlcuhiily intimate with niystif anil R'latiims.* 
 While I rcollect with pleasure his extraordiii.iry 
 talents, and nianv amiable qualities, it atlonls 
 me the greatest consolation, that I am hoiuiured 
 with the correspondence of his successor in na- 
 tional simplicity and genius. That Mr. IJurns 
 has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be 
 admitted ; but notwithstanding many favouiablc 
 representations, I am yet to leain that he in- 
 herits his convivial powers. 
 
 There was such a richness of conversation, 
 such a p'enitude of tancy and attraction in him, 
 that when I call the happy period of our inter- 
 c«)Uise tc my memory, 1 feel myself in a state of 
 deliiium. I was tben younger than him by 
 eight or fen years ; but his manner was so fcli- 
 eitiius, that he enraptured every person around 
 him, and infused into the hearts of the youug 
 and old, the spirit and animation which operated 
 •n his own mind. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 • '1 he erection of a monument to Ivim. \ 
 
 No, CXXVII. 
 
 TO MR. cunmngha:\i, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO TME FOREGOINa 
 
 MV DEAR SIR, 
 
 The hurry of a farmer in this pirticular sea- 
 son, and the indolence of ft po^-t at all times and 
 seasons, will, I hope, phad my excuse for ne 
 glecting so long to answer your obliging leltet 
 of the 5th of August. 
 
 That you have done well in quittirig your la- 
 borious concern in . . . .1 di) n it doubt ; 
 the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
 very, arid ileservedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
 your health is a matter of the last imjiortance , 
 but whether the remaining projjrietors of the 
 pajier have also done well, is whit I much 
 
 doubt. The , so fir as I was a 
 
 reader, exhibited such a brilli mcy of point, such 
 an elegance of paragra|)h, and such a variety of 
 intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it possi- 
 ble to continue a daily paper in the same degree 
 of excellence ; but if there was a mm who had 
 abilities equal to the t isk, that man's assistance 
 the proprietors have lust. 
 
 When I received your letter I was transcri- 
 bing fur my letter to the magistrates 
 
 of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
 •i.ission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergus- 
 son, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
 tion ; but now I shall send them ti) . . . . 
 Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life be- 
 yond the grave, which I trust there is ; and ii 
 there be a good God presiding over all nature, 
 which I am sure there is ; thou art now eiijuy- 
 ing existence in a glorious world, where worth 
 of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; 
 where riches, deprived of all their p'casure-pur- 
 chasiiig powers, return to their native sordid 
 niatfui : where titles and honours are the disre- 
 giriL'd reveries of an idle dream; and where 
 that heavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
 quence of steady dulneSs, and those thoughtless, 
 thoiigti often destructive f<illies. which are the 
 unavoidable aberrations of frail hum iii nature, 
 will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had 
 never been ! 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your pre!>ert 
 views and schemes are concentred in an aim, 1 
 shall be glad to hear from you : as your wel 
 fire and happiness is by no means a subject ia 
 dilTereut to 
 
 Yours, &C. 
 
334 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Vo. CX XVIII. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 ElUsland, Gth September, 1789. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 1 HAVE mentioned in my last, my appoint- 
 ment to the excise, and the l)iith of little P'lank ; 
 who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to 
 t! e honouralile name of Wallace, as he has a 
 fine manly countenance, and a figure that might 
 do credit to a little fellov/ 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 pia of Stirling 
 bridge. 
 
 1 had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
 and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J, 
 
 L ; a very ingenious, but modest compo- 
 
 sitifm. I should have written her as she re- 
 :^ufsted, but fin- the hurry of this new business. 
 1 have heard of her and her compositions in this 
 country : and I am happy to add, always to the 
 honour of her character. 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. I am no daub at fine drawn letter- 
 wi iting ; .nnd except when prompted by friend- 
 ship or gratitudi', or which hap])en< extremely 
 rartly, inspired by the I\Iuse(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 melancholy concern for the state 
 of your mind at present. 
 
 AVould I could write you a letter of comfort ! I 
 would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as 
 I would to write an epic poem of my own com- 
 position, that should equal the Iliud, Religion, 
 my dear fiiend, is the true comfort ! A strong 
 ];eisuasion in a future state of existence ; a pro- 
 position so obviously probable, that, setting re- 
 velation aside, every nation and people, so far as 
 investigation has reached, for at least near four 
 thousand years, have, in some mode or other, 
 tiniily believed it. In vain would we reascm and 
 pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a 
 very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, that 1 
 was ojiposing the most ardent wishes, and the 
 most darling hopes of good men, and (lying in 
 the face of all human belief, in all ages, 1 was 
 thiK keil at :<iy own conduct. 
 
 I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
 foIloM ing lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
 But it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
 I keep constantly by me in my j)rogresg through 
 lilie, in the language of the 'look of Job, 
 
 " Against the day of battle and of war," — 
 
 tjioken of religion. 
 
 " 'Tis this, my friend, ttat streaks ourmoining 
 
 bright, 
 'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 
 When wealth forsakes us, and when friendi 
 
 are few ; 
 When friends are faithless, or when foes pur 
 
 sue ; 
 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 
 
 smart. 
 Disarms affliction or repels his dart : 
 Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
 Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 
 
 skies.' 
 
 I have been very busy with Zehico. The 
 Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
 of it; and I have been revolvmg in my mind 
 some kind of critiiisms on novel writing, but 
 it is a depth beyond my research. I shall how- 
 ever digest my thoughts on the subject as well 
 as I can. Zehico is a most sterling perfor- 
 mance. 
 
 Farewell ! A. Dieu, le hon Dieu, je tout 
 commende / 
 
 No. CXXIX. 
 
 FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 Edinhurc/h, 2\th Atigvst, 1789. 
 Dear Burns, thcu brother of my heart, 
 Both for thy virtues and thy art : 
 If art it may be call'd in thee, 
 Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
 With pleasure on thy breast diifuses. 
 And warms thy soul with all the IMusea. 
 Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
 Tl;y numbers move the sage's face, 
 Or bid the softer passions rise, 
 And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
 'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt, 
 Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 
 
 Most anxiously I wish to know, 
 With thee of late how matters go ; 
 IIciw keeps thy much-loved Jean lier health? 
 What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
 Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
 And all thy anxious cares beguile? 
 Whether bright fancy keeps alive? 
 And how thy darling infants thrive ? 
 
 For me, with grief and sickness speat> 
 Since I my j(Miiney homeward bent, 
 .Spirits depiess'd no more I mourn. 
 Hut vigour, life, and health return 
 No mine to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
 I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
 By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
 .\w\ thus my circling hours employ; 
 Happy while yet these hours remain. 
 If Burns could juiu the cheerful train* 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 335 
 
 With wo iteil zeal, sincere and fervent, 
 Ba!ut« once mure his humble servant, 
 
 TIIO. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 No. CXXX. 
 
 TO DR. BLACKLOCK 
 
 Enhland2\st October, 1789. 
 VVoh", but your letter inaile ine vauntie ! 
 Anrl are yc hale, and wccl, and cantie ? 
 I keu'd it still your wee bit jauntie, 
 
 Wad hrina: ve to ■. 
 Lord send you aye as \veel's I want ye, 
 And then ye'll do. 
 
 The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
 And never drink be near liis drouth ! 
 He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 
 
 He'd tak in« letter ; 
 I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 
 
 And bade nae better 
 
 But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
 H,id at the time some dainty fair onei 
 To w<ire his theologic care on, 
 
 And holy study ; 
 And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 
 
 E'ea tried the body. • 
 
 Bnt what d'ye tjink, my trusty fier, 
 I'm turn'd a ganger — Pea'-e be here ! 
 Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 
 
 Ye'll now disdain me, 
 And then my fifty pounds a-year 
 
 Will little gain me. 
 
 Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damics, 
 V\ iia by Castalia's winiplin streamies, 
 Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty linibies, 
 
 Ye ken, ye ken, 
 That Strang necessity supn-me is 
 
 'iMang sons o' men. 
 
 I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
 
 They maun bae brose and brats o' dnddies : 
 
 Ye kea yoursel my heart right proud is, 
 
 1 needna vacnt. 
 But I'll sned besoms — thtaw saugh woodies, 
 
 Before they want. 
 
 Lord he!]) me through this warld o' care ! 
 I'm w.-ary Mck o't late and air 1 
 Not but I hae a richer shaie 
 
 Than mony ithers ; 
 But why SQOuia ae man better fare. 
 
 And a' men brilhers ! 
 
 • Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland ; 
 and among various other works, of a respectable l.fe 
 of our poet hnnselt 
 
 Come Firm Resolve take thou toe vaa 
 Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
 And let us mind, faint heart ne'er waa 
 
 A laily fiir : 
 ^^^la does the utmost that lie can. 
 
 Will whyles do mair* 
 
 But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
 
 (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time), 
 
 To make a happy fire-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 chuckle. 
 
 As u'er tread clay i 
 And gratefully my gude auld cnckie, 
 
 I'm your's for aye. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 No. CXXXL 
 TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Cause. 
 
 sm, ElUsland, Oct. 16, 1789. 
 
 Big with the idea of this important day • at 
 Friars Carse, I have watehed the elements and 
 skies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
 nounce it to the astoni>.hed world by some pheno- 
 mena of terrific portent. — Ye>ten.ight until a 
 very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
 for the appearance of some Comet firing half the 
 sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
 vians, darting athwart the startled heavens ra- 
 pid as the ragged lightning, and hor.id as those 
 convulsions of nature that bury nations. 
 
 The elements, however, seem to take the mat- 
 ter very quietly : they did not even usher in 
 this morning with triple suns and a shower o 
 blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, and 
 the mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as 
 Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I 
 shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing," 
 
 The whistle and the man ; I sing 
 The man that won the whistle, &e. 
 
 No. cxxxn. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I WISH from my inmost soul it were in mj 
 power to give you a more substantial gratifica- 
 
 • The day on which " the Whistle" was contended 
 <or. 
 
330 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 tion and return for all your <roodness to the poet, 
 than tianscriliin^ a fi-w of Iiis idle rhymt'S. — 
 Hoivever, " an uld soti'^," though to a provfrh 
 an instance of in-iirnificance, is generally the 
 only coin a poet h.i« to pay with. 
 
 If my poems which I have tianscrihetl, and 
 mean still to traiiscrihe into your hook, were 
 equal to the fjrateful respect and high esteem I 
 bear for the gentleman to whom I present them, 
 they would he the tinest poems in the language. 
 —As they are, tiipy will at least he a testimony 
 with what aiueerity I have the honour to be. 
 Sir, 
 Your devoted humble servant. 
 
 No. cxxxiri. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT ALN'SLIE. 
 
 Ellisland, Nov. I, 1789. 
 
 MY tiFAR FRIFyn, 
 
 I HAD written yon long ere now, could I have 
 gue.ssed 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, 
 ami lead you not into temjitation, but deliver 
 vou from evil ! 
 
 I do not know if I have informed you that I 
 am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
 middle of v.hich my house and farm lie. In this 
 I was extrer:iely lucky. Without ever having 
 been an cx|)cctant, a» they call their journeymen 
 excisemen, I was directly planted down to all in- 
 tents and purjioses an officer of excise ; theie to 
 flourish and bring furth fruits — worthy of re- 
 pentance. 
 
 I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
 more opjirobricins, ganger, will sound in your 
 ears. I too have seen the day when my audi- 
 tory nerves would have fdt very delicately on 
 this subject; but a wife and children are things 
 which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
 kind of seiisations. Filty poutids a year for 
 life, and a provislim fur wid.nvs and orphans, 
 you will allow is no had settlement for a paet. 
 ^or the iguiiminy of the profession, I have the 
 encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
 sergeant give to a numerous, if not a resjicc- 
 tahle audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. 
 — " Gentiemcn, for your further ami better en- | 
 couragenu'iit, I can assure you that our regiment 
 is the nu)st blackguard c(Hps under the crown, 
 Ind consecpu'utly with us an honest fellow has 
 ■Jie surest chance for preferment." 
 
 You ui'ed not doubt that I find several very 
 unpleasant ami disagreeable circumstances in my 
 Ijusiness ; but I am tired with and disgusted 
 at the language of complaint against the evils of. 
 life. Hum in existence in the most favourable 
 situations does not abound with pleasures, and 
 Qas its inconveniences aud ills ; capricious foul- j 
 
 ish man mistakes .hese inconveniences atr. il'it 
 as if they were the peculiar pro])eity oi'his par 
 ticular situation ; and hence th.it eternal fickle- 
 ness, that love of change, which has ruinerl, and 
 daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as 
 many a blockhead ; and is alnmst, without ex- 
 ception, a constant source of disappointment aud 
 misery. 
 
 I long to bear from you how you go on — not 
 so much in business as in life. Are you j)retty 
 well satisfied with your own exertions, anil to- 
 lerably at ease in your internal reflections? 
 'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, 
 but beyond cimiparison more to he a great cha- 
 racter as a man. That you may be both the 
 one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
 you will be both is the firm persuasion of, 
 My dear Sir, &,c. 
 
 No. CXXXIV. 
 
 TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 
 
 SIR, 9//j Decenihrr, 1789. 
 
 I HAVE a good while had a wish to troulile 
 you with a letter, and harl certainly done it lung 
 eie now — hut for a luimiliating soMiethiog that 
 throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
 should say, " You have found Mr. Giaham a 
 veiy powerful and kind friei;d indeed, and tliat 
 nteiest he is so kindly taking in your conceins, 
 you ought by e\'ery thing in your power to keep 
 alive and cherish." Now though, since Odd 
 has thought projier to make one powerful and 
 another helpless, the connexion of ohliger ai.d 
 obliged is all fair ; and though my being niuier 
 your patronage is to me higliK- hipuuiiral) e, vet, 
 Sir, allow me to Hatter ni\self, that, as a poet 
 and an htmest man, you first interesterl vourself 
 in my welfare, and principally as such sldl, you 
 permit me to ap]U()ach you. 
 
 I have found the excise business go on a great 
 deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing 
 a good (leal to the generous fiienilship of i\Ir. 
 .Mitchell, my collector, and the kind ass stance 
 of Mr. Find later, my supervisor. I dare to be 
 honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find 
 my hurried life greatly inimical to my corres- 
 pondence with the JNluses. Their visits to me, 
 indeed, and I believe to most of their ac(|uaint- 
 ance, like the visits of good angels, are short and 
 far between ; but I meet them now and then ai 
 I jog through the hills of iS'ithsdale, just as 1 
 used to do on the banks of Ayr. 1 take the li-. 
 herty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of tliem 
 the juoductions of my leisure thoughts in nijt 
 excise rides. 
 
 If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
 
 the antif|uarian, you will enter into any huUKUir 
 
 that is in the verses on him. I'erhaps you h.ive 
 
 seen them before, ns I sent them to a London 
 
 paper. Though I dare say jrou have nooc 
 
COHKF.S^PONDMNCr:. 
 
 of tb.c Rolemn-lciic;uc-and-covemnt fire, wliidi 
 «h(>(ie so c()tis|iiiui)iis in L<iril Gi'orgf Gdrdon, 
 Wiii the KiliiKiinock \ve;ivtTs, yet I think you 
 must hiive hoard nl Dr IM'Gill, one of the cler- 
 gymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God 
 htl() liiin, poor man ! Though he is one of tlie 
 worthitst, as well as one of the ahlcst of the 
 whole pr'cstliood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
 every sense of that amhigumis term, yet the poor 
 Doi'tor and his nunieious family are in immi- 
 tient danger of being tliniwn out to the mercy 
 iif the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on 
 that business is, I confess, too local, but I 
 laughed myself at some conceits in it, though 
 I am convinced in my conscience, that there are 
 a good many he.ivy stanzas in it too. 
 
 The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
 to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. 
 I do i;ot 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 h is it in his 
 power to be the father of a country, and who 
 is a character that one cannot 
 
 fjieak of with patience. 
 
 Sir J. J. does " what man can do,' 
 I doubt bis fate. 
 
 but yet 
 
 No. CXXXV. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 ElUsland, \Sth December, 1789. 
 Manv thanks, dear Madam, for your shcet- 
 ful of Rhymes. Though at jirescnt I 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 conducive to our happiness — 
 or the most productive of our misery. For 
 now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
 a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged 
 to give up, for a time, my excise hooks, being 
 scarce able to lift my head, nmch less to rvJc 
 once a-week over ten muir parishes. What is 
 Man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, ex- 
 ulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few 
 diys, pernaps in a few hours, loaded with con- 
 scious painful being, counting the tardy pace of 
 the lingering moments by tlie repercussions of 
 anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. 
 Day follows night, and night comes after day, 
 
 • This alludps to the contest for the borough cA 
 Diimfnes, beiwcen the Puke of (Jueciuitjcrry's iiitereit 
 »iid that of Sir James Johnstons. 
 
 only to curse him willi life whi.-h gives hitn lu 
 plei-ure ; and yet the awful, <lark teriiiii\,iti«a 
 of that life, is a sontething at which he rccoilo. 
 
 " Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 
 
 Di-close the secret 
 
 Wlidt 'tis you art, ami we must shnrtli/ he ! 
 '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 fitid myself ia 
 conscious existence ! When the last g,a>]) of 
 agony has announcetJ, that I am no mere to 
 those that knew me, und the few who loved 
 me : when the cold, slitTeiied, unconscious, 
 ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
 the prey of unsightly re])tiles, and to become in 
 time a trcxlden clod, shall I yet he warm in life, 
 seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye ve- 
 nerable sages, and holy flamens, is there proba- 
 bility in your conjectuiKs, trnlh in your storiei 
 of another world beyond death ; or are they all 
 alike, baseless visions, and f.ibricated fihles ? If 
 there is another life, it must be only for the just, 
 the benevolent, the amiable, and the hum i;ie ; 
 what a flattering idea, then, is the world to 
 come? Would to God 1 as firmly believed it, 
 as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an 
 aged parent, now at rest from the many bnlTet- 
 ings of an evil world, against whicii lie so lung 
 and so bravely struggled. There should I meet 
 the friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
 life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, becaus* 
 
 he loved me and could serve me. .Muir ! thy 
 
 weaknesses were the aberrations of human na- 
 ture, but thy heart glowed with every thing ge- 
 nerous, manly, and nobie ; and if ever emana- 
 tion from the All-gooil Heing animated a humaa 
 form, it was thine ! — There should I with 
 speechless agony of rapture, again lecognlze my 
 lost, my ever dear Alaiy! whose bosom was 
 fraught with truth, lionour, constancy, aud love. 
 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of heavenly rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laiil ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that ;ond his breast .' 
 
 Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of character* I 
 I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
 velation of blissful scenes of existence bejoud 
 lieath and the grave, is not one of the many 
 impositions which time alter time have been 
 palmed on crediilovis maidxind. I trust that in 
 thee, " shall all the families of the earth be 
 blessed," by In-ing yet counecteil togetiiei in 
 better world, \ehere every tie that bounil iieart 
 to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far 
 Iwyond our present conceptions, moie enilearing 
 
 I am a good deal inclined to tliink with thiiwi 
 who maintain, that what are calleil nervous aC 
 fections are in fact diseases ot tlie mind. I cikF.- 
 not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I 
 would nut vcntute to write any thiug above an 
 V 
 
33S 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 onlcr to a cobbler. You have felt too much of 
 the ills of !ife not to sympathize with a dir^eased 
 wretch, who has impaired more than half of any 
 faculties he posse>ised. Your goodness will ex- 
 cuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer 
 dare scarcely read, and which he would throw 
 mto tlie fire, were he able to write any thing 
 better, or indeed any thing at all. 
 
 Ilumour told nie something of a son of yinirs 
 who was returned fjom the East or West In- 
 dies, If you have gotten news of James or An- 
 thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; 
 as J promise you, on the sincerity of a man, 
 who is weary of one world and anxious about 
 another, that scarce any thing could give me so 
 niucli pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
 falling my honoured friend. 
 
 If you have a minute's leisure, take up vour 
 pen in pity to la pauvre miserable. R. li. 
 
 No. CXXXVI. 
 TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 The following circumstance has, I believe, 
 been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
 mitted to you, of the parish of Duuscore, in 
 Nithsdale. I hcg leave to send it to you, be- 
 cause it is new and may be useful. How far it 
 is deseiving of a place in your patriotic publica- 
 tion, you are the hest judge. 
 
 To store the minds of the lower classes with 
 useful knowledge, is certainly of verv great im- 
 portance, both to them as individuals, and to 
 society at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
 ing aiul reflection, is giving them a source of 
 innocent and laudable amusement ; and besides 
 raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
 scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, 
 a gentleman in tliis parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. 
 of Glciiriddel, set oa foot a species of circulat- 
 ing liberary, on a plan so simple as to be prac- 
 ticable in any corner of the country ; and so 
 useful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
 geiitlenian. who thinks the improvement of that 
 part of his own species, whom chance has 
 thrown into the humble jvalks of the peasant 
 and the aitizan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
 and fuming neighbours, to form themselves 
 into a society f<ir the purpose of having a library 
 among iheniselvcs. They cnteied into a legal 
 engagen:ent to abide by it for three years ; with 
 a saving clause or two, in case of rijnoval to a 
 dis';;i!ce, or cf death. Each member, at his 
 entry, paid five thiilings, and at each of their 
 meetings, which weie (leld every fourth Satur- 
 day, sixpence more. With their cntry-nu)ney, 
 and the credit which they took on the faith of 
 their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock 
 
 of books at the commencement. What authon 
 they were to purchase, was a4ways decided by 
 the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
 tender certain fines and forfeitures, by way oi . 
 penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem- 
 bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
 He whose name stood, fur that ni^ht, first on 
 the list, had his choice of what volume he pleas- 
 ed in tlie 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 preceding meet 
 ing, was last at this ; he who had been sca.nd 
 was first ; and so on through the whole three 
 years. At the expiration of the engagement, 
 the books were sold by auction, but only among 
 the members 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 patron- 
 age, what with benefactions of books from him, 
 and what with their own purchases, they had 
 collected together upwards of one hundred and 
 fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a 
 good deal of trash would be bought. Among 
 the books, however, of this little li-brary, were 
 Ulair's Sermons, liuhertson s Hist ry of Scot- 
 liind, Hume's History of the i>tuurts, the Sj>tc- 
 tiito-, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lmuiyer, 
 Observer, Man of Feelinff, Man iftlte World, 
 Chrtjsal, Don Quixotte, Joseph Andrtics, ^x, 
 A peasant who can read, and enjoy such hooks, 
 is certainly a much superior being to his neigh- 
 bour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
 little removed, except in shape, from the brute 
 he drives. 
 
 NVisLing your patriotic exertions t'neir so 
 much merited success, I am, 
 Sir, 
 
 Your humble scrvarit, 
 
 A PEASANT.* 
 
 • Tlie above is extracted from the tliird volume of 
 Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. .•)9H. — It was eiidoseU 
 to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself m the following 
 letter, also printed there; — 
 
 " Sin John, 
 
 " I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. Burns as an 
 addition to ihe account of Dunsoore parisli. It con- 
 tains an account of a small library which he was so 
 pood (at my desire), as to oet on foot, in the barony of 
 Monklaiul, or Friar's Car^e, /ii this parish. As its 
 utihty has been felt, particularly among the younger 
 class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were ,.«- 
 tablishcd, ill the dillerent Ilari^hcs of s-cotlaml, it 
 woiilil tend greatly to the sjcedy impiovrmcnt of the 
 tenantry, trades people, and work people. Mr. thinis 
 was so (jood as to take llic whole ihaige of this small 
 coiicciii. He was treasurer, librari.m, ami censor to 
 this little society, who will lon^' have a grateful sen* 
 of Ills )iublie spirit and exertions for their improvj- 
 nieiit and information. 
 
 " 1 have the honour to be, Sir Jo'm, 
 " Yours most sineirelv, 
 
 " HOUliUT niDDKL. 
 
 To Sir Jith-f, Sinclair, 
 of Uibiirr, hurt. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 339 
 
 LETTERS, 1790. 
 
 No. CXXXVII. 
 TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ellibland, 1 U/i January/, 1790. 
 
 DTAR BKOTHER, 
 
 I MEAN to take advantn^e of tlie frank, though 
 I have not in my present frame of mind much 
 appetite for exertion in writing. i\Iy nerves 
 are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid 
 hypochondria pervading every atom of both 
 body and soul. This farm has undone my en- 
 joyment of myself. It is a ruinous affiir on all 
 hands. But let it go to . . . ! I'll fight it 
 out and be off with it. 
 
 \\'e have gotten a set of very decent players 
 here just now. I have seen them an evening 
 or two. David Campbell, in Ayr. wrote to me 
 by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
 land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
 New-year-day evening I gave him the following 
 prologue, which he sj)outed to his audience with 
 Bi)plause. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 No song nor dance I bring from yon great 
 city. 
 That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 
 
 pity : 
 Tliough, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
 Good sense and taste are natives here at home ; 
 But not for panegyric I appear, 
 I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
 Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
 Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: 
 The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bide me 
 
 say, 
 " You're one year older this important day," 
 It u-i.\er ton — he hinted some suggestion, 
 But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
 tion ; 
 And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
 lie bade me on you press this one word — 
 
 " THINK !" 
 
 Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hojie 
 and spirit, 
 Who 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 ! 
 lie bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle. 
 That the first blow is eve ■ half the battle ; 
 1 hat though some by the sxirt may try to snatch 
 
 him, 
 Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, 
 That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
 You may do miracles by persevering. 
 
 Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
 .\ngelic forms, hi-jh Heaven's peculiar care ! 
 To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 
 
 brow, 
 Aud humlily begs you'll mind the important — 
 
 NOW 1 I 
 
 To crown you? hapiiiness, he n^tcs v /ur eave, 
 And offers, bliss to give and to iLy.-ei>e. 
 
 For our sincere, though haply weak endcru 
 vours, 
 With grateful pride we own your many favours: 
 And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
 Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 
 
 I can no more — If once I was clear of this 
 . . . farm, I should respire more at case. 
 
 No. CXXXVIIL 
 
 FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE POETS 
 BROTHER. 
 
 DEAR BROTHER, Neiocastlc, 2i^th Jan. 1790. 
 
 I WROTE you about six weeks ago, and I have 
 expected to hear from you every post since, but 
 I suppose your excise business which you hinted 
 at in your last, has jirevented you from writing. 
 By the bye, when and how have you got into 
 the excise ; and what division have you got 
 about Dumfries? These questions please an- 
 swer in your next, if more itnjjortant matter do 
 not occur. But in the mean time let me have 
 the letter to John Murdoch, which Gilbert wrote 
 me you meant to send ; enclose it in your's to 
 me, and let me have them as soon as possible, 
 for I intend to sail for London, in a fortnight, 
 or three weeks at farthest. 
 
 You promised n)e when I was intending to 
 go to Ediidjurgh, to write mc some instructions 
 about iiehaviour in companies rather above my 
 station, to which I might bo eventually intro- 
 duced. As I may be introduced into such com- 
 panies at Murdoch's, or ou his account, when I 
 go to London, I wish you would write me some 
 such instructions now : I never had more need 
 of them, for having spent little of mv time in 
 company of any sort since I came to Newcastle, 
 I have almost forgot the common civilities of 
 life. To these instructions pray add some of a 
 moral kind, for though (either through the 
 strength of early imjjressions, or the frigidity of 
 my constitution), 1 have hitherto withstood the 
 temptation to those vices, to which voung iff 
 lows of my station and time of liie are so mucn 
 ,1(1(1 icted, yet, I do not know if my virtue will 
 be able to withstand the more powerful tem|)ta- 
 tlcns of the metro|)olis : yet, through God's as- 
 sistance and your instructions, I hope to wea- 
 ther the storm. 
 
 Give tlie compliments of the season and my 
 love to my sisters, and all the rest of your fa- 
 mily. Tell Gilbert, the first time you writd 
 him, that I am well, and that I will write hii» 
 either when I sail or when I arrive at London. 
 I am, &c 
 
 V/ B. 
 
S40 
 
 TURNS' WORKS. 
 
 No. CXXXIX. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 EUhland, 25lh January, 170a 
 Ir has been owing to uuiemittiiig hurry of 
 business that I have not written to you, Ma- 
 diini, long ere now. My health is greatly but- 
 ter, anil I now begin once more to share in sa- 
 tisfaction and enjoynient with the rest of my 
 felliiw-creatures. 
 
 I\Iany thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
 your kind letters ; but wl y will you make nie 
 run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
 nary in my own eyes I When I pique myself 
 in rfry independent spirit, I hope it is neither 
 poetic license^ nor poetic rant ; and I am so 
 flattered with the honour you have done me, 
 in making me your compeer in friendship and 
 friendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
 pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded 
 of the real inequality 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, manly 
 young fellow, in the little I had of his acquiint- 
 anie, has interested me deeply in his fditiiiie*. 
 
 Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Ship- 
 wreck, which you so much admire, is no more. 
 After weathering the dreadful catastrophe he so 
 feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea- 
 thering many hard gales of fortune, he went to 
 the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I forget 
 what part of Scotland had the honour of giving 
 him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and 
 misfortune.* He was one of those daring ad- 
 venturous spirits, which Scotland beyimd any 
 other country is remarkable for producing. 
 LiMie does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
 delighted over the sweet little leech at her bo- 
 som, where the poor fellow may hereafter wan- 
 der, and what may be his fate. 1 remember a 
 stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, not- 
 withstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly 
 to the heart . — 
 
 » Falcnncr was in earlv life a seaboy, to use a worti 
 of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in whiih cap,v 
 city he iittracfed the notice of ('aMi])bpll, the author of 
 tlie satire nn Dr. Jrhnson, entitled LfxiphntKS, then 
 purser nf the sliip. r,;mpl)cll took him as his servant, 
 and deli'^lited Ml civini; hirn instnietion ; and when 
 Kalconcr aftiTV/ards aeipiired relel)rity, boasted of him 
 as his scholar. 'I'lie editor had this inf.'inialif.n from 
 a surgeon of a man-of-war. in 1777, who knew l)olh 
 Campbell and l/il>i)iier,an.l who himself perished soon 
 after hv shipwieck, on Ihi' coast of America. 
 
 Thont'h the death of Fileoner hap\ieiied so lately a» 
 17:0 or 1771, vet in the l)iot;raphv jinfixed by Dr. An- 
 derson to his works, in the eonili'.etc edition of the 
 P-icts iifC.ruit Ilrihiin, it is said, " Of the fi.mdy, 
 birtli-ii'laef, and idiieation of Wiliiam l-'aleoner, there 
 are no memorials.'' On the aiiihority alrcadv Riven, 
 it may be mentioned, that he wiis a native of one of 
 the to\Tnson the eoiist of I'ife, and that his parents, 
 who had siilVered some mi fortunes, reo oveil to one 
 •)( the sea-i)orls of Kn^lanil. where thev both diid, 
 toon ifler, of an ei<idc-mic fever, leaving poor Fal- 
 roner, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In nmsc- 
 giieneeof whiih he entered on board a man-of-war. 
 These la»t circumstances arc liowev ;r less cerUiiii. — 
 Chomi'.k. 
 
 " Little did my tnotTier think, 
 That day she cradled me, 
 What land 1 was to travel in, 
 Or what death I should die." 
 
 Old Scottis.li sonea are, V9U know, a favour, 
 ite study and pursuit 01 mine ; and now I an" 
 on that subject, allow me to give you two 
 stanzas of another old simple ballad, which 1 
 am sure will please you. The catastrophe o\ 
 the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
 her fate. She concludes with this pathetic 
 wish : 
 
 *' O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
 O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
 O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
 But that I had died when I was young ! 
 
 that the grave it were my bed ; 
 My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
 
 The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 
 And O sae sound as 1 should sleep !" 
 
 1 do not remember in all my reading to have 
 met with any thing more truly the language of 
 misery, than the exclamation in the last lir.«. 
 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 god-son* the small-pox. They ar« 
 rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
 By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
 on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
 sees him, acknowledges hiin to be the tinest, 
 handsomest child he has ever seen. I am my- 
 self delighted with the manly swell of his little 
 ciiest, and a certain miniature dignity in the 
 carriage of his head, and glance of his fine 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. 
 
 No. CXL. 
 FROM INIR. CUNNINGIL\1SI. 
 
 2Sth Jamiary, 1790. 
 In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
 to quote any one's own n-oi ds ; but the value 1 
 have for your friendship, nothing can more truly 
 or more elegantly express, than 
 
 " Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 As streams their channels deeper wear." 
 
 Having written to you twiw without hayiaf 
 
 The br rJ'» second son, Krancia 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 34. 
 
 aeard from you, 1 am apt to think my letters 
 liiive miscairifil. My conjecture is only framed 
 upon the chapter of accidents turnini; up against 
 nic, as it too often does, in the trivi;-.!, and I 
 (Kiv U'illi truth add, the more important aflairs 
 cf life : but I sliali continue occa>ional!y to in- 
 form you what is goinsif on among the circle of 
 your fiiends in these parts. In these davs of 
 merriment, I have frequently heard your name 
 vrocliiimcil at the jovial hoard — under the roof 
 of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, there 
 were no 
 
 " Lingering moments numberM with care." 
 
 I saw your Address to the New-year in the 
 Dumfiies Journal. Of your productions I shall 
 gay nothing, but my acquaintance allege that 
 when your name is mentioned, which eveiy man 
 of celebrity must know often happens, I am the 
 champion, the Mendoza, against all snarling cri- 
 tics, and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a Jem 
 on this planet do crawl. 
 
 With best compliments to your wife, and her 
 black -eyed sister, I remain, yours, &c. 
 
 does me the honour to mention me so kinrlly ii 
 his works, please f;ive him my best thanks fol 
 the copy of his book — 1 shall write him, my first 
 leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but 1 
 think his style in pruse quite astouisliing. 
 
 No. CXLI. 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 EWsland, Feb. 2. 1790. 
 
 No ! I will not say one word about apolo- 
 gies or excuses for not writing — I am a jionr, 
 rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least 
 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds 
 jnd yeasty barrels, and where can I find time 
 to wiite to, or importance to interest any body? 
 The uphraidings of my conscience, nay the up- 
 braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on 
 your account these two or three months past. — 
 I wish to Goil I was a great man, that my cor- 
 respondence might throw light upon you, to 
 let the world see what you really are ; and then 
 I would make vour fortune, witiiout 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 >'i>u i 
 doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few 
 fiiends? What is become of the BOiioroH 
 REFuiiM, or how is the fate of my poor name* 
 sake M.idemoiselle Burns decided ? O tnan ! 
 but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dis- 
 honest artifices, that beaiiteous f(Min, and thiit 
 once innocent and still ingenuous mind might 
 have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faith- 
 ful wife, and the affectionate mother , and shall 
 the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
 no claim on thy hum iiiity ! 
 
 1 saw huely in a Review, some extracts from 
 1 new |)oem, called The Village Curate ; send 
 t me. I wa t likewise a cheap copy of The 
 World. Mr. VriHstrong, the young poet, who 
 
 Your book came safe, and I am going to trou- 
 ble vou with farther commissions. I call it 
 troubling you — because I want only, books ; 
 the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
 to huut for them in tiie evening auctions. I 
 want Smollett's Works, for the sake of his in- 
 comparable humour. I have already Roderick 
 
 Random, and Humphrey Clinker Peregrine 
 
 Pickle, Launeelot Greaves, and Frederick, Count 
 Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the veriest 
 ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice -only 
 in the ajjpearance of my poets. I forget the 
 price Oi' Cowjier's Poems, but, I believe, I umst 
 have them. I saw the other day, proposals for 
 a publication, entitled, " Banks's new and corn- 
 plet 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.* — 
 You will know the character of the performance, 
 as some numbers 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 mi- 
 nute, and trust me, you shall in future have no 
 reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
 perplexity of novelty v/ill dissipate and leave me 
 to pursue my course in the quiet path of me- 
 thodical routine. 
 
 No. CXLIL 
 
 TO MR. W. N I COLL. 
 
 MV DEAR SIR, EllisUind, Feb, 9, 1790. 
 
 That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I 
 would freely have given her price to have saved 
 
 » Perhaps no set of men more efrcctually avail them, 
 selves of the easy creclu'ity of the public, tii m 3 cer. 
 talnilcseriptiou ori'aterncster-rowbooksi-ller*. Three 
 hundred and odd cngra^ inps ! — and hy t\\ejir.st a Hit, 
 in London, too! No wonder that Burns was dazzk-.l 
 hy the splendour of the promise. It i- no umusimI 
 ihinR for this class of impostors to itluftraie ;lie UJij 
 Scr'tptwes by plates originally er-Kraved lor the Hit- 
 lorii (if Knslanil, ami I have aetually seen siibjeels ile- 
 siijr.cd hy oui celebrated artisl Sto'haid, from CfarLt.ta 
 IJii r/im^e iin(\ Ibe Xiwelixt's .1/«^rt;i«f, c inverted, with 
 inereibble dexterity by the-r Do >ksellint;-l!rcslaw», 
 into Si'rifttur.il einbttlisliinfnts ! One of tlie-e vendeii 
 of ' t'aniilv Ibbles' lately ralle I on nie, to consult me 
 professiiinally, about a folio engraving he brought 
 with him.— It repiesented MoNs. Bukkov, sealed, 
 eoiiioDiplalinij various groups of animals that siir. 
 niiindol bl'ii : He merely »'-bcd, he said, to be in 
 formed, whether by uncloutUine the NaluraLst, ana 
 
342 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 her : she has vexed me beyond description. In- 
 d'.bted as 1 was to your fjoodness beyond what 
 I can ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your of- 
 fer to have the mare with me. That I might 
 at lea^t shew my readiness in wishing to be 
 grateful, I took every care of her in my power. 
 She was never crossed for riding above half a 
 score of times by me or in my 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 ferl her up and had her in fine order for Dum- 
 ''ies fair ; when four or five days before the fair, 
 •no 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 vertebrae 
 of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, 
 and in eight and forty hours, in sjiite of the two 
 best farriers in the country, she died and be 
 d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had 
 been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure be- 
 fore \ou had bought her, and that tlie pour de- 
 yil, though she might keep a little fle-h, had 
 been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and 
 op])ressiun. Wliile she was with me, she was 
 under my own eye, and I assure you, my much 
 viducd friend, every thini; was done lor l)er that 
 could be dune ; and the accident has vexed nie 
 to the heart. In fact I could nut j)luck up spi- 
 rits to wiite you, on account of the unfortunate 
 business. 
 
 There is little new in this country. Our the- 
 atrical conipan)', of which you mu>t have heanl, 
 leave us in a week. Their merit and character 
 ate indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
 private life, nut a wuithless creature anK.n'j; 
 tlieni ; and their encouragement has been ac- 
 cordingly. Their usu.d run is from eighteen 
 to twenty-five pounds a night ; seldom less than 
 the one, and the house will hold no more than 
 the otlicr. There have been repeated instances 
 of sending away six, and eight, and ten p uuds 
 in a night for want of room. A new theatjo is 
 to he budt by subsciiption ; the first stone is to 
 be laid on Fi iday first to come.* Three hun- 
 dred guineas have been raised by thirty subscri- 
 bers, and thirty mure migh.t have been got it 
 wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was 
 introduced to mo by a friend from Ayr ; and a 
 worthier or cleverer fellow I have i arely met 
 with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by 
 stealth now and then; but they have got up a 
 farce of their own. Yini must have heard how 
 toe Rev. Mr. Lawson <if Kiikmahoe, seconded 
 by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, 
 and the rest of that faction, have accuse<i in fur- 
 nial process, the unlortuiiate and Rev. Mr He- 
 ron uf Kirkgunzeun, that in ordaining Mr. 
 Ne!son tu the cure of suuls in Kirkliean, he, 
 the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 
 
 bound the said Nelscn to the confession of faitlj, 
 so far as it was agreeable to reason and the 
 word of God ! 
 
 Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- 
 fully to you. Little Bobby and FranK are 
 charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
 death with fatigue. For these two or threi 
 months, on an average, I have not ridden less 
 than two hundred miles per week. I have 
 done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. 
 Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was 
 delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
 four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of 
 Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un- 
 fortunate mare, beginning, — 
 
 " Peg Nicholson was a good Bay-mare," — 
 {see p. 77.) 
 
 ISTy best compliments to Jlrs. Nicoll, and lit- 
 tle Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned is 
 a good scholar, and will come oui to gather nut» 
 and apples with me next harvest. 
 
 giving hnn a r.ither more resolute look, the pinte eoultl 
 not, iit a trilling iX|Hiise, !)»• m.iile tn pass tor " Da. 
 
 Kill, IN TIIK t kins' 111 N !" — (IIOMKK. 
 
 • On t'ridai/,first to cuine — a Scotticism. 
 
 No. CXLIII 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Ell island, 13th Fcbruari/, 1790. 
 I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued 
 friemi, fur writing to you on this very unfashion- 
 able, unsightly sheet — 
 
 " My poverty but not my will consents." 
 
 But to make amends, since of modish post I 
 have none, except one poor widowed lialf sheet 
 of gilt, which oes in my drawer among my ple- 
 bei.iu foolsci]) pages, like the widow of a man 
 of fasl-.ioii, whom that unpollte scoundrel, Ne- 
 cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Piue- 
 ajiple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
 beiring help-mate of a village jiriest ; or a glass 
 of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed yoke- 
 fellow of a fi)ot-|)ad(ling exciseman — I niake a 
 vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary frag- 
 ments in that my only scrap of gilt-paper. 
 
 I am Indeed your unworthy 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 iiill 
 not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear 
 to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Uuke 
 
 (if to the powers of , than my 
 
 friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
 cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
 the fiillowiiig fragment which was intended fir 
 yuu some tliiiC ago, anil lie convinced tJiat 1 can 
 antithesize sentiment, and circnmvniute jieriods, 
 as well as any coiner o' phrase in the regions u 
 philology 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 34a 
 
 mrr dear cl'nningha.m, December, 17S9. 
 
 Where are you? And what are you iloing ? 
 Can yon l)e that son of levity, who takes up a 
 fi ienil>hip as lie takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
 hke some (?ther of the wortliie^t fellow-i in the 
 wiiiM, tlie victim of iiiilolente, laJeu with fetters 
 of ever-increasing weij^ht. 
 
 Wli.it straiii;e beings we are ! Since we liave 
 a portion of conscious existence, equally capahle 
 oi enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
 of fuffcring pain, wretchedness, and misery, it 
 > surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
 DC not such a tiling as a science of life ; whether 
 method, economy, and fertility of ex|)edients he 
 aot applicahle to enjoyment ; and whether there 
 oe not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
 renders our little scantling of happiness still 
 less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss 
 which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- 
 rence. There is not a doubt but that health, 
 talents, character, decent coinpetency, respecta- 
 ble friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
 yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many 
 or all of these good things, contrive, notwith- 
 standing, to be as unhappy as others to whose 
 lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great 
 s^Hiice of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
 to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, 
 which goads us up the hill cf life, not as we 
 ascend other eminences, for the laudable curio- 
 sity of viewing au extended landscape, but ra- 
 ther for the dishonest priiie of looking down on 
 others of our fellow-creatures, seemiugly dlmi- 
 uutive, in humble stations, &c. &c. 
 
 S'tnrla'j, 14</j Fthrunry, 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 
 
 tl.e'^e churches, I am past redemjitiun, 
 
 and what is worse, to all eternity. I 
 
 am deeply read in Urislnn's Finirfald Slate. 
 IflarsliiiU 1)11 Sanctijication, Cint/ieric'a Trial oj' 
 a Savin(f Interest, SfC. but " There i>^ no balm 
 in Gilcad, there is no pl>rsician there," ft.r me; 
 so I shall e' en turn Arminian, and trust to 
 " Sincere, though impel feet obedience." 
 
 Tuetd^nj, 1 Gth, 
 Luckily for me I was prevented from the 
 disi'ussion of the knotty point at which I had 
 iust made a full stop. Ail my fears and cares 
 are of this world : if there is another, an lione-t 
 man has nothing to fear from it. I hate ami<;) 
 that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every fais 
 unprejudiced inquirer must in snme degree be e 
 sceptic. It is not that there are any Viry stag- 
 f^iing arguments against tke imuiort&iic^ of 
 
 man ; but like electricity, ,ihlogistL..l, &c. the 
 subject is so involveil in darkness, that we wan« 
 dat.i to go upon. One tlfing frightens me muc h ; 
 that we are to live for ever, seems loo <;n,)il news 
 to he true. That we are to enter into a new 
 scene of existence, where, exenqit from want 
 and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends 
 williout satiety or separation — how much should 
 I be indebted to any one who could fully assuie 
 me that this was certain ! 
 
 ]My time is once more expired. I will write 
 to !\Ir. Cleghori. snon. fied bless him and all 
 his concerns ! Anc. may all ttie poweis that pri^ 
 side over conviviality and friendship, be presetit 
 with all their kindest influence, when the bearer 
 of this, I\Ir. Synie, arid yon meet ! I wish I 
 could also make one. — I think we should be 
 
 Finally, brethren, farewell ! AVhatBoevcr 
 things are lovely, whatsoever thing* are gentle, 
 whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
 things are kind, think on these thin^;s, anc 
 think on ROBERT BURNf<. 
 
 No. CXLIV 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 Elllslaml, '^d March, 1790. 
 
 At a late meeting of the Mimkland Friendly 
 Society, it was resolved to augment their libra- 
 ry by the following books, which you are to 
 send us as soon as possible : — The Mirror. The 
 Lnviiyvr, Man of Teelnig, 3Ian of the W uld, 
 (these for my own sake 1 wish to have bv th< 
 first carrier) h'nox^s IL'ilori/ of the liifoniia 
 lion ; line's Hist ry if the Hthelli n in 171-j 
 anv good Ilislory if llie IlihtUion in 1715 
 A Dis/ilinj ifihe Scces.sion yirt and Testimn 
 11!/, by .Mr. Giua ; Hcrviy's J^h-<Jitations ; ,Vo 
 verlili/e'a Thoituhts ; and another copy of W.ik 
 soil's llody of Uiviniti;. 
 
 I wrote to Mr. .\. Misterton three r-;- fuen 
 months ago, to pay some ir.oRey ha cwe'J ns* 
 ii;to ycur hands, and lat';iy 1 vote t-:, you <^ 
 the same purpose, but I liW/e Leiid fr lUi nei • 
 ther one nor o(4ier ri vou. 
 
 In addition to \}\i b^o's 7. cMPmissioncd in 
 mv list, I want mr-j i»-..ie'.i, A't Index to Ihe 
 Excise Laws, or an ah'td^ni'-iit if all the .Sta- 
 tutes now in f.jr',, '■^lat/vc to the Excise, by 
 Jellinger Svmons ; I want three copies of this 
 book ; if it is now to be had, cheap oi dear, get 
 it for vrs. Aa honest country neighbour of 
 n\\r^ "/aits, toe, A Eamili; Jidile, the luiger 
 tlie be'.tv, bat second -handed, for he dues not 
 e'.KVjse tc give above ten shillnigs f'>r the booK. 
 I Want likewise for niy-elf, as you can pick 
 tUen. up, second -handed o« cheap, copie^i oj 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Otway'i Dramatic IVoris, lien Jonsnn't, 
 T)ry<iens Conijreve's, \Vi/c/icT!ey\i, Vanhrugh' s, 
 Cililier's, or any Dranidlic Works of the more 
 rnoilern — Mack/in. Garrick, Foote, Culman, or 
 S/icrii/ci)i. A good copy too of 3Iuliere, in 
 French, I niucli want. Any otlier good dra- 
 matic authors in tint language I want also ; 
 but comic authors chiefly, though I should wi^h 
 t(i have lincine, Cnrneille, and Voltaire too. 
 I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if 
 you accidentally meet with them very cheap, 
 get them for nie. 
 
 And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
 liow do yini do, my dear friend ? and how is 
 Mrs. Hill? 1 trust if now and then not so ele- 
 gnutly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings 
 as ilivineiy as ever. IMy good-wife too lias a 
 charming " wood-note wild j" now could we 
 four ■ 
 
 1 am out of all patience with this vila».world, 
 for one tiling. Mankind are by nature benevo- 
 'ent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly iu- 
 stances, I do not think that avarice of the giiod 
 tilings 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 un- 
 der a cur'^i-d necessity of studying selfishness, in 
 order that we may exist ! Still there are, in 
 everv ace, a few souls, that all the wants and 
 woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
 to the iieressaty alloy of ciutlon and prudence. 
 If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
 c.(nitcni|)late myself on this s.de of my dUpo»i- 
 tiun and chaiacler. (ioii knows 1 am no saint; 
 I have a whole host of follies and sins to answer 
 for ; but if I could, and I believe 1 do it as far 
 as I ran, I would wi|K; away all tears from all 
 eyes. Adieu ! 
 
 N). CXLV. 
 
 FUO.M UIM.IAM lUTlNS, THE PDHT'S 
 liUOTIh.H. 
 
 Lnu,/oii,'2\st March, \~W. 
 
 DFAR HKOtHrn, 
 
 I I'AVK liirn here three week* come Tuesday, 
 er.d wi;i;ld have written you sooner, but was not 
 lu-ttled in a place of wmk. — We were ten days 
 on our jiassage fiom Shiihls ; the weather being 
 raim I was not sick, except one day when ;t 
 blew j)rettv h.ird. I got into woik the l-'rldiy 
 ufuT 1 came to towii, I wrought theie only 
 eight days, their jub luiiig iloue. I gut work 
 again in a shop in the ."slrmid, the next day af- 
 ti r I left my former master. It is only a lein- 
 
 swartns of fresh liards just come froin the eoMiu 
 try that the town is quite overstocked, and ex- 
 cept one is a ])artieularly good workman, ( which 
 you know 1 am not, nor I am afra-.d ever wilj 
 be), it is hard to get a place : However, I don't 
 yet despair to bring up my lee-way, and shal: 
 endeavour if possible to sail within three or four 
 points of the wind. The encouragement here is 
 not what 1 expected, wages being very low in 
 proportion to the expense of living, but vet, if I 
 can only lay i)y the money that is spent by 
 others in my situation in dissipation and riot, I 
 expect soon to return you the money I borrowed 
 of you and live comfortably besides. 
 
 In the mean time 1 wish you would send up 
 all my best linen shirts to London, which vou 
 may easily do by sending them to some of your 
 Edinburgh friends, to be shipped from Leith. 
 Some of them are too little ; don't send any but 
 what are good, and I wish one of my sisters 
 could find as much time as to trim my shirts at 
 the breast, for there is no such thing to be seen 
 here as a plain shirt, even for wearing, which is 
 what I want these for. I mean to get one or 
 two new shirts here for Sundays, but I assure 
 i you that linen here is a very expensive article. 
 1 am going to write to Gilbert to send me an 
 •Ayrshire cheese ; if he can spare it he will send 
 it to you, and you may send it with the shirts, 
 but I exj)ect to hear from you before that time. 
 The cheese I could get here ; but I will have a 
 pride in eating Ayrshire cheese in London, and 
 the expense of sending it will be little, as you 
 are sending the shirts any how. 
 
 I write this by J. Stevenson, in his lodgings, 
 while he is wiiting to Gilbert. He is well and 
 hearty, which is a blessing to me as well as to 
 him : We were at Covent Garden chapel this 
 forenoon, to hear the Co//' preach ; he is grown 
 very fat, and is as boisterous as ever.' There 
 is a whole colony of Kilmarnock people here, so 
 we diin't want for acquaintance. 
 
 Kemeinher n.e to my sisters and all the f i- ^ 
 iiiily. I shall give you all the observations I 
 havic ntaile on l.iuidim in my nest, when I shiU 
 havt se«u more ot it. 
 
 I a::i, dear Brother, yours, &c. 
 
 W B. 
 
 No. CXLVL 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Ellislaud, \Oth /ipri!, IVnO. 
 I liAVF. just now, my ever-honoured friend 
 enjoved a very high luxury, in reading a pipei 
 of the J^ounijer. You knuw my national pre- 
 judices. I had often read and admired the Sjiec- 
 tator, Adventurtr, IlambliT, and World; bul 
 
 j.jrary place, but I expect to be settled M)on in's"" w"l» » certain regret, that they were »c 
 
 B »h'iji to my mind, alllniugh it will be a hardelC> 
 
 U.sk Ih.m 1 at fust imagined, for tliere are kuch ; • fia'; Psctical AdJrcsi to the CaX 
 
CORRlvSPON DENXE. 
 
 345 
 
 thojt)u«,'li]y and entirely English. Alas ! liiive I 
 eftcn said to mysolf, whut are all the boastt'd .id- 
 (ranti'^es which my country reaps from the 
 Uni;m, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
 of her inilependeuce, and even her very name ! 
 I often iCjieat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
 Goldsmith — 
 
 States of native liberty possest. 
 
 Tiiiiu\;h very poor, may yet be very blest." 
 
 Nothino; can reconcile me to the common 
 icrm-i, " Knj;ligh ambassador, English court," 
 &c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
 equivocal character, Histinjjs, impeached by 
 *' thj Commons of En.;land." Tell me, my 
 friend, is this u-eak prejudice? I believe in my 
 conseieru'e such ideas, as, " my countrv ; her 
 independence ; her honour ; the illuvtrious 
 names that mark the history of my native 
 land," &c. — I believe the~e, anions; your men of 
 the worlil — nien who in fact guide for the most 
 part and trovern our world, are looked on as so 
 ni anv modifications of v.'rongheadedness. They 
 know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
 rouve or lead the kaeiiI.k ; but fur their own 
 private use, with almost all the alilc stattsiiieJi 
 that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk 
 of right and wrong, they only mean (iroper and 
 imjjroper ; and their mea-ure of coniluct is, not 
 what thev ought, but what they 1)akk. For 
 the truth of this I shall not ran^^aik the hi>tory 
 of iiatioiis, but ap eal to one of the ablest judges 
 of men, and himself one of the ablest men that 
 ever lived — the celebrateil Earl of Cliesterlield. 
 In fact, a man who could thoroughly controul 
 his vices whenever they interfered with his in- 
 terest, and who could completely put on the ip- 
 pearatice of every viitue as often as it suited his 
 pur|)o»es, is, on the .Stanhopiau plan, the pirfict 
 man ; a man to leail nations. Hut are great 
 abilities, comjilete without a flaw, and polished 
 without a blemish, the standard of human ex- 
 cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion 
 of tnen of the world ; but I call on honour, vir- 
 tue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
 loud ntg.itive ! However, this must be allowed, 
 that, if you abstract Irom man the idi-a of an 
 existence beyond the grave, t/ten, the true mea- 
 sure of human conduct is pro/ttr and i'lipri'jier: 
 Virtue and vice, as di>po9itions of the heart, are 
 in that case, of scarcely the import and value to 
 the woild at large, as harmony and discord in 
 the mod.ficatiou-, of sound ; and a delicate sense 
 of homur. like a nice ear for music, though it 
 may sometimes give the possessor an ecstasy un- 
 known vo the coarser organs of the herd, yst, 
 consiilering the Viarsh gratings, and inharmonic 
 jars, in tills ill-timed state of being, it is odd* 
 but t!;e individual would be as happy, and cer- 
 tainly woul<l be as much respected by the true 
 juiiges of soiiety, as it would then stand, *iili- 
 out ether a good ear or a good heart. 
 
 You must know I have ju>t met with the 
 Mirror and J ounger f-vc the lirst time, and I 
 
 am quite in raptures with them : I slioulil b« 
 glad to have your opinion of some of the pa|K'rs. 
 The oue I have just read, Lotimjcr, No. 01, 
 has cost me more honest tears than any thing 
 I have read of a long time. .M'Kenzie has beea 
 calleci the Addison of the Scots, and in n;y 
 opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the com- 
 parison. If he has not Addison's exijiiisite hu- 
 mour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tei.der 
 and the pathetic. His Mitii nf Feitini/ (but I 
 am not counsel-learned in the laws of eritiii^m), 
 I estimate as the first petformance in its kiud I 
 ever saw. From what books, moral or evei; 
 |iious, will the susceptible young mind receive 
 impressions more congenial to humanity and 
 kindness, generosity and benev.'lence ; in short, 
 more of all that ennobles tlie soul to herself, or 
 endears her to otheis — than from the simple af- 
 fecting tale of poor Hailey. 
 
 Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie's 
 writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
 reading for a young man who is about to set 
 out, as the phrase is, to make his way into lite. 
 Do not you think, .Mad.un, that among the few 
 favoured of Heaven in the structure of their 
 minds (for such there certainly aie), there may 
 be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
 of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de- 
 gree, absolutety dis(|ualifying for the truly im- 
 portant business of making a man's way into 
 hfe. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant 
 
 younsr friend, A , is vei'-' much under 
 
 these disqualifications ; and lor the young fe- 
 males of a family 1 could mention, well may 
 they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common 
 actpiaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an 
 humble fiiend, have often trembled foi a turn of 
 mind which may render them eminently happy 
 — or peculiarly miserable ! 
 
 I have been manuficturing some verses late- 
 ly ; but as I have got the most hurried season 
 of excise business over, 1 hojie to have more lei- 
 sure to transcribe any thing that may show how 
 much I have the honour to be, Aladam, yours, 
 Sec. 
 
 No, CXLVII. 
 FROM MR. CUNNINGn,\M. 
 
 Edinburgh, 2bth May. 1790. 
 
 .MY DEAR BCIINS, 
 
 I AM much indebted to you for your last 
 fr'endly. elegant e'istle, and it siiali make a 
 part of the vanity of my camfxisition, to retain 
 your coriespondence through life. It was le- 
 niarkable your introducing the name of Mis« 
 Hurnet, at a time when she was in such ili 
 health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen- 
 tle heart, to hear of hei being in the la^t stiga 
 of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty, 
 innocence, and virtue, sLuuld be nipt In lh» 
 
346 
 
 BURNS' VyORKS. 
 
 fcud. Kers was the smile of cheerfulness — of 
 eensil.ilitj', not of allurement ; and her elegance 
 of manners corresponded witk the purity and 
 elevation of her minJ. 
 
 How does your friendly nuise ? I am sure 
 she still retains lier affection for you, and that 
 you have many of her favours in your posses- 
 sion, which I have not seen, I weary much to 
 bear from you. 
 
 I besfech you do not forget nr.e. 
 
 I most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
 life piosper, and that your roof tree enjoys the 
 ^lessin^ of good health. All your friends here 
 are well, among whom, and not the least, is your 
 acquaintunte, Cleghorn. As for myself, I am 
 
 well, as far as will let a 
 
 man be j but with these I am happy. 
 
 WHien you meet with my very agreeable friend 
 J. Synie, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and 
 b.d, God bless him. 
 
 Is there any probability of your being soon in 
 Edinburgh ? 
 
 No. CXLVIII. 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 Dumfries, Excise- Office, Hth July, 1790. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 Coming into town this morning, to attend 
 my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I 
 met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his 
 way to Londcm ; 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 bu- 
 jiness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
 ivel! as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
 , as miscellaneous as a news- 
 piper, as short as a huiigiy grace-i)el'ore-nu'at, 
 or as long as a law-paper m the Douglas' cause 
 as ill-spelt as country John's liillet-doux, or as 
 unsightly a scrawl as IJetty Byremucker's an- 
 swer to it ; 1 hope, cousidcrijig circumstances, 
 you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no 
 exjiense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- 
 tiuu about it. 
 
 1 am sadly ungratfful in not returning you 
 my thanks for your most vaUiabl,.' present, Xe- 
 liico. In fact, you are in some degree blamealile 
 for niy neglecl. You were pleased to express a 
 wi^h for my opinion of the work, which so flat- 
 tered me, tii.it iiotliiii^ Its* would serve my 
 ov<ir-wceniDg fancy, than a formal criticism on 
 
 the book. In fact, I have gravely planned ^ 
 iiomparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, 
 and Smollett, in your different qualities and me- 
 ! rits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my 
 riiliculous vanity, and I may probably never 
 bring the business to bear ; but I am fond ol 
 the spirit young Elihu shows in the book ot 
 .lob — " And 1 said, I will also declare my opi. 
 ni(m." I have quite disfigured my copy of the 
 hook with my annotations. I never take it up 
 without at the same time taking my pencil, 
 and marking with asterisks, parenthesis, 8te. 
 wherever I meet with an original thought, a 
 nervous remark on life and manne's, a reinark- 
 ably well-turned period, or a character sketched 
 with uncommon precision. 
 
 Though I shall hardly think of fairly writinr 
 out my " Conipai-ative View," I shall certainly 
 ti-ouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 
 I have just received from my gentleman, that 
 horrid summons in the book of Revelations — 
 " That time shall be no more !" 
 
 The little collection of sonnets liave some 
 charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
 debted to the fair author for the book, and cot, 
 as I rather suspect, to a celebrated aiitiior 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, do- 
 ing as I would be done by. 
 
 \o. CXLIX. 
 TO MR. MURDOCH, 
 
 TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 
 
 MV DEAR SIR, Ellisland, July 16, 1790. 
 I iiECEivED a letter fiom you a long time 
 
 I ago, but unfortunately as it was in the time ol 
 my peregrinations and journey ings throogh Scot- 
 land, I mislaid or lost it, aud 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 med'iation I hope to re- 
 |)lace that link which my unibitunate negli- 
 gence Iwd so unluckily broke in the chain of 
 our correspondence. I was tiie more vexed at 
 the vile ace dent, as my brother William, a jour- 
 neyman saddler, ha< beer, for some time in Lnn- 
 don ; and wished above all things for your di- 
 rection, that he might have paid his resjiects to 
 
 his FArHEll's FKIENI). 
 
 His last address he sent me was, " Wm. 
 Hiiiris, at Mr. Ijarber's. Saddler, No. 181, 
 .Strand " I write him by Mi. Kennedy, but 
 uegiected t a>k hun for your adilre^s ; so, if you 
 
Sni] a spare half minute, p1ea«e let my hrotlier 
 kiiuw 1)V a crnl where and when he will find 
 you, and th« poor fellow will joyfully « iit on 
 you, as one of the few suivivins; friends of the 
 ni:;n whose name, and Christian name too, he 
 has the hoaJU' to bear. 
 
 The neit jtter I write you shall be a long 
 3iie. 1 have much to ttll you of " hair-breadth 
 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach, with 
 ail the eventful history of a life, the early years 
 of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
 but this at an hour of leiNure. My kindest 
 compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 
 I am ever, my dear Sir, 
 
 Your obliged friend.* 
 
 CORRESPONDEXCE. 
 
 No. CL. 
 TO MRS. DUxNLOP. 
 
 347 
 
 PEAR jiAPAM, Sth August. 1790. 
 
 Akter a Ions; day's toil, plague, and care, 
 sit down to write to you. .'Vsk me not why I 
 have delayed it so long? It was owing to luirry^ 
 indolence, and fifty other things ; in short, tc 
 any thing — but forgetfulness of Ai plus ainuible 
 de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your 
 best courtesy to me for this last compliment ; 
 as I pay it from sincere conviction of it:< trutb 
 — a quality rather rare in coiiipliments of these 
 grinning, bowing, scraping times. 
 
 Well, I hope writing to ynii, will ease a little 
 • Ibis letter was communicated to the Editor by a' '"y '''""''''^^'' *'""'• Sorely his it been bruised 
 
 A ci-<levant friend of mine, and an in- 
 timate acqaintance of yours, has given my feel- 
 ings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dan- 
 gerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! 
 
 pcntlcman to whose liberal advice and information he to-day ! 
 13 much indebted, Mr. Jolm Murdoch, the carlv in- 
 structor of the poet; aceonipanied by the following 
 interesting note : — 
 
 London, Hart-Street, Dloomsbury, 2Stt Dtc. ISO?. 
 
 DE4II SIX, 
 
 Thi'. following letter, which I lately found among 
 my |i:ipor>i, I copy for your perusal, partly because it 
 is Riirns's, pnnly because it m^ikcs himoiirnble men- 
 tion of my rational Christian friend, his father; and 
 likewise because it is rathei flattering to myself. I 
 gliiry in no one thing so much as an ii tiniacy with 
 pood men ; — tlie fi lendship of others reflects no ho. 
 nour. When I recollect the pleasure, (and I hope be- 
 nelii;, I received from the conversation of William 
 BUKNS, especially when on the Lord's day «.■ walked 
 
 ne assured, my dear friend, that I cordially sympa- 
 thize with you all, and partie\darly with Mrs. \V. 
 liiirns, w!io is undoubtedly one of the most tender and 
 aRlctionate mothers that ever livid. Hemember me 
 to her in tlie most friendly manner, when yon see her, 
 or write. — Please present my best complini'ents to Mrs. 
 R. Unrns, and to vour brother and sisters.- 
 
 There is 
 togellier fur about two miles, to the liouse of pravcr, no occasion forme to exhoit you to filial dutv, and 
 tliere publiclv to .adoie and praise the (liver of all to use your united endeavours in rendering the even- 
 ooit, I entertain an ardent hope, that togcilier we shall '"g of iife as ?omfnrt.able as po->ible to a mother, wh-; 
 
 E' . „ 
 
 •' renew the glorious iheine in distant worlds," with 
 powers more adequate to ihe mighty subject, i iik kx- 
 I;bi:11ANT BKNI l-'ltl-.NCE of the CUliAT crlator. 
 But to the letter:— 
 
 FROM MR. MURnOCH TO THE BARD, 
 
 CIVI.VG HIM AN ACCOI'NT OF Till'. UliATII OF 
 HIS BliOTIIi It WILLIAM. 
 
 Hurt-Street, B oumsbtr-i/.S'j'inre, Lrnidnn, 
 MV DFAa F»IIM>, Si-pt. -l/A, 17-0. 
 
 \ ol Its iif ihe ICtli of July, I received on the '-Tth, 
 in th afiernoon, per favour of in v friend Mr. Ken- 
 nedv. and at the same time was informed that your 
 brother was ill Heing cnt;ageil in biisir.ess till lite 
 that evcninc, I set out next morning to see him, and 
 h.id thought of three or f ur medic d gentl -men of my 
 acquaint in e, to one or other of whom I might apply 
 for ad> ice, provi 'ed it should be necessary, lint when 
 1 went to Mr. Harb r' , to my urea astonishment and 
 hcart-relt grief, I found ihat my young friend had, on 
 Saturday, bi ' an overcast ng f aeweli to all sublunary 
 things.— It was about a fortnight liefore that he had 
 founil me out. by Mr. .Stevcvson's aeciik-ntally calling 
 at my shop to buy something We had only one in- 
 terview, and that ws liighK entertaining to me in se- 
 veral re-pects. He nieir.ioned some ins ruction I had 
 given him when very young, to whieh he said h'; 
 owed, !n a gre.il measure, th<- philanthropy he [lOsscs- 
 . setl. — He ai-o t 'ok noace of my exhortin;; vou all, 
 irheii I wrote, alK)ut tight \earsago, to the man who, 
 of all mankind that 1 ever knew, stood high' st in my 
 esteem, " not to et go your inlegrity." — \ ou may ea. 
 sliy conceive that SHcli conversation was both pleasing 
 anil cue in ago g tome: 1 antieipated a de.il of ratio- 
 nal hai>pinessfroin fmuiecouvers^iions. — Vain arc our 
 expectations an., dopes Tlu y are so almost always — 
 Perhaps, (nav, ecrtainly), for our good. Were it not 
 foi di-appom ed hopes we could haolly spend a thought 
 on anoiher state of existen. e, or be in any degree re- 
 oonciled to the quitting of this j 
 
 1 ki ovv of no one source of consolaiion to those who ' 
 have lost young rel.itives, equal U) that of their being 
 »f a good disposition, and ot a promising character. 
 
 has dedicated so great a part of it in promoting youl 
 temporal and spiritual welfare. 
 
 \o\\T letter to V>\ Moore, I ch'livered at his house, 
 and shall most likely know voiir opinion of Zeleueo, 
 the first lime I meet with him. 1 wish and hope for 
 a long letter. Uc particular about \onr mother's 
 health 1 liopc she is too much a Christian to be af. 
 fiicted above measure, or to soirow as those viho have 
 no hope. 
 
 One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to visit 
 you all; but I am commonly disappointed in vthat I 
 inost ardently wish for. 
 
 1 am, dear Sir, 
 
 \'ours sincerely, 
 
 JOHN MURDOCH. 
 
 I promised myself a deal of happiness in the con. 
 vcrsatii n of my dear voung friend; but my promises 
 of this nature generally jirove fallacious. Two visits 
 were Ihe uiniost that 1 received. \t one of them, 
 however, he rejicated a lesson which I hid given hiia 
 about twentv years before, when he was a merechiM, 
 concerninq the pity and tenderness due lo animals. 
 To that lesson, (which it seems was ! roughl to the le- 
 vel of his capacity i, he declared himself indebted for 
 almost all the philanthropy he doss, ssed 
 
 Let not (larcnts and te.ieliers imagine Ihat it is need- 
 less to talk -erionsly to children. Tney are sooner fit 
 to be reasoned vvith tli.an is generally thon^'ht. .Strong 
 and indelible impressions are to l)c made before th« 
 mind be agitated and ruffled by Ihe numenu.s train of 
 distractii g cares and unruly passions, whereby it ii 
 frequently rendered almost unsusceptible of the prin- 
 ciples ana precepts of rational religion and sound mo- 
 rality. 
 
 Hut I find myself digressing again. Poor William 
 then in the bloom and vigour of youth, caught a pu 
 trid fever, and, in a few days, as real chief mourner 
 I foUowL^ hii> remoius lo the land of forgetfulness. 
 
 JOl N MURDOCH. 
 
 CaoHsi 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Ko. CLI. 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 EUisland, 8th jiugvst, 1 790. 
 
 Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear 
 friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot 
 sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 
 
 I l.iid down my s^oose feather to beat my 
 biains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
 of a country grannam at a family christening : 
 a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 
 
 a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. &c. 
 —but the resemblance that hits my fancy best 
 is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams 
 about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching 
 whom ho may devour. However, tossed about 
 as I am, if I choose (and who would not choose) 
 to bind down with the crampets of attention, 
 the brazen foundation of integi ity, I mav rear 
 up the superstructure of Independence, and from 
 its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of 
 fate. And h not this a " consummation de- 
 voutly to be wished ?" 
 
 " Tl.y spirit, Independence, let me share ; 
 
 Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eve! 
 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 in- 
 troduction of Smi>llill^s Ode to Independence : 
 If yiu h,:ve not seen the poem, I will send it to 
 you. How wretched is the man that hangs on 
 by the favours of the j;ivat. To shrink fronr 
 every dignity of man, at the approach of a lor-d- 
 y piece ot self-consequence, who, amid all his 
 tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a crea- 
 ture forn>>-d as thou art — and perhajjs not no 
 well formed as thou art — came into the world 
 a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out 
 jf it ab all men must, a naked corse*. 
 
 No. CLIL 
 FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 
 
 ndinhnrgh, \st Stpteml-er, 1700. 
 
 With love of the IMuses so strongly still smitten. 
 
 I meant this epistle iri verse to have written ; 
 
 But from age and infirmity, indolence flows. 
 
 And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose. 
 
 Anon to my business I wish to proceed, 
 
 Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed 
 
 A man of integrity, genius and worth. 
 
 Who soon a peiformance intends to set forth ; 
 
 A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free. 
 
 Which will weekly appear, by the name of the 
 
 Bee. 
 Of this from himself I enclose you a plap 
 And hope you will give what assistance you can 
 Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
 In which more or less human nature must shai-e, 
 Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, 
 A sacrifice i\ue to amusement and fame. 
 The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay 
 
 bloom, 
 With some rays of your genius her work may 
 
 illume. 
 Whilst the flower whence her honey spontane- 
 ously flows, 
 .\s fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 
 
 Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
 clude. 
 
 And add, your promotion is here understood ; 
 
 Thus free from the servile employ of excise. Sir, 
 
 We liope soon to hear you connnence supervisor ; 
 
 You then more at leisure, and free from control, 
 
 Jlay indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
 your soul. 
 
 But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ; 
 
 Devoted cold death's and longevity's prev. 
 
 From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un- 
 bend, 
 
 Tho* still I remain your affectionate friend, 
 THO. BLACKLOCK 
 
 No. CLIII. 
 
 EXTEACT OF A LETTER 
 
 FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Edinburgh, Mth October, 1790. 
 I LATELY received a letter from our friend 
 
 E , — what a i-harming fellow lost tc 
 
 society — born to great exjiectations — with su- 
 perior abilities, a jiure heart and untainted mo- 
 rals, his fate in life has lieen hard indeed — still 
 I am persuaded he is hapjiy ; not like the gal- 
 
 How does my dear friend ?— much I languish '""''. ""; '-'''y Lothario, but in the si,„plici,y of 
 
 to hear, 
 His fortune, relations, and all that are dear; 
 
 ruial enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the re- 
 membrance of " the diys of other years." 
 
 I saw Mr. Dunbar put, under the cover of 
 
 ' ^'your newspaper, Mr. Mood's Poem on Thom- 
 
 • Ihc- jircccdine loftcr evplnint Ihc fcflmRk unilcr *on. This poem lias .sugge-ted an idea to me 
 which this w;,s wntnn. The Mr.nn nf indipiw.nt m. which vou alone are capable to execute :— a 
 vective fi(ic> on Minn- tune lciii(>eriii ihe siylc which i' . i i c ■ rr-, 
 
 cur haul was too apt to iii.l'ilge, and of which Uie *'""K '""'I'''"'! to eacit season o( tiie year. The 
 wadtr hasaheiuly siea soiiiuc.i. , task is difficult, but the theme is c barmjm? • 
 
CtJRRESPONDENCE. 
 
 349 
 
 «liould you succeed, I will undertake to get new 
 music worthy of tli',' sulijcct. What a fine fiflil 
 for your iuKiijination, ami who is there alive can 
 draw so many beauties from Nature and j)ast<u'al 
 iinajjerv as yourself? It is, by the way, sur- 
 prising that there does not exist, so f.ir as I 
 know, a proper son/7 for each season. Wt \ave 
 songs on huiiting, fishing, skaiting, and ont au- 
 tuuuiil song. Harvest Home. As your muse 
 is neither spavied nor rusty, you may mount 
 the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet 
 in your pocket for every season. For my sug- 
 gestions, if I he rude, correct me ; if imperti- 
 nent, chastise me ; if presuming, despise me. 
 But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound 
 out one graiu of insincerity, then am I not 
 
 thy 
 
 Faithful friend, &c. 
 
 place the capital letters properly ; »s to the 
 punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 
 
 I have a copy of Tarn o* Shanter ready to 
 senil yon by the first opportunity ; it is too 
 heavy to send l)y post. 
 
 1 heard of ftlr. Corbet lately. lie, in con- 
 sequence of your reccMUUiendation, is most zeal- 
 ous to serve nie. Please favour me soon with 
 an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. II. 
 is recovering, and the young gentleman doing 
 well. 
 
 No. CLIV. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Novemher, 1790. 
 
 " As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
 news fmm a far country." 
 
 Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
 from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- 
 row which I have received. In this instance 
 I most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice 
 with them that do rejoice" — for me to slnff for 
 joy is uo new thiug ; but to preach for joy, as I 
 have done in the cominenceuietit of this epistk, 
 is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I n-'- 
 ver 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 tiie receipt of the 
 best news from his best fi lend. I seized my 
 gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
 pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the mo- 
 ment of inspiiation and rapture; and stride, 
 stride — fjuick and quicker — out sklpt I among 
 the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my 
 'oy liy retail. To keep within the bounds of 
 prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more 
 elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to 
 the sweet little fellow than I, extempore al- 
 most, poured out to him in the following verses. 
 
 (See the poem — On the Birth of a Posthumous 
 Child.) 
 
 I am much flattered by your approbation of 
 my Tarn o' Shunter, which you express in your 
 former letter, though, by the Oye, you load me 
 in that 8aid letter with accusations heavy and 
 many ; to all which I plead not r/viltj/ ! Your 
 book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As 
 to piinting of poetry, when you prejiare it for 
 the press, you have only to spell it right, and 
 
 No. CLV. 
 TO CRAUFORD TAIT, Esq. Edikburoh. 
 
 DEAR SIR, EIHshnd, Oct. 15, 1730. 
 
 Allow me to introduce to your accpiaintanca 
 the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
 whom I have long known and long loved. His 
 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 kneaded the kindly clay that 
 composes it, she saiil, " I can no more." 
 
 You, my good Sir, were Iwirn under kinder 
 stars ; but your fraternal syini'.atliy, 1 well know, 
 can enter into the feelings of the young man, 
 who goes into life wn, . the laudable ainUilion to 
 do something, and to be something among his 
 fellow creatures ; but whom the consciousness 
 of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and 
 wounds to the soul ! 
 
 Even the fairest of his virtues are against 
 him. That independent spirit, and that inge- 
 nuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a no- 
 ble mind, ace, with the million, circumstances 
 not a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in 
 the i)ower of the fortunate and the happy, bj 
 their notice and patronage, to brighten the 
 countenance and glad the heart of such depress- 
 ed youth ! I am not so angry with mankind 
 for their deaf economy 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, ye^ 
 takes nothing from our own means of enjo)- 
 ment? We wrap ourselves up in the (loak of 
 our own better-fortune, and turn away our 
 eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother- 
 mortals should disturb the selfi-sh apathy of our 
 souls ! 
 
 1 am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
 favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
 implication, which, without any positive re- 
 quest, plainly expresses yc.ur wish, is a talent 
 not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell m. 
 then, for you can, in what periphrasis •»! laa 
 
35C 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 guaje, in what circumvc '.ition 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, 
 5S 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 iiim 
 in the, to him, important consideration of get- 
 ting a place ; but at all events, your notice and 
 acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to 
 him ; and 1 dare pledge myself that he will ne- 
 ver disgrace your favour." 
 
 You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at such 
 a letter from me ; 'tis, 1 own, in the usual way 
 of calculating these matters, more than our ac- 
 qu;iJutance entitles me ta ; but my answer is 
 short : Of al! the men at your time of life, whom 
 I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces- 
 sible 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 \n vain. 
 
 As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- 
 lieve you are still a well-wisher ; I am here, 
 breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
 rhyuiing now and then. Every situation has its 
 share of the cares and pains of life, and my situ- 
 atiun I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow- 
 ance of its pleasures and enjoyments. 
 
 My best compliments to your father and Miss 
 Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re- 
 member me in the solemn league and covenant 
 of friendship to IMrs. Lewis Hay. I am a 
 wretch for not writing her; but I am so hack- 
 neyed with self-accusation in that way, tlut 
 my consi.'.encu lies in my bosom with scarce the 
 sensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is 
 Lady M'Kenzie? wherever slie is, God bless 
 her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with 
 compliments to Mr. Wm. Hauiihon ; Mrs. Ha- 
 milton and family ; and ]\Irs. Chalmers, wl.en 
 you are in that country. Should you meet 
 with Miss Kimmo, please remember me kindly 
 to ht^r. 
 
 No. CLVL 
 
 TO 
 
 ■>Ear sir, 
 
 WiiETHSR in the way of my trade, I can be 
 of any service to the Uev. Doctor,* is I fear very 
 doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of 
 seven i)ull-hi(les and a plate of brass, which al- 
 together set Hector's utmost force at defiance. 
 Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
 tor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
 Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
 levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound 
 in a massy frame of brazen impudenc*;. Good 
 God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck 
 
 of a sparrow, and satire ':.« pep-gun of a sctcoi 
 boy. Creation-disgracing se'erats such as ther 
 God only can mend, and the devil only can pii- 
 nish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, ] 
 wish they had all but one neck. J £"«1 impoten-j 
 as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O for a 
 withering curse to blast the gcrmins of their 
 wicked machinations. O for a poisonous torna- 
 do, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to 
 sweep the spreading crop of their villainous con- 
 trivances to the lowest hell ! 
 
 LETTERS, 1791. 
 
 No. CLVII. 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 EUhland, 23d January, 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, which you will 
 receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way 
 of tales. 
 
 I have, these several months, been hammer 
 isg at an elegy on the amiable and accomplish 
 ed Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no 
 farther than the following fragment, on which, 
 please give me your strictures. In all kmds o: 
 poetic composition, I set great store by your 
 opinion ; l)ut in sentimental verses, in the jioe- 
 try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
 more value on the infallibility of tlie Holy Fa- 
 ther than I do on yours. 
 
 I mean the introductory couplets as text ver- 
 ses. 
 
 • Dr. M'Gill of Ayr. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 OX 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'd in a blow. 
 As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low 
 
 Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; 
 In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
 lu thee, high Heaven above was tiuest shown, 
 As by his noblest work the Godhead best :« 
 known. 
 
 In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves , 
 Thou crystal streamlet with thy 3owery shore ; 
 
 Ye woodland choir tliat chauut ytur idle loves, 
 Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is nc more. 
 
 Ye heathy wastes ininix'd with reedy fens. 
 Ye mossy streamj, with se<ige and jushe» 
 stor'd, 
 
 Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens. 
 To you I fly, ye witii my soul accord 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 351 
 
 Ffirccs wli(>«e cjmb'rous pride was all tlicir 
 worth, 
 
 Shall vcn;il lays their pompous exit hail ; 
 And tliDU, sweet excelleuce ! forsake our earth, 
 
 And not a muse in honest grief bewail. 
 
 Wc saw thee shine in youth ami beauty's pride, 
 And virtue's light that beams beyond the 
 spheres ; 
 
 But like the sun cclipsM at mornin;^ tide. 
 Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 
 
 Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 
 
 No. CLVIII. 
 TO MR. PETER HILL. 
 
 17M January, 1701. 
 Take these two guineas, and place tl.^ ver 
 
 against that account of yours I iuch 
 
 has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! 
 I can as little write good things as apologies to 
 the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse 
 of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
 Not all tl'.e labours of Hercules ; not all the He- 
 brews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage were 
 such an insuperable business, such an 
 
 task!! Poverty! thou half-sister of death, thou 
 cousin-gcrman of hell ! where shall I find force 
 of execration equal to the amj)litude of thy de- 
 merits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable an- 
 cient, growu hoary in the practice of every vir- 
 tue, laden with years and wretchedness, im- 
 ploi"es a little — little aid to support his exist- 
 ence, from a stony-hearted son of IMammon, 
 whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; 
 and is by him denied and insulted. Oppiosed 
 by tlieo, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
 glows with independence, and melts with sensi- 
 bility, inly pines under tlie neglect, or writhes 
 in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of ar- 
 rogant, 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 suffering silence, his rem irk 
 neglected, arid his person despised, while shal- 
 low greatness, in his idiot attcni|)ts at wit, shall 
 meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it 
 only the family jf worth that have reason to 
 coiiiplam of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
 though in common with thee, the olfspring of 
 evil, smart equally under thy rod. Ovving to 
 thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and ne- 
 glected educatiiin, is condemned as a fool for his 
 dissipation, desoised and shunned as a needy 
 wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
 waat : and when his unprincipled necessities 
 drive him to dishonest practices, he is ablmrred 
 as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his 
 
 country. Hut fir otherwise is the k '"of the man 
 of family and fortune. His ea'ly fillies and ex- 
 travagance, are s|)iiit and fire ; his consequent 
 wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fel- 
 low ; and when, to remedy tlu matter, he has 
 gained a legal commission to plunder distant 
 provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he re- 
 tiirns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine 
 and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and 
 
 dies a and a lord. — Nay, worst of all. 
 
 alas fjr helpless v/oman ! the needy prostitute 
 who has shivered at the corner of the street, 
 waiting to earn the wages of carnal ])rostitutiiin, 
 is left neglected and insulted, ridden Jown by 
 the chariot-wheels of the coroneted rip, hurry- 
 ing on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, 
 without the same necessities to plead, riots 
 nightly in the same guilty trade. 
 
 V/ell ! divines may say of it what they please, 
 but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
 is to the body ; the vital sluices of both art 
 wonderfully relieved by their respective evacu»- 
 tions. 
 
 No. CLIX. 
 
 FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 
 
 DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, I2th March, 1791 
 
 Mr. Hii.l yesterday put into my hands b 
 sheet of Gioses Antiquities, containing a poem 
 of yours, entitled Turn o' Shajiler, a tale. Ths 
 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 ; 1 
 cannot resist therefore putting on paper what I 
 must have told you in person, had 1 met with 
 you after the recent perusal of your tale, which 
 is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if un- 
 discharged, would reproach me with ingrati- 
 tude. I have seldom iu my life tasted of liighei 
 enjoyment from any work of genius, than I have 
 received from this composition ; and lam much 
 mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never 
 written another syllable, would not have been 
 sufliiient to have transmitted your name down 
 to posterity with high reputation. In the in- 
 troductory pait, where you paint the character 
 of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house 
 ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have deli- 
 neated nature with a humour an(i naivete, that 
 would do h(niour to Jlatthew Prior ; but when 
 you describe the unfortunate orgies of the 
 witches' sabbath, and the hellish scenery in 
 which they are exhibited, you display a power 
 of imagination, that Shakspeaiu himself could 
 not have exceeded. I kno,v not tliat I have 
 ever met with a picture of more horribJe fan''.y 
 than the following : 
 
 " Coffins stood round like open presses, 
 That showed the dead in their last drecsca : 
 
S53 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 And by some devilish cintrip sliglit, 
 Each in his cault! hanii held a light." 
 
 But when I c.ime to the succeeding lines, my 
 blood ran cold within me : 
 
 '* A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
 Whom his ain son of life bereft : 
 Tite grey hair? uet stuck to the heft." 
 
 And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' 
 maJr o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the descrijitive 
 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 initiation of the young 
 witch is most happily described — the effect of 
 her charms, exhibited in the dance, on Satan 
 hiraseif — the apostrophe—" Ah, little thought 
 thy reverend grannie !" — the transport of Tarn, 
 who forgets his situation, and enters completely 
 into tke spirit of the scene, are all features ot 
 high merit, in this excellent composition. The 
 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 descrip- 
 tive and characteristic painting of the preceding 
 parts. — The preparation is fine, but the result 
 is not adeouate. But for this, perhips, you 
 have a good apology — you stick to the popular 
 tale. 
 
 And now that 1 have got out my mind, and 
 feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
 I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by 
 an aiivice : — You have proved your talent for 
 a species of composition, 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 Fontame ; for, with equal 
 wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivete 
 of expression, you have a bolder, and more vi- 
 gorous imagination. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, with mucli esteem. 
 Yours, ike. 
 
 ho. CI.X. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 sin, 
 
 NoTHiNO less than the unfortunate accident 
 I have met v.'ith, could have prevented my 
 giateful acknowledgments foi- your letter. His 
 own favourite poem, anil that an essay in a 
 walk of the muses entirely new to him, where 
 consequently his liopes and fears were in the 
 most anxious alaim for his success in the at- 
 tchipt ; to have that poem so much ajiplauded 
 ay one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
 3US vibration that ever trilled along the heart- 
 
 • Chir bat J profiled by Mr. I'ytler's criticism, and 
 .fxyuuged tiie lowr lines aocoidingly. 
 
 strings of a poor poet. However, prov'denc* 
 to keep up the proper proportion of evil witL 
 the good, which, it seems is necessary in tliin 
 sutilunary state, thought proper to cheek my 
 exultation by a very serious misfi)rtune. A 
 day or two after 1 received your letter, my 
 horse came down with me and broke my ri:^ht 
 arm. As this is the first service mv arm has 
 done me since its disaster, I find myself unable 
 to do more than just in general terms to thank 
 you for this additional instance of your patron- 
 age and friendship. As to the faults you de- 
 tected in the piece, they are truly there : one 
 of them, tlie hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall 
 cut out ; as to the filling off in the catastrophe, 
 for tiie reason you justly adduce, it cannot easily 
 be remedied. Your approbation. Sir, has given 
 me such additional s))irits to persevere in this 
 species of poetic composition, that I am already 
 revolving two or three itories in my fancy. If 
 I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind 
 of embodied form, it will give me an additional 
 opportunity of assuring you how much 1 have 
 the honour to be, &c. 
 
 No. CLXI. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 ElUsland, 7th February, 179!. 
 
 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 scrva 
 me in writing ; you will allow that it is too 
 good an apology for my seemingly 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 compose on the rack. 
 
 I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
 my having an idea of composing an elegy on 
 the lite Aliss Burnet of Monboddo. 1 had the 
 honour of being pretty well acquiiinted with 
 her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss ol 
 an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amia- 
 ble and accomplished a piece of God's works 
 was no more. I have as yet gone no farther 
 than the following fragment, of which please lei 
 me have your opinion. You know that elegy 
 IS a subject so much exhausted, that any new 
 idea on the business is not to be expected ; *tii 
 well if we can place an old idea in a new light. 
 How far I have succeedeil as to this last, yoi; 
 will judge from what follows: — {See j). 3i7, 
 then this additional verse), 
 
 The parent's heart that nestled foml in thee. 
 That heart how sunk, a piey to grief anil 
 care ! 
 
 So dcckt the woodbine swecf yon aged tree, 
 So from it ravaged, leaves it bleak and bars. 
 
 I have proceeded no further 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Four kind letter, with your kind remem- 
 btartee of your goil-son, oaiue sifo. Tliis last, 
 Rlailam, is scarciiy what my pride can bear. 
 As to the little fcllnvv, he is, partiality apart, 
 the fiiH'st hoy I have of a long time si-en. Ik- 
 is now seventeen months old, has the sniall-pox 
 and measles over, has eut several teeth, and yet 
 never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
 bowijls. 
 
 I am truly happy to hear that the " little 
 floweret" is hloomiiig 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 dlfF.culty. When I get a 
 little abler you shall hear farther from. 
 
 Madam, yours, &c. 
 
 No. CLXII. 
 TO LADY W. 51. CONSTABLE, 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGING A PRESENT OF A VALUABLE 
 SNUFF-BOX* WITH A FINF. riCTURE OF >IARV, 
 QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE LID. 
 
 MY LADY, 
 
 Nothing less tnau the unlucky accident of 
 having lately broken my right arm, could have 
 prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
 ship's elegant present by Mrs. IMiller, from re- 
 turning you my warmest and most grateful ac- 
 knowledgments. I assure your ladyshij), I shall 
 set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall only 
 be more sacred. In the moment of poetic com- 
 position, the box shall be my inspiring genius. 
 When 1 would breathe the comprehensive wish 
 of benevolence for the happiness of others, I 
 shall recollect your ladyship ; when I would in- 
 terest my fancy in the distresses incident to hu- 
 Biauity, I shall remember the unfoituuate Mary. 
 
 iir.portancp, Mr. (i. ran dc mc MTvIce oi im 
 
 utmost iniporVince in time to ciune. 1 Nva* 
 born a poor lii g ; and however 1 may occasion- 
 ally pick a better boiie than I used to do, I 
 know I must live and die poor ; but I will in- 
 dulge the flattering faith that my poetry will 
 considerably outlive my poverty ; and withou 
 any Uistain affectatiou of spirit, I can piomise and 
 atfirni, tliut it must be no oidiiiary cr.iviiig o. 
 the latter shall ever make me do any tliiii'^ ii"* 
 jurious to the honest fame of the former. \\'hat- 
 ever may be my failings, for failings are a i)ar< 
 of human nature, may they ever be those of a 
 generous heart, and an independent mind. It 
 is no fault of mine that I was boin to depen- 
 dence ; nor is it ]\Ir. G 's chiefest praise 
 
 that he can command influence ; but it his me- 
 rit to bestow, not only with Jic kindness of 4 
 brother, but with thcr politeness of a gentleman , 
 and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with 
 thankfulness and retiiember with uudiininishecl 
 gratitude. 
 
 No. CLXIIL 
 TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
 Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on tiie 
 feelings of a poet, or whether 1 have, in the en- 
 closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
 success, I know not : but it has i)leased me be- 
 yond any effort of my muse for a good while 
 past ; on that account I enclose it particularly 
 to youi It is true, the purity of my motive* 
 may be suspected. I am already deeply indebt- 
 ed to Mr. G 's gooilne<« ; anil, what in 
 
 No. CLXIV. 
 
 FROM THE REV. (NOW PRINCIPAL) 
 BMRD. 
 
 SIR, Londor.\, Sf/i Frhrunrtj, 1791. 
 
 I TROUBLE you with this letter, to inform 
 you that I am in hopes of being able very soon 
 to bring to the press a new edition (long since 
 talked of) of Michad JJnice's Pnems. The 
 profits of the edition are to go to his mother — 
 a woman of eighty years of age — ])oor and help- 
 less. The poems are to be puUished by sub- 
 scri|)tion ; and it may lie possible, I think, to 
 make out a 2s. 6d. or 8s. volume, with the as- 
 sivtance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, 
 which I have got fiom ths mother of the T)oet. 
 
 IJut the design I have in view in writini; to 
 yon, is not merely to inform you of these facts, 
 it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in 
 sujipiirt of the scheme. Tlie reputation of Hruce 
 is already high with every reader of classical 
 taste, and I shall be anxious to guard against 
 tarnishing his character, by allowing any new 
 ])oems to appear that may lower it. For thii 
 purpose, the JISS. I am in ))ossession of, have 
 beva submitted to the revision of some wlios* 
 critical talents I ran trust to, and 1 uieaa still to 
 submit them to others. < 
 
 May 1 beg to know, therefore, if you will 
 take the trouble of jitrusing the MSS. — of giv- 
 ing your opinion, and suggesting what curlail- 
 nunts, alterations, or amendments, occur to you 
 as advisable ? An(i will you allow us to let it ht 
 known, that a few lines by yruwiU be a;ldsil 
 to the volume ? 
 
 1 know the extent of this request,— It ii 
 
 bold to make it. But I have this consolation, 
 the uiual wavs of men, is of iufinlttly greater | that thout;h yo»« see it j)iopt;r to refuse it, yoa 
 
354 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 you will 
 
 will not blame me for having mauv, . 
 K^ my apology in the nintivg. 
 
 May 1 just adii, that Michael Bruce is one in 
 whose com)>atiy5 from his past appearance, you 
 would not, I am convinced, l)lush to be found ; 
 and as I would submit every line of his that 
 should now be published, to Jour own criti- 
 cisms, you would be assured that nothing dero- 
 gatory either to him or you, would be admitted 
 in that appearance he may make in future. 
 
 You have already paid an honourable tribute 
 to kindred genius in Fergussnn — I fondly hope 
 that the mother of Bruce will experience your 
 patronage. 
 
 I wish to have the subscription papers circu- 
 lated by the 1 -tth of March, Bruce's birth-day ; 
 which, I understand, some friends in Scotland 
 talk this year of observing — at that time it will 
 be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain, liumble 
 stone over his grave. This, at least, I trust 
 you will agree to do — to furnish, in a few coup- 
 lets, an ijiscriptlon for it. 
 
 On those points may I solicit an answer as 
 early as possible ; a short delay might disap- 
 point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
 which is the object of the whole. 
 
 You will be pleased to address for me under 
 cover to the Duke of Athole, London. 
 
 P. S. — Have you ever seen an engraving 
 published here some time ago frcjn one of your 
 poems, " O thou Pale Orb." If you have 
 not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to 
 
 rou. 
 
 No. CLXV. 
 TO THE REV. G. BAIRD, 
 
 IK ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 Wkt did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
 such a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
 Bruce ? Don't 1 know, and have I not felt, 
 the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh 
 is heir to ? You shall have your choice of all 
 the unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
 letter had my direction s» as to have reached 
 me sooner (it only came to n,y hand this mo- 
 ment), 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 publi- 
 cation is solilv for the benefit of Bnice's mo- 
 ther. I would not put it in the ))o\ver of igno- 
 rance to suinii^e, 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 busi- 
 ness. I have such a host of peccadilloes, fail- 
 ings, follies, and l)ack»lidings (any bo<ly but my- 
 self miglit jicrliaps give some of tliem a vvorie 
 
 appellation), that by way of some balance, how ■ 
 ever trifling, in the account, I am fain to do anj 
 good that occurs in my very limited power to a 
 fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose oi 
 clearing a little the vista of retrospection. 
 
 No. CLXVI 
 TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 
 
 Ellisland, near Dumfries, lUh Feb. 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 
 acknowledged 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 woik, 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 
 forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a 
 composition, of which, in fact, until I read the 
 book, I did not even know the first principles. 
 I own. Sir, that at first glance, 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 Jews' harp ; that 
 the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the 
 half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of ihe 
 dawu, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
 than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that 
 from something innate and independent of all 
 association of ideas ; — these 1 had set down as 
 irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing your 
 book shook my faith. — In short, Sir, except 
 Euclid's Elements ofGeomttry. which I mule 
 a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the 
 winter evening of the first season I held the 
 plough, 1 never read a book which gave me 
 such a quantum of information, and added so 
 much to my stock of ideas as your " Essaijs (;?i 
 the Prijtci/.les of Taste." One thing. Sir, you 
 must forgive my mentioning as an uncoiuuion 
 nu-rit in the woik, I mean the language. To 
 clothe abstract jjhilosophy in elegance of styls, 
 sounds something like a contradiction in tci ms ; 
 but you have convinced me that they are quite 
 compatible. 
 
 I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
 late com))()sition. The one in print is my fiisl 
 essay in the way oi telling a tale. 
 
 I am, Sir, &c 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 355 
 
 No. CI.XVII. 
 TO DR. MOORE. 
 
 EUisland, 2Sth Ftbruari/, 1791. 
 
 I no not know, Sir, wlifther you are a sub- 
 icrilier to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If 
 »'nu are, the enclosed poem will not be altoc;e- 
 ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the 
 favour to send me a dozen copies of the ]iroi)f- 
 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 hard ; and also of show- 
 ing you, that the abilities you have been pleas- 
 ed to commend and patronize are still employed 
 in the way you wish. 
 
 The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tri- 
 bute to the memory of a man I loved much. 
 Poets have in this the same advantage as Ro- 
 man Catholics ; they can be of service to their 
 friends after they have past that bourne where 
 all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. 
 Whether, after all, eitlwr the one or the other 
 be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very 
 problematical ; but I am sure they are highly 
 gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox 
 text, I forget where in Scripture, says, " what- 
 soever is not of faith, is sin ;" so say I, wliat- 
 Boever is not detrimental to society, and is of 
 pn^itive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
 good things, and ought to be received and eii- 
 ••ycd by his creatures with thankful delight. 
 As almost all my religious tenets originate from 
 mv heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the 
 idea, that I can still keep up a tender inter- 
 course with the dearly beloved friend, or stih 
 more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to 
 the world of spirits. 
 
 The ballad on Queen ]\Iary was begun while 
 I was busy with Percy's Reliques of Emjliih 
 Pottry. By the way, how ranch is evei'y 
 honest heart, whiih 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 vii'tory. I should have been mortified to 
 the grouhd if you had not. 
 
 / have just read over, once more of" many 
 times, your Ztluco. 1 marked with my pen- 
 cil, as I went along, every passage that pleased 
 me particularly above the rest ; and one, or 
 two, I think, which, with humble deference, I 
 am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
 the bonk. I have sometiEiies thought to tran- 
 icribe these marked passages, or at least so much 
 of them as to point where they are, and send 
 them to you. Original strokts that strongly 
 depict the huJi'an heart, is your and Fielding's 
 province, bvyond any other novelist I have ever 
 perused. Richard>on indeed might perh ips be 
 ixcepted ; but, unhappily, his drai'\itis per- 
 
 sona: are beings of some other world ; and horj-- 
 ever they may captivate the une.\perienced, ro- 
 mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, 
 in |)roi)orti()n as we have made human naturs 
 our studv, dissatisfy our riper minds. 
 
 As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
 mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
 lately hid 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 fa'l 
 into the file of supervisiuship Viy seniority. I 
 have had an immense loss in the death of the 
 Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom al. 
 my fame and good fortune took its rise. Itide- 
 pendent 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 hia 
 day), my getting forward in the excise wculd 
 have been an easier business than otherwise it 
 will be. Though this was a consummation de- 
 voutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can 
 live and rhyme as 1 am ; and as to my boys 
 poor little fellows 1 if I cannot place them on 
 as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I 
 shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer 
 of events as to see that period, fix them on as 
 broad and independent a basis as possible. A- 
 mong the many wise adages which have been 
 treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is 
 one of the best. Bitter be the head of the com 
 nionulty, as the tail o' the gentry. 
 
 But I am got on a subject, which, however 
 interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
 quence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem 
 on the other page, and close this with assuring 
 you how sincerely 1 have the honour to be, 
 yours, &c. 
 
 (^Beauteous liose-Bud, p. 56.) 
 
 No. CLXVIII. 
 
 EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM 
 
 }2th March, 1791. 
 If the foregoing piece be worth your stric 
 tures, 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 auth. r will ever view his own 
 works. I believe, in general, novelty has some- 
 thing in it that inebriates the fancy, and not 
 unfrequently tlissipates and fumes away like 
 other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, 
 as usual, with an aching heart. A striking 
 instance of this might be adduced, in the rsvo. 
 lution of many a hymeneal honcvuicou. But 
 
S56 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 lest I 8:nk into stupid prose, and so sacrilegious- 
 'y intrude on the offic-e of my parish piiest, I 
 shall fill up the piire in my own xviiy, and p;ive 
 you another song of my kte composition, which 
 will apjjcar, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well 
 as the formei'. 
 
 You must know a beautiful Jacobite air. 
 There II never he peace till Jumie comes home. 
 When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
 ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
 becomes the kwful prey of historians and poets. 
 
 (See Songs, p. 236). 
 
 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 kcy- 
 stane." — 
 
 So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, 
 and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do 
 you like this thought in a ballad, 1 have just 
 now on the tapis ? 
 
 I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
 
 That happy my dreanis and my slumbers may 
 be : 
 
 For fir in the west is he I lo'e best — 
 The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 
 
 which I send you ; and God knows you may 
 perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read i 
 through. Not that this is my own opinion ; but 
 an author, by the time he has composed and 
 corrected his work, has quite pored away all 
 his powers of critical discrimination. 
 
 I can easily guess from my own heart, what 
 you have felt on a late most melancholy event. 
 God knows what I have suffered, at the loss ol 
 my best friend, my first, my dearest patron and 
 benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
 am and have I I 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 tws sisters sup- 
 port their loss. 1 had a packet of poetic baga- 
 telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw 
 the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see bv 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 benefactor ? It will oblige me be- 
 yond expression. 
 
 Good night, once more, and God bless you 
 
 No. CL. 
 
 No. CXLIX. 
 TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZIEL.* 
 
 FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 
 
 ElUsland, March 19, 1791. 
 
 Mr DEAR SIR, 
 
 I HAVK taken the liberty to frank this letter 
 to you, as it encloses an idle jjoeui of niir.e, 
 
 • This B nilcman, the factor, or steward, of Biirns's 
 nol.le friend. I^onl (Jlenrairn, with a view toeiicourapc 
 a second eilitiiin (if the |>ofnis, l;\id the vohiiiic bifcue 
 his lordship, with such an acfoiint of the niitio h;ird's 
 uluation and prospects .is from his slender ac(]uaiiit. 
 ance with him he co dd lurnish The rcsidt, as com 
 iHimicatcd to llunishv Mr. Dalziid, is hit;lily creditable 
 to the character of Lord CIcncairn. After ro.Khng the 
 book, his liirdsliiii declared that Its merits Rieatiy ex- 
 ceeded his cxpeelalioii, and he iciok it witli him .is a 
 Mterary curiusilj/ to Echnburyli. He repeated hit 
 
 FROM DR. MOORE. 
 
 DEAR SIR, London, 29th March, 1791. 
 
 Your letter of the 28th of February I recei- 
 ved only two days ago, and this day I I;ad the 
 pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, at 
 the Duke of Athole's, who had been so obliging 
 as to transmit it to ire, with the printed verses 
 on Allowaij Church, the Elegy on Captain 
 Hcnrierson, and the Epitaph. There are many 
 poetical beauties in the former : what [ particu- 
 larly admiie are the three striking similes trom 
 
 " Or like the snow falls in the river," 
 
 and the eight lines which begin with 
 
 " By this time he was cross the ford ;" 
 
 so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious im- 
 pressions of the country. And the twenty-two 
 lines from 
 
 " CofRiis stood round like open presses," 
 
 wishes to he of service to Burns, and dcjircd Mr. Dal. 
 niel to oiform him, that ni patronizing the iKiok, ush- 
 erinf? it with effect imo the world, or treating with 
 the l)ook>ellcrs, he would most willingly give every 
 ;ud ill his power ; adihiig his request that Hums woulj 
 take the earliest O|iportuiiitv of letting him know in 
 what way or manner he eonld best further his interislJi 
 He also expressed a wish to see some of the unpiiU 
 lished maniiscri|its, with a view to establishing Ins eha 
 lacttr Willi the world. — Cro-mlk. 
 
CORRESPOMDENTE 
 
 35? 
 
 which, in rr.y opinidn, are equal to the ingre- 
 dients of Sliakspeaie's cauMrnii in Mdcl/ft/i. 
 
 As fur the Elegij, tlie cliief merit of it con- 
 fists in the very graphical description of the ob- 
 jects belonging to the country in which the poet 
 writes, and which none but a Scottish jioet 
 could hive described, and none but a re.il poet, 
 and a close observer of Nature, could have «o 
 described. 
 
 3MDENTE. 
 
 land, I will let you know, that you may meet 
 me at your own house, or my friend Mrs. Ha- 
 milton's, or botii. 
 
 There is something original, and to me wonder- 
 fully pleising, in the Epitn/ih. 
 
 I remember you once hinte<l before, what you 
 "■poit in your last, that you had made somt 'e- 
 ui irks on Ztluco, on the margin. I should be 
 very glad to see them, and regret you did not 
 send tliem before the last edition, which is just 
 published. Pray transcribe them for me, I sin- 
 cerely value your opinion very highly, and pray 
 do not siippiess one of those in which you ctn- 
 Hire the sentiment or expression. Trust me it 
 will break no squares between us — I am not 
 ikin to t!ie Bishop of Grenada. 
 
 I must now mention what has been on my 
 mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
 you imprudent in scattering abroad so many 
 (•o|)ies of your veises. It is most natural to 
 give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
 to tho-'e who are connected with the subject, 
 or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
 tkis ought to be done under promise not to give 
 other copies. Of the poem you sent me on 
 Queen IMary, I refused every solicitation for 
 copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. My 
 motive for cautioning you on this subject is, 
 that I wish to engage you to collect all your 
 fugitive jiieces, not alreidy printed, and after 
 they have been re-considered, and polished to 
 the utmost of your power, I would have you 
 publish them by another subscription ; in pro- 
 m<iling of which I will exert myself with plea- 
 *ure. 
 
 In your future compositions, I wish you 
 would use the modern English. You have 
 shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently. 
 Although in certain subjects it gives additional 
 zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- 
 lish ; and wliv should you write onlv for a part 
 of the island, when you can command the ad- 
 miration of the whole. • 
 
 If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. 
 Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately 
 remembered to her. Slve must not judge of ti* 
 warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the 
 number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line 
 but on business : and I do not know that I 
 should hive scribbled all this to you, but for the 
 business part, that is, to instigate you to a new 
 |)ubltcation ; and to tell you that when you 
 think you h ive a sufficient number to make a 
 vwUinie, you shouiil set your friends on getting 
 subscriptions. I wish I could have a few liours 
 conversation with you — I have many things to 
 •iV vvhi'di I cannot write. If I ever go to Scot- 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir, kc 
 
 No. CLI. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOI'. 
 
 Ellisland, Wtli April, 1791. 
 I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to 
 return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
 many instances of your friciidship, atid particu- 
 larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
 that my evil genius had iu store for me. How- 
 ever, life is chequered — ;joy and sorrow — for 
 on Saturday morning last, Mrs. IJurns made 
 me a present of a fine boy ; rather htouter but 
 not so handsome as your goil-son w;is at his time 
 of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake 
 to be my chef d'asuvre in that species of manu- 
 facture, as I look on Tain o' Sliunter to be my 
 standard perfiirmance in the poetical line. 'Tia 
 true, both the one and the other discover a spic* 
 of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be as 
 Well spared ; but then they also show, in my 3- 
 piiiion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish, 
 that I despair of ever excelling. Mis. IJurni 
 is getting stout again, and laid as lustily about' 
 her to-<lay 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 hcatlier. We cannot 
 hope for that highly polished m:nd, that charm- 
 ing delicicy of soul, which is found among the 
 female world in the more elevated stations of 
 life, and which is certainly by far the most be- 
 witching charm in the famous cestus of V^enus. 
 It is iudeed such an inestimab'e treasure, that 
 where it can be had iu its native he.ivenly ])u- 
 rity, unstained by some one or other of the 
 many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by 
 some one or other of the many speci .s of ca- 
 [)rice, I declare to Heaven, 1 should think it 
 cheaply purchased at the expense of every other 
 eiithly gooil ! But as this angelic creature is, 
 I am afraid, extiem 'ly rare in any station and 
 rank of life, and totally denied to such an hum- 
 ble one as mine ; we meaner mortals must put 
 U]) 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 ; un- 
 affected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature* 
 mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a sim- 
 plicity f.f soul, unsusjiicious of, because unac- 
 quainted with, the crooked ways of a selfisl^ 
 interested, disingenuous world ; — and the dear- 
 est charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetiiest 
 of disposition, and a generous warmth of heart, 
 gratctul for love on our part, and ardently glow- 
 ing with a more than equal return ; these, 
 wit/- a healthy frame, a sound vigorous consci 
 
358 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 tution, v/liich jour Tiigh ranks can scarcely ever 
 hope to enjoy, are tlie charms of lovely woman 
 in my l.umble walk of life. 
 
 This is the greatest effort my broken arm has 
 vet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how 
 cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small- 
 pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and re- 
 store Lim J 
 
 No. CLII, 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 ]\th June, 1791. 
 
 Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
 in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you 
 with this. He is a I^Ir. Clarke, of Moffat, 
 principal schoolmaster there, and is at present 
 
 suffering severely under the of 
 
 one or two powerful individuals of his em- 
 ployers. He is accused of harshness to 
 
 that were |)lace(l 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 im- 
 pervious and inaccessible by any other way 
 than a positive fracture with a cvidgel ; a fellow 
 whom, in fjct. it savours of impiety to attempt 
 making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
 blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty 
 fiat of his Creator. 
 
 The patrons of Moffat school are, the mi- 
 nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
 burgh, and us the business comes now before 
 them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every 
 tiling in his ])ower to serve the interests of a 
 man of genius an<l worth, and a man whom 1 
 particularly respect and esteem. You know 
 Bome good fellows among the magistracy and 
 
 council, but 
 
 particularly, you have much to say with a re- 
 verend ge .tleuian to whom you have the ho- 
 nour of being very nearly related, and whom 
 ills country and age have hid the honour to 
 produce. 1 need not name tl-.e historian of 
 Charles V'.' I tell him, tluough the medium 
 of his nephew's itifluence, thit Mr. Clarke is a 
 gentleman wlio will not disgrace even his pa- 
 tronage. I know the merits of the cause tbo- 
 rouglily. and say it, thit my friend is falling 
 a sacriticc to iirejudiced ignorance, and 
 
 God help the chi. (hen of dependence! 
 Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too 
 often, alas ! alnio-^t nnexceplionably, received by 
 their friends with disrespect and reproach, under 
 the thin disguise ot cold civility and liumiliating 
 advice. O to be a stu iy savage, stalking iu 
 the pride of his independence, amid the solitary 
 
 • Dr. RoU'rtion was uncle to Mr. Cunnincham. 
 
 wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilized ilfe, 
 helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, precari- 
 ous as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
 man has his virtues, and no man is without hia 
 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 your- 
 selves to be, pass by virtues if you please, 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 with- 
 out you. And since deviating more or less from 
 the paths of piopriety and rectitude, must be 
 incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
 put it in my power, always from myself, and 
 of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
 errors. 1 do not want to be independent that 
 I may sin, but I want to be independent in my 
 sinning. 
 
 To return in this rambJing letter to the sub- 
 ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, 
 Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
 fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and 
 his gratitude will merit the other. I long much 
 to hear from you. Adieu. 
 
 No. CLIII. 
 
 FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 
 
 Dryhurgh Abbey, \lth June, 1791. 
 Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr 
 Bui IIS to make one at the corotiation of the bust 
 of Thomson, on Ediiam Hill, on the 22d of Sep- 
 tember ; for which day jierhaps his muse may 
 inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose 
 Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across 
 the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
 point from his faim — and, wandering along the 
 pastoral banks of Thomson's puic parent stream, 
 catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he 
 finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry- 
 burgh. Tlieie the commendator will give him 
 a he irty welcome, and try to light his lamp at 
 the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar 
 of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambu- 
 lation of the Tweed, is a thought of the lata 
 Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Loril Minto's, follow- 
 ed out by his accL Mplished grandson, tlie pre- 
 sent Sir Gilbert, who, having been with I onJ 
 Buchan lately, th( project was renewed, an* 
 will, tliey hope, be executed in the uianner pro 
 posed. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 359 
 
 No. CLIV. 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 MT lORD, 
 
 Language sinks under the ardour of itiy 
 ffcliiig!', when I would thank your lordship for 
 the lionour you have done me in inviting uie 
 to make one at the coronation of the hust of 
 Thomson. In my first enthusia!«n in reading 
 file card you did me the honour to write me, I 
 ovei looked every ohstacle, and determined to go ; 
 but I tear it will not be in my power. A week 
 or two's dbsenee, in the very middle of my har- 
 vest, is what I mueh doubt I dare not venture 
 on. 
 
 Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- 
 sion : l)ut who would write after Collms ? I 
 nad over his verses to the memory of Thomson, 
 and despaired. — I got indeed to the lenstli of 
 thiee or four stanzas, in the way of address to 
 the shade of the burd, on crowning his bust. 
 I shall trouble your lordship, with the subjoin- 
 ed copy of them, whieh, I am afraid, will be 
 but too convincing a proof how unequal I am 
 tu the task. However, it affords me an oppor- 
 tunity of approaching your lordship, and declar- 
 iiig how sincerely aud gratefully I have the ho- 
 cuur to be, &c. 
 
 ( See p. 55.) 
 
 No. CLV. 
 TO JIR. THOMAS SLOAN. 
 
 CAR* OF \VM. KENNEDY, ESQ. MANCHESTER. 
 
 Ellhland, Sept. 1, 1791. 
 
 »IV DFAR SLOAN, 
 
 Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
 that reason I hurry to tell you that 1 just now 
 learn that Mr. Ballantine does not chouse to in- 
 terfere more in tlie l)usiness. I am tiuly sorry 
 for it, but cannot help it. 
 
 You blame me lor not writing you sooner, 
 but you will please to recollect that you omit- 
 ted one little necessary piece of information ; 
 
 your address. 
 
 However you know equally well, my hurried 
 life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
 ment. It must be a longer period than the 
 ongcst life " in the world's hale and undegc- : 
 Derate days," that will make mc forget so dear I 
 a frien J as Mr. Sioan. 1 am prodigal enough ' 
 tt times, but I will not part with such a trea- 
 sure as that. 
 
 I t:an easily enter into the embarras of your 
 present situation. You know mv favouiite quo 
 tation from Young — . 
 
 -" On Reason build Resolvk 
 
 And that other favourite one from Thomson* 
 Alfred— 
 
 " MHiat proves the hero truely great, 
 Is, never, never to despair." 
 
 Or, shall I quote you an author of your ac- 
 quaintance ? 
 
 " — Whether doing, suffering, or forbear- 
 ing, 
 You may do miracles by — persevering." 
 
 I have nothing new to tell you. The few 
 friends we have are going on in the olrl way. I 
 sold my crop on this day se'night, and sold it 
 very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 
 above vaue. IJut such a scene of drunkenness 
 was hardly ever seen in this country. After 
 the roup was over, about thirty peo|,le engaged 
 in a battle, every man for his own hand, and 
 fought it out for three hours. Nor was tlie 
 scene much better in the liouse. No fighting, 
 iadeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and 
 decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by 
 attending them, that they could not stand. 
 You will easily guess how I enjcyed the scene ; 
 as I was no farther over than )ou used to see 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshita 
 these many weeks. 
 
 Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear Friend ! 
 
 sir. 
 
 That eoluiim of true majesty in man." 1 
 
 Nn. CLVL 
 FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN 
 Dryhurgh Ahhey, \Qth September, 179L 
 
 Your address to the shade of Thomson has 
 been well received by the puMic ; and though I 
 should di>aiiprove of your allowing l\-.;asus to 
 riile with you off the field of your lioiiourdile 
 and useful profession, yet I cannot resist an ioi. 
 pul.se which I feel at thi.s moment to suggest tc 
 your niiise, Jhiivcut Hume, as an excellent fnih- 
 ject for hei grateful song, in whieh the peculiar 
 aspect and manners of our country might fur- 
 nish an excellent portrait and la^d,^cape of Scot- 
 land, lor the employment of happy moments ot 
 leisure and reeess, fioni your more important 
 oceiip.itions. 
 
 Your Ilullmeen, jnd Saturdai/ Niylit, will 
 remain to distant posterity as interesting jiic- 
 tures «f rural innocence and hapjiiness in yout 
 native country, and were happily written in tht, 
 dialect of the people ; but ILirieat IJome bt-it^g 
 suited to descriptive poetr\. except where collo- 
 quial, may escape disguise of a dialect which ad- 
 mits of no elegance or dignity of expression. 
 Without the assistance of any god or goddess, 
 ind without the invocation of any foreign muse, 
 you may convey in epistolary form the de»criu' 
 
BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 No. CLVirr. 
 TO MR. AINSLIE. 
 
 MT DEAR AINSLIE, 
 
 Can you minister to a mint! diseased ? Csa 
 you, amid the honors of penitence, regret, re. 
 morse, head-ache, nausea, ami al) the rest of the 
 d — d hoimds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, 
 who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness— — 
 can you speak peace to a tioulileil soul ? 
 
 Miserable perdu that I am, 1 have tried every 
 thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here 
 must I sit a monument of the ven^;eanc« laid up 
 in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
 ihick of the clock as it slowly — sloulv numbers 
 over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n 
 them, are ranked up before me, every one at his 
 neighbour's backside, and every one with a bur- 
 then of anguish on his back, to pour on my de- 
 voted head — and there is none to pity me. My 
 wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and 
 my sins come staring tne in the face, every one 
 telling a more bitter talc thau his fellow.— 
 Wheii I tell you even .... has lost its 
 i power to please, you will guess something of 
 Kr LAlvV, my l\ell within, and all around me — I began 
 
 I wouT.n, as usual, have availed myself of the EUlanks and Elibraes, but the stanza fell un- 
 
 {Scn of a scene sn pl.iddcnirg nnd picturesque, 
 urith all the ioncomitant local position, land- 
 •cape and costume ; contrasting the peace, im- 
 provement, and ha|ipiness of th.e borders of the 
 once hostile nations of Britain, with their former 
 oppression and misery, and showing, in lively 
 and beiutiful colours, the beauties and joys of a 
 rural lite. .\nd as the unvitiated heart is na- 
 turally disposeil to overflow in giatitude in the 
 moment of [)rosperity, such a subject would fur- 
 nish you with an amiable opportunity of perpe- 
 tuating the names of G.-ncairn, Aliller, and 
 your other eminent benefactors ; which from 
 what I know of your spirit, and have seen of 
 your poems and letters, will not deviate from 
 the chastity of ])raise, that is so uniformly unit- 
 ed tu true t;iste and genius. 
 
 I am, Sir, 8cc. 
 
 No. CLVII. 
 TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM 
 
 privilege your gnodness has alloweil nie, of send 
 leg you any tliirig 1 compose in my poetical 
 way ; but as 1 had resolved, so soon as the 
 Vjck ot Miy ii reparable loss would allow me, to 
 Dav a trib'ite to mv late benefactor, 1 determined 
 M make t'li.it the fiist piece I should do myself 
 the honour of sending von. Mad the wing of 
 
 enjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue ; 
 at last 1 luckily thought of reading over an old 
 letter of yours, that lay by nie In my book-case, 
 and I felt something lor the first tune since I 
 opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. 
 Well — 1 begin to breathe a little, siiu:e 1 began 
 j to write you. How aie you, and wbat are vou 
 
 my fancy Iict ecpial to the ardour of my heart, doing ? How goes law ? Apropos, for connec- 
 
 tion's sake do not address to me sujjervisor, for 
 that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on 
 the list, as we call it, lor a supervisor, and will 
 be called out by and bye to act one; but at 
 to show as ojienly that my heart giows, j |,resent, I am 3 simp'e ganger, tho' t'other diy I 
 
 got an appointment to an cxci-e division of L.5i5 
 jier uiin. better than the rest. My present in 
 come, down money, is L.70 jier ann. 
 
 the enclosed bad been nuich more worthy your 
 piTUsal ; as it is, 1 beg leave to lay it at your 
 ladv?hip's feet. As all the world knows my 
 oliliiiations to the late Karl of Glencairn, I would 
 wish 
 
 ami shall ever glow, with the most gratelul 
 wnse and reineniloance of his lordship's good- 
 aess. 'I'he sables 1 did m\self the honnur to 
 wear to his lordship's memory, were not the 
 "niocktiy of woe.'' Nor shail my gratitude 
 perish with lue : — If, among my children, I 
 t!i,ill have a son tliat has a heart, he sli.ill band 
 it iliiwn to his child as a family honour, and a 
 family debt, that my dearest existence 1 owe to 
 the uolile house oi (ileiuMirn ! 
 
 I was aliont to say, my Inly, th.it if you thuk 
 the poem may venluie to see the light, I wonM, 
 in some way or other, give it to the world.* 
 
 • t lip p.<-m eniloiitil. Is 'MiC Ul'Htni for Jamtt, 
 
 I h ive one or two good fellows here whoa 
 you would be .;lad to know. 
 
 No. CLIX. 
 
 FROM S.R JOHN M'HITEFOORD. 
 
 SIR, AViir Miv/Uile, in/ A Oct. 1T91 
 
 Accept of my thanks for your favour with 
 the Lamrnl on tl.c death of my much esteemeii 
 fi lend, and y(uirwoitliy patron, the perusal of 
 which pleased and .dfei'te<l me much. The line« 
 aillressed to me are very llittiring. 
 
 t have always tnou^ht it most natural to s'lp 
 >Mie, (uiid a Htruag uigunu'ut iri favour of i fu 
 
yei 
 
 ture existence) tnat wYfTi we see an lionoiinible 
 aiitl viitiioiis man labouring under boilily iiilir- 
 niitie<, :inil oppre-sed by the fiowns of torluin' 
 in tills world, that thore was a happier state be- 
 yond tlie grave ; where that worth and b( nour 
 wiiieh weie negUcted heie, would meet with 
 tiii'ir just reward, and where temporal misfor- 
 loiies would reeeivu an eternal recompense. Let 
 us cherish this hope for our departed friend ; 
 and moderate our grief for that loss we have 
 fu>tait.ed ; knowing that he cannot return to 
 us, but we n-.ay go to liiin. 
 
 Hcinenibcr nie to your wife, and with every 
 good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
 family, believe me at all times, 
 
 Your most sincere friend, 
 
 JOHN WIIITEFOORD. 
 
 No. CLX. 
 FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 
 
 Erlinhurgh, 27th Nov. 1791. 
 
 You bnve much reason to blame me for ne 
 gli'cting till now to acknowledge the receipt of 
 B most agreeable packet, cnnt.iining The W/ii^- 
 tle, a baihul ; and I'lie Linneut ; which reached 
 nie about six weeks auo in London, from whence 
 I am just returned. Your letter was forwarded 
 to me there from Edmhurgh, where, as I ob- 
 served by the date, it had lain for some days. 
 This wys an additional reason for me to have 
 answered it immeiliately on receiving it ; but 
 the truth wa«, the bu-lle of business, engage- 
 ments and confusion of one kind or anotl.er, in 
 which I found myself immersed all the time I 
 was in London, ubsoluttly put it out of my 
 power. ]5iit to have done with apologies, let 
 me now endeavour to prove myself in some de- 
 gree deserving of the very flattering compliment 
 you pay me, by giving you at leist a frank and 
 candid, if it should not be a judicious criticism 
 on the poems you sent me. 
 
 The ballad of The Whiit/e is, in my opinion, 
 trulv excellent. The' old tiadition which you 
 have taken up is the best adapted for a Biccha- 
 nalian ci'm])osition of any I have ever met with, 
 and you have done it foil justice. In the first 
 place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
 the subject, and ar« uncommonly happy. For 
 example, — 
 
 " The bands grew the tighter the more they 
 were wet." 
 
 '* Cyuthia 'linted she'd find them next morn." 
 
 * Thnigh Fate said a hero should perish in light. 
 So up rose bright Pl.iebus and down fell the 
 kni,:;ht." 
 
 mh the celt place, you are singularly happy in 
 
 the diRcrimlnation of your here es, and in givinj; 
 e.ich the sentiments and language suitable to his 
 character. And, lastly, you have much merit 
 ill the delicacy of the paiii'u'yric which you have 
 contrived to throw on eich of the dniinntis per- 
 soncr, jierfectly ajipinpri ate to his iharacter. 
 The compliment to .Sir Hubert, the blunt sol- 
 dier, is peculiarlv line. In short, this composi- 
 tion, in my opinion, does you great honour, and 
 I see not a line or a word in it which 1 couid 
 wish to be altered. 
 
 As to 7he Lament, I suspect, from scime ex- 
 pressions in your letter to me, that yu are more 
 doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece 
 than of the other, anil I own I think you lune 
 reason ; for although it contains some beautihil 
 stanzas, as the first, " The wind blew Imllow," 
 &c. the fifih, " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the thir- 
 teenth, " Awake thy la>t s.id voice," Sic. Yet 
 it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior 
 to several of tho-e yon have already pulilislied 
 in the same strain. My principal olyecMon lies 
 against the plan of the piece. I think it was 
 unnecessary and improper to put the lamenta- 
 tii'n in the mouth of a fictitious character, au 
 ayed burd. — It had been much better to hsve 
 l.iiiiented your patron in your own person, to 
 have expressed your genuine feilings for liis loss, 
 and to have spoken the Iai.i;u.ige of nature rather 
 than that of fiction on the subject. Compare 
 this with your poem of the same title in your 
 ])rinted volume, which begins, () ihou /-ti/e 
 Orb ! and oliserve what it is that forms the 
 charm of that composition. It is, that it speaks 
 the language of truth and ci nature. The change 
 is, in my opinion, injudicious too in this respect, 
 that an agtd bard has much less need of a pa- 
 tron and protector than a yoimy one. I have 
 thus given you, with much freedom, my opinion 
 of both the pieces. I should have made a very 
 ill return to the comjihment you paid nie, if 1 
 had given you any olher than my genuine sen- 
 tiiiieiits. 
 
 It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
 you when you find leisure, and I beg you will 
 lielieve me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 No. CLXI. 
 
 TO MISS DA VIES.- 
 
 It is impossible. Madam, that the generout 
 warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
 mind, can have iny de.i of that mural ili>e.i»e 
 uniier which I uanappily must rank a> tlie chief 
 of sinners ; I mean a turpitmle of the mora' 
 powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
 science. — In vain remorse rears her horrent 
 crest, and routes all lier snakes ; benea'h the 
 di-adly tixed eye and le.iden hand of induJenct, 
 their wildest ire iicharniid Intci the torpor of ih« 
 bat, slumliNiing out tin- ri;;ours of ^viiiter in thi 
 VV 
 
862 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 chink of a rained wall. Nothing less. Madam, 
 could have inadt me so long neglect your oblig- 
 ing commands. Indeed I had one apology — the 
 bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 
 
 10 strongly am I iiterc-ted in INIiss D '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. 
 
 Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
 tween our wishes and our powers ? Why is the 
 most generous wish to make others blest, impo- 
 tent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that 
 crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life 
 I have met with a few people to whom how 
 gladly would I hive said — " Go, be happy ! I 
 know that your hearts have been wounded by 
 the scorn of the proud, whom accident has plac- 
 ed above you — or worse still, in whose hand are, 
 perhaps, ])laced many of the comforts of your 
 life. But there! ascend that rock, Indepen- 
 dfnce, and look justly down on their littleness 
 of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your 
 indignation, and the foolish sink before your con- 
 tempt ; and largely impart that happiness to 
 othei s, which, I am certain, will give yourselves 
 so much ])leasure to bestow !" 
 
 Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this de- 
 lightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, 
 amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find my- 
 self poor and poweiless incapable of wiping one 
 tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com- 
 fort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world ! 
 say I, that its affairs are administered so ill .' 
 They talk of reform ;— good Heaven ! what a 
 reform would 1 make among the sons, and even 
 the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately, 
 should go fools from the high places where mis- 
 begotten chance has peiked them up, and through 
 life should they skulk, ever haunted by their na- 
 tive insignificance, as the body marches accom- 
 panied by its shadow. — As for a much more for- 
 midable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to 
 do with them : Had 1 a world, there should not 
 be a knave in it. 
 
 But the hand that coulil give, I wou/d liberally 
 Sll ; and I would pour delight on the heart that 
 ?ould kindly forgive, and generously love. 
 
 Stdl the inequalities of his life are, among 
 men, comparatively tolerable — but theie is a de- 
 licacy, a tindernext, accompanying erery view 
 in which we can place lovely Woman, that are 
 grated and shocked at the rude, caj)riciuus dis- 
 tinctions of fortune. Woman is the blourl-royal 
 '>f life ; let there be slight ilcgrees of precedency 
 •mong them — but let them be all sacred. 
 Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, 
 I am not accountable ; it is un origiual compo- 
 Miat feature of my mind. 
 
 No. CLXn. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP 
 
 ElUdand, 11 th December, »79) 
 Many thanks to you, Madam, for your gooi 
 news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
 ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
 been heard, and will be answered up to tht 
 warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
 then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
 representative of his late parent, in every thing 
 but his abridged 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 herseli 
 the mother of several soldiers, needs neither pre ■ 
 face nor apology. 
 
 {Death Song. Seep. 230) 
 
 The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
 going verses was, looking over, with a musicai 
 friend, IM'Donald's collection of Highland airs 
 I was struck with one, an Isle of Skve tune 
 entitled Or an an Aoig, or. The SoJig of Death 
 to the measure of which I have adapted mj 
 stanzas. I have of late composed two or thref 
 other little pieces, which eie yon full orbed 
 moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at 
 old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk 
 into a modest crescent, just peejiing forth at 
 dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribt 
 tor you. jI Dieuje vous commende ! 
 
 LETTERS, 1792. 
 
 No. CLXin. 
 
 TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F.A.S. 
 
 SIR, 1792. 
 
 I BELIEVE among all our Scots literati you 
 have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, 
 who fills the moril philosojihy chair in the Uni- 
 versity of Edinbi rgh. To say that he is a man 
 of the first pattt, and what is more, a man o, 
 the first worth, to a gentleman of your general 
 acquaintance, and who so mi;ch enjoys the lux- 
 ury of unencumbered freedom and undisturbed 
 privacy, is not perhaps retomniendatlon enough : 
 — but when I inform you that ]\lr. Stewart'a 
 principal characterisMc is v(.nr favourite fea 
 tore ; Mu^ sterling indepeiiilciu-e of miiul, which, 
 though every man's right, so tew men have the 
 courage to claim, and fewer st;ll the m.ignani- 
 mity to support ; — When I till you, that unse- 
 iluced by sjflenilour, and undisguste<l by wretclv- 
 edncss, he appreciates the merits of the varioui 
 actors in the great drama of life, merely as tho 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 363 
 
 perfinii tlu-ir parts — in short, he is a man after 
 your own heart, and 1 comply with his earnest 
 re<iue>t 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 Cas- 
 tle, whieh you proposed visiting ; or if you 
 eiuil.l transmit him the enclosed, he would with 
 the gri'atest pleasure, meet you any where in the 
 neiglil)OurhooH. I write to Ayrshire to inform 
 I\Ir. Stewart tliat 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 I 
 have at least an opportunity of assuring you 
 with what truth ar><l respect, 
 I am. Sir, 
 
 Your great admirer. 
 
 And very humble servant. 
 
 No. CLXIV. 
 TO THE SAAIE. 
 
 Among the many witch stories I have heard 
 relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember 
 only two or three. 
 
 Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
 of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on 
 Buch a night as the devil would choose to take 
 the air in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was 
 plo<]ding and plashing homeward with his plough 
 irons on his .shoulder, having been getting some 
 repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
 way l.iy by the kii k of Alloway, and being ra- 
 ther on the anxious look out in approaching a 
 place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
 the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
 he was struck aghast by discovering tlirough 
 t!ie hcrrora of the storm and stormy night, a 
 Huht, which, on his nearer approach, plainly 
 jnowcd itself to proceed from the haunted edi- 
 fice. Whether he had been fortified fiom above 
 on his ilevout supplication, as is customary with 
 people when they suspect the inmiediate pre- 
 .sence of Satan ; or whether, according to ano- 
 ther custom, he had got courageously drunk at 
 t.Se smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
 b.it so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay 
 into the very kirk. As good 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, de- 
 pending liom the roof, over the (ire, simmering 
 tome heads of unchristened childien, limbs of 
 executed malefactors, &c. for the business of the 
 night. — It was, in foi a penny, in for a pound, 
 witli the honest plooghmin: so without cere- 
 mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, 
 itid pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
 veiti^i * on his he.ui, ami carried it fairly home, 
 »'h»"-e it remained long in the family, a liv iig 
 evidence of the truth of the ston'. 
 
 Another story which . can prove to be tqi'dU 
 ly authentic, was as follows •. — 
 
 On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farBi- 
 er from Carrick, and consequently whose way 
 lay by the very .gate of Alloway kiik-yird, in 
 order to cross the river Doon at the old bi idge, 
 which is about two or three hundred yanis fur- 
 ther on than the said gate, had been iKtained 
 by his business, tdl by the time he reached Al- 
 loway i> was the wizard hour, between night 
 and morning. 
 
 Though he was terrified, with a blaze stream- 
 ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact 
 that to turn back on these occasions is ruiming 
 by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudent- 
 ly advanceil on liisroad. When he had reached 
 the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
 entertained, through the ribs and arches of ao 
 old gothic window, which still faces the high- 
 way, 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 stop})ing his horse to 
 observe them a little, could plainly descry the 
 faces of many old women of his acquaintance 
 and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was 
 dressed, tradition does not say ; but the ladies 
 were all in their smocks : and one of them hap- 
 pening urduckily to have a smock wliich wai 
 cimsiderably too short to answer all the purpose 
 of that piece of dress, our faimer was so tickled, 
 that he involuntarily burbt out, with a loud 
 laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short 
 sark!" and recollecting himself, instantly spur- 
 red his horse to the top 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 farmer that the river Doon was so near, 
 for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which 
 was a good one, against he reached the midille 
 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 them actual- 
 ly sprung to seize him ; but it was too late, no- 
 thing was on her side of the stream but the 
 horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her 
 infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of light- 
 ning ; but the farmer was beyond her reacK, 
 However, the unsightly, tail-less conditum ot 
 the vigorous steed was to the last hour of the 
 noble creature's life, an awful warning to the 
 Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr 
 maikets. 
 
 The last relation 1 shall give, though eijua'lj 
 true, is not so well identified as the two forme--, 
 with regard to the scene ; but as the best autho- 
 rities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 
 
 On a summer's evening, about the time that 
 nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiiy 
 of the chearful day, a shepherd boy belonging 
 to a farmer in the immediate neighbouihoo;! of 
 Alloway kirk, had just folded his ch.4rge, aiid 
 was returning home. Ashe passed the klik. 
 in the adjoining field, he fell in with a cre« e 
 
SG4 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 men and women, wno were busy pulling stems 
 of the plant ragwort. He observed tbat us 
 eacb person (lulled a ragwort, he or sbe got 
 astride of it, and called out, " up borsie!" on 
 wliich the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, 
 through the air with its rider. Th.e foolish boy 
 likewise pulled his ragwort, and crieii with the 
 rest, " up borsie !" and, strange to tell, away 
 be flew with the company. The first stage at 
 wh.ich the cavalcade stopt, was a merchant's 
 wine cellar in Dourdeaux, where, without say- 
 ing by your leave, they quaffed away at the best 
 the cellar could afford, 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 Idd, being equally a 
 stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly 
 got himselt drunk ; and when the rest took 
 horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day 
 by some of the peojile belonging to the merchant. 
 Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
 what he was, he said he was 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. 
 
 I am, &c. &c.* 
 
 No. CLXV. 
 TO MRS. DUXLOP. 
 
 bth Jamtary, 1792. 
 
 You «ce my hurried life, Madam : I can only 
 eoinniaiid starts of time ; h(iwe\er, I am glad 
 of one thing ; since 1 finished the other sheet, 
 the politici! blast that threatened my welfare 
 is overblown. I have correspomleil with Com- 
 niissiiiuer Cirahani, for the Hoard had made 
 me the subject of their animadversions; ami 
 now I lu've the pleasure of informing you, that 
 all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to 
 these informers, may the ('evil be let loo-ie to 
 
 but bold ! I was prayitig most fervently 
 
 in my last slieet, and I must not so soon fall a 
 swearing in this. 
 
 Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idlv of- 
 fwiiiuH think what mischief they do by their 
 lualiiioMs insinuations, indirect impertinence, 
 or tbonghtlcKs blabbings. M hat a difference 
 
 * This letter wa' topic d from the Cmswa Litcruria, 
 l7Kfi. Ii was coiiiinuriio^iteil to tile editor of that w'ork 
 Ov Mr. Gilchrist of SUunford, with the following re- 
 mark. 
 
 " In a collection of miscellaneous ptipcrs of the An- 
 tiiiii oy (■<ri>vc vvhoh I pilrchascd C few years since, 
 I (■iiinil ihc followiiif; letter written to him by Hums, 
 t»licii the former was collecting the Nntiquitics of Scot- 
 land ; When I premise it was on the second tradition 
 that he aflerw.irils formed tlic inimllah'e Ia!e of " Tarn 
 ONhaiitcr," I cannot <l"ubtof its I>ciM)J read with yreat 
 interest. It were " hiiriiilii,' d.iy-li(;ht" to |> liiit ciut to 
 I leader, (and wh(> is not a icailcr ol liMrns?/ the 
 (hoiif^hts he iftcrwarus iianiiiiUntcd iiit^ tiic rhythini- 
 <ial narr;< ve." 
 
 O. G. 
 
 there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevor 
 lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charitieg 
 and all the virtues, between one class of human 
 beings and another. For instance, the amiable 
 circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable 
 
 hall of D , their generous hearts — their un- 
 
 contaminated dignified minds — their informed 
 and polished understandings — what a contrast, 
 when compared — if such comparing were not 
 downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
 creant who can deliberately plot the destruc- 
 tion of an honest man that never offended him, 
 and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortu- 
 nate being, his faithful wife, and prattliitg inno- 
 cents, 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- 
 fluced my whigmelcerie cup, and told them that 
 it had been a family-piece among the descend- 
 ants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such 
 an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering 
 the punch round in it ; and by and bye, never 
 did your great ancestor lay a Southron more 
 completely to rest than for a time did your 
 cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the sea- 
 son of wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
 friend, and bless me the humblest and sincerest 
 of your friends, by granting you yet many re- 
 turns of the season ! May all good things at- 
 tend }ou and yours wherever they are scattered 
 over the earth ! 
 
 No. CLXVL 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
 PRINTER. 
 
 Dumfries, 22d Januari/, 1792. 
 I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a voung 
 lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of 
 fashion too. What a task ! to you — who cara 
 no more for the held of animals called young 
 ladies, than you do for the herd of animals 
 called young gentlemen. To you — who despisi? 
 and detest the groti])ings and combinations of 
 fashion, as an idiot painter that seems indus- 
 trious to place siaritig fools and unprincipled 
 knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
 men of sense and honesty are too often thrown 
 in the dimtnest shades. BIrs. Uiddel, who 
 will take this letter to town with her and send 
 it to you, is a character that, even in your own 
 w»y, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would 
 be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The 
 lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as I 
 think myself somewlwt of a judge in my own 
 trade, I assure you that her verses, always cor- 
 rect, and often elegant, are much beyond the 
 common run of the iiili/.poetessvs of the day 
 She is a great admirer of your book, and hear- 
 ing me say that I was acquainted with you, slu 
 
CORKESPOXDENCE. 
 
 365 
 
 Beg;,'e(l to be known t) you, as she is just fjoirii? 
 U) jiiy liiT first visit to our Caledonian capital. 
 I tii!(l licr that her best way was to desire lier 
 near relation, and your intimate friend, Crais^- 
 d irrocli, to have you at liis liouse while she was 
 theie ; and lest you might think of a lively West 
 Indian f^irl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too 
 often deserve to be thought of, I should take 
 care to remove that prejudice. To be impar- 
 tial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
 slie has one unlucky fiiling, a failing which 
 you will easily discover, as she seems rather 
 pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
 you will as easily ])irdon, as it is a sin which 
 very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes 
 or despises, she is apt to make no more a se- 
 cret of it, than where she esteems and respects. 
 I will not present you with the unmeaning 
 eumpliments of the season, but I will send you 
 my warmest wishes and miist ardent prayers, 
 that lORTUNE may never throw your suusisT- 
 ENCE to the m°"'y 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 who did honour to science ; and 
 men of w(m th shall say, here lies a man who did 
 konour to human nature ' 
 
 No. CLXVII, 
 TO MR. W. NICOLL. 
 
 20th Fdirunnj, 1792. 
 
 O TTioir, wisest among the wise, meridian 
 bhize of prudence, full moon of discretion, and 
 chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is 
 thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head- 
 ed, round-headed slave indehted to thy sujier- 
 eniinent goodness, that from the luminous jiath 
 of thy own right-lined rectitude, tliou lookest 
 benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom 
 the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
 calculation, from the simple co[)ul ition of units, 
 up to the hidden mysteries oi fiuxions ! May 
 one feeble rav of that light of wislom which 
 darts from thy sensoriuni, straight as the arrow 
 of lieaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
 tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
 less unw(rrthy of the face and favour of that fa- 
 ther of proverbs aci'I master of maxims, that 
 antipode of fa'ly, and magnet among the sages, 
 tlie wise and witty Willie NicoU ! Amen ! Amen ! 
 Yea, so be it ! 
 
 For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
 nothing ' Fiom the cave of my ignorance, 
 imid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
 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 cloud- 
 less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing 
 ii bitterness of soul I say, when ihall mv u»nie 
 
 be the q notation of tne wise, and my counte- 
 nance be the delight of the godly, like the illus 
 trious lord of Laggan's many hills.'* As foi 
 him, his works are perfect ; never did the pen 
 of calumny blur the fiir page of his reputation, 
 nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 
 
 Thou mirror of puritv, when shall the clfine 
 lamp of my glimnierous understanding, purged 
 from sensual appetites and gross doires, shine 
 like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. 
 — As fur thee, thy thoughts are pure, ami thy 
 lips are holy. Never did the unhdiowed breiih 
 of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures o. 
 darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
 descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did 
 the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
 serene of thy cerulean imaginatiim. O that 
 like thine were the tenor of my life, like thiue 
 the tenor of my conversation ! then should no 
 friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice :n 
 my weakness ! Then should 1 lie down and 
 rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy 
 pity and thy prayer be e.vercised fur, O thou 
 lamp of wisdom and mitror of morality ! thy 
 devoted slave.f 
 
 No. CLXVIir. 
 TO MR. CUNNING H.\M. 
 
 3(/ March, 1792. 
 
 SiKCE I wrote to you the last higuhrious 
 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, busi- 
 ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my 
 hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
 minutes fragment to tike up a pen in. 
 
 Thank heaven, I feel my spirits hunting up- 
 wards with the renovating year Now I shall 
 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 a])pearauce of 
 truth. Apropos, do you know the much admir- 
 ed old Highland air called The Sulor's Duch- 
 ter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and 1 
 have written what I reckon one of my bestsongg 
 to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with 
 groat a])plause in some fashionable circles by 
 Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 
 his corps. 
 
 There is one commission that I must trouble 
 you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a |ire- 
 
 • Mr. Nicoll. 
 
 t This strain of irony w«s excited ly a letter of Mr 
 Nicoli's containing good advice. 
 
%6 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 «eiit from a departed frienJ, which vexes me 
 much. I lave gotten one of your Highland 
 pelmles, which I fancy would make a very de- 
 cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bear- 
 ing on it ; wL 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 myself, so you know I shall be chief of 
 the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland, will 
 likewise be entitled to supporters. These, how- 
 evpr, I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
 a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, iecundian 
 artcm, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
 bush, seedfd, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe 
 and crook, saltierwise, also proper, 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, Wi/od-nntes 
 wild. At the bottom of the shield, in the usual 
 place, Bttter a tvee bush than nae bicld. By 
 the shepiierd's pipe and crook I do not mean the 
 nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stock 
 anil 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? He must be a njan of very great 
 geniu-i. — Why is he not more known? — Has he 
 no patrons ? or do " Poverty's cold wind and 
 crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? 
 1 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 pi)';ket, I 
 would hive bought it ; but I was told that it 
 Wis printed and engraved for subscribers only. 
 He is the only artist who has hit genuine pas- 
 toral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, 
 is there in riches, that they narrow and harden 
 the heart so? I think that were 1 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 imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
 sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, 
 widild have revolted. What has led me to this, 
 is the idea of such merit as Mj-. Allan possesses, 
 and such riches as a nabob or governor-contrac- 
 tor possesses, and why they do not form a mu- 
 tual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish un- 
 orotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity 
 :£ that merit will richly repay it. 
 
 No. CLXIX. 
 
 TO l\m. T. CLARKE, Edinburgh. 
 
 July IG, 1792. 
 Mr. Burns liegs leave to present his most 
 respectful comjjliments to ]\L-. Clarke. — Mr. B. 
 (ouie time ago diil himself the honour of writ- 
 ing M C. rcs'jecting :oming out to the coun- 
 
 try to give a little musical iwstruction in ahi|h 
 ly respect.ible family, where Mr. C. may have 
 his own terms, and may be as happy as indo- 
 lence, the Devil, and the gout will permit him. 
 iVIr. B. knows well how Jlr. C. is engaged with 
 another family ; but cannot Mr. C. find two or 
 three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B. 
 is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious 
 of, the high importance of ]Mr. C's time, whe- 
 ther in the winged moments of symphonious 
 exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while list- 
 ening Seraphs cease their own less delightful 
 strains ; — or in the drowsy hours of slumberous 
 repose, in the arms of his dearly-beloved elbow- 
 chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of 
 indolence, circumfuscs her vapours round, and 
 sheds her dews on. the head of her darling sou. 
 — But half a line convcvinjj half a meacin" 
 from Mr. C. would make iMr. B. the very hap- 
 piest of mortals. 
 
 No. CLXX. 
 
 TO IMRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Annnn Water Font, 22d August, 1793. 
 Do not bl.inie nie for it. Madam — my own 
 conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
 is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
 lies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame aDd 
 punish me sufficiently. 
 
 Do you think it possible, my dear and hoa. 
 oured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude 
 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 pro- 
 gressive increasing friendship — as, for a single 
 (lay, not to think of you — to ask the F.itis what 
 they are doing and about to do with niv uiuch 
 loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
 and to beg of them to be as kind to you and 
 yours as they possibly can. 
 
 Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have 
 not leisure to e.\plain), do you know that ] am 
 ahnost in love with an acquaintance of yours? 
 — Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over 
 head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
 abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, 
 Love, owing to the inltrmingledoms of the good 
 and the bail, the pure and the ini])ure, in this 
 world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
 pressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must 
 do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment 
 Know then, that tlie heart-struck awe ; he dls- 
 tarit hundile approach ; the delight we should 
 have in gazing upon and listening to a Mess'^'U- 
 ger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted 
 purity of his celestial home, among the coar>e, 
 polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to 
 them tidings tliat make their hearts swim in joy 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 36' 
 
 ind their imaginations soar in transport — such, 
 go clulitihtin;;;, and so [nirc, wore the emotions of 
 my soul on meeting the other day with Miss 
 
 L — J? — , yotir neighbour at M Mr. B. 
 
 with his two daughters, accompanied by iMr. H. 
 of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, 
 on tlieir way to England, did me the honour of 
 calling on me ; on which I took my horse 
 (though God knows I could ill spare the time), 
 hjhI accompanied thcni fourteen or fifteen miles, 
 and disied and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
 about nine, I think, when I left them ; and rid- 
 ing home, I composed the following ballad, of 
 which you will probably think you have a dear 
 bargain, as it will coast you another groat of 
 postage. You must know that there is an old 
 ballad beginning witli 
 
 " ]\Iy bonnie Lizzie Baillie 
 
 I'll row thee iu my plaidie," &c. 
 
 So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
 first copy, " unanointcd unannealed," as Kam- 
 let says. — See p. IQ^. 
 
 So much for ballads. I regret that you arc 
 gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
 shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
 notwithstanding it has many good things in it, 
 yet it has ever h:id this curse, that two or three 
 people who would be the happier the ofiener they 
 met togttner, are, almost without exception, al- 
 ways so placeil as never to meet but once oi 
 twice a-year, which, considering the few years 
 of a man's life, is a very great " evil under tiie 
 sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon h.iis 
 mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. 
 I hope and believe that there is a state of exist- 
 ence 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 apostrophe 
 to the departed sons of men, but not one of them 
 lt<is ever thought fit to answer the question. 
 ' O that some courteous ghost would blab it 
 oiit !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my friend, 
 must make the experiment by eurselves and for 
 ourselve-i. Ilov.-ever, I am so convinced that an 
 unshaken faith in tiie doctrines of religion is not 
 only necessary, by making us better men, but al- 
 so by making us happier men, that I shall take 
 every care that your little god-son, and every 
 little creature that shall ca2l me father, shall be 
 taught them. 
 
 So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
 this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
 my l.ihiiur of discharging a vessel of rum from 
 Ar.tii;ua. 
 
 No. CLXVII 
 TO MR. CUNMNGIIAM. 
 
 Dumfries, \Oth September, 1792. 
 
 No! I will not attempt an apology. — An id 
 all my hurry of business, grinding the face ol 
 the publican and the sinner en the merciless 
 wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then 
 drinking, and singing them ; and, over and 
 above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
 different publications ; still, still I might have 
 stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first 
 wf 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 thank- 
 ed 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 horneo 
 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 1 cry?" — O, 
 thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever 
 thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
 the eerie side of an auld thorn, iu the dreary 
 glen through which the herd callan m lun bicker 
 in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! 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 thv iron fliil affi ight thy- 
 self, as thou performest the work of twenty of 
 the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon 
 thee to thy ample tog of substantial brose. — Be 
 thou a kelpie, haunting 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 thou viewest the perils and miseries of 
 man on the foundering horse, or in the tumb- 
 ling boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying 
 thy nocturnal visits to the hoai y ruins of decay- 
 ed grandeur ; or performing tliy mystic rites in 
 the shadow of thy 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 ot tne villain, 
 or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
 fancy, pictures, dreadful aa the hoirors of un- 
 veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
 Deity ! — Come, thou spirit, but not in thesa 
 horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, 
 easy inspirations, which thou breathest round 
 the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete 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 devil who is 
 quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea 
 among half a hundred words; to till up four 
 quarto pages, while be has not got one single 
 
S63 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 •entence of recollection, inforrnation, or remark 
 worth putting pen to paper for, 
 
 I feel, I feel tl e presence of supernatural as- 
 sistance ! circleil in the embrace of my elhow- 
 chair, my liiejst labours, like the bloated Sybil 
 on her three-footed stool, and like her too, la- 
 bours with Nonsense Nonsense, au>picious 
 
 name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
 mystic niiizes of Lw ; the cadaverous paths of 
 physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
 ings of SCHOOL niviMTV, who, leaving Com- 
 mon Sen»e ccmfurnded at his strength of pinion, 
 Reason delirious with eyeing his gidily flight, 
 and Truth creeping back into .the bottom of her 
 well, cuising the hour that ever she offered her 
 loomed alliance to the wizard power-of Theolo- 
 gic Vision — raves abioad on all the win<ls. " On 
 earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, open- 
 ing her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth 
 pait of tlie tithe of mankind ! and below, an in- 
 escapable and inexorable hell, expanding its le- 
 viathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !" 
 — O doctrine ! comfortable aud healing to the 
 weary, wounded soul of a man ! Ye sons aiui 
 daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to 
 whom day brings no pleasure, and night yielils 
 no rest, be couiforted ! " 'Tis but <me to niue- 
 teen hundred tliousand that ycur situaticm will 
 mend in this world ;" so, alas I the experience 
 of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; anil 
 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the 
 
 dogmas of , that you will be damned 
 
 eternally iu tlie world to come ! 
 
 But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
 the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more 
 than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, 
 or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why 
 a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency 
 to narrow and illibcralize the heart ? They are 
 orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known 
 them merciful : but still your children of sanc- 
 tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
 nostril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning 
 filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that 
 
 your titled 
 
 . . . or any other of your Scottish lordlings 
 of seven centuries standing, display when they 
 accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons 
 of iiu'clnnical life. I remember, in my plough- 
 boy (lays, I could not conceive it possible that a 
 noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could 
 
 be a knave How ignorant are ])lough-boys ! — 
 
 Nay, I have since discovered that a fjod/y ifo- 
 
 vian may be a I — But hold — Here's t'ye 
 
 again — this rum is generous Antigua, so a very 
 unfit inensrruum for scauilal. 
 
 Apropos, 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 ajipointed by God, and 
 I siiall ni ver quarrel with any of his institutions, 
 I am a husband of older standing than you, and 
 ihall c\wa you iity ideas of the conjugal state — 
 i»n yanscint, ,vou know I am no Lutiuist, in not 
 
 con;«^a/ derived from jf«i7Mm, a jtikt'') Well 
 then, the scale of goud-wifeship I divide intc 
 
 ten parts Good-nature, four ; Good Sense. 
 
 two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet 
 face, eloquent eyes, fine limb?, graceful carriage, 
 (I would add a fine waist too, but that is sc 
 ?oon spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as for 
 the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, 
 a wife, such as Fortune, Connections, Educa- 
 tion, (I mean education extraordinary), FamiW 
 Blood, 8cc. divide the two remaining degree* 
 among them as you please ; only, remember 
 that ail these minor properties must be express- 
 ed by fractions, for there is not any one of 
 them, ill the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig- 
 nity of an integer. 
 
 As for the rest of my fancies and reveries-— 
 liow 1 lately met with Miss Lesly Baillle, th' 
 most beautiful, elegant woman in the worl' 
 — hov/ I accompanied her and her father's fa- 
 mi!y fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure 
 devotion, to admire the loveliness of tl;e works 
 of God, in such an unequalled display of thenr 
 — how, in galloping hone at night, I made r, 
 ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make 
 a part — 
 
 Thou, bonnie Lesly, art a queen, 
 Thv subjects we before thee ; 
 
 Thou, bonnie Lesly, art divine, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 The very Deil he could na scaith 
 
 Whatever wad belang thee I 
 He'd look into thy bonnie face 
 
 And say, '• I canna wrang thee. 
 
 — behold all these things are written in the 
 chronicles of my imagination, and shall be read 
 by thee, my dear frienil, and by thy beloved 
 spouse, my other dear friend, at a more conve- 
 nient season. 
 
 Now, to thee, and to thy Jefore-designed ho- 
 som-companion, be given the precious things 
 brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
 things brought forth by the moon, and the be- 
 nignest influence of the stars, and the living 
 streams which flow from tlie fountains of life, 
 and by the tree of life, for ever and ever !— 
 Amen ! 
 
 No. CLXVHL 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 Dumfries, 24-fh September, 1792. 
 I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yoiiri 
 of the twenty-third. All yjur other kind re- 
 proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
 when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situa- 
 tion. Good God! a heart- wcninde 1 helpless 
 young woman — in a strange, foreign at.'d, aud 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 369 
 
 th»t hti convulsed with even* hormr, that ran 
 harrow the liiini in fcL-lin'^s — >.ick — Umkinj;, 
 loui;ini» fur a conit'ortcr, but fiiuliiifj nouu — :i 
 motlicr's iVflin^^*, toi) — liut it is too much : he 
 who nuumlfJ (he only ciin) may He heal !* 
 
 T wish the firmpv Ejreat joy of his new ac- 
 
 quisitiiin to his family 
 
 I catinot say that 1 give him joy of his life as a 
 farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer p^iying a dear, un- 
 conscionable rent, a. cursed lift.' As to a laird 
 farminsr his own property; sowins^ his own 
 corn in hope , aad reapin<; it, in spite of brittle 
 weather, in gUdness; knowing th;it none can 
 say uuto him, " what <l(>st thou V" — fattenin;,' 
 his heids ; shewinR his flocks ; rcjoicinij at 
 Christmas ; and l)et;>'tting sons and daii!;hters, 
 unt 1 he be tlie venerated, grey-haired lea<ler ol 
 a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life' but Devil 
 take the life of reaiinig the fruits that another 
 niu-t e.it. 
 
 Wfll, your kind wishes will he gratified, as 
 to seeing me when 1 make my Ayrshire visit. 
 
 I cannot leave Mrs. 15 , until her nine 
 
 nioiitlis' race is run, which may perhaps he in 
 three or four v.eeks. Slie, too, seems determin- 
 ed to nuke me the patriarchal leader of a band 
 However, if Heaven will lie so obliging as let 
 me have them on 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 buys that will do honour to my cares and 
 name ; but I am not equal to the task of rear- 
 •ng girls. Besides, I a:n too poor ; a girl should 
 always have a fortune. Apropos, your little 
 god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
 devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
 pletely mastered hi> brother. Robert is indeed 
 the mildest, gentlest creature 1 ever saw. He 
 has a most surprisii-.g memory, and is quite the 
 pride of his schoohnastii. 
 
 You knuw how readily we get into jirattle up- 
 on a subject dear to our heart : you can excuse 
 t. God bless vou and vouis ! 
 
 cept that wl'.ich religion holds out to the vhlV. 
 ■ lien of afflic'ion — ihihircn of n^iction '— 
 bow just the cxpressiini ! and like every e»her 
 fimily, they have matters among them whiek 
 they hear, see, and feel in a seiious, all-impor- 
 tant manner, of which the world bus not, nor 
 cares to have, any idea. The woild looks in» 
 dltrerently on, makes the jiassing remark, and 
 proceeds to the next novel oeciirreiice. 
 
 Alas, Midam ! who would wi-h for many 
 vears ! What is it but to drag existence until 
 our jo\s gradually expire and leave us in a nio;ht 
 of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the 
 stars one by one, from th.e f ice of night, and 
 leaves us, withol;^a ray of comfo;t, in the howl- 
 irig waste ! 
 
 I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
 shall soon hear from me agini. 
 
 No. CLXIX. 
 TO THE SA.ME. 
 
 iCFPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRlfTEH ON THE 
 DSATH OF MUS. K , HEil I> « IJG IITEII. 
 
 I HAD been from home, and did not receive 
 your letter until my return the other day. 
 \Vl'at shall I sty to cmnfort you, my much-va- 
 lued, muLh-atllicted friend ! I can but grieve 
 with you ; consolation I have none to o"er, ex- 
 
 » This much-lamenteil ladv was gone to the south 
 of France wiih her uifaiit so;i, wlicie »lie died «oon u£- 
 
 ter 
 
 No. CT..\>'. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Dumfries, 6th Dicemher, 1792. 
 I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next \ce.k ; 
 and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much- 
 esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at 
 Dunlop-house. 
 
 Alas, lAI idam ! how seldom do we me meet 
 in this world, that we hive reason to congratu- 
 late ourselves on occasions 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 1 do not see some names that 
 I have known, and which I, and other acquaint. 
 anres, 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 
 ypiiiehensions for our own fate. But of how 
 ditrerent an importance are the lives of ditferent 
 individuals? Nay, of what importance is one 
 period of the same life, more than another? A 
 few years ago, 1 could have lain down in the 
 dust, " careless of the voice of the morning ;'* 
 and now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
 dividuals, would, on losing me ai.d my exer- 
 tions, lose both their " staff and ihield." By 
 the way, these helpless ones have lately got an 
 addition, Mrs. B. havmg given me a fine girl 
 since I wrote you. There is a charming pas- 
 sage in Thomson's Edward and JEleanora. 
 
 " The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer— 
 Or what need he regard his single woes V" &c. 
 
 As I am got in the way of quotations, I shali 
 give you another from the same piece, peculiar, 
 ly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Alo. 
 dam, to your present frame of mind : 
 
 " Who so unworthy hut may proudly deck Uiat 
 With Li» fair-weather virtue, that exult* 
 
 W2 
 
S70 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Glad o'er the •unimer maia? tje tempest 
 
 comes, 
 The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 
 
 hehn 
 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 men- 
 tion Thomson's dramas. I pick \\p favourite 
 quotation*. a!"(l stoie them in my mind as ready 
 armour, ofiensive, or defensive, amid the struggle 
 of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
 rery favourite one, from his Alfred, 
 
 ' Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
 And offices of life ; to life itself. 
 With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 
 
 Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
 formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
 1 am apt to be gnilty of such repetitions. The 
 compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
 pression, 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 iew 
 notes are much nioje 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," &c. as in p. 4-9. 
 
 I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
 e'en scrilible out t'other sheet. We in this 
 country here have many alarms of the reform- 
 intr, or rather the republican spirit of your part 
 ef the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in 
 commotion ourselves. For me, I am a place- 
 man, you know ; a very humble one indeed. 
 Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag 
 Eie. What my private sentiments are, you will 
 find out without an interpreter. 
 
 I have taken up the subject in another view ; 
 Br.d the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
 night, I wrote an address, which I will give 
 you on the other page, called The Riiihts of 
 
 THE RIGHTS OF WOMAX. 
 
 An OccnsioiKil Address apoken hi/ Miss Fon- 
 TiiNELi.E on her benefit n'ujht. 
 
 While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
 Ihf fate of emi)ir^s and the fall of kings, 
 A'hile Qii,.iks of state must each produce his 
 
 ]>lan, 
 A,nd even childien lisp the Jii<)hts of Man ; 
 
 Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. 
 The Rights of Woman merit some a.tentio 
 
 First, in the sexes* Interniix'd connexion. 
 One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
 The tender £ower that lifts its head, elate, 
 Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
 Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form. 
 Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.-* 
 
 Our second Right's — but needless here is caiv 
 tion. 
 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.—' 
 There was, indeed, in far less polisli'd days, 
 A time, when rough rude nea had naughty 
 
 ways : 
 Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kitk up a 
 
 riot. 
 Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
 No«', thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 
 
 fled: 
 Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
 bred — 
 Most justly think (and we are much the gain- 
 ers) 
 Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.* 
 
 For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
 dearest. 
 That right to fluttering female hearts tlie near- 
 est. 
 Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
 tration 
 IMost humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration 
 In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
 There taste that life of life — immortal love — 
 Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, r.irs, 
 'Gainst such an ho>t what flinty savage dares — 
 When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
 \V]\o is so rash as rise ia rebel arms ? 
 
 But truce with kings, and truce with ccn'»li 
 tutions, 
 With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
 Let majesty your fiist attention summon. 
 Ah ! C(i ira ! the Majesty ok Woman ! 
 
 I shall have the honour of receiving your cri- 
 ticisms in pel sou at Dunlop. 
 
 No. CLXXL 
 
 TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. FiNTRr. 
 
 SIR, December, 1T92. 
 
 I HAVE been surprised, confounded, and dis" 
 
 tracted, by I\lr. Mitchell, thj collector, tellui'' 
 
 me that he has received an order from you; 
 
 • Ironical allusion to the saturnalia of tlie Calea* 
 nian JJuiil. 
 
:ORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 371 
 
 Biard to inquire into my political conduct, and 
 biamitia; nie as a person (lisafffctcd to Govciii- 
 ment. Sir, you are a hiistiaiid — and a father. — 
 You know wliat you would fctl, to see the nnu-h- 
 !ovi-d wife of your bosom, and your hel|)!ess, 
 prattlinc; little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
 de-^raded and disgraced from a situation in wliich 
 they had heen rcspectal)le and respected, and left 
 almost without the necessary support of a mi«er- 
 »l)'e existence. Alas, Sir ! must I thiidi that 
 )urh, soon, will by my lot ! and from the d-mned, 
 iark insinuations of hellish (groundless envv too ! 
 I helieve. Sir, I may aver it, and in the siijht of 
 Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliherare 
 falsehood, no, not thoujjh even worse liorrors, if 
 worse can he, *han those I have mentioned, liung 
 over my heaa ; and I say, that the alleiration, 
 wliatevcr villain has made it, is a lie ! To the 
 Biitish Constitution, on revolution ))rinciples, 
 next after my God, I am most devoutly attach- 
 ed ! You, Sn', have heen much and generously 
 my fi iend. — Heaven knows how warmly I have 
 felt the ohlj/jation, and how gr-tefully I have 
 thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you pow- 
 trful, and me impotent ; has given you patrim- 
 age, and me dependence. — I would not, for my 
 single self, call on your humanity ; were such 
 Tiiy insular, unconnected situation, I would de- 
 spise the tear that now swells in my eye — I 
 could lirave misfortune, I could face ruin ; for 
 at the woist, " Death's thousand doors stand 
 open ;" hut, good God ! the tender concerns 
 that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that 
 I see at this moment, and feel around me, how 
 they unnerve Courage, and wither Resolution ! 
 To your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
 you have allowed me a claim ; and your cs-teem, 
 as an honest man, I know is my due : To these, 
 Sir, permit me to appeal ; hy these may I ad- 
 jure you to save me from that misery wkich 
 threatens to overwlielm me, and which, with 
 my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved. 
 
 No. CLXXII. 
 TO 3MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 »rAR mapam, Dectmher 3\, 1792. 
 
 A iiUKRV of business, thrown in heaps by my 
 absence, has until now prevented my returning 
 my grateful acknowledgments to the good fa- 
 mily of Dunlop, and you in particular, "for that 
 hospitable kindness which rendered the four 
 days I spent under that genial roof, four of the 
 
 pleasantest I ever enjoyed Alas, my dearest 
 
 iiend! how few and fleeting are those things 
 we call pleasures ! On my road to Ayrshire, I 
 spent a night with a friend whom I much valued ; 
 t man whose days promised to be many ; and 
 on Saturday last we laid him in the dust ! 
 
 Januarif 2, 1793. 
 I HAVE just received yours of the 30 th, and 
 
 feel much for your sitiiation. However, 1 hearti- 
 ly rejoice in your prosjiect of reciiveiy from thai 
 vile jiiundice. .As to myself, I am betr».'r, though 
 not (juite free of uiy complaint. — You must not 
 th.nk, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way 
 of life I waTit exercise. Of that I have enough ; 
 but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. 
 Ag;unst this I have again and again bent my re- 
 solution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 
 I have totally abandoned : it is the private [jar- 
 ties in the fau.ily way, anu)ng the hard drinking 
 gentleman of the country, that do me the mis- 
 chief — but even this I have more than half given 
 over. 
 
 Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at 
 present; at least I should be shy of a])[)lying. 
 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 supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls 
 me from my family, as I could not remove thetn 
 on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, 
 malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my 
 political principles, and I wi>h to let that mat- 
 ter settle before 1 offer n.yself too much in the 
 eye of my superiors. I have set, henceforth, 
 a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics ; 
 but to you, I must breathe my sentiments. In 
 this, as in every thing else, I shall shew the un- 
 disguised euiotions of the soul. War I depre- 
 cate : misery and ruin to thousands, are in the 
 blast that announces the destructive demon. But 
 
 The remainder of this letter has been torn 
 iway by some baibarous hand. 
 
 LETTERS, 179.3. 
 
 No. CL XXIII. 
 
 TO MISS B- 
 
 OF YORK. 
 
 M'^"'\.>?, 2\st March, 1795. 
 
 Among many things for which I envy those 
 hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, u 
 this in paiticular, that when they met with any 
 body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
 ing long prospect of many, many hapjiy meet- 
 ings with tl'cni in after-life. 
 
 Now, in this short, stcrmy winter day of our 
 fleeting existence, when you now and then, ic 
 the Chapter of Accidents, meet .in individux 
 whose ai^quaintance is a real acquisition, there 
 are all tne probabilities against you, that you 
 shall never meet with that valued chiracter 
 more. On the other hand, brief as the miser- 
 able being is, it is none of the least of the mi- 
 series belonging to it, that if there is any mis» 
 creant whom you hate, or creature whom you 
 despise, the ill run of the chances shall be bo 
 
372 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 against you, that .n the overtalilngs, turnings, 
 and JD-itlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- 
 ner, eternally comes the wreioi. upon you, and 
 will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
 moment's rej)ose. As 1 am a sturdy believer 
 hi the powers of darkness, I take those to he 
 the doings of that old author of mischief, the 
 devil. It is well known that he has some 
 kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
 thoughts, and I make no doulit that he is per- 
 fectly acijuainted with my sentiments respect- 
 ing Miss B ; how mttcli I admired her 
 
 abilities and valued her worth, and how very 
 fortuniite I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
 For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
 enteitiin no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
 meeting with you again. 
 
 Miss II tells me that she is sending a 
 
 packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
 C'uclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real 
 truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
 have the opportunity of declaring with how 
 much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
 be, &c. 
 
 No. CLXXIV, 
 
 TO PATRICK MILLER, Es.j. 
 OF DALSWINTON. 
 
 SIR, April, 179,3. 
 
 Mv poems having just come out in another edi- 
 tion, will you do me the honour to accept of a 
 copy ? A mark of my gnititude to you, as a 
 gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
 indebted ; of my respect for you, as a jjatriot 
 who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
 chain|)ion of the liberties of my country ; and 
 of niy veneration for you, as a man, whose be- 
 nevolence of heart does h.onour to human nature. 
 
 There urns a time. Sir, when I was your de- 
 pendant : this language l/ien would have been 
 like the vile incense ol flattery — 1 could not have 
 used t. — Now that connection* is at an end, 
 do m.e the honour to accej)t of this lionest tribute 
 of respect from. Sir, 
 
 Your much indebted humble Servant. 
 
 No. CLXXV. 
 
 TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, EsQ.f 
 OF MAR, 
 
 •IR, Dumfries, With April, Mm. 
 
 Decfnerate as human nature is said to be; 
 »nd in mativ instances worthless and uuprinci- 
 
 • AlUulinp to the time wlicn he helil the farm of El- 
 islaml, as tenant to Mr. M. 
 
 t Tills Rciitlem.in, must obliginplv favoured the 
 K'Jitor with a peifect copy of the original letter, and 
 
 pled it is ; still tnere are bright examplw to tht 
 contrary : examples that even in the eyes of su- 
 perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of 
 man. 
 
 Such an example have I now before me, 
 when you. Sir, came foiwaid to patrcmise and 
 befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely be- 
 cause poverty ha<i made him helpless, and his 
 British hardihood of mind had provoked the ar- 
 bitrary wantonness of power. IMy much es- 
 teemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has 
 just read me a paragraph of a letter he had 
 fiom you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb oi 
 gratitude ; for words would but mock the emo- 
 tions 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 gen- 
 tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
 of Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been iry 
 warm and generous fiiend, I had, without so 
 much as a hearing, or the slightest previous \u~ 
 timatiou, been turned adrift, with my helpless 
 family, to all the hormrs of want. — Had I had 
 any other resource, probably I might have saved 
 them the trouble of d di»in:ssion ; but the little 
 money I gained by my publication, is almost 
 every guinea embarked, to save from ruin un 
 only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, 
 is by DO means one of the most fortunate ol 
 men. 
 
 In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
 that whatever might be my sentiments of re- 
 publics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ab- 
 jured the idea : — That a constitution, which, 
 in its original princi|)les, experience had proved 
 to be every way fitted for our happiness in so- 
 ciety, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an tin- 
 tried visionary theory :— That, in consideration 
 of my being situated in a department, however 
 humble, immediately in the hands of peojile in 
 power, I had forborne taking any active i)art, 
 either perstinally, or as an author, in the present 
 business of reform. But that, where I must 
 declare my sentiments, I would sav there exist- 
 ed a system of corru|)tion between the executive 
 power and the representative part of the leg'sla- 
 ture, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
 stitution ; and which every patriotic Briton 
 must wish to see anienil-ed. — .Some such senti- 
 ments as these, I st.ited in a letter to my gene- 
 rous p.itnm fllr. Graham, which he laid befoie 
 the Board at large ; where, it seems, my last 
 remark gave great oifence ; and one ')f our sn- 
 
 allowe<. linj to l.iy it before the public ► t is paitly 
 
 printed lu Ur. Currie's Edition. 
 
 It will 1)0 neees>ary to st.ite, that in consequence ot 
 the pod's treedoin of remark on public measures, iiia- 
 lieiuu-ly mlsripieseiitcd to the Board of Kxeiso, ht 
 was rcpii'scnted as a.tuaily ilisinissed from his ulliee. 
 — This report induced Mr. lOr.skuie lo projiose a sul> 
 seriplioii in his favour, which was refused bv thi> p"e' 
 wiih that ele\eti(>n of sentiment that pccuhaily eha- 
 raetcrised his mind, and which is so happily di>i>layed 
 in this letter, .'■t-e letter No. 171. in the presint vo- 
 lume, written by Itiiriis, with evin more than his ac- 
 customed p.ithos and eloquence, in further explana 
 i tion.— CHOM1..K. 
 
CORR[:SPONDENCE. 
 
 873 
 
 pfnnsnr* t^encr.il, a Hfr. Corbet, w.ts instructed 
 to iinjiiire on the spiit, and to dociinUMit mo — 
 " tint Miy tiusincss w;is to act, not to tliitih , 
 Hiid tliiit wIiatcvtT might lie men or nuMsuies, 
 it «as for mc to he silfiil and ohei/icnt." 
 
 Mr, Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
 BO liet'veeri Mr. Graham and )iim, I have been 
 pa-t!v forgiven ; only I inidcrstand thit all 
 hopes of my getting (ilficially forward, are 
 bl.isted. 
 
 Now, Sir, to the bnsiness in wliidi I would 
 more nnmediately interest you. The [lartiality 
 of my COUNTKVMKN, has brought me forward 
 as a man of genius, and has given me a charac- 
 ter to support. In the i-okt I have avowed 
 m.inly and independent sentiments, which I 
 trust will he foiiiid in the man. Reasons ot no 
 less wei;;ht than tlie sui)(H)rt of a wife and fa- 
 mily, have pouited out as th« eligible, and si- 
 tuated as I was, the oidy eligible line of life for 
 me, my present occupation. Still my honest 
 fame is my dearest concein ; nnd a thousand 
 times have I trembled at tlie idea of those tie- 
 griidiiig epithets that malice or misrepresenta- 
 tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
 blasting anticipation, listeneil to some future 
 baokr.ey scribbler, with the heavy m.ilice of sa- 
 Tage stupidity, exulting in iiis hireling para- 
 priphs — " Burns, nntwithstanding the fan- 
 fiirinidde of independence to be found in bis 
 woiks, and after h ivirii; been held forth to piib- 
 I;c view, and to public estimation as a man of 
 some genius, yet, quite destitute of lesources 
 within himself to support his boriowed dignity, 
 he dwinilli'd into a paltry exciseman, and slunk 
 out the rest of his insignificant existence in the 
 meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
 mankind." 
 
 In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to 
 lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan- 
 derous falsehoods. — HtJUNs was a pour man 
 fr<nii birth, and an exciseman by necessity : but 
 — I will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, 
 nu poverty could debase, and his independent 
 British mind, oppression might bend, but cuuld 
 not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more pre- 
 cious stake in my countiy's welfare, than the 
 ridiest dukedom in it? — I have a large family 
 of children, and the prospect of many more. I 
 h ive three sons, who, I see already, have brouyht 
 into the worlil souls ill qualitied to inhabit the 
 
 bodies of SLAVES Can i look tamely in, and 
 
 See any machination to wrest from them the 
 birthright of my boys, — the little in<lependent 
 BUiroNs, 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 in in tell me, that my full efforts 
 can be of no service ; and that it does not lie- 
 long to my hiinible station to meddle with the 
 concern ot a nation ? 
 
 I can tell him, that it is on such individuals 
 as 1, that a nation has to rest, botli for the 
 nan<i of support, and the eye of intelligence. 
 The uuinfofii'd hob. may swell a nation's 
 
 bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly t ironsf 
 may be its feathere<l ornament ; but the nuiii'. 
 her of those who are elevated enough in life tc 
 reason and to reflect ; yet low enoufjh to keep 
 clear of the venal contagion of a court; — thesa 
 are a nation's strength. 
 
 I know not how to apologize for the imper- 
 tinent length of this epistle ; but one small re- 
 quest I nmst ask of you farther — When vou 
 have honoured this letter with a perusal, please 
 to commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose 
 behalf you have so generously interested your- 
 self, I have here, in bis native colours diawn 
 as he is ; but should any of the peo])le in whose 
 hands is the very biead he eats, get the least 
 knowledge of the jiicture, it icould ruin the poor 
 UAKTi 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 hli;h esteem and ardeut 
 
 gratitude, with which I have the honour to be 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Your deeply indebted, 
 And ever devoted humble servut 
 
 No. CLXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 
 
 April 26, 1793. 
 
 I AM d — mnably out of humour, my dear 
 Ainslie, and that is the reason, why I take up 
 the pen to ynit . 'tis the nearest way, (prubatum 
 est) to recover my spirits ajiin. 
 
 I received your last, and was much entertain- 
 ed with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at 
 anv other time, answer it. — Answer a letter? I 
 never coulil answer a letter in my life ! — I have 
 written many a letter in return for letters I have 
 received ; but then — they weie original matter 
 — spmt-away ! z g, here ; z.ig, there ; as if the 
 Devil that, my grannie (an oM woman indeed !) 
 otti-n told me, rode in will-o'-wisj), or, in her 
 moie classic phrase, Sn.NKiE, were looking 
 over my elbow. — Happy tluuight that idea has 
 engendenil in my heaii ! SpunKiF. — thou shalt 
 heneefoith be ni) symbol, signature, and tute- 
 lary genius! Like thee, hap-step-.\nd-lowp, h^rc- 
 awa-there-awa, hlgglrty-pigglety, pell-mell, Li- 
 therand-yon, ram-staui, happy-go lucky, up 
 t lils-.'i'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon ; has been, is, 
 and shall be, my jirogress through the mosse§ 
 and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
 of a life of ours. 
 
 Come then my guardian spirit ! like thee, 
 may I skip away, amusing myself by and at my 
 ou n li^'ht : and if any opaque-souled lubber 
 of mankind complain that my eltiiie, lambent, 
 tjlimmerous wanderings have misled his stupid 
 sttps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the 
 thick-headed Biuiiderbuvt recollect, that he i« 
 
 not Sl'L'NKIE : — that 
 
s;4 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 Spunkie's warKierinc^s cnuld not copied be ; 
 Amid these perils none durst walk but he 
 
 I 
 
 I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught 
 «s a Scotsman catches the itch, — by friction. 
 How else can you account for it, that liorn 
 blockhe^uls, by mere dint of handling books, 
 grow so wise that even they themselves are 
 tijually convinced of and surprised at their own 
 parts? I once cairied this ]ihilosophy to that 
 decree 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 littiC, wise- 
 looking', squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
 tailor, 1 ddvi-ed him, instead of turning over 
 the leaves, to hind the book on fn's Lack- — Johnic 
 took the hint ; and as our meetings were every 
 fjurth Saturday, and Pricklouse hiving a good 
 Scots mile to walk in coming, and, ot course, 
 another in returning. Bodkin was suie to lay 
 his hands on some heavy (piarto, or ponderous 
 folio, with, and under which, wra|)t up in his 
 grey jilaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all 
 the way iioine. He carried this so far, that an 
 old musty Hebrew concordance which we had 
 in a present from a neighboiii ing priest, by mere 
 dint of a]'plying it, as doctors do a blistering 
 ])la!>ter, between his shoulder-;, Stitch, in a 
 dozen pilgrimages, acquijcd as much lational 
 theology as the said priest h.'.d done by foity 
 years perusal of the pat;es. 
 
 Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
 of this theory. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 SrUNKIE. 
 
 Kg. CLXXVn. 
 TO MISS K 
 
 the finest part of God's works below), havj 
 sensations for the poetic heart that the hekd ol 
 man are strangers to. — On this last account, 
 Madam, I am, as in many other things indebt- 
 ed to IMr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing 
 me to y(!u. Your lovers may view you with a 
 wish, 1 look on you with pleasure ; their hearts, 
 in your presence, may glow with desiff, mine 
 rises with admiration. 
 
 That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
 should, as incident to humanity, glance a sligh 
 wound, may never reach your heart — ill it tht 
 snares of villany may never beset you in the 
 road of life — that innocence mav hanil you by 
 the path of honour to the dwelling of peace, 
 is the sincere wish of him who has the hocour 
 to be, £;c. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 P. R.'MiT me to jj'-esent you with the enclosed 
 song an a small though grateful tribute for the 
 honour of your acqu lintauce. 1 have, in these 
 verses, attempted some faint sketches of your 
 portrait in the iinemlielli^hed simple manner of 
 
 descriptive truth Flattery, I leave to your 
 
 I OVERS, v.'hose exaggerating fancies iinv make 
 them iiiiagiiie you still nearer perfection than 
 you redly are. 
 
 Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel mo*t for- 
 cibly the powers of ukahtv; as, if they are 
 really pulcT.s of n.iture's making, their feelings 
 must be finer, and their taste more delicate 
 than m<i~t of the world In the cheeiful bloom 
 of spiUNO, tir the pen<ive mililtie-s of autu.mn; 
 the grandeur of mjmmhu, nr the hoary majesty 
 of WINTKU ; the poet leels a charm unknown to 
 the lest ot his species. Jlveii the sight of a Cue 
 flower, or the euuipinj of a fine woman {^\>v 'n. 
 
 No. CLXXVIII. 
 
 TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 
 
 JIY i.Anv, 
 
 The honour you have done your poor poet, 
 in writing him so very oblig'iig a iitter, anil tLe 
 pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given 
 him, came very seasonably to his aid amiil the 
 cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of dis- 
 eased ni-rves and December weather ( siij)/>iised 
 DeCLiiihtr, I7y >). As to forgetting the family 
 of Gleiieairn, Heaven is mv witness with wh.l 
 si.icei ity I could use thn-e old verses which pieast 
 mc more in their rude simplicity than the m« 
 elegant lines I ever saw. 
 
 If thre Jerii<alem I forget, 
 
 Skill part from my right hand. — 
 
 My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave.. 
 
 If I do thee forget 
 Jerusalem, and tliee above 
 
 My chief joy do not set 
 
 When I am tempted to do anv thin? i.-nprw 
 per, I d.ire not. because I look on mv-cK u , ha 
 couiitabie to your ladyship and family. liirtt 
 and then wlien I h.ive the honour to b'; ralleJ 
 to the tables of the great, if I happen tc meet 
 with any mortification from the stately stupidity 
 of self-stifl[icient sijuires, or the luxuriant indo- 
 lence of upstart nabobs, I get a!<ove the crea- 
 tures by calling to iemen;!)ian':e that I am pa- 
 tronized liy the IS'oble House of Glencairu ; and 
 at t;ala-tinies, such as ^'ow-ycar's day, a ehii^- 
 tening, or the Kirn-niL;ht, when my punch-liowi 
 is lirought from its du>ty corner and filled uji in 
 honour of the occawon. I begin with, — The 
 Citviitfss (if (ileiiccirn ! My good wom.in with 
 the enihusihsin cf a gritetul beat t, next iries, 
 I/y Lmd ! jr d s.) t!ie toast goes on until I end 
 wi'h Lii'Ju H'lrr'.il^s little iiiujtl > whose cpi 
 ni>'!.n"inn, ' lii.fp |)1' dgt'd iii\S(df to write. 
 
 V. n-;.. ' f.ceived yon- ladyship's letter, J \\a% 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 375 
 
 |\i8t in the act of trail ■criliin;^ for ymi some verses 
 I have lately ciiiiii)os..>(i ; ami meant to have sent 
 them my first leisure hour, and aeciuaiiiteil you 
 witli my late eliar.ge of life. I mentioned to my 
 lord, Kiv fears coiieerning my farm. Tlmse 
 fiars Mere indeed too true ; it is a l)arg;ain would 
 have ruined me hut for the lucky circumstancL' 
 of mv having an excise commission. 
 
 People may talk as they please, of the igno- 
 niinv of the excise ; £bO a year will support 
 my wife and children and kei'p n-.e independent 
 of tlie world ; and I would much rather h ive it 
 Siid tliatmv profes>iou sorrowed credit from me, 
 than that I be rowed credit from my profession. 
 Another advantage I have in this husiuess, is 
 the knowled;;e it gives me of the various shades 
 of human character, consequently assisting me 
 vastly in my poetic jjursuits. I hid the nuist 
 ardent enthusiasm for the muses wlien nohody 
 knew me, hut myself, and that ardour is hy no 
 means cooled now that my Lord Glencairn's 
 goodness has intniduceil me to all the world. I 
 Not that I am in haste for the press. 1 hive no 
 idea of pulili>hinn, else I certaiidy had consulted j 
 niy nohle gcnenius patron ; hut after acting the 
 part' of an hoiiCst man, and supporting my fa- 
 jiily, my whole wishes and views aie directed 
 .0 poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I 
 vere to give perfnrmances to the world superior 
 •o my former works, still if they were of the 
 .ame kind with tlio-e, the comparative recep- 
 tion they would meet with woidd m«rtify me. 
 I have tiiriud my thoughts on the drama. I do 
 not mean the stately buskin of tlie tragic muse. 
 
 Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh 
 theatre wou'd be more amused with affectation, 
 fidly 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 grateful humble servant. 
 
 a talent for poetry ; none ever .Asplsed it who 
 liad pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
 of tlie ihyming tribe often employ my taoui;lit» 
 when I am disposed to be mel.incbojy. There 
 is not, among all the niaityrulogies that ever 
 were penned, so rueful a nanative as the lives of 
 the poets. — In the comparative view of wretehe«i, 
 the criterion is not wli.it they are doomed to suf- 
 fer, but how they are formed to hear. Take a 
 being of om' kind, give him a stronger imagi- 
 nation and a more delicate sensibility, which lie- 
 tween them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
 able set of passions than are (he usu d lot oi man ; 
 implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
 vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in I iii- 
 tastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his 
 haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks 
 of the litt'e minnows in the sunny pool, or 
 hunting after tn» ibtrigues of butteiHies — in 
 short, send him adrift after some pursuit wliich 
 shall eternally mislead hiin from the path of 
 lucre, and yet curse iiin) with a keener reli>h 
 than any man living, for the plasuies that lucre 
 can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his 
 woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of 
 his own dignity, and )ou have created a wight 
 nearly as miserable as a |)oet. To you, Madam, 
 I need not recount the fairy pleasures tiie mus" 
 bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evil 
 Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman 
 she }>as in all ages been accused of misleading 
 mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the 
 paths of prudence, involving them in difticidties, 
 baiting them with poverty, branding ti-.em with 
 infamy, and plunging them in the wliirhng vor- 
 tex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must own 
 that all happiness on earth is not worthy the 
 name — that even the holy hermit's solitary pios 
 pect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter ol a 
 northern sun, rising over a frozen region, com- 
 pared with the many pleasures, the namelesi 
 rajitures tlut we owe to the lovely Queen of the 
 heart of 2\Iaa ! 
 
 No. CLXXIX. 
 TO JIISS CHALMERS. 
 
 tfiDAM, Aiipust, 17!)3. 
 
 Some rather unlookdl-for accidents have pre- 
 vented my doing my>eif the honour of a second 
 visit to Arbieg'and, as I was so ho-pit ibly invit- ; 
 ed, and so positively meant to have done. — I 
 However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- i 
 foie the busy motiths of harvest begin. 
 
 I enclose \ou two of my lute pieces, as some 
 kind return for the pleasure I have received in 
 perusing a ceitain MS. volume of poems in the 
 pis-essiiin of C-ptaia Riddel. To repay one 
 with an <lil sonij, is a nroverb, whose force you, 
 Midani, 1 know will not allow. What is said 
 :if illustrious descent is, I l*"lieve, ff-ually true of 
 
 No. CLXXX. 
 
 TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq, 
 
 SIR, December, 1793. 
 
 It is said that we take the greatest libertie* 
 with our greatest friends, and 1 p ay myself a 
 very high compliment in the manner in which 
 I am going to ap|)ly the remaik. 1 hav«; owed 
 you money longer than ever I owed it to any 
 man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six 
 guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to 
 man — or woman either. IJut for these dauined 
 dirty, dog's ear'<i little pages,* [ had done mv 
 self the honour to hive waited on you long ago 
 Independent of tlie obligations yuur hospitalitj 
 
 * Scottish bajiknote*. 
 
has laiil me um'tr, the conscioii'sjss of your sii- 
 pexliirity in the rauk of man ami i;t'ntleiiian, of 
 tsflf was fully !is much as I coulil evur make 
 heaii a'4ain--t ; hut to owe you money too, was 
 mdie than I couij face. 
 
 I think I once mentioned something of a col- 
 lection of Scotch songs I have fur some years 
 been making : I send you a peiusal of wliat I 
 liave got together. I couhl not conveniently 
 R|)are tiieni above five or six days, anil five or 
 six glances of them will probably mure than suf- 
 fice you. A very few of them are my own. 
 Wheri you are tired of them, please leive them 
 with Mr. Clint, of the KinL;'s Arms. There is 
 not ijiiuthrr cojiy of the collection in the world ; 
 and I shill be so -ry that any unlortunate negli 
 pence shia Id depr'"> rae of what has cost me a 
 good deal of pains. 
 
 LETTERS, 179i, 1795, 179G. 
 No. CLXXXI. 
 
 TO THE EARL OK BUCHAX, 
 WITH A corv OF " BRirrt's AnniiEss to his 
 
 IKOOl'S AT BANNOCKBURN." 
 
 MV loKi), Diinifriex, ]2th Jan. ]79i: 
 
 Wii.L your joiil.sliii) allow me to present you 
 with the '.nclused little comi)osition of mine, as 
 a small rnluite of gratitude for that acipiaint- 
 ani-e with wiiicli you have been pleased to ho- 
 nour me. Inilepriideiit of mv enthusiasm as a 
 Scotsniaii, I ha^i: rarely met witli any thing in 
 nisfiuy whub interest niy feelings as a man, 
 efjuai with the story of li.iuiupckburn. On the 
 one li.iiid, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on 
 the fineit ainiy in Europe to extinguish the ia^t 
 fpark of freedom among a gieatly-d.iring, and 
 gieatly-injiired peojde : on the other hand, the 
 diii-pcr.ite relics of a gallint nation, (h^voting 
 tlicin--elves to rescue their bleeding country, or 
 pel isli witii hiT. 
 
 LibeiTy! thou ait a prize tiul)', and iuiieed 
 invaluable 1 — loi never canst thou be too deaiiy 
 bought ! 
 
 1 have the honour to be, &c. 
 
 No. CI.XXXII. 
 TO Mils. KIDDEL, 
 
 WHO WAS TO HPSPFAK A Pt A V OKE RVRNIKQ 
 
 At IllE IJUMFKIKS IIIKAthE. 
 
 I AM thinking to Kcnd my Ail<ltrn$ to some 
 prrirMlMiil publication, lm(^ it iias not got your 
 ■am turn, ho pi ay look over it. 
 
 As lu ll 'luesday's jilay, let me beg of you. 
 
 my dear Madam, let me bej of m\\ tn give us, 
 The WoniiKr, a Wmnan keeps a Secret ; to 
 \vr h please adf.. The S/>r>ilt::l Chili! — you will 
 1' - j\y oblige me by so doing. 
 
 Ah, what an enviable creature you are , 
 There now, this cursed gloomy !)lue-ilevil day, 
 you are going to a party of choice spirits— 
 
 " To play the shapes 
 Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
 Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
 Of fleet ideas, never join'd befoie, 
 Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
 Or foliy, painting huminir, giave himself. 
 Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. 
 
 But as you rejoice v/ith them that do rejoice, 
 do also remember to weep with them that weep, 
 and pity your melancholy friend 
 
 No. CLXXXIII. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 IN FAVOUR or A player's benefit. 
 
 MATAM, 
 
 Yoo were so very good as to promise me to 
 honour my friend with your ])iesence on bin 
 benefit-night. That night is tixe<l for Friday 
 first : the play a most interesting one ! TUt 
 w(i)j to keep Him. I have the pleasure to know 
 .Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is gene- 
 rally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
 which would ilo 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 ! tint, 
 from the indolence of those who have the good 
 things of this life in their gift, too oft>'n does 
 brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
 the rightful due of retiring, huniide, want ! Oi 
 all the (juahties we assign to the author and di- 
 rector of Nature, by far the most enviable is — 
 to be able " To wipe away all tears from all 
 eyes." O what insignificant, sordiil wretches 
 are they, however chance may have loaded them 
 with \cealth, who go to their graves, to their 
 magnificent nuvisulcums, with liirdly the con- 
 sciousness of having made .,ne pour honest heart 
 hajipy ! 
 
 Hut I crave your pardon. Madam ; I came te 
 l>eg, not to preach. 
 
 No. CI.XXXIV. 
 
 KITRaCT ok A LETTEIt 
 
 TO MR. 
 
 1 794 
 
 1am extremely obliged to yon for vour kinn 
 mention of my inteiests, in a letter which i\lr 
 
CORRESPOXDEN'CE. 
 
 S77 
 
 b>- slim\'o(l mc. At present, my situation 
 
 in life must he in a great nic.isure ftatimuiry, 
 U least lor two or tliiee years. The statemeiit 
 Ie this — I am on the supervisor's list ; and as 
 ire tonie on there hy precedency, in two or 
 til ice years I shall he at the liead of that list, 
 inii lie appointed "/' coiine — then a Friend 
 might he <if service to ine in pettinij nii" into a 
 place of th.e kingdom which I would like. A 
 sjperviwir's income varies from ahout a luinilred 
 nn.l twenty, to two hundred u-year ; hut the 
 business is an ince-sant drud;^ery, and wotild he 
 nearly a coiiiiilete bar to every sjiei-ies of litera- 
 ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
 pervisor in the c(miiTion routine, I may be no- 
 minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
 ways a business [)ui'ely of political patronage A 
 collectoiship varies much, from better than two 
 liiindred a-ycar to near a thousand. They also 
 come forw.ird by precedencv on the list, and 
 have, besides a handsome income, a life of com- 
 plete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a 
 i decent competence, is the summit of my wish- 
 es. It would be the jirudish affectation of sillv 
 pride in me, to say that I do not need or would 
 nut be indebted to a political fiiend; at the 
 same time. Sir, I by no means lay my alTairs 
 before you thus, to hook my dependent situa- 
 tion on your benevoJence. If, in my progress 
 of l;fe, an opening ^liuuld occur where the good 
 offices (}f a gentleman of your public character 
 and political consequence might bring me for- 
 waid, I will pitition your goodness with the 
 same Ir.inkness and sincerity as I now do niy- 
 Eelf the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 
 
 Xo. CLXXXV. 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
 
 DIAR MADAM, 
 
 I MKANT to have called on you yesternight, 
 but as I edged iiji to your box-door, the first 
 object which greeted my view, was one of those 
 lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- 
 gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the 
 conditions and capitulations you so obligingly 
 ort'er, 1 sh ill certainly make my weather-beaten 
 rustic 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 luces- 
 lantly otters at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
 isalted above such adoration — [lermit me, were 
 I't but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
 tiibiiteof a warm lieart, and an independent 
 liiud ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
 »iii able, and most dccomplislied of thy sex, 
 with the most respeetlul esteem, and fervent re- 
 gard, thine, kc. 
 
 ISo. CLXXXVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 I wit.T. wait on you, my ever-valued frierd 
 but wiiether in the morning I am not sure. 
 Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu 
 siness, and may probably keej) me employee 
 with my |ien until neon. Fine emploMi.ent for 
 a poet's pen ! There is a species of the huinac 
 genus that I call the yiti-horse class : what en- 
 viable dogs tliey are. Rounil, and round, and 
 round they go, — .Mundell's ox that drives hi, 
 cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without 
 an idea or a wish beyond their circle : fat, 
 sleek, stupid, patient, fjuiet, and coiitenfed ; 
 while here I sit, altogether N'ovenibi-rish, a d — 
 melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 
 enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor 
 of the other to re|)ose sue in torpor ; my soul 
 flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, 
 like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of 
 winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I 
 am persuaded that it was of nie the Hebrew 
 sage prophesied, when he foretidd — " And be- 
 hold, on whatsoever this m.m ilotli set his heart, 
 it shall not ]>ros])er !" If my resentment is awak- 
 ened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; 
 and if — 
 
 I'ray that wisdom and bliss be more frequea^ 
 visitors of 
 
 R. B. 
 
 No. CLXXXV II. 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 I HAVE this moment got the song froiE 
 
 S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt 
 
 it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to nie ho»r 
 I lend him any thing again. 
 
 I have sent you Wtrltr, truly happy to hava 
 any the smallest oppoitunity of obliging \ou. 
 
 'Tis tiue, IMadam, I saw you orico since I 
 
 was at W ; -awl tl.at once froze the very 
 
 life-blood of my heart. Your reception of nie 
 was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his 
 judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on 
 liiiii, could only have envied my feelings and si- 
 tuation. lint I liate tlie theme, ami never mora 
 shall write or speak on it. 
 
 One thing 1 sha'l proudly say, that I can pay 
 Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, and ap- 
 preciate her amiable worth more truly, than »ny 
 man whom I have seen approach L«r. 
 
378 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 No. CLXXXVIII. 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1 liAVE often told you, my dear friend, thi* 
 Toii had a spice of cajirice in your composition, 
 atid you have as often disavowed it, even per- 
 ha;!s while your opinions were, at the mon.ent, 
 irrefragal)ly proving it. Could ani/ thing es- 
 tranf;e me from a friend such as you ? — No ! 
 To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting 
 en you. 
 
 Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac- 
 compl^hed of women ; even with all thy little 
 caprices ! 
 
 No. CLXXXIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 I RETURN your common-i)lace book. I have 
 perused it witli 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 tliat " offences come only from' 
 the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
 mire, esteem, and piize you, as the most accom- 
 p'.i>he(l of women, and the first of friends — if 
 these are crimes, I am the most ofTendiug thing 
 alive. 
 
 In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
 placency of friendly confidence, now to find cold 
 neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench 
 that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, 
 some kind of mi.-i rable goi.d luck ; that while 
 ilc-liuut-en-has ligour may depress an uiidftcnd- 
 ing wretch to the grduuil, it has a tendency to 
 rouse a stuhlioi n Miii.ctliing in his bosom, which, 
 though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is 
 at least an opiate to blunt tiieir poighaucy. 
 
 With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
 ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent re- 
 gard for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
 and the most fervent wish and prayer for your 
 welfare, jieace, and bliss, I have the honour to 
 be. Madam, youi most devoted humble servant. 
 
 No. CXC. 
 TO JOiiN SYME, Esq. 
 
 You know that among other high dignities, 
 you have the hi.iioiir lo be my supreme court 
 of critical judicature, from which there is no 
 appeal. I enclose you a song which I c(nnpos- 
 eA since I «aw you, and I am goin',' to give you 
 the hihtory of it. Do you know that amoiig 
 much tiiat i uiliiiire in the character and man- 
 
 ners of those great folks whom I jave nov tlw 
 
 honour to cail mv acquaintances, the O 
 
 family, there is nothing charms me more than 
 than !Mr. O's unconcealable attachment to tha. 
 incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear 
 Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
 Divine Giver of all gooti things than Mr. O. .' 
 A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
 amiable dispositions, and an ingenious upright 
 mind, and that informed too, much beyond tho 
 usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
 tune ; and to all this^ such a woman ! — but o! 
 her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of say- 
 ing any thing adecjuate : in my song, I have en 
 deavoured 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, 1 in my first 
 
 fervour thought of sending it to Mrs. O , 
 
 but on second thoughts, perhaps what I oflfer as 
 the honest incense of genuine respect, miglit, 
 from the well-known character of pi.verty and 
 poetry, be construed into some modification or 
 other of that servility which my soul abhors*. 
 
 CXCI. 
 TO MISS — 
 
 VADAM. 
 
 Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessi- 
 ty could have made me trouble you with this 
 letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
 your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
 a>ising in my breast, as I put jien to paper to you, 
 is painful. The scenes I have passed with the 
 friend of mv soul, and his amiable connexions! 
 The wrench at my heart to think that he is 
 gone, for ever g(me from me, never more to 
 meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and 
 the cutting reflection of all, that I had most un- 
 fortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the 
 confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took .'Is 
 fiight. 
 
 These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
 
 anguish However, yon, also, may be offended 
 
 with some inipntisd improprieties of mine ; sen- 
 sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
 will deny me. 
 
 To oppo'-e those prejudices which have bcea 
 raised against me, is not the business of this 
 letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how 
 to wage. The powers of po>itive vice I can in 
 ^■ome degree calculate, and against direct male- 
 volence I can be on my guard ; but who ca.n 
 estimate the fatuity of giddy ca])rice, or ward 
 iiffthe unthinking mischief of piecipitate folly f 
 
 I have a lavdui- to request of you, Mmlam 
 ind of your si>ter Mrs. , through youi 
 
 • The song cnelosoil woi the one bofjiMiuiig with 
 " O wat ve wlia's in von town. 
 
r: 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 37S 
 
 means. You know, fliat, nt tlie wish of my late 
 ftit'iul, [ iiKide a collection of all my trifles in 
 verse wlilch I lud ever written. They are ma- 
 : y of them local, some of them puerile, and sil- 
 •y, and all of them unlit for the public eye. As 
 t have some little fame at stake, a fame that I 
 trtisf, may live, when the hate of those who 
 " watch for my halting," and the contuni-eliou> 
 sneer of tho-^e whom accident has made my su- 
 j)eriors, will, with themselves, be gone to the 
 regions of oblivion ; I am iinca-jy now for the 
 
 fite of those manuscripts. — Will Mrs have 
 
 the goodness to destroy them, or return them to 
 me ? As ii pledge of friendship they were be- 
 stowed ; and that circumstance, iudecd, was all 
 their merit. Most unhappily for ine, that me- 
 rit thev 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 estima- 
 tion. 
 
 With the sincerest esteem I have the honour 
 to be, ftladam, ice. 
 
 No. CXCIL 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 A MIND DISEASED. 
 
 25/A Ftbnian/, 1794. 
 Camst thou minister to a mind diseased? 
 Canst tliou speik peace and rest to a soul to>sed 
 on a sea of troubles, without one frienilly 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 sus- 
 pense, the stability and hardihood of the rock 
 th it braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the 
 least of the>e, why wouldst thou disturb me in 
 my au:=eiies, with thy inquiries after mu ? 
 
 For these two months I have not been able to 
 Hft a pen. My constitution and frame were, uh 
 oriqine, blasted with a deep incurable taint it 
 bvpoehoiidria, which poisons my existence. Of 
 ate a number of domestic vexation-', and some 
 
 pecuniary share in the ruin of these times ; 
 
 losses which, though trifling, were yet what I 
 CGold ill bear, have so irritated me, that my 
 feelings at times could only be envied by a re- 
 piobate spirit listening to the sentence that 
 do.:ms it to |ieribt;on. 
 
 Are you deep in the language of consolation .' 
 I hive exhausted in reHeetion every tojiio of 
 ronifoit. A /leurt at eaae would have been 
 [•harmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; 
 but as to mvself. I Wd« like Judas Iseiriot 
 preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
 the hearts of those around him, but hi) own 
 kept its native incorrigibility. 
 
 Stil' •bf:re are two gieat pillars that bear us 
 
 up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery 
 The ONE is composed of the different modiflca 
 tions of a certain noble, stubborn sonie»'rne -^ 
 man, known by the names of C(nirage, fortitude, 
 magnanimity. The otheii is made up of those 
 feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
 sceptic may deny them, or the entbusiist dis- 
 liguie them, are yet, I am coiivinceil, original 
 and componetit parts of the human soul ; those 
 somes of the mind, if I may be alloived tha 
 expression, which connect us with, and link 
 us to, those awful obscure realities — an alU 
 powerful and equal'y beneficent God ; ami a 
 world to come, beyond deatli 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 comfoit into the wounds which time 
 can never cure. 
 
 I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
 that you and 1 ever talked on the subject of re- 
 ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
 the trick (jf the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
 cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
 scurity, which mankind can never know any 
 thing of, and with which thtv are fools if tliey 
 give themselves much to <lo. Nor would I 
 quarrel with a inan fu- his irrelii;iiin, any more 
 that) I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
 would regret that he was shut out troni what, 
 to me and to others were such superiative 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. Il 
 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 ibis 
 sweet little fellow who is just now running 
 about my de>k, will be a man of a melting, ar- 
 dent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
 lighted with the painter, and rapt witli the 
 poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a 
 sweet evening, to inhale the balmy uales, and 
 eujiiy the giowiug luxuriance of the spr'iig ; 
 hiiii-elf the while in the blooming jniuth ot life. 
 He looks abroad on all nature, and through na- 
 ture up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, 
 delighting degrees, is wrajit above lh;s >ublu- 
 nary sphere, until he can be si'ent no longer, 
 and buistsout into the gluiiuus entliususni of 
 Thunisou. — 
 
 " These, as they change, .Almighty Father, these 
 .\ie but the varied God. — The rolling year 
 Is full of tnee." 
 
 .•\nd so on, in all the spirit and ardour of thjit 
 charming hymn. 
 
 These are no ide d pleasures; "hey are rea 
 delights, and I ask what of ihe deiiglits aniocg 
 the sons of men are superior, not t.i say, equa 
 to them ? And they have this pieeiotis, va-t ad- 
 dition, that conscious virtue stamps them foi 
 her OA 11 ; ami lays bold on them to bring her 
 self into the ]>resenee of a witiiiSisiiig, jud^m^. 
 aad approving God. 
 
No. CXCIIl. 
 
 TO 
 
 lOPPOSF.S HIMSELF TO BE WRITING FROM THE 
 DEAD TO THE LIVING. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 1 DARE saj this is the first epistle you ever 
 ra^'eiveil fioiii this riethcT world. I write you 
 from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
 the diiimjd. The time and manner of my lea- 
 vinjj your earth I do not exactly know ; as I 
 took my departure in the he.it of a fever of in- 
 toxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
 mansiori ; hut on my arrival here, I was fairlv 
 tried and setitvnced to endure the purgatorial 
 ttirtures of this infernal contine, for the space of 
 ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
 nine days ; and all on account of the improprie- 
 ty (ff my coiiduct yisternight under your roof. 
 Here am I, laid on a lied of pitiless furze, with 
 my aching heail reclined on a oillow of ever- 
 pierciiig thorn, whde an infernal tormentor, 
 wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think, 
 is Iltvitlk'Cti'in, with a whip of scorpions, for- 
 bids )icace or rest to approach me. and keeps 
 anguish eternally awake. .Still, Madam, it I 
 could ill any measuie lie reinstated in the good 
 opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last 
 night so much injured, I think it would be ati 
 alleviation to my tormeiit>. For this reason I 
 troulile you with this letter. To the men of 
 the ciim|iaiiy I will m-jke no apology. — Your 
 husband, who in^istcd on my drinking more 
 than 1 chose, has ni) right to lilani£ me ; and 
 the other gontU-inen were partakers of my guilt. 
 But to you. Aladain. I have much to apolog ze. 
 Your good o^i.iion I valued as one of the great- 
 est acqiiisitiiJiis I had made on earth, and I was 
 •a lily a beast to -forleit it. There was a Miss 
 
 1 too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and 
 
 unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a 
 miseralile d — il wi etch's best ajiology to her. A 
 
 Mrs. G , a charming woman, ilid nie the 
 
 iiDuour 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 
 condui t, and my petition for their gr.icious par- 
 don. O all _\e powers of deieney and decorum ! 
 whisper to tlieiii that my eriors, though great. 
 Were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is 
 the vilcNt of liea>t> — that it was not in niv na- 
 ture to be biutal to any one — that to be ruile to 
 a woman, when m my senses, was impossible 
 Willi me — but — 
 
 Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye tliree hell- 
 OouuiW that ever dog my >teps and bay at my 
 pare nie ! s|)aie uie I 
 
 Foiuive the (illeiiees, and pity the perdition 
 >f, Moilaiii, )uur huuilile i>l<ive. 
 
 No. CXCIV. 
 TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN 
 
 MY I.ORD, 
 
 When you cast your eye on the name at tht 
 bottom of this letter, and on the title page oi 
 the book I do myself the honour to send voui 
 lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my va- 
 nity tells me, that it mu-t be a name not entire, 
 ly unknown to you. The generous patronage 
 of your late illustrious brother found me in the 
 lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic m ise 
 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 ex- 
 press in a poem to his memory, which I have 
 now published. This edition i just from the 
 press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my 
 respect for the living (fame belie- you, my lord, 
 if you possess not the same dignity of man, 
 which was your noble brother's characteristic 
 feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl ot 
 Glencairn. I learnt ju^t now that vou are itj 
 town : — allow me to present it to you. 
 
 I know, my lord, such is the vile, ven.il con- 
 tagion which peivades the world of letters, 
 that professions of re>pect fioin au author, par- 
 ticulaily from a poet, to a lord, are more than 
 suspicious. I c^aiin my by-past conduct, and 
 my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to tha 
 too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honoura 
 of your lordshiji's name, and unn ted as is the 
 obscurity of mine ; with the ujirightness of an 
 honest man, I come before your lordship, wich 
 an oifering, however humble, 'lis all I have tc 
 give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of you, 
 my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you 
 will do uie the honour to acce]it of it. 
 
 I have the honour to be, Sec. * 
 
 No. CXCV. 
 TO DR. ANDERSON, 
 
 AUTHOR Of THE LIVES Of THE FOCTS. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM much indebted to my worthy friend 
 Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentle- 
 man of Dr. Anderson's ceiebiiry ; but when you 
 do me the honour to ask my .issistauce in your 
 purposed publication, Alas, Sir! you might ar 
 Well think to i lieapen a little honesty at tht 
 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 ol 
 
 • The original letter is in the pnssessinn of the Ho 
 noiirahle Mrs. "ihaiiil of l'o\nm(,'s. Kroin i memo 
 ramhiui on llu- haek of ihe letur, it aiijiears to liav* 
 bvcii wriiteii in Mav 17144. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 361 
 
 holdit g the nnscs of tlie pnnr publicans to the 
 grindstone cif Excise ; and like Milton's Satan, 
 for private reasons, am forced 
 
 To do what yet tlio' da/n'd 1 would ah- 
 hore;*' — 
 
 and except a couplet or two of lionest execration 
 
 No. CXCVII. 
 TO -Sin. JAMES JOHNSON. 
 
 No. CXCVI. 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP 
 
 Castle Douglas, 5th June, ITHl. 
 
 Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
 am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
 as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, is 
 Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
 so let me consider by what fatality it happens 
 that I have so long; been exceeding sinful as to 
 neglect the coirespondence of the most valued 
 friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have 
 beet4 in poor health, will not be excuse enough, 
 though it is true. I am afiuid I am about to 
 •uffer for the follies of my youth. My medical 
 friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I 
 trust they are mistaken. 
 
 I am just going to trouble your critical pa- 
 tience with the first sketch of a stanza 1 h^ve 
 been framing as I paced along the road. The 
 suliject is LIBERTV : You know, my honciired 
 friend, Low dear the theme is to me. I design 
 it an irregular Ode for General Washir.gtin's 
 birth -day. After having mentioned the dege- 
 neracy of other kingdoms, I come to ScotlauQ 
 thus : 
 
 ( See Poems, p. 77. ) 
 
 You will probably have another scrawl from 
 me in a sta^je or two. 
 
 I send you by my frici;* Mr. Willace forty- 
 one songs for your fifth vo/jme ; 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 lei-^ure. give a copy 
 of the Museum lo my worthy friend Mr. Peter 
 Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved 
 with blank leaves, exactly as he liid the laiid 
 of Glenriddel's,* that I may insert every anec- 
 dote I can learn, together with my cwn criu- 
 cisms and remarks on the songs. — A copy of 
 this kind I shall leave with you, the ed tor, to 
 Jiublish at some after period, by way of ni iking 
 the Museum a bonk famouu lO the end of time, 
 and you renowned for ever. 
 
 I have got an Highland dirk for which I have 
 great veneration ; as it once was the dirk of 
 Lord lialmcrino. It fell into liad hands, who 
 stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as 
 the knife and fork. I have some thfuights of 
 sending it to your care, lo get it nKuintcd anew. 
 
 Thank you for the co|)ies of my Volunteer 
 Ballad. — Our fiiend Clarke has done indeed 
 well ! It is chaste and beautiful. I have not 
 met with any thing that has pleased me so 
 much. You know, I im no connoisseur, but 
 that I am an amateur — will be allowed me. 
 
 No. CXCVIII. 
 
 TO I'ETER MILLER, Jun. EsQ.f 
 OF DALSWINTON. 
 
 DEMI SIR, Dumfries, Nov. 179i. 
 
 Your offer is indeed truly geneious, and most 
 sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- 
 sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
 You Well know my politiciil sentiments ; and 
 Were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
 a wife and a family of ihiidien, with the most 
 firvid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my 
 services : I then could and would have desjjised 
 all consequences that might have ensued. 
 
 My prospect in the Excise is something; at 
 least, it is, encumbered as I am with the wel- 
 fire, the very existence, of near hail-j-score 
 of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport 
 with. 
 
 In the mean time, they are most welcome to 
 
 This is the manuscript Ixiok contRinin? the re- 
 l)lagui:d with low spirits marks on Scottish siiii;;s ainl liallails, prcstiitcvt to the 
 
 |)ubhc, with consiitera le Kdilitioix, in this volume. 
 t In a conversn'ion with hii friend Mr I'eiry, ilhe 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEN'D, 
 
 You should have heard from me long ago ; 
 but over and above some vexatious share iu the 
 pecn:.iary losses of these accursed times, 1 have 
 all tliis winter been 
 
 and biiie devils, so that / Aare almost hviig mij 
 
 harp vn the willow trees. \ pro;-rietor ■/ " The Muniiiij. Chroiiit le"), Mr. Miller 
 
 1 am just now busy correcting a new edition JJ^I'^fspnted to that );entJLinan ti.e iii-iittivjemv oj 
 „r 1 .1 • • 1 J- 1-1 '>"ri;-s salary to answer tlie imiienous <le:iiaii(ls of a 
 
 of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- ' numerous family, in tlieir svinpathv for his n.i'f',r^ 
 ness, finils ui>- iu full empaiyment. * tunes, and in th ir rocrct that his talents ucre rearly 
 
 '"-^ '" ""^ «"rl'l of I'.tier^. the<e gentlemen agreed on 
 
 tlie plan of seithnj; him in London. 
 • riumss.-inxiety with regard to the correctness of To accomplish this mo^tdesiralileohject Mr Perrv 
 n>s wrjtiiiKS was \Lry iireat Being questioned ns to very spiritedly, made the jviet a handsome otf-r „i -'n 
 his m »l.- ot cimipositi.n, he repli.-d, •• All my poclry animal stipend for the exercise of his filrnts ^c hii 
 IS th^ effect of easy eomixjsitiou, but of laburluus cjr- itf-.vspaper. Unrns's re.asfms for ret using this oHei art 
 -ecti'jn." , Slated in ijie present letter— Cuomlk., 
 
S82 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 mv Ode ; only, let tliem insert t as a thin^ 
 tbev luve met with by accident and unknown 
 to nie. — Nay, if J Jr. Perry, \vh;«e honour, af- 
 ter vour character of him I cannot doubt ; if 
 he will f;;ive ine an address and channel by which 
 anv thinc^ will come safe from those spies with 
 which he may be certain that hi« correspon- 
 dence is beset, I will now and then send him 
 any bagatelle that I may write. In the present 
 hurrv of Europe, nothint^ but news and politics 
 will be legiirded ; but against the days of peace, 
 which Heaven send soon, my little assistance 
 may perhaps till up an idle column of a News- 
 paper. I have long had it in my head to try 
 my hand in the way of little ])rose e>s lys, which 
 I propose sending into the world through the 
 medium of some Newspaper; and should these 
 be woith his while, to these iMr. Peiry 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 a 
 high treat indeed. 
 
 With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, 
 Dear Sir, &c. 
 
 No. CXCIX. 
 
 TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 
 
 MY DFAR SIR, Dumfries. 
 
 It is indeed with the highest satisfaction that 
 I congratulate you on the return of " days of 
 ease, and nights of pleasure," after the horrid 
 hoiirs of misery, in which I saw you suffering 
 existence when I was last in Ayrshire. I sel- 
 dom pray for any body. " I'm baith dead 
 sweer, ami wretched ill o't." But most fervent- 
 ly do I beseech the great Director of this world, 
 that VdU may live long and he happy, but that 
 you may live no longer than while 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 ycu will nc'ver be wit- 
 ness to nuiic than one 1 owl of [luncii at a time; 
 and that cold ilrams you will never more taste. 
 I am well convinced too, that after drinking, 
 perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount 
 your horse aiid gallop home in a chill, late hour. 
 — Above all things, as I understanil you are 
 now in habits of intimacy with that lioanerijes 
 of gospel powers, Fallier Auld, be earnest with 
 him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that 
 you may see the vanity of vanities in trcsting 
 to, or even practising .he carnal moral woi ks 
 of chtiriti/, liuKinnitij, ^enerositi/, and f ryive- 
 ness ; tlnngs which you practised so flagrantly 
 that it was evidrnt you delighted in theui ; ne- 
 glecting, or perhaps, prophanely des|)ising the 
 wuiilesi'me linctriiie of " Faith without works, 
 the only ancho.* uf salvation." 
 
 A hymn of thanksgivmg would, in my cm 
 nion, be highly becoming from you at present • 
 and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly 
 press it on you to be diligent in chanting ovef 
 the two enclosed pieces of sacred |)oesy. My 
 best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and I\liss 
 Kennedy. 
 
 Yours in the L J 
 
 R. B. 
 
 No. CC, 
 
 TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Juk. 
 
 DUMFKIES. 
 
 DF.AR SIR, Svnrlay Morning. 
 
 I WAS, I know, drunk last night, but I am so« 
 ber tliis morning. From the expressions Capt. 
 , made use of to me, had I had no- 
 
 body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
 certainly have come, according to the manners 
 of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
 another about the business. The woids were 
 such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of 
 pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
 did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
 a family of children in a drunken squabble. 
 Farther you know that the report of certain 
 political opinions being mine, has already once 
 before brought me to the brink of destruction. 
 I dread lest last night's business may be mis- 
 represented in the same way. — Yol', 1 beg, 
 will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish 
 for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of wait- 
 ing as soon as possible, on every gentleman 
 who «as present, and state this to hi»i\, and, as 
 you j)leasc, shew him this letter. What, after 
 all, was the obnoxious toast? " May our suc- 
 cess in the present war be equal to the justice 
 of our cause." — A toast that the most outrage- 
 ous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to, I request 
 and beg that this morning you will wait on the 
 parties present at the (oolish dispute. 1 shall 
 only add, that I am truly sorry that a man wiio 
 
 stood so high in my estimation as Mr. , 
 
 should use me in the manner in which I con 
 ceive he has done.» 
 
 ♦ At tliis perioil of our Poet's life, v.hon politic.il 
 animosity w,is niaiie llie ground of private quarrel, ilie 
 following fiiolisli verses were sent as an attack ou 
 Hums and his friends for their poliliial (ipiiiions. 
 I'hcy wore written by some member of a club styling 
 themselves tlie Lo.vci jVwi/cfJ of Dumfries, or rather 
 by the uri'ted f,'cm'iis of that club, which was more dis- 
 lr'i>c;iiislre(l fur drrmken loyalty, than e;llier lor re- 
 speelability or jioetical talent. 'I'he verse^ were hand- 
 ed ovir ihe table to Ihirns at a convivial meelina, awi. 
 lie instantly indorsed the subjoined reply. 
 
 The Loycd Natives' Verses. 
 
 Vc sons of sedition give car to my song. 
 
 Let SMiie, UuiiNS, and Maxwell, pervade cverj 
 
 thronii. 
 With, t'rai Uen the attorney, amt Mundcll the (juack, 
 Send Willie li.e monger to hell with a smack 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 383 
 
 No. CCI. 
 
 10 MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, 
 
 SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 
 ItR, 
 
 Enxlosed are the two schemes. I would 
 not have troubled you with the collector's one, 
 bat for suspicion lest it be not rii;ht. IMr. Ers- 
 kirie promised me to make it right, if you will 
 have the goodnes to shew him how. As I have 
 no co])y of the scheme for myself, and the alter- 
 ations bcini^ very considerab'e from what it w:is 
 formerlj', I hope that I shall have access to this 
 scheme I send you, when I come to face up my 
 new l)ooks. So much for schemes. — And that 
 no scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a 
 stranger; to seduce a young girl, or rob 
 a HENROOST ; to subvert i.ibektv, or bribe an 
 excisejian; to disturb the general assem- 
 bly, or annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the 
 credit of orthodoxy, or the authority of old 
 songs ; to oppose your vishes, or frustmte mi/ 
 hopes — MAY prosper — is the sincere wish and 
 prayer of 
 
 ROBT. BURNS. 
 
 No. ecu. 
 
 TO THE EDITORS OF THE MORNING 
 CHRONICLE.* 
 
 gentlemen, Dumfries. 
 
 You will see by your subscriliers' list, that 
 I have now been about nine months one of that 
 number. 
 
 I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
 seven or cii;ht of your j)apcrs either have nevei 
 Di'en sent me, or else have never reached me. 
 To be deprived of any one number of the first 
 newspiper in Great Britain for information. 
 
 Burnt— extempore. 
 
 Ve true " F.oval \ativf s" attend to mv song, 
 In iipni.-ir and riot rejoice the nipht lon'j;; 
 From einy and hatred your corps is exempt; 
 ' Dot where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 
 • 1 his letter owa its origin to the fnllowiiif; cir. 
 curnstnpce. A neij^hbour of the Poet's at Diiiiil"ric<, 
 called Of him and eomphiincd that he was ffrcaiiy <lii> 
 anpoi^'lcd in tlic irrogtilar rtcMvery of the Paper of 
 Tfie Muniin-r Clironide. Burns asked, " Whv do 
 not yii'i write to the Editors of the Paper?" Cood 
 Go I, Sir, can / presmnc to write to the learned Kdi. 
 tors of a Newspaper ? — Well, if i/ok are afraid of writ, 
 'ng to iho Kihtors ol a Newspaper / am not; and if 
 roil think proper, I'll draw up a sketch of a letter, 
 which ycm may eojiy. 
 
 Burn< tLTC a leaf from his excise book a' d instantly 
 produced Ihe sketch which I have transcribed, and 
 *hich Is here printed. 'I'he poor man thanked him, 
 and took flic letter home. However, that caution 
 » hieh the watchlulness of his enemies had taught hiin 
 to exercise, iiroinpled him to the prudenc-c of [xggmg 
 R friend to wait on the per>on for whom it was writ, 
 ten, and request the f.ivour to have it returned. 'J'his 
 •equeat wis eomplieil with, aiid the paper never ap- 
 peared in print. 
 
 ability and independence, is what I can ill brook 
 and bear ; hut to be deprived of that most ad- 
 mirable oration of the JMarquis of Lansdowne, 
 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 which I neither can, nor will forgive yoj. 
 — That ])aper. Gentlemen, never reached me ; 
 but I demand it of you. I am a briton ; and 
 must be interested in the cause of liuertv : — • 
 I am a man ; and the rights of human na- 
 Tt!RK cannot be indifferent to me. However, 
 do not let me mislead you : I am not a man in 
 that situation of life, which, as your sidiscriber, 
 can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes 
 of those to whom situation of life alone 
 
 is the criterion of man T am but a plain 
 
 tradesman, in this distant, obscure country 
 town : but that humble domicile in which 1 
 shelter my wife and children, is the castelli.m 
 of a BRITON ; and that scanty, l.ard-earned in- 
 come which supports them, is as truly my pro- 
 perty, as the most magnificent fortune, of the 
 most puissant member of your house of 
 nobles. 
 
 These, Gentlemen, are my sentiments ; and 
 to them I subscribe my name : and were I a 
 man of ability and consequence enough to ad- 
 dress the ruuLic, with that name should they 
 ajipear. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 No. ccin. 
 
 TO COL. W. DUNBAR 
 
 I am not gone to Elysium, most noble Co- 
 lonel, but am still here in this sublunary worlri, 
 serving my God by pro])agating his image, and 
 hontuiring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
 jects. Many happy returns of the season await 
 my friend ! IMay the thorns of care never be- 
 vel his path ! Alay peace be an inmate of his 
 bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his 
 soul ! M.;y the blood-hounds of misfortune ne- 
 ver trace his steps, nor tlie screech-owl of sor- 
 row alarm his dwelling ! May enjoyitH'nt ttl! 
 thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou 
 friend of the Bard ! Blessed be he that blesg- 
 eth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee ' 
 
 No. CCIV. 
 TO MISS FONTENELLE, 
 
 accompanying a prologue to be spokem 
 for her benefit. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 In such a bad woild is ours, those who adfl 
 to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are posi 
 
3Si 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 lively our benefactors. To yos, JlaiJam, on 
 pur humble DunitVics hoards, I have been more 
 indebted fi)r entertainment th.m ever I was in 
 prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman 
 Would insure ajiplanse to tlie most indifferent 
 actre-s, and yonr t)iealr:cal talents would insure 
 admiration to the plainest fii;iire. This, Madam, 
 is not the unmeanin", or insidious compliment 
 of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
 same h<inest impulse that the sublime of nature 
 excites my admiration, or her beauties give me 
 delitiht. 
 
 Will the foregoing lines he of any service to 
 you on ynur approaching benefit night ? If they 
 will, I shall be prouder of my mtise than ever. 
 They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
 no great merit ; but though they shouhl add but 
 little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
 give me the happiness of -an opportunity to de- 
 clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 Spoken hy Miss Fonteneii.e on her bcnefit- 
 ni(;hl, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Uum- 
 fries. 
 
 Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
 And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
 A Prologue, Epilogue, or sonic such matter, 
 T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 
 So, sought a I'oet, roosted near the skies, 
 Tiild him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
 Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
 And last, my pndogue-husine.-s slilv hinted. — 
 " JMd'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 
 
 rhymes : 
 " I know your bent — these are no laughing 
 
 time" : 
 Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears, 
 Dis-olve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
 Witlk- laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, 
 Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
 ance ; 
 Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand 
 W.iviog on high tlie (lesolating bratid. 
 Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
 land!" 
 
 I could no more — askance the creature eyeing. 
 D'ye think, said 1, this fact was made for cry- 
 ing ? 
 ril kugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world 
 
 siiall know it ; 
 And so, your si^rvant — gloomy Blaster Poet. 
 
 l''nm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
 That Misery's another word for Grief: 
 I also think — so may 1 be a bride I 
 That 80 much laughter, so much life enjoy d — 
 
 Thoii man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
 Still umler bleak misfovtuiie's blasting eye; 
 Dooni'<l to that sorest task of man uhve — 
 To make three guimias do the work of five : 
 
 Laugh in Misfortune's face — the heli'am v^itcll 
 Say, yv'i'll be merry, though you can't be rich 
 
 Thou other man of care, the wretch in lovci 
 Who long with jiltish arts ami ^.irs hast strove; 
 Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — tb* 
 
 neck — 
 Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
 Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
 Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf. 
 Laugh at heir follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
 Learn to desjiise those frowns now so terrific. 
 And love a kinder — that's your grand speci- 
 fic— 
 
 To sum up all, be merry, I advise , 
 And as we're merry, may we still be wise.— 
 
 No. CCV, 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 JiY DEAR FRIEND, 15i/i December, ]~9i. 
 
 As I am in a complete Decemlirish humour 
 gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Du!- 
 ness herself should wish, 1 shall not drawl out a 
 heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, 
 for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
 because I know you will sympithize in it : these 
 four montlis, a sweet little giil, my youngest 
 child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
 less threatened to terminate her existence. There 
 had much need he many pleasures annexed to 
 the states of husband and father, for God knows, 
 they have many peculiar cares. I cannot de- 
 scribe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
 ties frequently give me. I see a train of hel|)less 
 little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; 
 and on what a brittle thread does the life of man 
 hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; 
 even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such 
 things happen every day — gracious God ! what 
 would become of my little Hock ! 'Tis here thai 
 
 I envy your people of fortune A father on his 
 
 death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of hij 
 children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man 
 of competent fortune leaves his sons and d.nigh- 
 ters independency and friends ; while I — but 1 
 shall run distracted if I think any longer ou the 
 subject ! 
 
 To leave talking of the matter so grave y, . 
 shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 
 
 " O that I had ne'er been marries, 
 I would never had nae care ; 
 Now I've gotten wife and bail lis, 
 They cry, crowdi.', everiiiair. 
 
 Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 
 
 Crowdie ! three times in a dav : 
 An ye ciowdie ony mair. 
 
 Ye' II crowdie a' my meal away."— » 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 December 2itfi. 
 We hive had a brilliant tlieatre here, this wa- 
 •on ; only, as ,-.11 otlifi- Ijiisinoss has, it e.xperi- 
 enoi's a »ta;;iiati(ia of traile from the epidemical 
 cn:;ii)!aint of the country, ivant of cash. I men- 
 tion our tneatie nieiely to \\\^ in an occasional 
 4(l<l>t<x, «hicli I wrote for the hei.efit-nifjht of 
 one of the ac resses, and which is as follows:^ 
 ( Sec Address, p. 3Si.^ 
 
 25^/(, C/iristmas, 3lnrnin<i. 
 
 This, my nui''h loved fiiond, is a moruintf of 
 ivislies : accept mine — so Heaven hear rae as 
 they are sincere ! that blessing.s may attend your 
 steps, and affliction know you not ! In the 
 ch irmin!j words of my favourite author, T/ie 
 MuH i)f Fte'ing^ " May the great S|iirit bear up 
 the wei^^ht of thy s^'ey hairs ; and blunt the ar- 
 row that brinijs tlieni rest !" 
 
 Now th it I talk of authois, how do you like 
 Cowjier ? is not the 7'fi,</r a glorious poem ? 'I'he 
 rel'ifion (if the Tank, batin:; a few scraps of Cal- 
 vinistic diviiiity, is the relii;ion of God and Na- 
 ture : the religion thit exalts, that ennobles man. 
 Were not yon to send nie your Zduco in return 
 for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and 
 notes through the book. I would not give a far- 
 thing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot 
 it with my criticisms. 
 
 I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
 all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
 skeich.e'j, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
 wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
 papers, wliich from time to time I had parcelled 
 by, as tra!-h that were scarce worth preserving, 
 and which yet, at the same time, I did not care to 
 destioy, I discovered many of those rude sketches, 
 and have written, and am writing them out, in 
 a bound ]M.S. for my friend's library. As I 
 Wrote always to vou the rhapsody of the moment, 
 I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, 
 about the commencemmt of our acquaintance. 
 If there were any possible conveyance, I would 
 Send you a perusal of my book. 
 
 No. CCVI. 
 
 TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. 
 
 SIR, I791-, or 1705. 
 
 1 ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po- 
 litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you have 
 never seen. ^^"ould to Heaven I couid make 
 you master of as many votes in the Stewartry. 
 iiut— 
 
 " Who does the utmost that he can, 
 Docs Well, acta nobly, angeU could no more." 
 
 In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
 v.'ith more c*Tect on the foe, I have Yf'wiUtly 
 Diluted a good uian} ccuics of butli ballads, aud 
 
 I have sent them inioog friends all about the cou». 
 
 To pillory on l^arnassus the rank reprobation 
 
 of character, the ut*e.' dereliction of all [irinci- 
 ! pie, in a prortigate junto wliich has not only 
 outiaged virtue, but v'olateil common decency , 
 wl ich, spurning even hypocrisy as piltry ini- 
 quity below their daring; — to uniTiask their tla- 
 gitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver such 
 over to their merited fite, is surely not merely 
 innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety, 
 but virtue. — You h ive alreaily, as your au.xiiia- 
 ry, the sober detcNtition of mankind on the 
 heads of your opponents; and I swear by the 
 lyre of Thalia to ttm-^teron your side all the vo- 
 taries of honest laugiiter, and fair, candid ridi- 
 cule ! 
 
 I am extremely obliged to you for vour kind 
 mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. 
 Syme .lewed me. At present, my situation in 
 liie must be in a great measure 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 heul of that list, an I be 
 appointed, of course. Tlien a friend night 
 be of service to me in getting me into a Jilace 
 of the kingdom which I would like. A super- 
 visor's income varies from about a hundreii and 
 twenty, to t'vo hundred a ye»r ; but the busi- 
 ness is an incessent drudgery, and would be 
 nearly a complete bar to every s])ecies of litera- 
 ry |)ursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
 peivi-or, in the common routine, I niiv be no- 
 minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
 ways a business purely of political pitroiiage, 
 A cullectorship 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 income, a life of 
 com])lete leisure. A life of literary leisuie with 
 a decent competence, is the summit of mv wislies. 
 It would be the ])rudish alTectation of sillv pride 
 in me to say that I do not need, or would no; 
 be indebted to a political friend ; at the same 
 time. Sir, I by no means lay iny affairs before 
 vou thus, to book my dependant situation on 
 your benevolence. If, in my progress of 'ifi^ 
 an o;}ening should occur where the good ofhces 
 of a gentleman of your public character and \io- 
 liti',al consequence might bring me forward, 
 shall petition your gouilness with the same 
 frankness as I now do myself tl;e l.ouour to sub- 
 scribe myself, &c*. 
 
 • P.irt of iliis kl'er apiscarj a lir C^rrWi *i. ve» 
 ii. p. 4jU. 
 
 X 
 
885 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 No. CCVII. 
 ADDRESS OF THE SCOTS DISTILLERS, 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 
 
 ilR, 
 
 While pursy burgjesses crowil your gate, 
 sweating under the 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 fra- 
 ternal condolence ; not as what you are just 
 now, or for some time have been ; but as what, 
 
 in all nrobabillty, you will shortly be We shall 
 
 nave 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 ad- 
 dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- 
 secti<!n of human nature ; nor do you need the 
 assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to infoi m 
 vou, that man is always a selfish, often a jierfi- 
 
 dious being This assertion, however the hasty 
 
 conclusions of superficial observation may doubt 
 ef it, or the raw inexperience of youth may de- 
 ny it, those who make the fatal experiment we 
 have done, will feel. You are a statesman, and 
 consequently aie not ignorant of the traffic of 
 these corpmation 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 business ; 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 liireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best 
 they are the compliments of a man's friends on 
 the morning of his execution : They take a de- 
 cent farewell ; resign vou to your fate ; and hur- 
 ry away from youi approaching hour. 
 
 If fame say true, and omens be not very much 
 mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
 that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
 paths of prosperous men : permit us, great Sii, 
 with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
 passage to the realms of ruin. 
 
 Whether the sentiment proceed from the sel- 
 fishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial ; 
 but to point out to a child of misfortune those 
 who are still more unha])py, is to give him some 
 degree of positive ciijoynient. In this light, Sir, 
 our downfil may be iigrin useful to you ; — 
 Though not exactly in the same way, it is not 
 perhaps the first time it has gratified your feel- 
 ings. It is tiiie, the Iriumjih of your evil star 
 18 exceedingly despiteful. — At an age when 
 others are the votaiies of pleasure, or underlings 
 /n business, you had attained the highest wish 
 of a liritlsli St.it"sman ; and with the onliiiary 
 date of human life, what a (irospect was befirtf 
 you. Dec']iiy roo" ed in J{ot/ul luivovr, you 
 overshadowed the .and. The birds of jiassage, 
 which follow Diinisturial suiuihine till ougb every 
 
 cllrae of political faith and manners, flock^'d to 
 your branches ; and the beasts of the field, [the 
 lordly possessors of hills and rallies, ) crowded 
 under your sho-is. '' But behold a watcher, a 
 holy one camr: down from heaven, and cried 
 aloud, and said thus : Hew down the tree, and 
 cut eff 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 dust. But 
 turn your eyes. Sir, to the tragic scenes of our 
 fate. — An ancient nation that for many ages 
 had gallantly maintained the unequi: struggle 
 for independence with her much more powerful 
 neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should 
 ever after make them one people. In ccnsi- 
 deiation of certain circumstances, it was cove- 
 nanted that the former should enjoy a stipulat- 
 ed alleviation in her share of ths public bur- 
 dens, paiticulaily in that branch of the 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 iusidlous pretexts, to subvert what 
 thev 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 we alona 
 suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A 
 number of (we will say) respectable individuals, 
 largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
 only useful but absolutely necessary to our coun- 
 try in hiT dearest interest ; we, with a!! that 
 was near and dear to us, were sacrificed with- 
 out remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
 pediency ! 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 advantage ; you fell in 
 the face of day. — On the contrary, our enemies, 
 to complete our overthrow, contrived to make 
 their guilt appear the villainy of a nation. — 
 Y.'Uf downfaJ only drags with you your pri- 
 vate friends and partizans: In our misery are 
 more or less involved the most numerous, and 
 most valuable part of the communit} — all those 
 who iinuicdiately depend on the cultivation of 
 the soil, from the landlord of a province, down 
 to the lowest hind. 
 
 Ahow u«. Sir, yet farther, just to hint at nn- 
 otlier ricli vein of comfiirt in the dreary region? 
 of adversity ; — the Riatulations of an approving 
 conscience. In a certain great assendjiy, of 
 which you are a distinguished member, pane- 
 gyrics in your private virtues have so often 
 wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- 
 tress you with any thing on the sutiject. There 
 is, however, one part of your puhlic conduct 
 which our feelings will not ])crmit us to pass 
 in silcnc; ; our gratitude must trespass on your 
 inudeiB.7 ue niean, wuithy Sir, vuur whole 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 387 
 
 behaviour to the Scots Distil irs. — In evil hour?, 
 when obtrusive rccollci-tion presses bitterly on 
 the sense, let that, Sir, come like a Iiealir.i; 
 angel, and speak the peace to your soul which 
 tue world can neither give nnr take away. 
 We have the honour to be, 
 Sir, 
 Your sympathizing; fellow-sufferers, 
 
 And grateful humble Servants, 
 John Barleycokn — Pruses. 
 
 No. CCVIII. 
 
 TD THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAIL- 
 IES, AND TOWN-COUNCIL OF DUJI- 
 FRIES. 
 
 OrXTLEMEN, 
 
 The literary taste and liberal spirit of your 
 good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
 ments 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 I wish, at 
 the high school-fees which a stranger pays, will 
 bear hard upon me. 
 
 Some years ago your good town did me the 
 
 honour of making me an honorary burgess 
 
 Will you allow me to request that this mark of 
 distinction may extend so far, as to put me on 
 the footing of a real freeman of the town, in 
 the schools ? 
 
 If you are so very kind as to grant my re- 
 quest,* it will certainly be a constant incentive 
 to me to strain every nerve where I can offi- 
 cially serve you ; and will, if possible, increase 
 that grateful respect with which I have the ho- 
 Bour to be, 
 
 Gentlemen, 
 Your devot^id humble Servant. 
 
 No. CCIX. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 
 
 Dumfries, 20th December, 1 795. 
 I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this 
 London journey of yours. In the first phce, 
 when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
 in the country, and did not return until too 
 late to answer your letter ; in the next place, 
 I thought you would certainly take this route ; 
 and now I knovir 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 spiiits. Do let me hear from 
 
 you the soonest possible. 
 
 As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
 Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take 
 up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes 
 first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this 
 last article, I have ab(UHided of late. I have 
 often mentioned to you a superb publication 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 nc 
 less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
 the English. I wrote the following fur a fa- 
 vourite air. ■ 
 
 December 29. 
 SixcE I began this letter I have been ap- 
 pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, 
 and I assure ycu, what with the load of business, 
 and what with that business being new to me, 1 
 could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
 have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
 much less to have written you an epist'e. This 
 appointment is only temporary, and during the 
 illness of the present incumbent ; but I look 
 forward to an early period when I shall be ap- 
 pointed in full form : a consummation devout- 
 ly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be 
 forgiven me. 
 
 • This request was immediately complied with. 
 
 This is the season (New-year's-day is aow 
 my date) of wishing ! and mine are most fer 
 vently offered up for you ! 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 ibr the sake 
 of the rest of your friends ! What a transient 
 business is life ! 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 
 oi old age coming fast o'er my frame. With 
 all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices 
 of manhood, still I congratulate myself on hav- 
 ing had, in early days, religion strongly impress- 
 ed on my mind. 1 have nuthing 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 good- 
 ness, superintending and directing every cir- 
 cumstance that can hajipen in his let — I felici- 
 tate such a man as having a solid fo_ndat;on for 
 his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure 
 stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and dis- 
 tress ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when 
 he looks beyond the gravu. 
 
 January 12. 
 You will have «een our worthy and ingeni- 
 ous friea I, the Doctor, long ere this. 1 h jpe 
 
S89 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 he is well, and besf to be remembered to him. 
 I hive just been reatllni; over again, I (lire say 
 for the liundred ami fiftieth time, his View of 
 Society/ and Planners ; and still I read it with 
 delight. His humour is perfectly original — it 
 is neither the humour of Addisim, niir Swift, 
 nor Sterne^ nor of any body but Dr. Moore. 
 By the bye, you have deprived me of Zduco ,- 
 remember that, when you are disposed to rake 
 up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes 
 of laziness. 
 
 He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
 quoting me ia his last publication. • 
 
 No. CCX. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
 
 20th January, 179G. 
 
 I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for 
 jllowing mc a longer perusal of Anadiarsis. 
 In fact, I never met with a book tliat bewitch- 
 ed me so much ; and I, as a member of the li- 
 brary, must warmly feel the obligation you have 
 laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
 stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
 ciety ; as Anadiarsis is an indispensable desi- 
 deratum to a son of the muses. 
 
 The health you wished me in your morning'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 hiin. 
 
 The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
 following detached stanzas I intend to interweave 
 n some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 
 
 No. CCXI. 
 
 TO MRS. DUN LOP. 
 
 Slst January, 1796. 
 These many months you have been two 
 packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
 iiave committed against so highly valued a 
 friend, 1 am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
 IMiidini, ill can I afford, at this time, to be de- 
 ]iiived of anv of the small renmant of my plea- 
 sures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of 
 affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
 daughter and darling child, and that at a dis- 
 tance too, and so rajiidly, as to |)ut it out of my 
 power to j)ay the last the duties to lur. I had 
 
 scarcely begun to remver from tha* jliock, whea 
 I became myself the victim of a mijst severe 
 rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful 
 until after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems 
 to have turned up life, and 1 am beginning to 
 crawl across my room, and once indeed have 
 been before my own door iu the stn>et. 
 
 Wlien pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 
 
 AfP.iction purifies the visual ray,. 
 Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 
 
 That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtfui 
 day. 
 
 ccxn. 
 
 TO MRS. RIDDEL, 
 
 WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH 
 DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHEW HIS 
 LOYALTY. 
 
 ith June, 1796, 
 I AM in such miserable health as to be utter» 
 ly incajiable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
 Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
 lace with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba- 
 laam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and come de- 
 fy me Israel '" So say I — Come curse me that 
 east wind ; and come, defy mc the north ' 
 Would you have mc, in such circumstances, to 
 copy you out a love song ? 
 
 I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I 
 will not be at the ball. — Why should 1 ? " man 
 delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you 
 supply me with the song, Z,et us all he vnhap- 
 py tO(}ttfier? — do if you can, and oblige le 
 pauvre mistrahh R. B. 
 
 Cawnrd, 
 
 No. CCXIIL 
 
 To rjR. JAMES JOHNSON, Edinbhrgh. 
 
 Dumfries, July 4, 1796. 
 How are you, my dear friend, and how conies 
 on vour fifth volume? You may probaMy 
 think that for some time past I have neglected 
 vou and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of 
 pain, and sorrow, and care, has these iiiai.y 
 months lain heavy on me ! Personal and do- 
 iiiestic affliction have almost entirely banished 
 that alacrity and life with which I used to wo'i 
 the rural muse of Scotia. 
 
 You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and 
 have a good right to live in this world — because 
 
fwi (iesen-e it. M;iny a merry meeting tliis 
 pu'jlicatioii has given us, and |)os>ilile it ni.iy 
 give lis more, th.iugli, al.is ! I te:ir it. This 
 pnitractin^, slow, consimiinf; illness wlileli 
 hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever 
 dear friend, arrest my sun before lie has well 
 reached his middle career, and will turn over 
 the poet to far other and inure important eon- 
 cernt than stuilyinsj the lirlllianey of wit, or the 
 pathos of sentiment ! However, hnpe is the 
 cordial of the human heart, and 1 endeavour to 
 cherish it as well as I can. 
 
 Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. 
 — Your work is a great one ; and now th.it it 
 is near fini>hed, I see, if we were to begin 
 again, two or three things that might be mend- 
 ed ; yet I will venture to prophecy, that to fu- 
 ture ages your publication will be the text- 
 book and standard of Scottish song and miusic. 
 
 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 sings well, to whom she 
 wi^hes to present the Scots Musical Jilitseiim.' 
 If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- 
 icjj as to send it by the very first Pit/, as I &in 
 Vixious tu have it soon. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 ROBERT BURKS. 
 
 No. CCXIV. 
 TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Brow, Sea-bdthinp Quarurs, Ith July, 1796. 
 
 »IY DEAK CUNNINGHAM, 
 
 I KECKivED yours here this moment, and am 
 indeeil highly flattered with the approbation of 
 the literary 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 bed- 
 fast and sometimes nut ; but these last three 
 month-i I have been tortured with an excruciat- 
 ing rheumatism, which has reduced me to near- 
 ly the last stage. Yuu actually would not know 
 me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so 
 feeble, as occasionally to nerd hcl,! from my chair 
 — my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on 
 the subject — only the medical filks tell me tliat 
 my last and only chance is bathing and country 
 
 • In tli's humbL" ami delicate manner did p'or 
 Biirn'i asU for a copy of a work "I" whieli he was prin- 
 cipally till- founiler, and to whieli he had contiibuled, 
 graliiit' tisly, not less than 181 origvuil, altrred, iiiiii 
 co.'lfitril s i:gs.' Tlie Editor has seen 180 transcribed 
 by his own hand, for the Musfitm. 
 
 Tins letter was wr''ten on the llh of July, — the poet 
 died on the I'lst No other letters of this iii'eresmig 
 
 Renod have heen discovered, exivpt one addiessed to 
 Irs. Duiiliip, of the 12th of July, which Dr. (urrle 
 very propirly snpjxisesto be the liut oroduction of the 
 4pu^ bard.— Cbumvk. 
 
 quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter 
 is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his sa- 
 lary is reduced to XS!i instead of .£'50 — What 
 way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain niy- 
 selt and keep a horse in country cjuarteis — with 
 a wife and live children at home, on £:ib ? 
 mention this, because I had intended to beg yout 
 utmost interest, and that of all the fiiends you 
 can muster, to move our Commissoners of Ex- 
 cise to grant me the lull salary. I dire say you 
 know them all personally. If they do not grant 
 it me, I must l«y my account with an exit truly 
 en poet e — if I die not of disease, I must peiish 
 with hunger. 
 
 I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
 my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
 no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
 when 1 will send it you. Apropos to being at 
 home, Mrs, Burns threatens in a week or two 
 to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
 if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduc- 
 ed to the world by the respectable designation of 
 Alexmiiltr Cuiiniuyham Hunts : iMy last wa» 
 Jami's Gkiicairn ; so you can have no objec- 
 tiuQ tu the cumpaiiy of nobility. Farewell 
 
 No. CCXV 
 
 TO MRS BURNS. 
 
 IIT DEAREST LOVE, liroic, Thursday, 
 
 I Dfi.AVED writing until I could t«Il you 
 what cfl^ect sea-bathing was likely to produce. 
 It would be injustice to deuy that it has eased 
 my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; 
 but my ap])etite is still extremely bad. No fliah 
 nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are 
 the only thing I can taste. I am very hajij)y to 
 hear, by JM;ss Jess Lewais, that you aie well. 
 Sly very best and kindest coiiiplinients to her 
 and to all the children. I will see you on Sun- 
 day. Your aDectiuuate husbaud, lU B. 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 TO MRS. UUNLOP. 
 
 Ji 1AM, 12//» July, 1796. 
 
 HAVE written you so often, without recei- 
 viiii; any answer, that I would not trouble you 
 again, but fur the circumstances in which I am. 
 An illness whieli has long hun.; about me, in 
 all probability will speedily send me beyond that 
 b urne w/icuce Jtn trtneller returns. Your 
 friendshij), with which fur many years you ho- 
 noured me, was a friendship deaiest to my soul. 
 Your conrersation, and especially your cori~^- 
 spondence, were at once highly entertaining and 
 instructive. With wha'. pleasure did I use to 
 jroak up the seal I The remembrance yet addi 
 
S90 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 rjne pulse more to my poor palpitating heart, 
 t.ren-ell ! ! ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 The buu.c :; supposed to be the last produc- 
 ,^n of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st 
 of the month, nine days afterwards. He haH, 
 however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory 
 explanation of his friend's silence, «nd an aisur- 
 tE>«e sf the cotiiiT.MUxea of her friendnhip to his 
 
 widow and childreu j an assurance that hm bsat 
 amply fulfilled. 
 
 It is probable that the greater part of her let. 
 ters to him were destroyed by our bard aboa 
 the time that this last was written. He did 
 not foresee that his own letters to her were y 
 appear in print, nor conceive the disappoint- 
 ment that will be felt, that a few of thi» e«eel- 
 lent lady's have Bot served to esncii *^ %i^tn 
 the coUectioa- 
 
391 
 
 THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 WITH 
 
 MR. GEORGE THOMSON, 
 
 The Foot, besides his ample contributions to the Musical Museum, published by Johnsou, en- 
 gaged in the somewhat similar, but far more extended undertaking of Mr. George Thomson, 
 entitled Select Melodies of Scotland, — a Work more systematically planned, and scientifically 
 exccuteii, as to the Music — and more chastened in the composition and sentiment of the 
 Songs, than any of its precursors ; and which still maintains its superiority over all other col- 
 lecti.ins as the National Repertory of Scottish Sung, both as to the poetry and music. The 
 following Cortespondi'uce shews the rise and progress, with much of the interesting ietailt 
 of our Poet's contributions to Mr. Thomson's Work ;— 
 
 No. I. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 
 
 SOLICITING HIS CO-OPt IIATION. 
 
 dIR, Edinhitrrjli. Septemtier 1702. 
 
 For S'ime years [la'-t, I have, with a friend or 
 two, employed inariy leisure hcmrs in sfK-.-ting 
 and collating tlie most fivourite uf our national 
 mfloiiits for publication. Wo have eng.igt'd 
 Plevel, the most agieeable composer living, to 
 put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
 pose an in'^truiiient il preluile and conclusion tn 
 eich air, the better to tit them fur concerts, both 
 public and private. To render this woik per- 
 fe'-t. we are (ie^ir•.llS to have tlie poetry inij)r(p- 
 vecl, wiierever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
 and that it is so in many instances, is alhiwerl 
 by every one conversant with our musical col- 
 lections. The editors uf these seem in general 
 to have depended on the music proving an ex- 
 cuse fur the verses ; and hence, some charming 
 mehidies are united to mere nonsense and dog- 
 grel, while others are aecominoilated with rhymes 
 so louse ai.d indelicate, as cannot be sung in de- 
 cent company. To remove this reproach, would 
 be an easy task to the author of The Colter's 
 Sdturilcy N'(jlit ; and, for the honour of Cale- 
 donia, I would filn hope he may be induced to 
 take u|) the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to 
 present the puhl.c with a collection infinitely 
 more interesting than any that has yet appear- 
 »!, and acce[)tal;!e to all persons of taste, whe- 
 ther they wi>h for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
 coinpaniiiieDts, or iharacteristic verses We j 
 
 will esteem your poetical assistance a partiruisr 
 favour, besides paying any reasonable price you 
 shall please to dem md ii-i it. Profit is quite a 
 secondary consideration with us, and we are rc- 
 si)lved to spare neither pains nor expense on the 
 pnhluatlon. Tell me frankly, then, whether 
 you will devote your leisure to v/riting twenty 
 or twentv-five songs, suited to the particular 
 melodies which I am prepared to send you. A 
 few songs, exceptionable only in some of their 
 verses, I will likewise submit to your considera- 
 tion ; leaving it to you, either to mend these, 
 or make uew songs in their stead. I* is super- 
 lluous to assure you that I have no intention to 
 di-iplace any of the sterling old songs ; those 
 only will lie removed, which appear quite si'V, 
 or absolutely indecent. Even these shall ail Uc 
 examined by Mr. IJurn!«, and if Ae is of opinion 
 tint any of them are deserving of tlie music, ia 
 such cases no divorce shall tai<e place. 
 
 Ui-Uing on the letter accompanying this to be 
 forgiven for the liberty I have taken in address- 
 ing you, I am, with gieat esteem, Sii, you; 
 most obedient humble servant, 
 
 G. THOMSON 
 
 No. II. 
 
 THE POET'S ANSWER. 
 
 sia, Dumfries, KU/j Sept. 1702. 
 
 I HAVE just this iiionient got your letter. Ai 
 the requett you make tu me will poiutiveW ad] 
 
BURNS' WORK:^. 
 
 to my cnjoyinrnts In coni]iIyinpj witli it, I sliatl 
 ^nter into vour undertaking with ail the small 
 poiiion of altilitics I have, strained to their ut- 
 aiost exertion Ijy the inijiulse of cnthu'^iasni. 
 Only, (liin't huti y nie : " Deil tak tlie hind- 
 nmst" is hv no means the cri c/e ffiiene of my 
 nnise. Will yon, a< I am inferior to none of 
 vnu in enthnsiastic attachment to the poetry and 
 niusitr of (lid Caledonia, and, since you re(jue>t 
 it, liave cheerfully promised my mite of assist- 
 ance — will yon let me have a list of your n\r<, 
 with the first line of the printed verses you in- 
 tend for them, that I in.iv have an opportunity 
 of >u2;c;estinu: a;iv alteration that may occur to 
 nie. You know 'tis in tlie way of my trade ; 
 still leavinj; you, gentlemen, the undouhted ri|;ht 
 of puhlishe;-', to approve. «ir reject, at your plea- 
 sure, for youi 'wn p,.'-licatiOi^ Apropos ! if 
 you are for I^iiffJitt,^ -erses, ''ere i„. ts my l)art, 
 an end of tlie matter. (Vheth _ ' ' tht .,'- plicity 
 of the ballad, or the pathos of tfie son^, I can 
 oiilj liope to please myself in heing allowed at 
 least a sprinkling of our native tongue. Eng- 
 lish verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
 that liave merit, are certainly very cligihle. 
 TivfF.dside ; Ah tlie poor s/ieji/terd's inonrnfiil 
 fate ! Ah Chlnris, cn/tld I nnw but sit, &c. 
 you cannot mend : Rut such insipid stuif as, 
 Ti> Funny fair cmild I impart, &c. usually set 
 to 7 he Mil!, Mill O, is a disgrace to the col- 
 lections in which it has already appeared, and 
 Would douhly disgrace a collection that will have 
 the very superior merit of yours. But more of 
 this in the farther prosecution of the business, 
 if I am called on for my strictures and amend- 
 nients — 1 say, amendments ; fur I will not alter 
 exi-ept where 1 myself at least think that I 
 amend. 
 
 As to any rennmcration, you may think my 
 songs either above or below price ; for they 
 shad al)solutely rie the one or the other. In the 
 honest enthusiasm with whidi I embark in your 
 undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, liire, 
 &c. would he downright proi^titulion itf soid ! 
 A jircot of each of the songs that I coni|)ose or 
 nniciid, ! shall receive as a favour. In tlie i us- 
 tic phrase of the season, " Gude sjieed the 
 walk !" 
 
 I am. Sir, your very bumble Servant, 
 
 U. IJL'UNS. 
 
 V. .S — I have some pirticiilar reasons for 
 wishing my iulcrference to be known as little as 
 possible. 
 
 Ho. III. 
 
 MR TMO.MSON l.V RITLV. 
 
 M*!i srii, Kdinhitriih, \'Mh Oct. 1792. 
 
 I UFi nvFii, with nnii'li satl^fll.lion, your 
 pleasant, and oMiging lutter, anil 1 leiuiii my 
 
 warmest acknowledgments for tlie enthuniasra 
 with which you hive entered into our underta- 
 king, fi'e have now no dcniht of being able tc 
 ])r.«luce a collection, highly deserving of public 
 attention, in all respects. 
 
 I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
 that have merit, very eligible, wheiever new 
 verses are necessary ; because the English be- 
 comes every year, more and more, the language 
 of Scotland ; but, if you mean that no Engiish 
 ver-cs, except those bv Scottish authois, ought 
 to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
 you. 1 shoui:" consider it un|)arilon able to sa- 
 crifice one good si,^ • in the Scottish dialect, to 
 make room for Englis,. .eises; ijut, if we can 
 select a few excellent ones suited to the unpro- 
 vided or ill-provided airs, would it not lie the 
 very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such 
 merely because the authors were born s:i;irh of 
 the 'I" weed ? Our sweet air. My JVanme O, 
 which in the collections is joined to the poorest 
 stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning 
 
 While some for plensi^rc /luwn their hvultli, an- 
 swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song 
 
 O Nancy wilt tlioii c/o uiih we, that one woula 
 think he wrote it on purpose for the air. How- 
 ever, 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 elegant- 
 ly exjiress it ; anil moreover, we will patiently 
 wait your own time. One thing only I big, 
 which is, that however gay and sportive the 
 muse may be, she may always be decent. Let 
 her not write !vhat beauty would blush to speak, 
 nor wouikI that chariuiiig delicacy which tonus 
 the most precious dowry of our daughters. I 
 do not conceive the song to be the most propel 
 vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits : simpli- 
 city, I believe, should be its prominent feature ; 
 iiut, in some of our songs, the wi iters have con- 
 founded simplicity with coa>-.cness and vulga- 
 rity ; although, between the one and the other, 
 as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as great a 
 (hfferenie as between a plain suit of clothes and 
 a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or (.>a- 
 tlietic complaint, is best suited to our artless 
 melodies; and more interesting indee.;l in all 
 songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling de- 
 scri|)fions, and llowery fancies. 
 
 With these trite observations, I send vou eleven 
 of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi 
 tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans 
 niit the rest, and, at the s.ime time, a prosjjectus 
 of the whole collection ; and you may believe 
 we will receive any h nts that you are so kind 
 as to give for im))roving the work, with th( 
 ^luatesd pleasure and tlimkfulness. 
 
 1 remain, Dear Sir, &u 
 
cohrespoxdexce. 
 
 393 
 
 No. IV. 
 TIlFi: PO C'l TO MR. THOMSON, 
 
 Willi " THE LEARIG." 
 MY DEAR SI a, 
 
 I.FT iiic ttll you tliat you are too fi^tidloiis 
 ill \(iiir iiltMs of sdii'is anil l)alla(ls. I (iwn tint 
 your t'iitli-isms art- jll^t ; the songs you specify 
 ill yiur li^t liave "// but o/,e the faults you re- 
 maik in them ; but who shall mend the matter? 
 Wild shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make 
 a tietier ? Fur instance, on leading over 77i<.' 
 Leii-rif], I immediately set ahout trving my 
 hand on it, ami, afrer all, I could in lUe mithin;^ 
 mori; (if It than the fullowing, which, Heaven 
 kuuws, is poor enough : 
 
 {Step. 244.) 
 
 Your ohsrrvatidii as to the aptitude of Dr. 
 Percy's ballad to the air Ntinuie O, is just. It 
 is iiesides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad io 
 the English language. Hut let ine remark to 
 you, that, in the sentiment and style of our 
 Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
 sometliin'^' that one may call the Doric style and 
 dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our 
 native ton^rue and manners is particulaily, nay 
 peculiirly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon 
 my honour, for this reason alone, 1 am of opi- 
 nion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is 
 yi uis, ficely yours, to approve, or reject, as you 
 please), that my ballad of Nannie O might per- 
 ha|)s do fur one .set of verses to the tune. Now 
 don't let it entei- into your head, that y.iu aii; 
 under any necessity of t.iking my verses. 1 have 
 long ago made up my mind as to my own re- 
 putation in the business of authorship ; ami 
 have iKithmg to be phased or oircndeii at, in 
 your adaption or rijiction of my verses. Thuu;:h 
 you should uject one half of what I give you, 
 I sliall be pleased with your adopting the other 
 half, and shall cotitiuue to serve \ou with the 
 same assuluity. 
 
 In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the 
 name of the river is horridly prosaic. 1 will 
 alter it, 
 
 " Behind yon hills wheie Lugar flov.s." 
 
 Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
 idea uf the stanza best, but Lugar is the must 
 agreeable moduiatiuii of syllables. 
 
 I will soon give yon a great many more re- 
 marks on tills business ; but 1 have just now 
 an oppoi tunity of conveying you this scrawl, fiee 
 et postage, an expense that it is ill able to |!ay : 
 BO, with my liest comphmeuts to honest Allan, 
 Good be wi' ye, &c. 
 
 J-'ridai/ niyKt. 
 
 morn ng before rr.y conveyance go.-s aw.iy, I 
 will give \ou Niuinie O at len-tli. 
 
 {Sifep. 2\S.) 
 
 Your remarks on Etre-biKjhtx, Murini.^ are 
 just : still it has obtainei! a pi. ice mnong oiii 
 more rl.issical Scottish son^i ; and what with 
 many licauties in its composition, and more pie- 
 jiidices in its f.ivour, you will not tiad it easy 
 to siijjplant it. 
 
 In my very eirly years, when I was thin;iing 
 of going to tiie West Iiiilies, I took the follow- 
 ing farewell of a dear girl. It u quite trilling, 
 and has nothing of the merits of Eict-lidi/hts , 
 but it will fill up this p.,ge. You must kimw 
 tl'.at all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 
 ings of ardent p.is-ion, and though it might have 
 been easy in after-times to have given them a 
 polish, yet thit polish, to me, whose tiicy uere, 
 and who peihaps alone cared foi them, would 
 have defaced tlie legi nil uf my heart, whicb 
 was Ro faithfully insciibed on them. Tlieii un- 
 couth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their 
 race. 
 
 ( Will ye ga to the Indies, ni?/ Mary^ p. 24.1.^ 
 
 Gala Water and Anhi Ri.b If /orris, I think, 
 will most luibabiy be the iie.xt sub;ect of my 
 musings. Ihm ever, even on my lerxes, speak 
 out your criticisms with equal frankne.ss. My 
 wish is, not to stand aloof, the uucompljin" 
 bigot of opiniatrete, but i-oidially to join is^uf 
 with you in the furtherance of the woik. 
 
 No. V. 
 
 Saturday Mnrning, 
 Ab J find I have still ar hour to spare thl« 
 
 THE POET TO MR THOMSON. 
 
 Nimnder Sth, 1792 
 If you n^ean, my dear Sir, that all the ,s(ings 
 in your foliection shad be pceTy i)i ti e tiisl 
 merit, I am afraiil you will find more difiieiiitv 
 in the umlerlaking than you aie aware otl 
 There is a jieculiar rh_\ thmiis in many of our 
 alls, and a necessity of adaptiii:^ syllables to the 
 emphasis, or what 1 would call \\w finUurt-notes 
 of the tune, that cramp the jo t, ami lay him 
 under almo.st iiisuperalle d fticult.es. For i:i- 
 stance, in the air, JMy wife's a wanton wei> 
 t/iiny, if a few lines sii:uoth and pietty can be 
 adapted to it, it is all you can expect. Th.e 
 following were made extempore to it; and 
 though, on faither study, I might give you 
 something moie profound, jet it might not suit 
 the light-horse galloji uf the air so well as this 
 raiiduiu cliuk. 
 
 (My wifg's a winsome wee thing, p. 214.) 
 
 I have just been looking over the CoUiv 
 
394. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 hnnxy Dodder ; and if tlie following rhapsody, 
 which 1 compcised the other da)', on a charming 
 
 Ayrshire gill, !Miss , as she passed through 
 
 this place to Eni;land, will suit your taste bet- 
 ter than the Collitr Ziassie, fall on and wel- 
 come. 
 
 ( O saw ye bonnie I,cssUe, p. 19i.) 
 
 I have hitherto deferred the sublinier, more 
 pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, 
 and deserve, a greater effort. However, they 
 are all put into your hand«, as clay into the 
 hands of the potter, to make one vessel to ha- 
 floui, and another to dishonour. Farewell, See. 
 
 No. VI. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Ye hanks, and braes, and streams around, 
 The castle o' Montgomery. ( See p. 203. 
 
 Mv DEAR jiR, \i(h November, 1792. 
 
 I AGREE with you that the song, Kathcrine 
 Ogle, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
 gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. 1 tried 
 to mend it, but the awkward sound Qyie recur- 
 ring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt 
 at introducing sentiment into the piece. The 
 'oregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in 
 my ha])piest manner ; you will see at first glance 
 that it suits the air. The subject of the fong is 
 one of the most interesting passages of my youth- 
 ful days ; and, 1 own that I should be much 
 flattered to see the verses set to an air winch 
 would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis 
 the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that 
 thiows a borrowed lustre over the merits of the 
 composition. 
 
 I have partly taken your idea of Auld Hob 
 Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
 and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
 which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
 another, ju-.t 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 ! ki. 
 
 No. VII, 
 
 MR. TIIOJIPSON TO THE POET. 
 
 DEAR SIR, JEdinhurgh, Nov. 1792. 
 
 I tVAS just going to wiite to you, that on 
 meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violeut- 
 'y in love with her. I thank you, therefore, fur 
 tending the chaiiiiing rustic to nie, in the dress 
 you wish her to appear befure the public. She 
 does you great r! 'dit, and will soon bu admitted 
 lato the beiit company. 
 
 I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is m 
 short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleas 
 ing ; so that, if the singer stops at the end ol 
 two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is weU 
 possessed. 
 
 Although a dash of our native tongue and 
 manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial, and 
 appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able 
 to present a considerable number of the very 
 Flowers of English Song, well adanted to those 
 me.ouies, which in England at least will be the 
 means of recommending them to still greater at- 
 tention 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 writeia shal. 
 follow as additional songs, for the choice of the 
 singer. 
 
 What you say of the Ewe-btights is just ; 1 
 admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All 
 1 requested was, that you would try your hand 
 on some of the inferior stanzas, which are ajjpa- 
 rently no part of the original song; but this 1 
 do not urge, because the song is of sufiSc'ent 
 length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, 
 as they will be by the singer of taste. You must 
 not think I expect all the songs to he of wi-perla- 
 tive merit; that were an tinreasonable expecta 
 tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit down dog- 
 gedly to pen verses, and succeed well at all times. 
 
 I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
 amoiotis rhapsody on Sonnie Lesslie ; it is a 
 thousand times better than the C'ltlier's Lassie. 
 " The deil he couMnasiaith thee," &c. is an ec- 
 centric and haj)])y thought. Do you not think, 
 however, that the names of such old heroes as 
 Alexander, sound rather queer, unless in pom- 
 pous or n^re huilesque virse? Instead of the 
 line " And never made anither," I would hum- 
 bly suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither ;' 
 and I would fain have you substitute sonietthiT 
 line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
 verse, because 1 think this alteration of the or- 
 thography, and of the sound of Caledonia, dis- 
 figures the word, and renders it Hudihrastic. 
 
 Of the other song, My wijf's a uinso7iic 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 veise. 
 I have been trying to spin a staiiza, but could 
 make nothing better than the folloiving ; do you 
 mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, 
 whip it up in your own way. 
 
 O leeze me on my wee thing, 
 My bonnie biythsome wee thing ; 
 Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
 I'll think my lot divine. 
 Tho' wai Id's care we share o't, 
 And may see meickle mair o't, 
 Wi' her I'll biythly bear it, 
 And ne'er a word repiue. 
 
 You percei/e. my dear Sii I avail navsslf of 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 395 
 
 i ' 
 
 Ae liberty whicb you condcsrend to allow iiic, 
 by spoaking fieily what I think. Re a-iMirt-d, 
 it is not my disposition to pick cut the faults tit 
 any poem or picture I we : my first and chief 
 olyect is to discover and he delighted with the 
 Deauties of the piece. If I s-it down to examine 
 critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have 
 written in haste, I may happen to observe care- 
 less lines, the re-perusal of which might lead 
 you to improve them. The wren will often sec 
 what has been overlooked by tlie eagle. 
 
 I remain yours faithfully, &c. 
 
 P. S. Your vei-ses upon Highland Mary, are 
 Just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
 spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last lor 
 ever. Such verses united to such an air, with 
 the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might 
 form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo 
 himself. I have heard the sad story of your 
 Wary : you always seem inspired when you write 
 of her 
 
 No. VIII. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Dumfries, \st December, 1792. 
 Your alterations of my Nannie O are per- 
 fectly right. So are those of " My wife's a 
 wanton wee thing." Your alteratiim of the 
 second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, 
 my dear Sir, with the freedom which (har.ic- 
 terises our correspondence, I must not, cinnot 
 alter " Bonnie Les-lie." You are right, the 
 word " Alexander" makes the line a little un- 
 couth, 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 couquer." 
 
 " For nature made her w/iat i,he is, 
 And never made auither," (such a person as 
 she is.) 
 
 This is in my opinion more poetical than 
 " Ne'er mule sic auither." However, it is im- 
 material : Make it either way. " Caledonie," 
 1 agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
 be wished, though it is sasctiimed in three or 
 four instances liy Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
 help it. In short, that species of stanza is ihe 
 most difficult that I have ever tried. 
 
 Tho "Lea-rig" is as follows. (Here the 
 poet gives the two fir>t stanzas as before, p. 214, 
 with the following in addition.) 
 
 The hunter loe's the morning sun. 
 To rouse the mountain deer, niy jo ; 
 
 4t noun the fisher scek> the glen, 
 Aloug the bum to steer, my ju ; 
 
 Gie me the hw^r o' gloamin (frcy, 
 It mak's my he.irt sae cheery, O 
 
 To meet thee on the lea- rig, 
 Jly ain kind dearie, O. 
 
 I am interrupted. Yours, && 
 
 No. IX. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 (AiM Rob Morris, p. 192.) 
 (^Duncan Gray, p. 199.) 
 
 4//j December, 1792. 
 The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to yom 
 better judgment. Acquit thorn or condems 
 them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
 Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of aa 
 air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
 is its ruling feature. 
 
 No. X. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON 
 
 {Ponrtith Could, p. 222.) 
 (Galta Water, p. 201.) 
 
 Jiinnary 1 793. 
 
 Manv returns of the season to ycu, niv 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, besides the verses to which it is set. 
 Ill short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
 on all the poetry you publish. Yon know it 
 is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade 
 may suggest useful hints, that escape men o' 
 much superior parts and endowments in other 
 things. 
 
 If you meet with my dear ami much valued 
 C. greet him in my name, with the compliaieuts 
 of the season. 
 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 No XI. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 
 
 WITH A POSTSCKIPT FKO.M THE HON. A. ERSKIKB. 
 
 Edinhunjh, Jahuari/ 20t/i, 1 79,'J. 
 You nvike me ha|i|iy, my dear Sir, ami tliou- 
 sinds will be happy to >ee the clianiiini;s songs 
 yuu have sent me. M iny ineriy returns of the 
 season to you, ami may you lim^' continue Hinong 
 the sons and daughter^ of Caledonia, to deljgh* 
 them, and to honour yourself. 
 
S9G 
 
 BURNS'S WORKS. 
 
 The fojr l.-ist sonfjs with whicn you favoured 
 me, viz. Aiild Rib Morris, Duncan Gray, 
 Giilla Water, and Caiild Kail, are admirable. 
 Dunear. is indeed a l:id iif grace, and his humour 
 will en<loar him to every body. 
 
 The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
 aappy shepheid.ess in Galla Water, exhibit an 
 excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine 
 feelin", and powerfully touch the heart. 
 
 The number cf songs which 1 had originally 
 in view was limited, but I now re^^olve to in- 
 clude everv Scotch air and song worth sing- 
 ing, leaving none behind but mere gleanings, 
 to which the ])ublishers of ov"'(/atiier>im are 
 ivelcome. I ivould 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 presenting the subscribers 
 with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the one 
 chardcteristic of the pl.iintive, and the other of 
 the lively songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's pro- 
 mise of an essay upon the subject of our na- 
 tional 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 
 manv curious anecdotes lelatiiig to them. 
 
 The late Mr. Tytler of Wuodhouselee, I be- 
 lieve, knew mure of this than any body, for he 
 iolned to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
 for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
 and possessing an etithusias;ii for music beyond 
 most of l.is contemporaries. He was quite plea- 
 sed with this plan of mine, for I may say, it 
 has been solely manageil by me, and we had se- 
 veral long conversations about it, when it wa'» in 
 eml'ryo. If I coulil simply mention the name 
 of the heroine of each song, ami the incident 
 which occi^'ined the verses, it would be grati- 
 fying. l'ra>, wdl yi'u send me any information 
 of this sort, as well with regard to your own 
 songs, as the old ones ? 
 
 To all the f ivouiite sonas of the plaintive or 
 uastiiral kind, will I'e joiiien the dilitate accom- 
 paniments, &c. of Fleyel. To those of the co- 
 mic or hunioious class, I thii/k accompaniments 
 scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly fitted for 
 the conviviality of the festive board, atul a tune- 
 ful voice, will) a proper delivery of the words, 
 renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I 
 propose adding ba^s accom|)animents, because 
 then tlicv are fitted either for singing, or for in 
 etrunu'tital jierloi mance, when tlieie happens to 
 be no singer. I mem to em ploy our right 
 trusty fiieml Mr Claike to set the bass to these, 
 which he assures me he will do, cnn amnre, and 
 with much greater attention than he ever l>e- 
 «t<iwed on any tiling of the kind. Hut for thi» 
 last class of air», i will not atteutjit to find more 
 than one set lA verges. 
 
 Tliaf eccentric b.ird Peter Pindar, has started 
 I know not bow m inv dilliciilties, about wri- 
 ting fur the airs I >ent to liim, liecause of the 
 peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels 
 bey impost; on his llying Pegaijux. I subjuiu 
 
 for your perusal the only one I have yet got 
 from him, being for the fine air " Lord Gre- 
 gory." The Scots verses printed with that air, 
 are taken from the middle of an old ballad, call- 
 ed, T/ie Lass of L' cliroi/nn, which I do not 
 admire. I have set down the air therefore as a 
 creditor of yours. Many 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. A. ERSKINE. 
 
 ]\Ib. Thomson has been so obliging as to give 
 me a perusal of your songs. Higliland 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 C., wlio is a most ex- 
 cellent fellow, and possesses, above all men 1 
 know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
 You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a 
 collection of your unpublished producticms, reli- 
 gious and amorous ; I know from experience 
 how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any 
 trusty person in Dumfries to write them over 
 fair, I wdl give Peter Hill whatever money iie 
 asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not 
 betray your confidence. 
 
 1 am your hearty admirer, 
 
 ANDREW ERSKINE. 
 
 No, XII. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 2Qth Jinmnr'j, ITM. 
 I APPROVF greatly, my dear .Sir, of your plans. 
 Dr. Beattie's Essay will of itself be a treasure. 
 On my part, I mean to di-aw up an apjiendix to 
 the Doctor's Essay, containing my stock of an- 
 ecdotes, &c. of our Scots s(uigs. All tlie late 
 Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
 down in the course -of my ac(jualotaiice with 
 
 j him from his own mouth. 1 am such an en- 
 thusiast, that in the course of my several pere- 
 grinations through Scotlrnil. I made a jiilgri- 
 mage to the individual spot fnmr vvhich every 
 song took its rise, " Lochaber," and the " Braes 
 of Balleiiden,'' excepted. .So far as the locality 
 
 ! either from the title of the irir, or the tenor of 
 the song, could be ascertained, 1 have pa"d my 
 devotions at the particular shiiiie of evorv 
 Scotch muse. 
 
 I ilo not doubt but you might make a very 
 raluable cullectiua of Jacub.te songs — but would 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 39' 
 
 <t ^ive no offence ? In t!it moan time, do not 
 yon tliiiik that some of tliem, pii t'.cularly " The 
 So'.v's tail to Gc'ordio," as au air, with other 
 worJs, might lie well woitli a place in your 
 colli'ftinn of lively songs ? 
 
 If it were possible to proenre songs of merit, 
 it v.-(iulil he proper to have one set of Scots 
 wonis to every air, and that the set of words to 
 which till' notes ought to be set. There is a 
 nain/e, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight inter- 
 mi\ture 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 sini]>le pathos, or rustic sprightliness of 
 our native music, than any English verses what- 
 ever. 
 
 The very name of Peter Pindar, is an acqui- 
 sition to ytnir work. His " Gregory" is beau- 
 tiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
 in Scots, on the «ame subject, which are at your 
 service. Not that 1 intend to enter the lists 
 with Peter; that would be |)resuniption indeed. 
 My song, though much iuferior in poetic meiit, 
 has I thiuk more of the balUd .simplicity in it. 
 
 {Lord Gregory* p. 209.) 
 
 My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
 nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
 postscript in your last. Me shall hear from rue 
 and receive his MSS. soon. 
 
 No. XIII. 
 
 •'HE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 (^Mary Murisnn, p. 211.) 
 
 MT DEAR SIR, 20</i March, 1793. 
 
 The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
 works. I leave it in your hands. I do not 
 
 • The song of Dr. Walcott on the same subject is as 
 folljAs : — 
 
 All ojx", Lord Gregory, (hy door, 
 
 A nM<liiig(it wanderer si^hs; 
 Hard rush the raitis., the tempests roar. 
 
 And lightiinigs cleave ilie Aies. 
 
 Who comes with woe at this drear night— 
 
 A pilijrim of ihe gloom ? 
 If slie wliose love did once deligfct. 
 
 My cot shall yield her room. 
 
 Alas ! thou hcard'st a pilgrim mourn. 
 
 That once was priz'd by thee : 
 Tliink of the riiiy by yonder burn 
 
 Thou gav'st to love and me. 
 
 But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 
 
 I'll turn iny feet and pait; 
 And think tlie storms that lound me blow, 
 
 Far kinder than thy heart. 
 
 It is but doing justice to Pr. Walcott to mention, 
 that his song is Ihe or'ginal Mr. Hums saw it, liked 
 it, and immediately wrote the other on the same sul>- 
 \ki, which is derived from in old bcotlish ballad of 
 uricertaiu origin. 
 
 think it very remaikahle, either for its merit.'v, 
 or demerits. It is impossible (at least I fee! it 
 so in my stinted powers), to be always origitiul, 
 entertaining, and wittv. 
 
 What is become of the list, &c. of your s(;ngs ? 
 I shall be out of all temper with you by and by 
 I h ive always looked on myself as the prince of 
 indolent correspondents, and val jed myself ac- 
 cordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear rivaldiip 
 from you, nor any body else. 
 
 No. XIV. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 {Wandtring Willie, p. 2i0. 1 
 
 March, 1793. 
 I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
 whether the above, or the old " Through thj 
 lang Muir," be the best. 
 
 No. XV. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ( Open the Door to Me, O, p. 219.' 
 
 I do not know whether this soag be really 
 mended. 
 
 No. XVI. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ( True-hearted was he, p. aiO.) 
 
 i\o. XVII. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 EiUiihiir(ih, 2f/ April, 1 79S. 
 
 I wii.r. not recognise the title you give your 
 self, '' the prince of indolent cones|)onilcnts ;' 
 but if tlie adjective were taken away, I think 
 the title would then fit you exactly. It gives 
 me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotca 
 with respect to ino-t of the songs : these will 
 be a liteiary curiosity. 
 
 I now send you rny list of the songs, which 
 I believe will be fund nearly cuniplete. I have 
 put down the fi'.st hues of all the English songs, 
 which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch 
 verses. If any others occur to you, better adapt- 
 ed to the character of the aLrg pray mentiuc 
 
395 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 them, when you favour me with j riur strictures 
 upon every thing else relating to the work. 
 
 Pleyel his lately sent me a number of the 
 Bon<js, with his symphonies and accompaniments 
 tddfd to them. I wish you were here, that I 
 might serve up some of them to vou with your 
 own verses, l)y way of dessert after dinner. There 
 is so much deligl tful fancy in the symphonies, 
 and such a delicate simplicity in the accom- 
 paniments : they are indeed beyond all praise. 
 
 I am very much pleased with the several last 
 productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, 
 in my estimation, is more interesting than 
 Petei's, "ueautifu! as his is! Your Here Awa 
 Willie must undetgo some alterations to suit 
 the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning 
 it over : he will suggest what is necessary to 
 aiake th'^m a fit match.* 
 
 The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
 taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleaseu 
 both with the musicaJ and poetical part of our 
 work, that he has volunteered his assistance, 
 and has already written four songs for it, wlncli, 
 by his own desiiw, I send for your perusal. 
 
 No. XVIII. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 ( The S.iUier's Return, p. 235.) 
 {Met/ o' the Milt. p.2\\.) 
 
 No. XIX. 
 THL POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 nth April, 1793. 
 
 Thank yDu, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
 You cannot imagine how much tViis business of 
 composing for your publication has added to my 
 ciijoyinents. What with my early attachment 
 to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now 
 as comjilotely my hobby-horse, as ever fortilica- 
 tion 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 siae of the win- 
 ning-post I ) and then clieei fully looking back 
 on the honest folks with whom 1 have been hap- 
 py, I shall say, or sing, " Sae iiieriy as we a' 
 hae been !" and raising my last looks to the whole 
 human race, the last words of the voice of L'oi- 
 la shall be " Good night and joy be wi' you 
 a'!" So much for my last words : now for a 
 fevv present rein irks, as they have occurred at 
 random, on looking over your list. 
 
 The first lines of Tlie last time I came o'lr 
 
 * The Rcntlcman alluded to was Mr. Andrew Ers- 
 kine. TIr- iMH't i toptud (art of the altcialiuns, aiul 
 cigwted Uic- 'Cot. 
 
 the moor, and several other lint-s in it, are beau- 
 tiful : 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, are 
 sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll trj 
 that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song 
 may class among the F^nglish ones, I remem- 
 ber the two last last Jines of a verse in some of 
 the old songs of Logan water, (for I kaow a 
 good many different ones) which I think pretty : 
 
 " Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 
 
 Uly Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. " His 
 raind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
 indeed. 
 
 " Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
 And syne my cockernony," 
 
 This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
 your hook. My song, Rigs of barley, to the 
 same tune, does not altogether please me ; but it 
 I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiinenti 
 out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
 Tlie lass o' Patie's 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 
 J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes are two claims, 
 one, I think, from Aherdeenshiie, and the other 
 from Ayrsliire, for ths honour of thi> song'. 
 The following anecdote, which I h.id from the 
 present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
 land, who had it of the late John Earl of Lou- 
 don, I can on such authorities believe. 
 
 Allan Ram>iay was residing at Loudon Castle 
 with the then Eirl, father to Earl John ; and 
 one forenoon, riJiug, or walking out tog-.ther, 
 his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet roman- 
 tic spot on Irvine water, still called *' Patie's 
 Mill," where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, 
 bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed 
 to All.in, that it would be a tine theme for a 
 song Ramsay took the hint, and lingering be- 
 hind, he composed the first sketch ot t, which 
 he produced at dinner. 
 
 One day I lieard J lury say. Is a fine song; 
 but for consistency's sake alter the n.inie " Ado- 
 nis." Was there ever such banns ])ul)lished, <u 
 a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Ma- 
 ry '^ I agree with you that my song. There's 
 noiigld but care on every hand, is much sujieri- 
 or to Pnortith cnulil. The original song, J'ki 
 mill, millO, though e.KcuUeiit, is, on account oj 
 delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the ^itle, and 
 think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; 
 and let your chosen song, which is veiy pretty, 
 follow, as an English set. Tlie banks oJ the 
 Dtt is, you know, literacy Lnngotee to slow 
 time. Tlie song is well enough, bat has some 
 I false imagery ii it : for instance, 
 
f ,- 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 ^9 
 
 And sweef.y the nightingale sung from the 
 
 hee. 
 
 think we ought not to dinplace or alter it, t» 
 
 cept the last stanai.* 
 
 In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
 ow hu>h, but never from a tree ; and in the 
 ieo.iul place, there never was a nightingale seen 
 or heard on the hanks of the Dee, or on the 
 Viaiiks of any other river in Scotlanch Exotic 
 rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If 
 I could hit on another stanza equal to The small 
 lirdi rejoice, &e. 1 do myself honestly avow 
 that I think it a superior song. John Ander- 
 son Hiy>— the song to this tune in Johnson s 
 Museum, is my composition, and I think it not 
 my worst ■. II' it suit you, tike it and welcome. 
 Your collection of sentimental and pathetic 
 eongs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; Imt not 
 so your comic ones. Where are TuUochgnruvi, 
 Lvmps o puddin, Tibbie F.>wler, and sevcra 
 others, which, in my humblr judgment, are well 
 worthy of preservation ? There is also one sen- 
 timental Bong of mine in the Museum, wkich 
 never was known out of the immediate neigh- 
 bourhood, until I got it taken down from a 
 country ghl's singing. It is called CraujubiiTn 
 wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is 
 one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is (pnte 
 an enthusiast about it ; and I would t«ke his 
 ta-te 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. 
 Shephads I have lost wij love, is to me a hea- 
 vcrIv air— what would you think of a set of 
 Scot'tish verses to it .? I have made one to it a 
 good while 
 
 ladv's song I enclose an altered, not amend 
 ed copy fo" you, if you choose to set the tuue to 
 it, and let tlie Irish verses follow. 
 
 Mr, Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
 ione i-u/f is diMue. Yours, &c. 
 
 Let m.e know just how you like these random 
 hint^. 
 
 1 
 
 No. XXI. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 April, 1793, 
 1 HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment, 
 shall answer it and your former letter, in nij 
 desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
 most. 
 
 The business of many of our tunes wanting 
 at the beginning what fiddlers call a starting- 
 note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 
 
 '< There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow brae*, 
 That wander thro' the blooming heather ' 
 
 You may alter to 
 
 '< Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
 Ye wander," &e. 
 
 My song. Here awa, there awo, as amen led 
 by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
 turn vou. . 
 
 GiVe me leave to criticise your taste in the 
 only thing in which it is in my opinion repie 
 hensible. You know I ought to know some- 
 thing of my own tra<le. Of pathos, sentimenl, 
 and point, vou are a complete judge ; but there 
 
 rses to it.? I have made one to it a ^^ J ,-;^ ,„„re necessary than either, in a 
 
 ago, which I think .... • | ,„j,„ ^^,1 „.i,i^.h is the verv essence of a ballad, 
 
 but in its original state is not quite a r ^ ^- Y,,:,,y . now, if I mistake not, this 
 
 1 i„o„ or. mUpipH not amend- . ' ■' . ..i ... ,..^r;fi,.o tn 
 
 No. XX. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 Edinhnrgh, April, 1793. 
 
 I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad- 
 making continues to be your hnhhy- horse. 
 Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
 hope vou will aiidjle it away fur many a year, 
 and '' witch th» world with your horseman- 
 
 I know there are a good many livdy songs 
 of merit that I have not |uit <!own in the list 
 wnt \ou ; hut I have them all in my eye. 
 Patie is a lover gay, though a Httle uuecpia 
 
 last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
 the foregoing. , 
 
 Ramsay, as every other poet, nas not been 
 alwavs equally happv in his pieces: still I can- 
 not a'pprove of taking such liberties with an 
 ai.tlior as Mr. W. projio-es doing with The lait 
 time 1 cawe o'er the Moor. Let a poet, if he 
 chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
 it into a ]iiece of his own ; but to mingle the 
 works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
 is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow 
 house— hv Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
 grant that Mr. W's version is an improvement ; 
 but I know .Mr. W. well, and esteem bim much ; 
 let him mend the song, as the Highlander 
 mended his gun -.—he gave it a new stock, and 
 a new lock, and a new birrti. 
 
 1 do not, bv this, object to leaving out im- 
 proper stanzas,' wliere that can be done without 
 spoiling the whole. One stanza in The loss 
 o' Palic's mid, must be left out: the song will 
 be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 
 
 • The nrisimi letter from Mr. Thomson cont«ini 
 
 Ml/ many observations on the Scottish songs, anrl on the 
 
 • manner of aitajiting the "ords to th. music, wl.icli, at 
 
 ^atie is a lover gag, inougn a ntnc ui.v.i...... is |,is desire, are suppressed. The sub-tquent ktler of 
 
 uatu-il anl very pleasing song, and I humbly Mr. Burns refers to sevcra. of these observations. 
 
BURNS' WOilKS. 
 
 ean taxe the snnie liberty with Cam rips are 
 honnie. Pcrliaps it ini;jlit want the l.ist stanza, 
 and l)e the bctte- for it. CauU hail in Abtr- 
 detii, you must leave with nie yet a while, 1 
 have vowecJ to have a song to that air, on the 
 laily whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
 verses, Poortith cautd and rat/ess love. At 
 any rate, my other song, Green ;;rnw the rash- 
 es, will cever suit. That song is current in 
 Scotland under the old title, ai.d to tlie merry 
 old tune of that name ; which of course would 
 mar tlie )irogress of your song to celebrity. 
 Your book will be the standard of Scots songs 
 for the future : let this idea ever keep your 
 judjiiuient on the alarm. 
 
 1 sei.d a sonir, on a celebrated toast in this 
 country, to suit Jianuie Dundee. I send you 
 also a ballad to the Mill, mill O. 
 
 Ti.e luit time I came i>\r the moor, I would 
 fain attempt to n:ake a Scots song for, and let 
 Ramsay's be the Knglish set. You shdl hear 
 from me soon. When you go to London on 
 this busine5<i, can you come by Dumfries? I 
 have still several MS. Scots airs i)y me which 
 1 have picked up, mostly fiom -he singing of 
 country lasses. They please n'.e vastly ; but 
 your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased 
 with the very feature for which 1 like them. 
 I call them simple ; you Viould pronounce them 
 silly. Do you kuow a fine air called Jackie 
 II i/me's lament ? I have a song of consider- 
 able merit to tiiat air. I'll enclose you both the 
 song and tune, as I had them ready to send to 
 Juliuson's Museum. I send you likewi-ic, to 
 me, a beautiful little air, wl ich 1 had taken 
 down from viva vuce. 
 
 Adiea ! 
 
 No. XXII. 
 THE POET TO MR. TIIOIMSON. 
 
 Mr PEAR SIR, April, 1793. 
 
 I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the 
 post-iffiic, when I took up the subject of The 
 last time I came (\r the nmor, and ere I slept 
 drew the outlines of the foregoing. Mow far I 
 hive succeeded, I leave on this, as on every 
 other occa>ion, to ynu to decide. I own my 
 vatiity is flattered, when you give my songs a 
 plactf in your elegant and superb work ; but to 
 be of service to the work is my first wish. As 
 1 ha^c often told you, I do cot in a single in- 
 Jtance wish you, out of compliment to me, to 
 itit.ert any thing of mine. One hint let me give 
 you — whatever Mr. I'leyel does, let him not al- 
 ^•r one iota of the original Scottish airs ; 1 mean, 
 in the song de))artment ; but let our national 
 nuisic preserve its native features. They are, 
 
 own, frequently wild and irreducible to the 
 more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
 city, perhaps, dcj)end3 a great part of their ef 
 feut 
 
 No. XX III. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 Edinburgh, 26th April, 1 79Jf. 
 T HEARTILY thaiik you, my dear Sir, for youi 
 last two letters, and the songs which acco.-.ia- 
 nied them. I am always both inslructed in. 
 entert.iined by your observation^ ; and the Ir^nk 
 ness w.th which you s])eak out your mind, is t: 
 me highly agreeable. It is very possibL- I may 
 not have the true idea of simplicity in comjiosi 
 tion. I confess there are w cral songs of Allac 
 Ramsay's, for example, thit I think silly enongk 
 which another person, mere conver>ant than . 
 have been with country poople, would perhaps 
 c«ll simple and natuial. But the lowest scenes 
 of simple nature will not please generally, if co- 
 pied precisely as they «.re. The poet, like the 
 painter, must select what will form an agreeable 
 as well as a natural picture. On this subject it 
 were easy to enlarge ; but at present snilice it 
 to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly uniler- 
 stood, as a most essential ijiialiiy in conipo--ition, 
 and the grouud-w&rk of beauty in all the arts. 
 I will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
 new ballad, When u-ild tcar^s deadly blu^t, &c. 
 to the Mdl, nidi, O, us well as the two other 
 songs to their respective airs ; but the third and 
 fourth line of the first verse must undergo some 
 little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel 
 does not alter a single m.te of the Kuigs. Tliat 
 wo\ild l)e absurd indeed ! With the airs wlii.-h 
 he introduces into the sonatas, 1 al'ow him to 
 take such liberties as he pleases ; but that hal 
 nothing to do with the songs. 
 
 P. S.— I wish you would do as you pmposca 
 with your IUgs o' barley. If the loose senti- 
 ment* are thrathed out of it, I will find an tii 
 for it ; but as to this there is no huiry. 
 
 No. XXIV. 
 THE POET TO MR. THOr.ISON. 
 
 June, 1793. 
 
 When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
 of mine, in whom 1 am much interested, has 
 fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
 will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
 doing any good among ball. ids. ]\ly own loss, 
 as to jiecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the to- 
 tal ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
 I'ardon my seeming inattention to your last 
 commands. 
 
 I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill, 
 mill, O. What you think a defect I esteem ui 
 a positive beauty : so you see how doctors dif- 
 fer. I shall now, with as mjcli alacrity iit< 
 can lEuster, go on with your wmmauda. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Yon kiinw Fra«er, the hautlidy jihycr in 
 EilinliurijL — lie i> lioro iiistiiutiii^ a ImiuI of 
 inu^^ii- for 11 ffiicible cor|is (jiiaitcrcil in tliis 
 country. Aniuiij; many iit' his ulis that ])1imsi' 
 me. there is one voll l;iu)wii as a reel by tlic 
 name of The Quaker's Wife ; ami \vliicl\ I re- 
 nieinlier a granil uunt of mine usud to sing, by 
 the name of Liytjeram cos/i, mi/ bonuy tcee lass. 
 Wr. Fraser ]>\d\s it ^Unl■, and with an expres- 
 sion th.it quite charms me. 1 became sucii an 
 enthu>iust about it, that I made a song for it, 
 which 1 here Milijuin ; and enidose Frascr's set 
 of tlie tune. If they liit your fani'y, they are 
 at your service ; if not, return nie the tune, 
 and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
 t link the song is not in my worst manner. 
 
 {Bli/the hae I been on yon Hill, p. 193.) 
 
 I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 
 
 This thought is inexpressibly Wa. tiful ; snA 
 quite, so far as I ksiow, orii^iiiul. it is to* 
 short for a song, else 1 would forswear you ai- 
 toijctlur, uii!e>» you pave it i pi. ice. 1 hav? 
 olteii tiieil to eke a stanza tu it, liut in vuin. 
 After balancing myself for a muring five mi- 
 nutes on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I 
 jtroiluced the following. 
 
 The verses are far inferior to the forer,oing, 
 I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insL'rt>on at 
 all, they might be first in p!ace ; as every poet, 
 who knows any thing of his trade, will husband 
 his best thoughts fur a concluding stioke. 
 
 O were my love yon lilac fair, 
 
 ^\'i' pur|)le blossoms to the sjiring ; 
 
 And 1 a bird to shelter theie, 
 
 When wearied on my little wing ; 
 
 How I w.ul niniirn, when it was torn 
 liy aiiluinn wild, and winter rude 5 
 
 ]5ut I wad sing on wanton wing, 
 
 When youtiifu' May its bloom recew'd. 
 
 No. XXV. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 S.^M June, 1793. 
 Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bo- 
 »om ready to burst with indignation on reading 
 or those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
 against kingdom, desidate provinces, and lay na- 
 tions waste out of the wantonness of ambition, 
 ur often from still more ignoble passions ? In a 
 mood of this kind to-d.iy, I recollected the air 
 of Lagan water ; and it occurred to me that 
 its queiulous melody probably had its origin 
 from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
 suffering heart, tired at the tyrannic strides of 
 some pubi'ie destroyer ; and overwhelmed with 
 private distress, the consequence of a country's 
 ruin. If 1 have dune any thing at all like jus- 
 tice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
 posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation 
 ia uiy elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 
 
 {Logan JSraes, p. 209.) 
 
 Do you know the following beautiful little 
 fragment ia V/itherspooii's Collection of Scots 
 Songs ? 
 
 Tune — " Hughie Oraham." 
 
 " O pin my love were yon red rose 
 " That grows upon the castle wa\ 
 
 " And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 
 " Into her bonuie breast to fa* ! 
 
 ** Oh, there beyoni! expression bJest^ 
 " I'd least on beauty a' the night ; 
 
 ^ Seal'd on her sllk-saft fluids to re»t, 
 " Till tlcv'd awa by Puusbua 'i^iht." 
 
 No. XXVI. 
 
 MR. THG-AISOX TO THE POET. 
 
 ATonday, \st July, 1793 
 I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any 
 thing should happen to unhinge yon. The timet 
 are terribly <:ut of tune, and when harmony will 
 be restored, heaven knows. 
 
 The first book of songs, just pubHthcd, will 
 be <lespatched to you along with this. Let me 
 be favoured with your opinion of it frankly and 
 freely. 
 
 1 shall certainly give a place to the song you 
 have written for the Qnahcr's wife ; it is qm'e 
 enchanting. Pray, will you return the li.t of 
 songs, with such airs added to it as you think 
 ought to be included. The business now rests 
 entirely on myself, the gentleman who origiu.d- 
 ly agreeil to join the speculation having rc- 
 qiiesteil to be otF. No matter ; a loser 1 cannot 
 be. The superior excellence of thewoik will 
 create a general demand fur it, as soon as it i.s 
 properly known. And were the sale even slowe 
 than it promises to be, I should be some- 
 wluit coni|U'iisated for my labour, by the plea- 
 siii'e I shall receive from the music. I cannot 
 express how much I am obliged to you fur tl;e 
 9X()iiisite new songs you are sending me ; hut 
 thanks, my friend, are a poor rttLrn fur what 
 you have done : as I shall he benililed by tiie 
 publication, ymi must suffer me to enclose a 
 small mark of my gratitude*, and to lepeit it 
 afterwards wLt'a I find it convenient. Do not 
 return it, for, by heaven, if you do, our corres. 
 pondenee is at an end : and thougii this would 
 be no loss to you, it would mar the jiublicatiuo, 
 
402 
 
 which, under your auspices, cannot /ail to be 
 spectable and interesting. 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 re- 
 
 Wednesday IMornxng. 
 I thank yoj for your delicate additional ver- 
 ses to the old fragment, and for your excellent 
 song to Lofjan water : Thomson's truly elegant 
 one will follow for the English singer. Your 
 apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but 1 am 
 not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed 
 gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks 
 it. 
 
 No. XXVII. 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, July 2, 1793. 
 
 I HAVE just finished the following ballad, and 
 as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
 Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Jlrs. 
 Burns' 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 
 m.ky keep, as I remember it. 
 
 (Bonnie Jean, p. IQi. ) 
 
 I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
 <lex, 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 asterisms, so as in- 
 genuity may find them out. 
 
 The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
 daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscri- 
 bers. I have not painted her in the rank which 
 she holds in life, but in the dress and character 
 ef a cottager. 
 
 No. XXVUI. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. TIIO.^ISON. 
 
 July, 1793. 
 I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
 hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
 grades nie in my otvn eyes. However, to rutui n 
 it would savour of affectation ; but as to any 
 niore tratlic of that debtor and cieditur kind, 1 
 swear by that Honour which crowns the up- 
 right statue of Robert Uurns" Integrity — 
 on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
 the by-past transaction, and fioni that nujiucnt 
 inmmence entire stranger to you ! IUirns' clia- 
 racttr for gener;sity of iMotiment and indejjeu- 
 
 dence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of 
 his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore csk 
 supply : at least, I wdl take care that such i 
 character he shall deserve. 
 
 Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
 Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, 
 such elegance and correctness Your preface, 
 too, is admirably written ; ordy, 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 contradic- 
 tory. 
 
 Thcfloicers of the forest is charming as a 
 poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the 
 notes ; but, though out of your rule, the thre« 
 stanzas, beginning, 
 
 " I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 
 
 are worthy of a place, were it but to immorta- 
 lize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
 my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
 Edinburgh. She is a Jlrs. Cockburn : I for- 
 get of what place ; but from Roiburghshire. 
 What a charming apostrophe is 
 
 " O 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 contemptihility *. My alteration of it, 
 in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinker- 
 ton, in his, what he calls. Ancient Ballads 
 (many of them notorious, though beautiful 
 enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of 
 his own intei'polations — hut no matter. 
 
 In my next, I will suggest to your considera- 
 tion, a few songs which may have escaped jout 
 hurri-ed notice. In the meantime, 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 preten- 
 sions to secoiid sight ; and I am warranted by 
 the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great^ 
 grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, 
 with honest pride, " This so much admired se- 
 lection was the work of my ancestor." 
 
 • There is a popv of this Iwllail pivcn in the iiccount 
 ol'tlic iL-irish of Kirkp.itriek-Kkmiiif', (nh>ch contains 
 the touil) of K.iir flilcn Irvine,) in the statist:?' of Sir 
 John Sinclair, Vol XIII. p. "75, to tthict this chw^ic 
 tcr js ccrtiuniy not applicable. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 403 
 
 No. XXIX. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 DKAR SIR, Edinhurc;h, \st Aiirjust, 1793. 
 
 I HAD the pleasure of receiving your last two 
 
 .etters, and am happy to find y'.m are quite 
 
 I-leased with the appearance of the fiist iKiuk. 
 
 When you come to hear the soni^s »ung and ac 
 
 oompinied, you will he charmed with "them. 
 T/ie honnie bruc/tet Lassie, certainly deserves 
 
 hetter verses, and I hope you will match her. 
 
 Cuulil kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, 
 and several of the livelier 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 gieater 
 justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of 
 
 The Bush aboon Traqnair, Lord Greqnry, 
 and the like; for in the manner the latter are 
 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 'in which 
 they are too often performed : they lose anima- 
 tion and expression altogether, atid instead of 
 speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, 
 they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawn- 
 ing ! 
 
 Your ballad, There was a lass and she ti-ns 
 fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubt- 
 edly grace my collection. 
 
 I will. The other passage you object to does 
 r.ot appear in the same light to me. 
 
 I have tried my h md on Rubin Adair, and 
 you will pmbably think, with little success; 
 but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the way 
 measure, that 1 de>j)air of doing any thing bet- 
 ter to it. 
 
 (Phillis the fair, p. 222.) 
 
 So much for namby-pamby. I may, tfter 
 a'!, try my hand on it iu Scots verse. There I 
 always find my-eif most at home. 
 
 I have j'lst put the last hand to tJie song I 
 meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. U it suits 
 you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- 
 ine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall also 
 be pleased ; because I wish, and will be {;lad, 
 to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis 
 a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor 
 which you owe yourself. 
 
 No. XXX. 
 THE POET TO MR. TIIO^ISON. 
 
 My DEAR THOMSON, Aupnst, 1793. 
 
 I HOLD the pen for our friend Cliike, who 
 at present is studying the music of the spheres 
 at my elbow. The (jtorffiuin SIdus he thinks 
 )s rather out of tune; so until he rectify that 
 matter, he cannot stoop to tenestriil affairs. 
 
 He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
 ind if more are wanted, lie says you shall have 
 kem. 
 
 Confound ysur long stairs i 
 
 S. CL.\RKE. 
 
 No. XXXI. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE S.^ME. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages 
 ia my song of Logan Water, is right in one in- 
 •tance ; but it is difficult to mend it : If I can. 
 
 No. XXXII. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 MY Goon SIR, August, 1793. 
 
 I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable cir- 
 cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
 that it has procured me so many of your much 
 valued epistles. Pray makii my acknowledg- 
 ments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; tell him"l 
 admit the justness of his coinj)lalnt on my stair- 
 case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to jour 
 jeu d'esprit ; which I perused more than dnce, 
 without discovering exactly whether your discus- 
 sion was music, astronomy, or politics; though 
 a sagacious friend, acipi jintcd with the convivial 
 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 w:ls the 
 only thing that would deeply atTect you, and the 
 only matter you could then study how to re- 
 medy ! 
 
 I shall be glad to see you give Rohin Adair 
 a Scottish dre-s. Peter is furnishing him with 
 an English suit for a change, and you are well 
 matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
 though he ceitainly has an out of the wav mea- 
 sure as ever jxior Parnassian wight was plagued 
 with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a 
 single elegimt stanza to be substituted for the 
 concluding objectionable verses of D.>wn the 
 burn Davie, so that this most exquisite song 
 m-iy no longer be excluded from good company. 
 
 iMr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
 from your John Anderson my Jo, which I acC 
 to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the hu- 
 morous class of songs; you will be quite charm- 
 ed with it, I promise you. The old couple are 
 seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great 
 
404 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 good liumniir, is clapping John's shoulders, 
 while he smiles and looks at her with such glee, 
 as to sh<i\v that he Jnlty rciiillects the pleasant 
 days and nights when they were first acqvent. 
 The drawing would do honour to the peniiil of 
 Teniers. 
 
 No. XXXIII. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOiMSON. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 That crinkum-crankum tune, Jiobin Adair, 
 ».as run so in my head, and I suceeeiled so ill 
 in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
 morning's walk, one essay more. You, my 
 dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of 
 our worthy friend C. 's story, which happened 
 about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
 and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
 follows. 
 
 {Had la cave, p. 203.) 
 
 By the way, I have met with a musical High- 
 lander, in lireadalbane's fencildes, which are 
 quartered heie, who assures me that he well 
 reineniliers his niotlier's singing Gaelic songs to 
 both Rubin Adair and Gramiiclirie. They 
 certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish 
 taste in them. 
 
 This man comes from tlie vicinity of Inver- 
 ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with 
 Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what 
 I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
 ing minstrels, harpers, and pijiers, 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 — 
 Tbey have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
 air, as they say, called Cnun du dtlish. The 
 fact is, in a publication of Coiri's, a great v.hile 
 ago, you will find the same air, called a High- 
 land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
 Dame there, I think, is Oran Guoil, and a 
 fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the l?ev. 
 Gaelic parson, about these matters. 
 
 No. XXXIV. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 MT DEAR SItt, August, 1793. 
 
 JLet me in this ae night, I uill rccoi'sider. 
 I am glad you are pleasiii with i«y song. Had 
 I a cave, &c. as I bkeil it myself. 
 
 I walked out yesterday evening with a vo- 
 lume of tlie Musiiiin in niy hand ; vlien, turn- 
 ing up AlUn Uti/ir, " \Miat num/iers shall 
 
 the muse repeat," &g »s the words appeared t<i 
 me rather unworthy of so fine an air ; and re- 
 collecting that it is on your list, 1 sat and raved 
 under the shade of an old thorn, till I wiott 
 out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong • 
 but I think it not in my worst style. Yof 
 must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-tai)le, where 
 the modern song first appeared, the ancient 
 name of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Watei, 
 or. Ml/ love Annie's very bon7iie. This 
 last has certainly been a line ot the origina. 
 song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you w'.U 
 see, have introduced the line in its place, which 
 I presume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
 wisie give you a chousing li7ie, if it should not 
 hit t'.e cut of your fancy. 
 
 (Sg Allan streams I chanced to rove, 
 Mhile Phmbus sank beyond Berdtddi, p. 190 1 
 
 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 ot'her follow as En^lisu 
 verses. 
 
 Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
 more veises in it than in all the year else. 
 God bless yoti ! 
 
 No. XXXV. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 August, 1793. 
 Is Whistle and Til cnme to ynu, my lad, 
 one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes- 
 terday I set tlie following verses to it. Urban:, 
 w horn I met with here, begged them of me, as 
 he admires the air much ; but as I uuderstand 
 that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
 work, I did not choose to comply. However, 
 if tlie song docs not suit your t.iste, I mav pos- 
 sibly Send it him. The set of the air which 
 I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 
 
 ( O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad, 
 p. Sit-'.) 
 
 Another favourite air of mine is. The mvckin 
 o' (ieurdie's byre. When sung slow, with ex- 
 pression, I have wished that it hail had bett'T 
 p<ictry : that I have endeavoured to supply, at 
 follows : — 
 
 (Phillis the Fair, p. 222.) 
 
 Mr. Cla-ke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
 corner in your book, as she is ajiaiticular llaiTH 
 of liis. She is a Miss P. M., sister to bonme 
 Jean. 1 hey ale both pupils of his. You shall 
 hear from me, the very first grist I get fronr 
 va^ ihyming mill. 
 
COIIRESPONDEXCE. 
 
 4C5 
 
 No. XXXVI. 
 
 THE S.\ME TO THE S.VME. 
 
 Aiigunt, 170.3. 
 That time, diiihi Kail, is such a favourite 
 of yours, that I once more roved out jesteiday 
 kn- a fjloamin-shot at tlio uitises ; • when the 
 nuisc tliat presides o'er the sliores of Nith, or 
 r.ither my o!d inspiriiiE; dearest nyinpli Coila, 
 whisperer! me the foliowiiij;. I have two rea- 
 sons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, 
 simple insplrer that wdt- hy my e!l;ow, " smooth 
 giidintr without step," and pouring the song on 
 .iiy plowing faney. In the first place, since I 
 left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a 
 I'oet has arisen to cheer her solitaiy Uiusings, hv 
 catcliing inspiration fiotn her ; so I more tiian 
 suspect that she has followed me hither, or at 
 least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
 last stanza of this song I send you in the very 
 Words that Coila taught me many years ago, 
 anil which I set to au old Scots reel in John- 
 son's Museum. 
 
 ( Come let me take thee to my breast, p. 197.) 
 
 If you think the ahove will suit your idea of 
 your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
 7/(e lust time I came o'lr the Muiir,' I cannot 
 niedd e with, as to mendiMg it : and tlie musi- 
 cal wor^d have heen so long accustomed to Ram- 
 say's words, that a <lilfereiit song, though posi- 
 lively superior, would not be .so well received. 
 I an not fund of choruses to songs, so I have 
 BO* xade one for the foregoing. 
 
 No. XXXVII. 
 
 THE SA.ME TO THE SAME. 
 
 {Dainty Davie, p. I9S.) 
 
 Avpust, 170.3. 
 
 So much for Davie. The chorus, you kuo«, 
 s to the low pirt of the tune. See Clarke's 
 get of it in the Museum. 
 
 N. 15, In the IMuaeum they hai'e drawled out 
 the tune to twelve lines of poetry, w hicl. is 
 
 nonseiise. Four lines of song, and four 
 
 of chorus, is the way. 
 
 • Clo.nmip— twilight, properly from plonminfj. A 
 roajiifiil !<>. tic.il word wli:ch oi'iglit to bo adoptevl in 
 tr.gland. \ fliiamiu-iliot, a twilij^hl iiUeniew. 
 
 No. XXXVIII. 
 MR. THO.MSON TO THE POET. 
 
 MV nEAR SIR, Edinbtirgh, ]st Sijit. 1793. 
 
 Since writing you last, 1 have received haW 
 .1 dozen songs, with which I am lielighted l)ey(ind 
 expression. The humour and f.incy of M'/iiitU 
 anil I'll cimie to ymi, my lad, will render it 
 nearly as great a f.ivourite as Duncan Gray, 
 CiiniK lit me tukt thte to my breast, Adown 
 vindniy Nith, and J>y Altiiri ilruun, &c. are 
 full of imagination and feeling, and swtetlv suit 
 the airs for which they are intended. JJail 1 
 a cave on stime wild distaid shore, is a strik- 
 ing and affecting composition. Our friend, to 
 whose story it refers, read it with a swe ling 
 heart, I assiiie you. The union we are now 
 forming, 1 thirds, can never be bioken ; tliese 
 songs of yours will descend with the music to 
 the latest posterity, and will be fuidly cherished 
 so long as genius, taste, aud sensibility exist in 
 our isi.ind. 
 
 While the muse seems so propitious, I tliink 
 it right to enclose a list of all the favouis I have 
 to ask of her, no fewer tliati twenty and three ! 
 I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many 
 as it is jirobable lie 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 familiar to him 
 who writes for them. 
 
 No. XXXIX. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Se,.f. 1703. 
 Yoi; may readily trust, my dear Sir, tiiat any 
 exei tion in my power is heartily at vour sc.-- 
 vice. Rut one thing I must hint to you ; the 
 very name of Peter Pindar is of great service 
 to your pidilicatiim, so (let a verse from him 
 now and then ; though ! have no ohjectlon, as 
 well as I can, to hear the burdeu of the busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Vou know that my pretensions to musical 
 taste are merely a (i:\v of nature's instincts, un- 
 taught and untutored by art. For this reason, 
 many niu«ical compositions, particularly where 
 much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; how- 
 ever they may transpurt and ravish the eais of 
 you connisseors, alFect my sim|de lug no other- 
 wise than merely as melodious din. On the 
 other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted 
 with many little mehid es, whiih the learned 
 musiciin despises as silly and insipid. I do not 
 know whether the old air Jley titilie taitie 
 may rank among this number ; but well 1 know 
 that, with Fraser's i.authoy, it has often tilled 
 my eyes with te.irs. There is a tradition, which 
 I have met with in n: my places of .Scotlan.i, 
 that it was Robert Bruces inarch ut the battle 
 
406 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 of BannocVburn. Tliis thought, in my solitary 
 wanderings, warmed me to a pitch jf enthu- 
 siasm on the theme of Liberty and Indepen- 
 dence, 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 he- 
 roic followers on that eveutful morninsr 
 
 {Scots wha hue tut' Wallace hied, p. 195.) 
 
 So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
 and Liberty, as he did tli.it day ! — Amen. 
 
 P. S. — I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
 highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
 soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
 myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
 dental 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 Museum ; though I am afraid that 
 the air is not what will entitle it, to a place in 
 your elegant selectioa 
 
 No. XL. 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Sfpt. 1793. 
 
 I DARE say, my dear S'r, that you will begirt 
 to tliinlv my correspondence is persecution. IS'o 
 matter, I can't help it ; a hallrid is my hobby- 
 horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort 
 of harmless, idioticil beast enow.;!!, has yet this 
 blessed headstrong property, that when once it 
 has fairly maile otf witli a b ijiless wight, it gets 
 BO enamoured with the tiukle-giugle, tinkle- 
 gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
 poor ))dgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
 yond any useful point or post in the common 
 race of man. 
 
 Tbe following song I have composed for 
 Onin-ijuiiil, the Higlilinil air that, you tell me 
 in your la>t, you have loolved to give a place 
 to in )()ur book. 1 have this moment finislied 
 tie Sung ; so you have it glowing fioin the mint. 
 II it suit you, well ! if not, 'tis also well ! 
 
 Behold Ihe hour the boat arrives, p. 193.) 
 
 No. XLI. 
 MR. THO.MSON TO THE POET. 
 
 Kilhihunih, bill Sr;it. 1793. 
 I aiLlKVK it is gLiieially alloucd that thej 
 
 greatest modesty is the sure attenilant of thi 
 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 pro 
 ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest 
 composition of the kind in the Scottish Ian- 
 guage. 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 He;/ tuttit 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 again and again with the 
 greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs, — I sav I 
 never heard any one speak of it as worthy olf 
 notice. 
 
 I have been running over the whole hundred 
 airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and 1 
 think Lewie Gordon is most happily ada])ted 
 to your ode ; at least with a very slight varia- 
 tion of the fourth line, which I shall presently 
 submit to you. There is in Lewie Gnrdon 
 more of the grand than the plaintive, particu- 
 larly when it is sung with a degree of spirit, 
 which your words would oblige the singer to 
 give it. I would have no scruple about substi- 
 tuting your ode in the room of Letcie (iordon, 
 which has neither the interest, the grandeur, 
 nor the jioetry that characterise your verses. 
 Now, the variation I have to suggest upon the 
 last line of each verse, the only line too short 
 tor the air, is as follows : — 
 
 Verse \st, Or to glnriotts victorie. 
 
 2f/, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
 
 Sil, Let him, let him turn and flie. 
 
 Ath, Let him bravely follow me. 
 
 bth, But theij sh(dl, they shall be free. 
 
 6th, Let us, let us do, or die ! 
 
 If you connect each line with its own verse, I 
 do n t think you will find that either the senti 
 iiuiit or the expression loses any of its energy 
 The only line which I ilislike in the whole ol 
 the song is, " Welcome to your gory I ed.' 
 Would not another word be preferable to «-t/- 
 come ? In your next I « ill expect to be in 
 formed whether you agrtn to what I hive pro- 
 posed. These little- alterations I submit with 
 the greatest deference. 
 
 The beauty of the verses you have made for 
 Oran-ffuoil will insure celebrity to tte »ir. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 407 
 
 No. XLII. 
 THE TOET TO JIR. THOMSON. 
 
 September, 1793. 
 
 T HAVE rcccivcil your list, my dear Sir, and 
 bcre no iin olisorvatioiis on it.* 
 
 IX'wn t.'ie burn Davie. I have this nio- 
 meiit tried an alteration, leavine; out the '.a-.t 
 half of the third stanza, and the tirst hall of the 
 last stanza, thus : — 
 
 Ab down the burn they took their way, 
 
 And thro' the flowery dale ; 
 His rheik to liers he att ilid lay. 
 
 And love was aye the tale. 
 
 M'ith " Miry, when shall we return, 
 
 Sic ])li'asiiie to renew ?' 
 Quoth »Mary, " Love, I like the bum. 
 
 And aye s>hall lollow you."-j- 
 
 Thro' the wood laddie — I am deridedly of 
 opinion, that lioth in this, ami There U ruver be 
 peurc till Jamie ciiiiiei> haine, the second or hiijh 
 put of the tune being a repetition of the tirst 
 p.irt an oi-tave hij^her, is only for iiistrumeiital 
 music, and would be niucii better omitted in 
 siii<;inj;. 
 
 Qncden-hiowes. Remember in your index 
 that the soui'- in uure English to this tune, be- 
 ginning 
 
 " When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 
 
 IS th'i production of Crawford : Robert was his 
 Chrwtian name. 
 
 Laddie lie near me, mu«t lie hi/ me for some 
 time. I do not know the air; and until I am 
 coni|ilLte master of a tune, in my own singing, 
 (such as It is), I can never compose for it. 
 My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment 
 coi respondent to my idea of the musical expris- 
 fcion ; then choose niy theme ; begin one stan- 
 za ; when th.it is composed, which is generally 
 the most difficult part of the business, I walk 
 out, sit dou n, and then look out for objects in 
 nature aioiuid me, that are in unison or har- 
 moriv with the cogitations of my fancy, and 
 workings of my bosom ; humming every now 
 and then the air. with the verses I have fra- 
 med. \Vhen I feel my tnuse beginning to jade, 
 1 retire to the solitary liieside of my study, and 
 there commit my etfusions to paper ; swinging 
 at intervals on the bind legs of my eliiow-chair, 
 by way of calling foiili my own critical stric- 
 tures, as my ];en goes im. Seriously, this, at 
 home, is almost invariably my way. 
 
 What curse<l egotism I 
 
 • Mr. 'I'honisiio's list of songs for liis publication. 
 In h:s remarks, ihe liav.l proceeds in onlcr, aiul t;oe» 
 ll.Tougli ttie whole: but on iii;iiiv of thcin he merely 
 si.niiJies bis ap'.iroh.itmn. All bis remarks of any im- 
 portaiH'C a'-e piesen'dl to the reailer. 
 
 t rlus alteration Mr. I'lionwiii bas .idoptcd, (CT at 
 least iiiteuteil loailopi), iiistcail of llie last stanza of 
 the original song, w» ich U objttioimbJe in jioiut uf 
 tlcliincv. 
 
 Gill Morice I am for letiving out. t is a 
 |)ligiiey length; the air itself is never sung ; 
 and its jilacc can well be supplied by one or two 
 songs for fiiit .lirs that are not in your list. For 
 instance, Cr<ii<;ieburn-u-i)Oil and lini/'s Wife. 
 The first, beside its intrinsic iiiei it, has novelty ; 
 and the last has high merit, as well as great ce. 
 lebrity. I have the original words of a song 
 for the last air, in the band-writing of the iady 
 who coni])osed it ; and they are superior to any 
 edition of the song whic.i the public has yet 
 seen. 
 
 Iliphland Laddie. The old set will ple.ise a 
 mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Ital- 
 ianized one. There is a third, ami what Os- 
 wald calls the old Ilii/ldand Litddie, which 
 ])ieases me more than either tif thein. It is 
 sometimes called (ii/ij/lan Jnhnttie ,- it being 
 the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
 name. You will find it in the Museum, / hat 
 been at Craokii-den, fee. I would advise you. 
 in this musical fjuandiiy, to offei up your pray- 
 ers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and in 
 the meantime, waiting for this d;iection, bestow 
 a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a dmibt 
 but you will liit on a judicious choice. I'lO- 
 batiiin est. 
 
 Aitld Sir Siinon, I must beg you to leave 
 out, and put in its place. The Qmi/ter'.i u-ife. 
 
 IHl/the h(te I hieii o'er ilie hill, is one of the 
 finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides, 
 is composed on a young l.i<ly, positively the 
 most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. .\s 
 I purpose giving you the names and designa- 
 tions of all my heroines, to appear in some fu- 
 ture edition of your work, pcihaps halt a cen- 
 tury hence, you must certainly include the b(in~ 
 niest lass in a' the nuirld in \oiir collection. 
 
 Daiiitie Davie, I have bearil >ung, nineteen 
 thousand nine bundled and iiinety-iiiQe times 
 and always with the chorus to the low jiart ol 
 the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much 
 as your opinion on this subject. If it will not 
 suit, as I proposed, we will lay two of the stan- 
 zas together, and then make the chorus follow. 
 
 Fee hivi fither — I enclose you Fraser's set 
 of this tune when be plays it slow ; in fact, 
 be makes it the language of despaif. I shall 
 here give you two stanzas in that style ; merely 
 to try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
 possible, in singing, to give it half the (.athos 
 which Fraser gives it in ]ilaying, it would make 
 an admiiabie pathetic song. 1 do not give these 
 verses for anv merit they have. I composeil 
 them at the time in which I'atie Allnn's wi- 
 ther died, that was about the back o' iniduiyUt ; 
 and by the leeside of a bowl of ]>unch, which 
 hail overset every mortal in company, txcei> 
 the liautbuis and the muse. 
 
 ( Thou hail left me ever Jamie, p. 239.) 
 
 Jackie and Jenny I would disciid, and iia 
 its place wouid put There's nae luck about 
 
108 
 
 ■ he house, wnich lias a very pioa'^.int air ; ami 
 wliiili is positively the finest luve-liall.id in tliat 
 style in the Scotti^li, or peihaps in any othei 
 .angiiiige. When she cum ben sfie hohhit, as an 
 sir, is more heautifiil than either, and in the an- 
 dante wiiv, would unite with a charming senti- 
 mental hallad. 
 
 S(iw ye my father, is one of my greatest fa- 
 vourites. The evening hefore last, 1 wandered 
 out, and hegan a tender song ; in what I think 
 is its native style. I must premise, that the 
 old wav, and the way to give mo-t effect, is to 
 iiave no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, 
 but to *iurst at once into tl;o pathos. Every 
 counfrs girl sings — Saw ye my fntlier, &fc. 
 
 Mv song is but just begun; and I shouli! 
 like, before I proceed, to know your ojtinion of 
 it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottisli dia- 
 ect, but it may be easily tuineJ into correct 
 linglish.— (;*. ii-Z.) 
 
 ToJlin hiime. Urliani mentioned an idea 
 of hiM, which has long been n:::!e ; that this air 
 is highly susce|.tible of pathos ; accordingly, 
 you will soon hear him, at your concert, try it 
 to a song of mine in the Museum, Ye banks 
 anil Irties o' bunnie Doon. — One song more 
 ai:d I liave done : Auld In ng syne. The air 
 is but ntcili'jcre ; but the following song, the 
 oid si.ng of the olden times, and which has 
 never been in print, nor even in m.inuscri|)t, un- 
 til I took it down from an old man's singing, is 
 enough to recommend any aii. 
 
 (Auld lung syne, p. 191.) 
 
 Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
 fahiy. You must, after all is over, have a num- 
 ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Moricc, 
 'J'ruuc-it Muir, iM' I'hersun's Farcwtll, liat- 
 t/e of Sheri^-nivir, or Me ran anil thry ran, 
 ( I kaow the author of this charming b.illad, 
 and his history), Ilarilyhniite, liarbura Ailun, 
 (I can furnish a finer set of this tune than 
 any thing that has yet appeared); and besides, 
 do \(iu know that I really have the old tune to 
 which The Cher"! and the .S7«e w.is sung ; 
 anil which is mentioned as a well known air in 
 Scotlaiiil's Com|daint, a book jiublished before 
 poor Mary's days. It was then callvd 'J he 
 bunks </ lielicnn ; an old poem which I'uiker- 
 ton has brought to light. You will see ail this 
 in Tytlei's History of Scottish Music. The 
 tunc, to a learned car, may have no great merit ; 
 Jiiil it is a g'-eat cnriovily. I have .1 good many 
 OrigLlal tilings of this kind. 
 
 No. XL- II. 
 
 THE rOET TO MR. THOMSON 
 
 Sepletnher, 179:?. 
 I AM happy, my dear sir, that my ode ple;L<!si 
 you so nuuli. Your ide;i, " Viciiour"s be)l," is, 
 though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if you 
 please, we will let the line stand as it is. 1 
 have altered the song as follows : — 
 
 (^Cannoch-burn, p. lOJ.) 
 
 N. B. — I have borrowed the last stanza fron 
 the common stall edition of Wallace. 
 
 " A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
 And liberty returns with evtry blow.*' 
 
 A couplet woi thy of Homer. Yesterday you 
 had enough of my corres]iondcnce. The post 
 goes, and my head aches miserably. One corn- 
 fort ; I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
 for last night'sjoviality, that I shall escape scot- 
 free for it in the world to come. Aaien ! 
 
 No. XL IV. 
 MR. TIIO.MSON TO THE POET. 
 
 \2th September, 1793. 
 
 A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear SirJ fur 
 your observations on the list of my songs. I 
 am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
 with my own respecting tlie generality of tl:e 
 airs, as well as the verses. About some of them 
 we differ, but there is no disputing about hi'bbv 
 horses. I sh.ill not fail to profit by the remarks 
 you make ; and to le- consider the whole with 
 atteiitioM. 
 
 Diiinlie Davie must be sung, two stanzas 
 together, and then the chorus — 'lis the proper 
 way. I agree with you, that there may I.e 
 something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
 the air of I-\e Iiiiii, fuiher, when performed 
 with feeling ; but a tender cast may be given 
 almost to any livtly air, if you sing it very slow. 
 1\, expressively, and v.ilh serious words. I am, 
 however, c!ea". ly iiiid invanaldy fijr retaining the 
 cheerful tunes joined to their uwii hiiniuroiM 
 verses, wherever the versus are passuble. But 
 the sweet song for let him, futher, which you 
 began about the back of midnighl, I will pub- 
 lish as an additional <uie. I\li. Jjiiies lialli or, 
 the king of fjood fi Hows, and the best singer 
 of the lively Scottish balLids that ever existed, 
 his charmed thou-auds of conijiinics With I'le 
 him, father, and with ToiUm Jiame ■d]^o, to the 
 old wolds, whiidi never should beiiisamted from 
 either of tliese airs. Some BaiclianaU I would 
 wish to discard. I'y let us a' to the bndal, for 
 instance, is so coarse and vuluiii, that I think it 
 tit only tr be sung in a company of dninkeu cul 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 /ier'» ; ami Saw t/e mt/ father appears to me 
 both iiidoiiiMtu 1111(1 silly. 
 
 Ont- Wind more with rcjjaril to your heroic 
 0'!c. I tliiiik, with great defereiire to the |)oet, 
 tl'.it a piiiileiit treneral would avoid s-avini; any 
 thiiii; to his soldiers whu'h might tend to make 
 deith iiioio liii;litfiil th.in it is. Gory presents a 
 disa.neealile image tu the mind ; anil to tell tliem, 
 " \Se!conie to your fjory hed," seems rather a 
 discouraging address, uotwithsfanding the alter- 
 native which follows. I have shown the sonir 
 
 1 • ■ 
 
 to three trienils of excellent taste, and each of 
 
 them uhjected to this line, which eiuholdens me 
 to use tiie fre 'doni of hringing it again undea' your 
 Dotice. I would suggest, 
 
 " Now prepare for honour's bed. 
 Or for glorious victorie." 
 
 ( Where are the jni/s I hne mcl in the morning 
 p. 2 12.) 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir ! The post goe<, sn I sIjlQ 
 defer Mime other lemaiks unti! mon leisure. 
 
 No. XLV. 
 TIIE POET TO MR. TIIO.\IS0N. 
 
 September, 1 793. 
 
 " AViio shall decide when doetois disagree .?" 
 Aly oile jiieases me so much that 1 cam.ot alter 
 it. Yt tir proposed alteiations would, in my o- 
 pinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly oblig- 
 ed to you for putting me on re-considering it ; 
 us 1 tliink I have nuich improved it. Instead 
 of " sodger ! hero!" I will have it " Caledo- 
 oian ! on wi' me !" 
 
 I have scrutinized it over and over; and to 
 .he world some Way or other it shall g<o as it is. 
 At the Siine time it will not iu the least hurt 
 me slmuld you leave it out altogether and adhere 
 toyour riisi intention of adopting Logan's verses. • 
 
 I hive tiiiished my song to Hiiiv ye vii/ fa- 
 ther ; and in English, as you will see. That 
 there is a syllable too much for the expressinn of 
 the air, is true ; but allow me to siv, that the 
 Bieie dividing of a dotted crotchet into a <rot- 
 .•liet and a ipiaver, is not a great matter: how- 
 ever, in that I have no preten-ions to cope in 
 )uilgiiient with you. Of the poetiy I speak with 
 (xintidtnce ; but the music is a business where 1 
 hint my ideas with the utmost d.lfidence. 
 
 The old verses Lave merit, though unequal, 
 and are pojuilir; my advice is to set the air to 
 the old words, and let mine follow as English 
 verses. Here they ain — 
 
 • Mr. liomsnn lias very projiprly adopted Itiis sting 
 (if It u.ay lie so ealleil) as llii lianl ),'rcseiileil it l.i liiiii. 
 lie liah at'.ueliecl il to the air uf l.rwv l!ii dim, anil per 
 ha|is aiuiiii^ ilie exist: iig airs lie .•on i not fiml a belter: 
 bin llie poetry is suiiiil to a nioeli higher strain of imi- 
 tie, aiul iiiav employ the qeiiiu* of some beottish llail- 
 del, I aii\ Mu 11 shoulil ill futiire arise. 'Ihe reailiT 
 Kill lia>e o!fr.eiveil, il.al liiiriis aitopied the alleralions 
 piopoai-il b> Ins friciiil aiiilenriesi otiileiit m former in- 
 >iai/ei s »illl great leailiiiess ; perh ins, m 'ee,l, on all 
 inil<ttetei:t oe« as.ons. hi (ht- present mslanep, however, 
 he rrjeeUil li.eiii, tlio'j.^.li tepeaieilly unjed, Willi ilcter- 
 Ulilitii feMilutloll. v" 
 
 No. XLV I. 
 THE same' TO TIIE SAME. 
 
 St/>fimicr, 1 r93. 
 
 I HAVE been turning over some volnrnes of 
 songs, to lind verses whose measures would suit 
 the airs fur which you have allotted me to find 
 English soni;s. 
 
 For JMiiirland Willie, you have, in Ramsav'f 
 Tea-table, an excellent »<ing, beginning " Ah, 
 why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" \^ f.ir The 
 Collier's Docliler, take the following iW Eac- 
 chaDal. 
 
 (Dclwled Swain, p. 19S.) 
 
 The faulty line in Logan- water, I mend thus: 
 
 " How can your (linty lieaits enjoy 
 
 The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?" 
 
 The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'- 
 Greguira-Hna-Huth. you will see a song of 
 mine to it, with a set of the air sujierior to voiirs, 
 in the IMuseuni, Vol. ii. p. 181. The sung he- 
 gins, 
 
 " Raving winds around her blowing." 
 
 Your Irish airs are prettv but they are down- 
 right Irish. If they were like the Banks of 
 liannn, for instance, though really Irish, vet in 
 the Scottish t iste. yon might adopt tliein. Since 
 you are so fond of Iri^h iiiusii-, what say vou to 
 twenty-five of them in an ;.d I tional numlier ? 
 We could easily lind this quantity of charmin" 
 airs ; I will take care that you shall not want 
 songs ; and I assure you that you will find it 
 the most sa cable of the whole. If you do not 
 approve of /?'>//'« wife, for the music's sake, we 
 ~ha'l not insert it. Deil Ink' the wars, is a 
 charming song; so is, Saw ye tn;/ l\(jcjyf 
 'I'here'i nae lack tdymt the himse, well desirves 
 a pl.ice ; I cannot say that O'er the hills niid 
 far awu strikes me as equal to your selection. 
 This is no my ain house is a great favourite air 
 of mjie ; and if \,iu send n.e your set of it, I 
 ivill task my muse to her Lighe-t etfort. What 
 IS your opinion of I hue laid a hirrin ia sawtf 
 1 like it mueh. Your Jacobite airs are prettv ; 
 iiid tlieie are m my others of the s.iii.e kind, 
 pietiy — but you ha>e i.ot room fir them. You 
 cannot, I (JKiik, insert, I y let us u tu tie Lrtdla, 
 to any other words than us own. 
 
flO 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 What pleaws me, as simple and naive, dis- 
 trusts you a.s ludicrous and low. For this reason, 
 Fye, pie me wy cngyie, sirs — Fi^e, let us a' to 
 the briddl, with sevtral others cf that cast, are, 
 to nie, highly pleasing ; while, Saw ye my father, 
 cr saw ye my Muilier, delights me with its dis- 
 criptive sim|)le pathos. Thus, my song. Ken 
 ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? pleases 
 jnyselt' 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 mau wears his belt his ain gait." 
 
 No. XLVIL 
 THE SAJIE TO THE SAME. 
 
 October, 179.'}. 
 
 Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in- 
 deed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Ers- 
 Kine !* The recollection that he was a coadju- 
 tor in your publication, has, till now, scared me 
 from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on 
 com])osiiig for you. 
 
 1 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 antiqua- 
 rian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by 
 the name cf Leiger 'm choss. The fo lowing 
 verses I hope will plea.se you, as an English song 
 to the air t 
 
 Thine am T, my faithful fair, 
 
 Thine, my lovely Nancy, (p. 214.) 
 
 The rest of your letter I shall answer f.t some 
 other opportunity. 
 
 No. XL Via 
 BIR. THOJISON TO THE POET. 
 
 ify GOOD SIR, 7th November, 1793. 
 
 After so long a silence, it gives me peculiar 
 pleasure to recognize your well known hand, 
 for I liiid begun to be apjtrehensive that all was 
 not well with you. I am happy to find however, 
 that fwur 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 
 Leii,er 'in chnss, which I think rxtremly good, 
 althiiigh the colouring in warm. Your friend 
 Mr. Turnbull's songs liave doubtless consider- 
 able merit ; and us you have the command of 
 
 his manuscripts, I hope ycu may find otfi; some 
 that will answer as English songs to the airs yel 
 unprovided. 
 
 No. XLIX. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 December, 1793. 
 Tell me how you like the following verse* 
 to the tune of Jo Janet. 
 
 ( Husband, husband, cease your strife, p, 213.) 
 ( Wilt thou be my dearie ? p. 242.) 
 
 NoL. 
 
 •'Hip lloni>iirable A. rr<;kinc, brothcrto I.otd Kcl- 
 ]y, wti'tir in;!;iiirlinly (Um'Ii Mr i'himisnii h.iil coinniu- 
 Qiiateil II an ixcL-iljnl IcIlct, wiiicli liu lias tujiprcsicU. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 JIY DEAH SIR, Edinburgh, \1th April, 1794. 
 
 Owing to the distress of our fiiend fur the 
 loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
 your admirable but melancholy lettei, I had 
 not an oppoitunity 'till lately (jf ])eruhing it.* 
 How sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Car-st 
 thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" wh-''? 
 he is delighting others from one end of the 
 island to the other. Like the hypochondiiae 
 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 jdace ; but your Bac- 
 chanalian challengt! almost frightens me, for I 
 am a miserable weak Irinker ! 
 
 Allan is much gratified by your good opinion 
 of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
 from ycur Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it 
 pleases himself in the desii;n, be will piobably 
 etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pa>t(iral 
 or humorous kind, he is perhajis unrivalled by 
 any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
 beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
 ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings anil draw- 
 ings would be in greater request. 
 
 I like the music of the Sutnr's Dochter, 
 and will consider whether it shall be added to 
 tlie last volume ; yeur verses to it are prettv ; 
 but your bimiormi'* Engii-h song, to suit Jo 
 Janet, is inimitable. What think you of the air, 
 " Within a mile of Edinburgh ?" It has alwavi 
 struck me as a modern luigliih imitation ; but 
 is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that 
 I believe I must include it. The verses arc lit- 
 
 • A letter to Mr. Cunningluim, to be tounc 
 in p. oTJ. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 411 
 
 tie better tha'i namhy pnmhy. Do you ton 
 tider it worth a stinza or two ? 
 
 N >. LI. 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 MY DEAH SIR, ]\l(tlj, n9k 
 
 I iiETUKN you tlie i)l,ites, with ivliich I am 
 his^hly pleased ; I would liunihly prjpose, in- 
 stead of the younker knittinc: stockings, to put 
 a stOfk and horn into his hands. A friend of 
 mine, who is positively the ablest judije on the 
 suliject I have ever met with, and though an 
 unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Uu- 
 rin, is cjuite charmi'd with Allan's manner. I 
 ^ot hii'i a peop of the Gentle Shepherd; and 
 he pronounces Allan a most original artist of 
 great excellence. 
 
 For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
 my fivoiirite poem for his subject, to hi; one 
 of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
 ceive<l. 
 
 I am quite vexed at Pleyel's heing conperl up 
 in France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
 work. Now, and for sis or seven months, / 
 shall be quite in song, as you shall see by anil 
 by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
 Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she 
 calls The Hanks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful 
 lomantic stream : and as her Ladyship is a pir- 
 Vcuiit friend of nr.ine, 1 have written the fol- 
 jw ing song to it. 
 
 ( The Banks of Cree, p. 226.) 
 
 No. LIL 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 July 1794. 
 
 Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
 work to be at a dead stop, uiitil the allirs set 
 3ur modern Orpheus at liberty from the sa- 
 vage thraldom of democratic iliscords ? Alas 
 the day ! And wih-'s me ! That auspicious 
 period, pregnant with the happiness uf mil- 
 lion?. * — 
 
 I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
 daughter of a much-valued, and much-lmnoured 
 friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote, 
 •c the I/lank >ide of the title page, the following 
 address *,o the young lady. 
 
 Here, where the Scottish muse immortal live*. 
 
 In sacred strains anil tiuielnl numbers join d, 
 Accept the gift ; though humble he who gives. 
 
 Rich is the tribute uf the grateful mind. 
 
 So may no ruflfian feeling in thy breast. 
 Discordant jar thy bosiiin-chtirds among ; 
 
 But peace attune th) gentle soul to rent, 
 Or love ecstatic wake his seraph sung. 
 
 Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 
 
 As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 
 
 While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
 And heaven-burn piety her sanction seals. 
 
 No. LIIL 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 MV DEAR sm, E'lhibnrqh, lOM Ang.-\79l. 
 I OWE you an apology for having ^o long de- 
 layed to ackiiiiwledge the favour of your hue. 
 I fear it will be as yon say, I Nhall have nc 
 more songs from Pleyel till France and wc are 
 friends; but, neveitheless, I am very desirous 
 to be prepared with the poetry, and as the sea- 
 son approaches in which your muse of Coila vi- 
 sits you, I trusr I shall, as formerly, be freijuent- 
 !y gratified with the result of yuur amorous and 
 tender interviews ! 
 
 No. LIV. 
 
 • A portion of thi-; le ter ha- been left out, fot it 
 ons (IliI will u- easily iin.it;iiied.— Clhuie. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 SO//i Airjust. 179i. 
 
 The last evening, as I w is straying out mid 
 thinking of, 0\r the hills imd Jar aim, I 
 spun the following stanza for it ; but whether 
 my s|)inning will deserve to be laid iij) in ^to|•e 
 like the piecious thread of the silk-worin, or 
 brushed to tlie devil, like the vile manutactuie 
 of the sjiidei. I leave, my dear Sir, to your usuu 
 candid critiii'^in I was pleased wiih several 
 lines in it at tir^t ; but I own, that now, it up- 
 pearN rather a flimsy business 
 
 This is ju>t a hasty sketch, until I see whe 
 thcr it be woith a critiijue. We have many 
 sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- 
 lect, they are mostly the ilTii-ions of the jo.'ia! 
 sailor, not the waiiing-« of his love-lnrn mis- 
 tress. I n:ii-t here make one sweet exception 
 — Swett Annie J'rue the Seu-Oeuch caint 
 Now lor the song. 
 
 ( On the seas and Jar awai/, p, 219.) 
 
412 
 
 BURNS'S WORliS 
 
 I give y«;i le.iVo -o abuse this song, but do it 
 in the spirit of christian nittkness. 
 
 No. LV. 
 
 MR. THO.AISON TO THE POET. 
 
 •IT DEAR ?IR, Edinburgh, \&th Sept, 179i. 
 
 You have anticipati-d my opinion of, On the 
 seas atu/ fur away; I do not tliink it one of 
 yiiiir very happy product, ons, though it cer- 
 titinly ciiiitaiiis stanzas that are worthy of all ac- 
 CeiJtation. 
 
 TliH second Is the least to my liking, ptrti- 
 cuiurly " nidlets, spare my only joy." Con- 
 found'the huilets! It might jieriiaps be object- 
 ed to the third verse, " At the starless mid- 
 night hour," that it has too much granileur of 
 iniagery, and that greater simplicity of thought 
 would have better tinted the character of a sai- 
 lor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
 membered, is of the brisk, cheerful k:nd. Upon 
 the whole, therefore, ni my humble opinion, the 
 song would be b< tter adapted to the tune, if it 
 consisted only of the first and last verjes, with 
 the chorusses. 
 
 ( Ca the yiiwes to the knowes, p. 196 
 
 1 shall give you my opinion of your o&et 
 newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 
 
 No. LVI. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 Sept. 179i. 
 
 I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and fur 
 •in-iii/, altogether: it is unt(juil. anil uiiw(uthy 
 the work. .Making a poem is like begetting a 
 son : you cannot know whether you have a wise 
 man or a piol, until you produce him to the 
 woild and tiy him. 
 
 Fcjr that reason I H'nd you the offspring of 
 niv brain, ab rtinns and all ; and, as such, pray 
 luok over them, and fmgive them, and burn 
 tlieiu.* 1 am flattered at your ai.o]iting, Ca 
 the i/otces to the kiiim-es, as it was owing to me 
 that ever it saw the light. A!)out seven years 
 Ego I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
 foiluw of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung 
 it eliarmingiy ; and, at my lequest, Mr. Clarke 
 took it down from his sing ng. When I gave 
 it to JoliMM>n, i added some stanzas to the song, 
 and mended oti.ers, but stdl it wdl not do lor 
 you. In a sobtary stroll wliieh I took to-ilay, 
 I tried my I and on u few pa-toral lines, fullow- 
 i.ng up the idea of the cboru^, which I would 
 |)r<'seive. Here it is, with all its crudities and 
 imperlections on its head. 
 
 • Ihis Virpill.nn onlerof the poet should, I think, 
 b> (li«)lif\eil with respect to the sou^; in (luetction, 
 th»' keei.oil hlaiiita exii iiie.l.— .W/f t-ii Mi. T'limtun. 
 
 Doeiois (l.lli r. The ulijueiiiii lo the ttcuinl stanza 
 iuLk not ktrike the Ktiilur — Ct/itiiit:.. 
 
 No. Lvn. 
 THE SA:^IE to THE SAME. • 
 
 SepteTiiher, 1794. 
 
 Do you know a blackguard Iiish song, called 
 Onayh's Water-fall? 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 that it is 
 better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
 air. than none at all. On thi- principle I have 
 all along proceeded in the Scots Mu-ical Mu- 
 seum, and as that publication is in its last vo- 
 lume, I intend the following song, to the air 
 above mentioned, for that work. 
 
 If it does i:i>t suit you as an editor, you may 
 be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
 before ladies. 
 
 (Saefaxsn were her ringlets, p. 223.) 
 
 Not to compare small things with great, my 
 taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
 i'rus^ia's taste in painting: we are told that he 
 fie.pientiv admired what the connoisseurs de- 
 cked, and always without any hypocrisy con- 
 h-.-sed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
 taste in music mu>t be inelegant and vulgar, 
 iKcause people of undisputed anil cultivated taste 
 can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Sti.., 
 because I am cheaply pleased, is that any rea- 
 son why I shouM deny myself that pleasure ? 
 Many <i'f our strathspeys, ancient and modern, 
 give me the most exipiisite enjoyment, where 
 yiiu and other judges would probably be show- 
 ing disgust. For instatice, I am just now mak- 
 in"' verses for Rolliemnrche's Rant, an a\l 
 wiiich |"its 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 oi 
 von. " Rotlamiirehe," he says, " is an air 
 'both original and beautiful ;" and on his recom- 
 mendation I have taken the fitst put of the 
 tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part 
 for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in thu 
 work, and po-sibly yon may think, and ju-tly, 
 that the poetry is as little worth your .rUention 
 as the music* 
 
 I have begun anew. Let me in this ae night. 
 Do you thlilk that we ought to retain the old 
 choi'us? I think we must letain both the old 
 
 • In the orii;in»l follow here two stanzas ol the totig 
 " l.u^ie wi' the hiiuwhile ioeki." 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 413 
 
 elionis ami the first Rfanza of the o!il sonj; 1 1 
 do not :ilto<rethcr like the third lino of the first 
 stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
 Rni just three star.zis deep in it. Would you 
 have the rlcnnucmfiit to he successful or other- 
 wise ? — should she " let him in" or not. 
 
 Did vou not once propose The Snw's tail to 
 Ge.ordie. as an air for your work ? I am quite 
 d»;!iglited with it ; but I acknowledge that is 
 no niaik of its real excellence. I once set uhoui 
 verses for it, which I meant to he in the alter- 
 nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
 together. 1 have not the pleasure of knowing 
 Jlrs. Thomson'^ Christian name, and yours, I 
 am afraiil, is rather burles(|iie for sentiment, 
 el-e I had meant to have made you the hero 
 and heroine of the little ])iece. 
 
 How do yon like the f.iilowing epigram, 
 which I wrirte the other d ly on a lovely young 
 girl's recovery from a fever .' Doctor ftl.ixwell 
 was the physician who seemingly saved her 
 from the grave ; and to him I address the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 TO DR. MAXWELL, 
 
 ON MISS JESSV STAIg's RECOVERY. 
 
 ALwwELi,, if merit here you crave, 
 
 That met it I deny : 
 You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 
 
 An angel could not die I 
 
 God grant you patience with this stupid 
 epistle I 
 
 No. LVIIL 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now at- 
 tendant upon her favourite poet, whose wonil- 
 notes wild are become as enchanting as ever. 
 She sai/s she h'es me best o' a, is one of the 
 ple.isantest t.ihle songs I have seen, and hence- 
 forth 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 
 fiom undervaluing your taste for the straths, ley 
 music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani- 
 mating 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 
 »ad softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
 jrou know, they hid been brutes. 
 
 I am c ear for having the Sow's tall, parti- 
 cularly as you proposed verses to it are so ex- 
 tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
 is a name oniv tit for burlesque composition. 
 Mj». Thomson's name (Katharine) it not at 
 
 all j)octical. Retain Jeanie, thcrrfo.e, anc 
 make the other Jamie, or any other that sound* 
 agreeably. 
 
 Your Cn' the yeires, is a precious little mor 
 ceau. Indeed I am perfectly vtonislied and 
 charmed with the endl -ss variety of your fancy. 
 Here let me ask you. v, nether you never s<'riiius- 
 ly turned your thoughts upon dramat.c writing ? 
 That is a tield worthy of your genius, in which 
 it might shine foith in all its splendour. On« 
 or two successful pieces upon the Loudon stage 
 would make your fortune. The rage at piesent 
 is for musical dramas ; few or nune of tho-e 
 which have appeared since the Duenna, pos- 
 sess much poetical merit : there is little in the 
 conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inter- 
 est the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for 
 music and pageantry. 1 tliinkyou might produce 
 a comic opera in three acts, which wouM live 
 by the poetry, at the same time that it would be 
 proper to take every assistance fnnn her tune- 
 ful sister. Part of the simgs of couise would 
 be to our favourite Sfotti.^h airs ; the rest might 
 be left with the London comi'oser — Storace for 
 Drury-lane, or Shield tor Covent-g iiden ; both 
 of them veiy able and popular nius:cians. I be- 
 lieve that interest and manuiuvring are often ne- 
 cessary to have a d-iima brought oii : so it ir«v 
 be with the iiamby inimby tribe of flow cry 
 sciinblers; but were you to address Mr. Sheri- 
 dan himself by lettei-, and send him a dramatic 
 piece, I am jjersuaded l.e would, for the honour 
 of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Ex- 
 cuse nie for obtruding these hints upon your con- 
 sideration. • 
 
 No. LIX. 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Edhihiiriih, \^th October, 179+. 
 
 The last eight days have been devoteil to the 
 re-examination of the Scottish collections. ] 
 have read, and sung, and tiddleri, ami consider- 
 ed, till I am half Id ml and wholly stupid. The 
 few aits I have added, are ericlo-cd. 
 
 Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
 songs I expected from him, which are in gener- 
 al elegant and beautiful. \\,i\>i you heard of a 
 London collection of Scottish airs and son^'s, 
 just i)ublished by i\Ir. Uitson, an Englishman. 
 I shall send you a copy. His introductory es- 
 say on the subject is curious, and evince* gieat 
 reading and research, but does not decide the 
 question as to the oiigiii of our melodies; 
 thou^'h he shows clearly that Mr. 'I'ytler, in his 
 ingenious dissertation, has aihlncel no sort of 
 proof of the hypothesis he v/ishcd to establish; 
 and that hi^ classilication of the airs, accurding 
 
 • Our bird hait before received ihe same advice, .inij 
 certainly took it so far into eooMdeialion, as to liave 
 c^l about for a sv.UJeet. 
 
il4 
 
 BURNS WORKS. 
 
 to the eras when they were composed, is mere 
 fancy and conjecture. On Jolin Pinkerton, Esq. 
 he has no ninrcy ; but consigns him to damna- 
 tion ! He sn:irls at my public;i*on, on the score 
 of Pindar being engasred to write songs fir it; 
 uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, 
 that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent 
 a-packintr to make room for Peter's ! Of you he 
 Bjitaks with some respect, but gives you a pass- 
 ing hit or two, for daring to dre^s up a little 
 sume old foolish songs for the Museum. His 
 sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
 the oldest collections and the Viest authorities : 
 many of them, however, have such a strange as- 
 pect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung 
 by every persim of taste, old or young, in town 
 or cnuntiy, that we can scarcely recognize 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. 
 The'^e melodies had been preserved, we know 
 not how long, by oral conimunicat on, befiie be- 
 ing collected and printed ; and as different per- 
 sons sing the same air very differently, accord- 
 ing to their accurate or confused recollection of 
 it, so even suppof-ing the first collectors to have 
 possessed the ind'istry, the taste and discernment 
 to choose the best tliey could hear, (which is far 
 from certain), still it must evidently be a chance, 
 whether the collections exhibit any of the me- 
 lodies in the stite they were first coniposed. 
 In selecting the melodies for my own coUectidn, 
 I have been as much guided by the living as bj 
 the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the 
 sets that appeared to me the most simple and 
 beautiful, and the most generally ajiproved ; 
 and, without meaning any compliment to n'y 
 own capability of choosing, or speaking of the 
 pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets 
 will be four>d equally freed from vulgar errors on 
 the one hand, and affected graces on the other. 
 
 No. LX. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 MY DJAR FRIEND, IQth Octohef, 1794-. 
 
 By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
 in general, I highly approve of it. 1 shall, at 
 more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
 Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and 
 I wish you wiiuld call on him and take his opi- 
 nion in geiieril : you know his taste is a stand- 
 jrd. He will return here again in a week or 
 two ; so, please do not miss asking for him. One 
 thing I lio|)e he will do, persuade you to a- 
 dopt my favourite, Craigie-burn-wooil, in your 
 •election : It is as great a favourite of his as of 
 mine. The lady on whom it was made is one 
 iif the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact, 
 (eiilre nims) is in a >iianner to me what Sterne*« 
 Cllz.i was to him — a mistress, a friend, or what 
 vou wdl, in the guileless bimplicity of I'latuuic 
 
 love. (Now ion t put any of -out sfji.inting 
 constructions on this, or have an- disiimaclaivei 
 about it among our acquaintances.) I assure 
 you that to my lovely friend you are irxiebted for 
 many of your best songs of mine. Do you think 
 that the sober gin horse routine of existence, 
 could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy 
 — could fire liiin with enthusiasm, or melt him 
 with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? 
 — No ! no ! — Whenever I 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 
 col.traire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very 
 one that for his own use was invented by the di- 
 vinity of healing and poetry, when eist he piped 
 to the flocks of Admttus. I put myself in a re- 
 gimen of admirmg a fiae woman ; and in ]iropor- 
 tion to the adorability of her charms, in propor- 
 tion you are delighted with my verses. The light- 
 ning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and 
 the witchery of her smile the divinity of Heli- 
 con ! 
 
 To descend to business ; if you like my idea 
 of, Wlien she cam hen she hohbit, the following 
 stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they 
 were form.erly when set to another air, may per 
 haps do instead of worse stanzas. 
 
 SAW YE MY PHELY. 
 
 ( Quasi dical PldlUs.) 
 
 Tune—" When she came ben she bobbit." 
 
 O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
 O saw ye mv dear, my Pliely .' 
 She's down i' the grove, wi' a new love, 
 She winna come hame to her Wilhe. 
 
 What says she, n t dearest, my Phely ? 
 What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
 She lets thee to w.t that she has thee forgot, 
 And for ever disowns thee her Willie. 
 
 O had I ne'er seen thee, ir.y Pliely ! 
 O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
 As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
 Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie. 
 
 Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. Tl.t 
 Posie (in the Museum), is my c('.iii))ositinn : 
 the air was taken down from Mis. Bums 
 voice. It is well known in the West Cnuii- 
 try, but the old words are trash. By tli« bye, 
 take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
 do not think it is the original from which Ii:>s- 
 I Itn Castle is composed. The second part, in 
 I jiarticular, for the first two or three bars, is ex- 
 actly the old air. Strathallan' s Lumiut is 
 mine ; the mii^ic is by our right-trusty ai\ii de- 
 servedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. J)o- 
 noclit-liead, is not mine : I would give ten 
 pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edin- 
 
CORRESPONDENICE. 
 
 415 
 
 Sjrph Herald ; and came to the Editor of that 
 pn!)er with tlie Newcastle post-mark on it.* 
 Whistle o'er the lave o't is mine ; the music 
 said to he by a Johu Bruce, a celebrated violin 
 player in Dumfries, about the be;;inriing of this 
 century. This I know, Bruce, who was an 
 honest man, though a red-wud Iliijhlandman, 
 constantly claimed it ; and by all the old musi- 
 cal people heie, is believed to be the author of it. 
 
 Aiidretu and his cutty gun. The sonjj to 
 which this is set in the iMuseum, is mine ; and 
 was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
 Linttose, commonly and deservedly called the 
 Flower of Stratlimore. 
 
 How long and drcarg is the night. I met 
 with some such words in a collection of soni,'s 
 somewhere, 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 ai ranged it anew, as you will find on the 
 other page. 
 
 (How long and dreary is the night, p. 205.) 
 
 Tell me how you like this. 1 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 n(ted performer, plays and sings at the same 
 time so charmingly, that 1 shall never bear to 
 see any of her songs sent into the world as na- 
 kw* as Mv. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his 
 Lundon collection.f 
 
 These English songs gravel me to death. I 
 have not that command of the language that I 
 h;ive of my native tongue. I have been at 
 Duncan (jrag, to diess it in English, but all I 
 can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : 
 
 (Let not woman e'er complain, p. 209.) 
 
 Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
 try t, iking a dinner with a fi iend, whore I met 
 with the lady whom I mentioned in the second 
 page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usu- 
 al, I got into song ; and returning home, I com- 
 posed the following. 
 
 (Sleep\t thou, or wak' st thou, fairest creature, 
 p. 235.) 
 
 If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
 them, I will vamp up the old song, and make 
 it English enoiigh to be understood. 
 
 I enclose you a musical ctr.osity, an East 
 Indian air, which you wool., swear was a Scot- 
 tish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the 
 gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
 acquaintar >-e of mine. Do preserve me the 
 copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. 
 
 Clarke has set a bass to it, and I ir.tcnd p^ b. 
 ting it into the Musical Museum. Here fol- 
 low the verses I intend fur it. 
 
 ( The auld man, p. 225.^ 
 
 I would he obliged to you if you would pro- 
 cure me a sight of Ritson's collection 'of Eng- 
 lish songs, which you mention in your letter. 
 I will thank you for another irifurniation, and 
 that as speedily as you please • whether this 
 miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
 completely tired you of my correspondence ? 
 
 • The reader will \)e curious to see this poem to 
 V^' ~ rrtilMil Ijy Uarn» See p. 151. 
 t Ml. Riuon. 
 
 No. LXI. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 
 
 Edinburgh, 27 th October, 1794.. 
 
 I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuini 
 poet can tio more exist without his mistress than 
 liis meat. I wish 1 knew the adorable slie, 
 whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so 
 often enraptured the Scottish b nil ! that I might 
 drink her sweet health when the toast is going 
 round. Craigie-burn-wood, must certainly be 
 adopted into my family, since she is the object 
 of the song ; hut in the name of decency, I must 
 beg a new chorus verse from you. O to be ly- 
 ing beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consum- 
 mation to be wished, but will not do for singing 
 in the company of ladies. The songs in youi 
 last will do you lasting cicdit, and suit the re- 
 spective airs charmingly. Iain j)erfectly of your 
 opinion with respect to the additional airs. The 
 idea of sending them into the world nakerl as 
 they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
 be clothed and made decent by our fiiend Clarke. 
 
 I find 1 am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
 ningham, in sending your Ritson's Scottish col- 
 lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you 
 with his English collection, which you will re- 
 ceive by the coach. I do not finil his historica 
 essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anec- 
 liiites and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, 
 be much more so. Allan has just sketched a 
 charming design from Maggie Lauder. She is 
 ilancing with such spirit as to electrify the Jjiper, 
 who seiiiis almost dancing too, while he is play- 
 ing with the most exquisite glee. 
 
 I am much inclined to get a small copv, and 
 to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's 
 prints. 
 
 P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes say 
 concerning Maggie Lauder ? was she a rea. 
 personage, and of what rank ? You would sure* 
 ly sjiier for Iter if you ca'd at .^ustrutJta 
 '■jwn. 
 
4i5 
 
 BURNS* WORKS. 
 
 No. LXII. 
 
 TflE POET T{) MR. THOMSON. 
 
 November, 1791. 
 Many thanks to yoti, aiy dear Sir, for your 
 present : it is a book of the utinos-t importance 
 to nil'. I have yesterday l)e<ruu my anecdotes, 
 &c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in 
 the fi>rin of a letter to you, which wiil save me 
 fr(Mii the tedious dull business of systematic ar- 
 rangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- 
 sists of uriconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
 of old snn!;s, &c. it would be impnssible to give 
 th-> work a beijinninp;, a middle, and an end ; 
 which the critii-s insist to be ab>(ilutely neces- 
 sary in a work. In my last, I told you my 
 objections to the sono; you had selected for Mil 
 ledijing is on (lie cold grovnil. On my visit 
 the other day to my fiir (,'hluris, (that is the 
 poetic name of the lovely j^oddess of my inspi- 
 ration), she sup;ijeNted an idea, which I, in my 
 return from the visit, wrought into the follow- 
 IDSJ son" ; — 
 
 {Chloris,p. 197.) 
 
 How do you like the sim])licity and tenderness 
 of this pastoral ? I think it pietty well. 
 
 I like you for enteiing so candidly and so 
 kindly into the story of Md there Amis. I as- 
 sure vou, I was never more in earnest in my 
 life, than in the account of th.it alTair wliich I 
 sent vou in niv last. Conjut^al love is a passion 
 whii-li I deeply feel and lii;;hly venerate ; but, 
 soniehiiw, it does not ma-ke such a figure in 
 poesy as that other species of the passion, 
 
 *' Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 
 
 Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
 of wliich the gamut is scanty and conhned, but 
 the tones inexpiessioly sweet ; while the last 
 has powers equal to all the intellectual modula- 
 tions of the human soul. Still, I am a very 
 poet in mv enth.usiisn: of the pas>ioD. The 
 welfare and hapi)iness of the beloved object is 
 the fust and inviolate sentiment that jurvades 
 mv soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish 
 for, or whatever might be the raptures they 
 woulil give me, yet, if they iuterfrre with that 
 first principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
 disli(uiest price ; and justice forbids, and gene- 
 rosity diMi.iins the purchase! 
 
 Despairing of my owu powers to give you 
 variety enough in Knglish songs, I have been 
 turning over old collections, to pick out songs 
 ol which the me isure is something similar to 
 what I want ; and with a little alteration, so as 
 \.o suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give you 
 Jiein for your work, ^\'hl're the songs have 
 Jiitheito been but little noticed, tjor have ever 
 
 been set to music, I think the sliift .1 fair o»«s. 
 A song, which, under the same iist verse, yor 
 will find in Ramsay's Tea- Tab' ; Miscellany, I 
 have cut down fur an EnglisL dtess to your 
 Dainty Davie, as follows . — 
 
 {Cliloe,p. 19G ) 
 
 You may think meanly of this, bul take a 
 look at the bombast original, and you will be 
 surprised that I have maile so much of it. I 
 have finished my song to Rotlieniurche's Runt; 
 and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set ot 
 the air fcr singing. 
 
 (Lassie u-i' the lint-white lochs, p. 203.) 
 
 This ])iece has at least the merit of being a 
 regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
 nonn, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
 night, ate regularly rounded. If ycm like it, 
 well: if not, I will insert it in the .Museum. 
 
 1 am out of temper that yon should set so 
 sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tali the wars, 
 to the foolish old verses. Yuu talk of the silli- 
 ness of Saw i/e nil/ father ; by heavens, the 
 odds is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, 
 though now pretty well model nlzed into the 
 Scottish l.mguage, is oiiginally, atnl in the ear- 
 Iv editions, a bungling low imitatum of the 
 Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey ; 
 so has no pretensions to be a Scotti-h produc- 
 tion. There is a juetty English song by She- 
 ridan in the Duenna, to this air, which is out 
 of sight superior to D'Urfey 's. It begins, 
 
 " When sable night each drooping plant re- 
 storing." 
 
 The air, if I understand the expression of it 
 properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
 city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone 
 over my song to the tune as fiiliows.* 
 
 Now for my English song to iVa/icy'ji to the 
 Greenwood, &c. 
 
 (Maria's Dwell. ur,, p. 250.) 
 
 There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's de- 
 light, to which I wrote a song tint you wii 
 find in Johnson. Ye b'lnhs and braes o' Ifinnn 
 Dnon ; this air, I think, might find a place a- 
 mong your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
 Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu- 
 rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr 
 James Miller, writer in your good town, a gen- 
 tleman whom possibly you know, was in coin, 
 pany with our friend Clarke ; and talking o. 
 Scottish music. Miller expressed an ardent am- 
 bition to be able to comj)Osc a Scots air, Mr 
 
 * See the sonj: in its first and best dress iu p Hi 
 
4 IV 
 
 Clarke, parti/ by way of joke, toM him tn keep ' more nacclian.il i.in than amorous in its n.itute, 
 to tlie black keys of tlie liarpsii-liord, and jire- i anrj rei-iminii'mls it to you to ni.iti-li tiit liir ae- 
 lerve s.ome kind of rhyme ; and he would in- ' coniinjjiy. I'ray did it ever (pci-nr to you how 
 fcillilily i-oinpose a .Scot" n\r. Cert.iiu it is that, ! peculiarly well the Scott;^h airs are ail.ipted for 
 
 in a frw days, Mr. Miller proiluced the rinli 
 nients of an air, which iMr. Clarke, with some 
 to'jches and corrections, fashioned into the tune 
 in question. Ritson, you know, has the same 
 story of the lilack htys ; hut this account 
 which I liave ju>t ijiven you, Mr. Clarke in- 
 formed me of, several years at;o. Ni.w to show 
 you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our 
 airs, I have heard it rei)cateiily asserted that this 
 was an Irish air ; nay, 1 met with an Irish gen- 
 tleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland 
 among the old women ; while, on the uther 
 Land, a Countess informed me, that the first 
 person who introduced the air info this country, 
 WHS a baronet's lady of her acquaititance, who 
 took down the notes from an itinerant jiiper in 
 the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascer- 
 tain the truth respecting our poesy and music ' 
 I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 
 Buug thiough the streets of Dimifties, with 
 my name at the head of them as the author, 
 though jt was the first time I had ever seen 
 them. 
 
 I thank you for admitting Craiyie-burn- 
 U'ood ; and I shall take cjre to furnish you with 
 a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my 
 %vork, but a part of some old verses to the air. 
 If I can catch mvself in a more than ordinarily 
 prooitious moment, I shall write a new Craigie- 
 burn-woiid altogether. My heart is much in 
 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 a- 
 menils, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
 sary information out of theui, I will return you 
 Ritson's volumes. 
 
 The la<ly is not a little proud that she is to 
 make so distinguished a figure in your collection, 
 and I aiK not a little proud that I have it in 
 my power to please her so muih. Lucky it is 
 for yeur pat:;;:;ce that my paper is done, for 
 when 1 am m a scribbling humour, 1 know not 
 when to ffive over. 
 
 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, but by 
 a female voice. A song thus |>erfurmeil makes 
 an agreeable variety, but few of our'* are .writ- 
 ten in this form : I wi«h you would think of it 
 in some of those that remain. The only one of 
 the kind you have sent me, is admltable, and 
 will be an universal favourite. 
 
 Your verses for liut/ienuirc/ie are so sweetly 
 pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for JJtd 
 tali the ivars, so passionately tender, that I have 
 sung myself into rajitures with theui. Your 
 song for Ml/ hilginij is on tlie culil ijnninil, is 
 likewise a diamond of the first water ; I am 
 quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your 
 Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your 
 jwrtiality for tliis colour ; else we dilTer about 
 it; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to 
 be a beauty, on reading that she bad lint-whtc 
 locks ! 
 
 Farewell thou stream that tclnding flows, I 
 think exceileiit, but it is mux'h too serious to 
 come after Nancy : at least it would seem an 
 incongruity to provide the same air with merry 
 Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The 
 moie that the two sets of verses resemble each 
 other in their general 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 wlieu you wish to present any of your friends 
 with the songs: the next carrier will bring you 
 three copies, and you are as welcoiiie lo twenty 
 as to a iiiuch of snutL 
 
 No. LXIII. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 MT GOOD SIR, 
 
 ]5//j Noremlier, 1794. 
 
 Slsc'E receiving your last, I have had ano- 
 ther mtervlew with Mr. Clarke, and a loag con- 
 iulcation. lie thinks the (Jaltdoniun. Hunt is 
 
 No. LXIV. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 19/A NiivemhLr, 1791. 
 Yoi; see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- 
 respondent I am ; though indeed you may thank 
 yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you 
 liave so fl ittertd me on my horsemanship with 
 mv favouriie hobby, and have praised the 
 grace of his ambling so much, that 1 am ncirce- 
 iy ever olT his back. For instance, this mor- 
 ning, though a keen blowing frost, in my "a'.k 
 before breakfast, 1 finished my duet wliicii you 
 were pleased to praise so much. Whether I 
 have uniformly succeeded, 1 will not say ; but 
 here it ii for you, though It is nut an Lour old. 
 
418 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 ( OPhilly, happy he tliat day, p. 220.) 
 
 Tell me honestly liow 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 nut hint it to me sooner. In those that 
 remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember 
 vour objections to the name Philly ; hut it is 
 the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the 
 only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a. 
 vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing 
 except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poe- 
 tasters of the day, whom your brother editor, 
 Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have 
 always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity ; where- 
 as, simplicity is as vnwcn. eloigns e from vulgarity 
 on the one hand, as from affected point and puer- 
 ile, conceit on the other. 
 
 I agree with you as to the air, Craigie-hurn- 
 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 Rothieinui'chie ; there, as in Ruy^s 
 Wife of Aldivalloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, 
 well enough. As to the chorus going first, that 
 is the case with liny's Wife, as well as Itnthie- 
 murcliie. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
 the rhyme is so peculiar and irregular, and on 
 that irregularity depends so much of their beau- 
 ty, that we must e'en take them with all their 
 wilHness, and humour the verse accordingly. 
 Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has, 
 I think, an effect that no regularity could coun- 
 terbalance the want of. 
 
 Try 
 
 and 
 
 Cmiipare 
 uil/i 
 
 {'o 
 
 Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
 lassie wi' the lint-white lucks. 
 
 { Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
 
 \ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 
 
 Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
 strike you ? In the last case, with the true 
 furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
 originality of the air ; whereas in the first insi- 
 pid nieHujd, it is like the grating screw of the 
 pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This 
 is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg paidun of the 
 eogiinsceiiti. 
 
 The Caledonian Hunt is so charming, that 
 It woulil make any subject in a song go down ; 
 but p.ithos is ceitairily its native tongue. Scot- 
 ti-li Uacclianalians we certainly want, though the 
 few we have are excellent. For instance, Tud- 
 lir. Ituvic is, for wit and humour, an unpaialleled 
 composition ; and Andrew and his ciitty t/un is 
 ttie work of a master. 13y the way, are you not 
 quite vexed to think that those men of genius, 
 fur Kuch they certainly were, who composed our 
 fine .Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! It has 
 given ine many a l:eart-ache. Apropos to IJac- 
 clianalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one 
 yi sierdjy for an a.r I like much — J^uiiips o' puj 
 
 ( Contented wi' little, ond cantie wt tnair, 9 
 197.) 
 
 Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framea 
 a couple of English Stanzas, by way of an Eng 
 lish song to Roys wife. You will allov/ raa 
 that in this instance, my English corresponds in 
 sentiment with the Scottish. 
 
 ( Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? p. 196.) 
 
 Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three 
 
 turns across my room, and with 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 jifctes, 
 nnstaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
 have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
 instrument. It is composed 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 smalltTend, 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 wliicb 
 you see every shepherd- boy have, when the 
 corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed 
 is not made fast in 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 play- 
 ing. The stock has six or seven vcntiges on the 
 upper side, and one back-ventige, like the com- 
 mon flute. This of mine was made bya man 
 from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what 
 the shepherds 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 blow- 
 ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. H 
 IMr. Allan chooses, I will semi him a sight oS 
 mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro- 
 ther-brush with him. " Priile in Poets is nae 
 sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Al- 
 lan and Mr. ]5urns to be the only genuine and 
 real painters of Scottish costume in the worU 
 
 No. LXV. 
 
 MF THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 2Sth Noremher, 1794. 
 I ACKNowi.EncE, niv dear Sir, you are not 
 oidy the most punctual, but the most delectable 
 correspondent I ever met with. To attempt 
 flattering you never entered my head ; the truth 
 Is, I look back with surprise ul my iinpudencc. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 419 
 
 in RO h-0]U€ntl_v nibbling at lines and couplets 
 »f your ineomparable lyrics, for which, perhajis. 
 if you hud served me right, you would have 
 cat me to the devil. On the contrary, how- 
 ever, 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 chief d'ceuvre. 
 Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of 
 my family dishes; you have cooked it so capi- 
 tally, that it will please all palates. Do give 
 U8 a few more of this cast, when you find your- 
 self in good spirits : these convivial songs are 
 more wanted than those of the amorous kind, 
 of vvhich 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 au- 
 thors 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 return, to be en- 
 graved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
 interesting point of time appeai-s to me, when 
 she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She 
 giiz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines 
 immediately following, are no doubt more im- 
 pressive on the reader's feelings ; but were the 
 painter to fix on these, then you'll observe the 
 animation and anxiety of her countenance is 
 gone, and he could only represent her fainting 
 iu the soldier's arms. But I sulunit the matter 
 to you, and beg your opinion. 
 
 .'^llan desires me to thank you for your ac- 
 curate description of the stock and horn, and 
 for the very gratifying compliment you pay liiui 
 in considering him worthy of standing in a uiche 
 by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. 
 He has seen the rude instrument you describe, 
 so docs not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
 know whether you believe it to have ever been 
 generally 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 capa- 
 ble of any thing but routing and roaring. A 
 friend of mine says, he renuinbers to have heard 
 one in his younger days (made of wood instead 
 of your bone), and that the sound was abomin- 
 able. 
 
 Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 
 
 Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There' II never 
 be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so 
 well consort with Peter I'indar's excellent love- 
 song to that air, I have just liaiued for you th» 
 following : 
 
 {My Nannie's awa, p. 212.) 
 
 IIow does this please you ? As to the point 
 of time for the expression, in your proposed 
 print from my Sndger's return : It must cer- 
 tainly be at — " She gazed." The interesting 
 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 n!::ster will make a 
 great deal. In great haste, but in great tru\h, 
 yours. 
 
 No. LXVI. 
 THE POET TO MR. THO.AISON. 
 
 December, 179i. 
 fr is, I assure you, the pi ide of my heart to 
 do any thing to forward, or add to the value of 
 four book : anJ as I agree with you that the 
 
 No. LXVII. 
 THE S.\ME TO THE SAME. 
 
 t/anuarT/, 1795. 
 
 I FEAR for my songs: however, a few mty 
 please, yet originality is a coy feature in coni'- 
 position, and in a multiplicity of efli'orts iu the 
 same style, riisappeirs altogether. For these 
 three thousand years, we poetic folks have bo<!u 
 describing the spring, fur instance ; and as the 
 spring continues the same, there must soon be 
 a saineness in the imagery, &c. of these said 
 rhyming folks. 
 
 A great critic, Aiken 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 al- 
 lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
 prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 
 
 (A man's a man for u that, p. 67.) 
 
 I do not give yon the foregoing song for your 
 book, but merely by way of vice la bar/atelle ; 
 for the piece is not really poetry. How will 
 the following do for Craigie-burn-woodf 
 
 {Su-cet fa's the eve on Craiyie-burn, p. 224.) 
 
 Farewell ! God bles* you. 
 
 No. LXVIIL 
 IMR. THO.MSON TO THE POET. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, SVith Jan. iV95 
 
 1 THANK you heartily for Navnie's awa, as 
 well as for Craiyie-burn, whirh I tlmik a very 
 co2:v;ly pair. Your obscrvntiun on the .l.Jhcul- 
 
420 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 ty 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 Lave seat me. 
 Your rive la bagatelle song, I^or a that, shall 
 nndoubtedly be included in my list. 
 
 So. LXIX. 
 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 February, 1793. 
 Hebz is another trial at your favourite air. 
 
 ( O let me in this ae niyhl, and Answer, 
 I do not know whether it wiil do. 
 
 No. LXX. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Ecclefei-hitn, 7th Feb. 1795. 
 
 MY DEAR TH03IS0.V, 
 
 You cannot have any idea of the jjreilica- 
 ment in which I write to you. In tlie cour."* 
 of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I 
 have acted of late) I came yesternight to this 
 unfortunate, wicked, little villace. I have gone 
 forwarri, but snows of ten feet deep have im- 
 pede<i my prrigress : I have tried to " gae hack 
 the gate 1 cam again," but the same obstacle I 
 has shut me up within insuperable buis. To add 
 to uiy misfortune, Kince dinner, a scraper has 
 been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
 hive insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under 
 the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
 tljat very account, exceeding good company. In 
 lact, I have Ix-en iu a dilemma, either to get 
 drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my- 
 self, to get rid of them : like a prudent man, 
 (a character congenial to my every thought, 
 word, and deed), I, of two evils have chosen 
 the least, and am very drunk, at y<iur service !• 
 
 I wrote you yestero'ay from Dumfries. I 
 had ni)t time then to tell you all I wanted to 
 »ay ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not 
 capacity. 
 
 Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
 know it, We'll yang nae mair to yon tmcn : I 
 think, in slowish time, it would make an excel- 
 lent wjng. I am highly delighted with it ; and 
 if you should think it worlliy of your attention, 
 I have a fair dame in my eye to whonn I would 
 eODsecrate it. 
 
 • Tlic baril inusl have Ix-cn ti|>»y inilccd, to abuse 
 
 svcct (jv ■fccliaM at tliit rate, 
 
 As I am just going to bed, I vrish you a good 
 night. 
 
 No. LXXI. 
 
 JIR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 25th February, 1795. 
 
 I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two 
 epistles, one containing Let me in this ae niyht ; 
 and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that 
 drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy." 
 You have displayed great address in the above 
 song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same 
 time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
 would have attached to Lis entreaties. I like 
 the song as it now stands very much. 
 
 I had hopes you would l)e arrested some dayi 
 at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the 
 tedious forenoons by song making. It will 
 give me pleasure to receive the verses yos ia- 
 tend for, O teat ye wha'a in yon toicn 9 
 
 No. LXXIl. 
 THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 May, 1795. 
 ( The Woocllarh, p, 237.) 
 
 Let me know your very first leisure how jrob 
 like this song. 
 
 (Lony, long the ntyht, p. 207 ) 
 
 How do yoM like the foregoing ? The Irish 
 air, Humours of Glen, is a great favourite o. 
 mine, and as, except the silly studfin the Poor 
 Stiltlier, there are not any decent verses for it; 
 I have written for it as follows : — 
 
 ( Their grovet o' sweet myrtle let foriign lanJt 
 rtckon, p 195.) 
 
 {' Twos na her bonnle blue ee teat my ruim, 
 p. 237.) 
 
 Let me hear from you. 
 
 No. LXX in. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 You must not think, my good Sir, that I 
 have any intention to enhance the value of my 
 
s;;ft, when I s.iv, in justice to tlio incjcnioiis and 
 wnrthv artist, th:it tlu- desij^n and oxociition of 
 The Cotler's Salunliti/ Nii/ht is, in my opi- 
 nion, one of the happiest productions of Allin's 
 P'^ncII. I shiul he grievously disai)poliited if 
 vou t».e not quite ])l(MseiI with it. 
 
 1 tie figure intended for your [jortrait, I think 
 itril<iiigly like you, as f.;r as I can renieni!)er 
 your phir. This should make the piece irih-r- 
 esting to your family every way. Tell nie 
 whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the 
 figure!). 
 
 I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
 with which I have rea<l your pathetic Adilress 
 ti> the Woodlark, your ele-iant Pdiicgyric on 
 Cahdonia, and your affutting verses on C/iln- 
 rjs' illness. Every rejieatcd peiusal of these 
 gives new delight. The other song to Ladilie 
 lie near me, though not equal to these, is very 
 pleasiiig. 
 
 No. LXXIV, 
 
 THE rOFT TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 (How cruel nre the parents, p. 20i. ) 
 
 {Mark yondtr pomp of custlij fasliion, p. 21 1.) 
 
 Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I 
 answer your orders : your tailor could not he 
 more punctual. I am just now in a high fit 
 of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of 
 criticism don't cure me. If you can in a p'lst 
 or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
 potion of your applause, it will raise your hum- 
 ble servant's phienzy to any height you want. 
 I am at this moment " holding high converse" 
 with the iMuses, and have not a word to throw 
 away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 
 
 No. LXXV. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SA.ME. 
 
 Maij, 1795. 
 Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre- 
 Bent ; though I am ashamed of the value of it, 
 Deing hestowed on a man who has not hy any 
 means merited such an instance of kindness. I 
 have shown it to two or three judges of thf 
 first ahilitit's here, and they all agree with me 
 i-n classing it as a fiist-rjte production. My 
 phiz is " sae ken<^|K'ckle,'* that the very joiner's 
 apprentice whom .Mrs. Burns employed tohieak 
 up the parcel (I was out of town that (lay) 
 knew it at once. M,y oiost grateful ccmipli- 
 ments fo Allan, who his hon(iMre<l my rustic 
 wuse so much with his masterly pencil. Oue 
 
 strange coincidence is, that the little one who 
 is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail 
 is tlw most striking likeness of an " ill-ileedie-, 
 d — n'd, wee, rumhle-garie, urchin" of mine, 
 whom, from that Jiropensltv to witty wicked- 
 ness and manfu' nvschief, uhich, even at tvvj 
 days auld, I foresaw would form the strikin;" 
 features of his ilisposition, I named Willie Nicoll, 
 after a cettain friend of mine, who is one of the 
 masters of a grammar-school in a city which 
 shall he nameless. 
 
 Give the enclosed epigram to my much- 
 valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
 on Wednesday I go to visit a frienil of his, to 
 whom his friendly partiality in speaking of nie, 
 in a manner introduced ine — I inean a well 
 known military and literary character, Colonel 
 Dirom. 
 
 Yon do not tell me how you liked my tws 
 laat songs. Are they condemned ? 
 
 No. LXXVI. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 \3th May, 1795 
 It gives me great pleasure to find that you 
 are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's pro- 
 duction. The chance resendil mce of your little 
 fellow, whose promising disposition a])pe ired so 
 very early, and sugu'ested whom he should he 
 named after, is curious enough. I am acquaint- 
 ed with that person, who is a prodigy of learn- 
 ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though 
 no saint. 
 
 You really make me hliish when you tell me 
 you have not merited the drawing from me. I 
 do not think I cin ever repny yon, or sufficient- 
 Iv c>teem and lesnect vou fiir the liheral and 
 kinil manner in winch you have entered into 
 the spirit of iny undertaking, which could not 
 have been perfected without you ; So I beg you 
 wouhl not make a fool of me again, hy speaking 
 of obligation. 
 
 I like your two last songs very much, and 
 am happy to find you are in such a high fit ol 
 poetizing. Long may it last. Claike has maile 
 a fine pathetic air to Mallet's sujierlative ballad 
 of William and Muryniet, and is to give it ta 
 me, to be enrolled among the elect. 
 
 No. LXXVII. 
 
 THE POET TO MH, THOMSON. 
 
 Irf Wliislle mtd ni came to ye, my lad, tliS 
 Iieiation of that line is tiresome to my ei» 
 Here goes what I think is an iuiurovement • 
 
422 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 O whUtle, anil m come to ye, my lad ; 
 
 whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
 
 Tho* father, and mother, and a' shonld gae mad, 
 Thy Jeany will venture wi' yej^my lad. 
 
 In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
 Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
 nassus ; a diime whom the Graces have attired 
 in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have arm- 
 ed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the he- 
 roine of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
 and dispute her commands if you dare ! 
 
 ( O this is no my air. lassie, p. 238.) 
 
 Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
 pidity of Clarke at last? He has requested 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. 
 
 1 enclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
 »pection, and that you miy copy the song, O 
 bonnie was yon i-osie brier. 1 do not know 
 whether I am right ; but that song plea^es me, 
 and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's 
 newly roused celestial spaik will soon be smoth- 
 ered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the 
 song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of, 
 
 1 wish my hire wus in a mire; and poor Er- 
 skine's English lines may follow. 
 
 I enclose you For a' that and a' that, which 
 was raver in print : it is a much superior soi:g 
 to mine. I have been told that it was com- 
 posed by a lady. 
 
 (^Now Sprtng has clnd the t/rove in green, p. 
 
 214..) 
 
 ( O bonnie was yon rosy brier, p. 216.) 
 
 Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last 
 eilitionof my |)oenis, prisonteil to the lady, whom, 
 in so nianv fictitious reveiies of passion, but with 
 the most ardent sentiuients of real friendship, I 
 have so often sung under the name of Chloris : 
 
 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend. 
 
 Nor ti.ou the gilt refuse. 
 Nor witn unwilling ear attend 
 
 The moralizing muse. 
 
 Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 
 
 Mu"t bid the world ailieu, 
 (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 lour ; 
 (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
 
 Did nip a fairer (lower). 
 
 Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 
 btill much IH left behiad ; 
 
 Still nobler wealth hast thou in stora. 
 The comforts of the mind f 
 
 Thine is the self-approving glow, 
 On conscious honour's part ; 
 
 And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
 Thine friendship's truest heart. 
 
 The joys refined of sense and taste, 
 With every muse to rove ; 
 
 And doubly were the poet blest 
 These joys could he improve. 
 
 Une bagattUe de famitie. 
 
 No. LXXVIII. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POE'l. 
 
 MY BEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 179fx 
 
 This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brian- 
 ton, who has read your woiks, and pants foi 
 the honour of your acquainti'.nce. I do no 
 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. What an imagination 
 is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that I 
 am delighted with all the thiee songs, as well as 
 with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. 
 
 I am sorry you should be induced to alter 
 O whistle and III come to ye, my lad, to th( 
 prosaic line. Thy Jeany, will venture wi' ye my 
 l<i<l. I niii»t be pcnuifed to say, that I do cjt 
 think the latter either reads or sings so well as 
 the f irnie". I wish, therefore, you wiiuld in my 
 name petition the charming Jeany, vvhuever she 
 be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 
 
 I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce 
 a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every 
 liodv regrets his writing so very little, as every 
 biiilv aeknowlcdges his ability to write well. 
 I':.iy, was the resolution formed coolly before 
 dinner, or was it a midnight vow maile over a 
 bowl of punch with the bard ? 
 
 I shall nnt fail to give Mr. Cunningham what 
 you have sent him. 
 
 1*. S. — The lady's Fur a that and a' that is 
 sensible enough, but no mure to be compared to 
 yours than I to Hercules. 
 
 • The Editor, who has hc.ird the heronieof this song 
 line <t hcr'.cll' iti the \erv spirit ol uri'h sinipliiity tliat 
 it rcqiiiies, thiiikt Mi. 'rhmnsoii's |>etitiou unii«Joj 
 able — Cl iiKii;. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 423 
 
 No. LXXIX 
 THE POET TO ?.IR. niOMSON. 
 
 ENGLISH SONG. 
 Tune—" Let me In this ae night." 
 
 Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
 Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
 Fur, far from thw, the fate severe 
 At which I most repine, love. 
 
 O weri thou, love, but near me. 
 Hut neiir, nenr, near me. ,- 
 How kindly thou woutdst cheer me, 
 And mingle sit/hs with mine, hue. 
 
 Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
 That blasts each Inid of hope and joy ; 
 And shelter, shade, nor hiinie have I, 
 Save in these arms of thine, love, 
 O tcert, §-c. 
 
 Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 
 
 To poison fortune's ruthless rial t — 
 
 Let nie not break thy faithful heart. 
 
 And say that fate is mine, love. 
 
 O wert, Sf'c. 
 
 Rut dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
 O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
 That only ray of solace sweet 
 Can on thy Chioris shine, love. 
 O wert, Sfc. 
 
 How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
 written it within this hour ; so much for the 
 tpeed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his 
 bottom f 
 
 No. LXXX. 
 
 THE SA.ME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ^Last May a braw w oer cam down the lany 
 ylen, p. 20(5. ) 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 TuHt—" The Caledonian Hunfs delight." 
 
 Why, why tell thy lover, 
 
 Bliss he never must enjoy ; 
 Wliy, why undeceive him. 
 
 And give ail his hopes the lie. 
 O wiiy, while fincy, rajitured. slumbers, 
 
 Chliiris, Chioris all the theme, 
 Why, why wouhKt thou, cruel, 
 
 Wake thy lover from his dream. 
 
 Such is the peculiarity of the rhy.ne uf tr.is 
 air, that I find it iuipossible to make anuthei 
 stanza to suit it. 
 
 I am at present quite occujiicd with the charm- 
 ing sensations of the toothache, so have not • 
 word to spare. 
 
 No. LXXXI. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 
 
 MV nEAR SIR, Sd June, 179.=;. 
 
 Your English verses to Let me in Ihin at 
 niijht, an tender and beanfifiil ; ami your bal- 
 lad to the " Lothian lassie" is a master- piece 
 for its humour and naivete. The fri^Mnent Car 
 the Caledonian Hunt is (juite suited to the ori- 
 ginal measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 
 so, the fragment must content it. I would ra- 
 ther, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian 
 words, had it so pleaseil the pott ; but, never- 
 theless, for what we have received, Lord uiakt 
 us thankful \ 
 
 No. LXXXH. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 blh Feb. 1796. 
 O Rohhy Burns are ye s/i-e/.iriy yet ? 
 Or are ye ivaukii.g, 1 would wit ? 
 
 The pause you have made, my dear Sir, ig 
 awful I Am 1 never to hear fioiu you ajrain ? 
 I know and I lanieut how much you have been 
 afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health 
 and spirits will now enable you to resume the 
 ])eii, 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 Iiishmen on the Scottish li>t ; 
 hut they are now uaturalizrd, and reckoned our 
 own good SLiibjects. Indeed we have noiie bet- 
 ter. I believe I beloie toM you that I have been 
 much urgeil by some fnejids to publish a col- 
 'ection of all our favourite aiis and scurgs in oc- 
 tavo, embillished with a number of etchings by 
 our ingenious friend AUati ; what is your opi« 
 nion of tku ? 
 
 No. LXXXin. 
 
 THE POET TO JIR. THO.MSOX. 
 
 Fel'riiary, 1796. 
 Many thanks, my dear Sir. for \our hand- 
 Miine, elegant present to Mrs. B . and foi 
 
424 
 
 mj fcinaJning yol. r.f P. P.C(!ar. — I'ctcr is a 
 deligJitful fulliiw, anil a first favourite of mine. 
 1 am nmi'li pleased with your idea of jHitillsh- 
 in<; a collection of our songs in octavo with 
 etchinejs. I am extremely willing to lend eve- 
 ry a^^istance in my power. The !ri<h airs I 
 ghall ch.-'erfully undertake the tas>k of finding 
 verses for. 
 
 I have already, you know, equipt three with 
 words, aivd the other day I strung up a kinri of 
 rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which 1 
 admire much. 
 
 (//fy/ijr a lass wi' a tocher, p. 23S.) 
 
 If tliis will do, you have now fnur of my 
 liish engat^enipnt. In my hy-past songs, I dis- 
 like one thing ; the name Chloris — I meant it 
 as tiie fictitious name of a certain larly ; hut, 
 on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to 
 have a Gnek appellation to a Scottish pastoj-al 
 ballad. — Of this, and some things cIst', in my 
 uext : 1 have more amendments to piopose. — 
 Wliat you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" 
 is jii^t : they cannot enter into an e/ei/aiit lie- 
 •triplion of beauty. Of this also again — God 
 hlfss vou I * 
 
 BURNS' WORKS. 
 
 ' Nj. LXXXV. 
 
 No. LXXXIV. 
 MU. TIIO.MSON TO TIIE POET, 
 
 Your Ilejj for n Inns wi' a tocher, is a most 
 eicellcnt song, and wltti you the subject is 
 Boiiietliing new indeiil. It is tl*j first time 1 have 
 Seen yon debasing the god of soft desire, into an 
 amateur of acres and guineas. — 
 
 I am happy ti> fi)id yj approve of my pro- 
 poseil octavo cditinn Allan has desigTied and 
 etched about twcn'.y plates, and I am to Iiave 
 my choice of theiu for that work. Indep.'n- 
 deiitly of the Ilogarlhian humour with which 
 they abouml, tlmy exhibit the tharicter and 
 conlnme of the Scottish peasantry with inimi- 
 table felicity. In this respect, he himself says, 
 they will far exceed the aipiatinta plates he did 
 f(.r the (jciitle Shepherd, because m tiie efchiiig 
 he sees dcaily wLat he is doing, imt not so 
 with' the aijuatinta, which he could not manage 
 to bis mind 
 
 The Dutch boors of O^tade are scarcely more 
 characlcri-tic and natural thaa the Scottisii 
 figured in those etchings. 
 
 • (»iit l'"Ot never mplAimil what name he wnnlj 
 hft iuudllutiM lui I til.iiis.— .Vu(r by Mi. T'/iunuim. 
 
 TIIE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 
 
 ^prll, 1706. 
 .\las, my dear Thomson, I fear it will b» 
 some time ere I tune mv lyre a^ain ! " Hy 
 Babel streams 1 have sat and wept," almost ever 
 since I wrote you last: I have only known ex- 
 istence by the pressure of the heavy hand ol 
 sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
 cussions of pain ! Rheumatisui, cold, and fever 
 have formeil to me a terrible combination. I 
 close my eyes in misery, and open them with- 
 out hope. I look on the vernal clay, and say, 
 with pour Ferguson — 
 
 " Say wheiefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
 " Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?^ 
 
 This will be delivered to vou by a Mrs. Hy- 
 slop landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which 
 for tnese many years has been mv lioicff, and 
 where our frienil Clarke and I have had many 
 a merry squeeze. 1 am highly djlighted with 
 Mr. Allan's etchings. Wno'd and iwirritd 
 anil a' is admirable ! The yroiiphig is beyond 
 all praise. The expression of the fi^^ures, con- 
 formable to the story in the ball id, is absolutely 
 faultless perfection. I next admire Turnim- 
 spikc. What I like least is, Jenni) snid to 
 Jitckj/. Besides the feuiale being in her ap- 
 pearance if you take her stoo|>- 
 
 ing into the account, she is at le.ist two inches 
 taller th in hei lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sin- 
 cerely sympathize with liim ! Happy I aiB 
 to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
 hope of health and enjoyment in this wurlil. 
 As for uie — but that is a • • • • sub- 
 ject ! 
 
 No LXXXVI. 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 
 
 4/A Uray, ITOG. 
 
 I NKEn not tell yon, my good Sir, whit con 
 cern the re-e pt of your last gave me, and hviw 
 much I sympatlii/.e in your siilferings. But 
 do licit, I beseech you, g.ve yourself up to de- 
 sjjofidency, nor speik the l.m^nage of de- 
 sjiair. The vigour of your constitution I trust 
 will soon set you oi yoiii feet again ; and tlier? 
 it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and 
 the necessity of taking due care of a lite so va- 
 luable to your family, to your friends, and tu 
 the world. 
 
 TrriHting Oiat your next will briri',' agreeable 
 account' of your cmiv cii'scence, and leturning 
 ^oud kjiiiitt, 1 remain, with kincere regard 
 yoiirt. 
 
 J*. S. Mrs, Il/slnp I d'i'ilit hilt derne'ed tba 
 gold tuA to you in gund condittuu. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 425 
 
 No. LXXXVII. 
 
 THE POET TO MH. TIIOMSOX. 
 
 Kr riEAa sir, 
 
 I ONCH mentioned to yoi. nn air wliich I hiv(,' 
 ong ailinln d — flcrt's n hmltli to them t/nu's 
 cnca, /linei/, but I f'lirjiet if you took any notice 
 ol" it. I have just l)een trying to suit it wi'li 
 verses ; and I iieg leave to rccomniend the air 
 to your attention once more. 1 have only be- 
 gun it. 
 
 (Here's a health to ane J lu'e dear, p. 20i.) 
 
 No. LXXXVIII. 
 THE SAME TO THE S.\ME. 
 
 This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a 
 young fellow of uneomnion merit. As he wili 
 be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
 if you choose, to write me by him ; and if you 
 have a spire half hour to spend with him, I 
 nhall ])laeo your kindness to my account. I 
 hav? CO 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 comj)lete leisure, I will thank you for 
 either the originals, or copies. • I had rather 
 be the author of five well-written songs than of 
 ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the ge- 
 nial influence of the a])i)roaching summer will 
 set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of 
 returning health. I have now reason to believe 
 that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad busi- 
 ness ! 
 
 Do let me know how Cleghorn is, atid re- 
 member me to him. 
 
 Tliis should have been delivered to you a 
 month ago. 1 am still very poorly, but should 
 4ke much to hear from you. 
 
 pounds. A cruel of a 1 abcrdasher, 
 
 to whom I owe an account, taking it into hit 
 head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- 
 cess, and will iotallablv put me into jail. Do, 
 for God's sake, solid me that sum, and that by 
 return of post. Forgive me tiiis earne^tnena, 
 but the horrors of a jail have made me hail di:»- 
 tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, 
 upon returning health, I hereby promise and en- 
 gage to furnish you with five pounds worth ot 
 the neatest song i,eiilus yon have seen. 1 tried 
 my hand on " riotliieimiu. le" this morning. 
 The measure is s(> diffi<-i!it, that it is iiiipossible 
 to infuse much genius into tlie lines; they are 
 on the other side. Forgive, foigive me ! 
 
 (^Fairest maid on I^nvon Hanki, p. 200.^ 
 
 No. XC. 
 
 No. LXXXIX. 
 
 THE SA.ME TO THE SAME. 
 
 BrotP. on the Sohiwj frith, \2th Juh,, 1796. 
 
 AFTEa all my boasted indejienderce, curst 
 aecessity compels me to implore ycu for five 
 
 • It is ncoiilf^s to say, that this revisal Uumi did 
 "Jut Uvc t'j prnorin. 
 
 MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, ) 4//l Jiihj, 1796. 
 
 Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
 l)y Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in 
 what manner I could endeavour to alleviate 
 your sufferings. Again and again 1 thought of 
 a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of luie of 
 your letters on this sulject, and the fear of of 
 fending your independent spirit, checked my re 
 solution. 1 thank you heartily, therefore, for 
 the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and 
 with great pleasure enclose a draft for the wiy 
 sum I pioposed sending. Would I were the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer but for oue day, 
 for your sake. 
 
 Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you 
 to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
 trouble to you in the piesent state of your 
 health, some literary friend might be found 
 here, who would select ami arrange from your 
 manuscripts, and take upon him the task oi 
 Editor. In the nieantiaie it could be advertis- 
 ed to be published by subscription. Do not 
 shun this mode of olitiiniiig the value of your 
 labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by 
 subscription. Think of this, my dear Hums, 
 and do not reckon me intrusive W'*h my ad- 
 vice. You are too well conv-.,ced of the re- 
 spect and fricnrishiji I bear you, to imjiute any 
 thing 1 say to an unworthy motive. Yours 
 faithfully. 
 
 The verses to " Rotniemurchie" will answel 
 finely. I am happy tu bee you can titill tua< 
 your lyre 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the E' c\\s]\ di]>hthcrig oo, H 
 commonly spelled oit. The I'rencii //, a sound which often occurs in ilie Scottish language, 
 is marked (w, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a dipiuiiotic, 
 or followed hv an c mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the liroud Englisll 
 a in u-all. The Scottish dii)htho::g tr, always, and ra, very often, sound like the French < 
 masculine. The Scottisli diphthong cy^ sounds like the Latin ci. 
 
 A', All 
 
 Aback, away, aloot 
 
 Abeigh, at a shy distance 
 
 A boon, above, up 
 
 A bread, abroad, in sight 
 
 A breed, in breadth 
 
 Addle, putrid water, &c. 
 
 Ae, one. 
 
 Art", oft': Aff loof, unpremeditated 
 
 Afore, before 
 
 A ft, oft 
 
 Aften, often 
 
 A gley, off the right line ; wrong 
 
 Ablins, perhaps 
 
 Ain, own 
 
 Airle-penny, Airles, earnest monej 
 
 Aim, iron 
 
 Aith, an oath 
 
 Aits, oats 
 
 Aiver, an old horse 
 
 Ai/le, a liot cinder 
 
 A lake, alas 
 
 A lane, alone 
 
 Akwart, awkward 
 
 Amaist, almost 
 
 Aniang, among 
 
 An', and ; if 
 
 Ance, once 
 
 Ane, one; and 
 
 Anent, over against 
 
 Anither, another 
 
 Ane, ashes 
 
 Asklent, asquint; aslant 
 
 Asteer, abroad ; stirring 
 
 Athart, athwart 
 
 Aught, possession ; as. In a' my aught, in all 
 mv possession 
 
 Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other 
 years 
 
 Auld, old 
 
 Ai'l(!f:.rran, or, auld farrant, sagacious, cun- 
 ning, prudent 
 
 a: 
 
 Ava, at all 
 
 Awa', away 
 
 Awfu', awful 
 
 Awn, the beard of barley, oatr., &c. 
 
 Awnie, bearded 
 
 Ayont, beyond 
 
 B 
 
 BA', ball 
 
 Backets, ash boards 
 
 Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning 
 
 Back, returning 
 
 Bad. did bid 
 
 Baide, endured, did stay 
 
 Baggie, the belly 
 
 Bainie, having large bones, stout 
 
 Bairn, a child 
 
 Bairntime, a family of children, a brood 
 
 Haith, both 
 
 Ban, to swear 
 
 Bane, bone 
 
 I?ang, to beat ; to strive 
 
 Bardie, diminutive of bard 
 
 Baiefit, barefooted 
 
 l?armie, of, or like bann 
 
 Hatch, a crew, a gang 
 
 {{atts, bots 
 
 I'audrons, a cat 
 
 IJauld, bold 
 
 Buwk, bank 
 
 IJaws'nt, having a white stripe down the face 
 
 i*>e, to let be ; to give over ; to cease 
 
 l$ear, barley 
 
 lieastie, diminutive of beast 
 
 Beet, to add fu6l to fire 
 
 Ikld, bald 
 
 Iklyve, by and by 
 
 Me?i, into the spence or parlour ; a spence 
 
 IJenlomond, a noted mountain in Duuibartoiv 
 
 shire 
 F?ethankit, grace after meat 
 lUnik, a book 
 Uicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a short race 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Bie, or Bield shelter 
 
 Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spcD 
 
 Hicn, wealthy, plentiful 
 
 Breeks, breeches 
 
 Piifj. to buikl 
 
 Brent, smooth 
 
 B'i'^'gin, buiiciing; a house 
 
 Brewin', brewing 
 
 fiigfjit, built 
 
 Brie, juice, liquid 
 
 Bi 1, a bull 
 
 Brig, a bridge 
 
 I'illie, a brother; a young fellow 
 
 Brunstane, brimstone 
 
 Hing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 
 
 Brisket, the breast, the bosom 
 
 I'irk, birch 
 
 Brither, a brother 
 
 Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a small 
 
 Brock, a badger 
 
 wood. 
 
 Brogue, a hum ; a trick 
 
 Birkie. a clever fellow 
 
 Broo, broth ; a trick 
 
 Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when they 
 
 Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings 
 
 spring 
 
 who shall first reach the bridegrooms's house 
 
 Bit, crisis, nick of time 
 
 on returning from church 
 
 Bizz, a bustle, to buzz 
 
 Browster-wives, ale-house wives 
 
 B!a>tie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of contempt 
 
 Brugh, a burgh 
 
 Blastit, blasted 
 
 Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion 
 
 Blate, basliful, sheepish 
 
 Brunt, did burn, burnt 
 
 Blather, bladder 
 
 Brust, to burst ; burst 
 
 Bl.tdd, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap 
 
 Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among 
 
 Blaw, to blow, to boast 
 
 the rocks of Buchan 
 
 Bleerit, bleared, sore with rlieuni 
 
 Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia 
 
 Bleerit and blin', bleated and blind 
 
 Bught, a pen 
 
 Bleezing, blazing 
 
 Biightin-time, the time of collecting the sheep 
 
 Blcllum, an idle talking fellow 
 
 in the pens to be milked 
 
 Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense 
 
 Euirdly, stout made ; broad made 
 
 Bleih'rin', talking idly 
 
 Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the 
 
 Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look 
 
 sunmier evenings 
 
 kindly ; to shine by fits 
 
 Bumming, humming as bees 
 
 Blinker, a term of contempt 
 
 Bummle, to blunder 
 
 Bliiikin, smirking 
 
 Bunmiler, a blunderer 
 
 Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get an- 
 
 Bunker, a window-seat 
 
 nually, on tlie king's birth-da/, a blue cloak 
 
 Burdies, diminutive of birds 
 
 or gown, with a badge 
 
 Bure, did bear 
 
 Bluid, Idood 
 
 Burn, water, a rivulet 
 
 liluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person 
 
 Buinewin, i. e. burn the wind, abhcksmlth 
 
 I'lype, a shred, a large piece 
 
 Burnie, diminutive of burn 
 
 liock, to vomit, to gush intermittently 
 
 Buskie, bushy 
 
 Bocked, gushed, vomited 
 
 Buskit. dressed 
 
 Bodle, a small gold coin 
 
 Busks, dresses 
 
 Bt'gles, spirits, hobgol.lins 
 
 Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle 
 
 Bonnie or bonny, handsome, beautiful 
 
 Buss, shelter 
 
 Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 
 
 But, hot, with ; without 
 
 sm;ill jannock, or loaf made of oat meal 
 
 I$ut an' ben, tlic country kitchen and parlouf 
 
 I)Oord, a board 
 
 By himsel, lunatic, distracted 
 
 Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted much of 
 
 Byke, a bee-hive 
 
 old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
 
 By re, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen 
 
 Boost, behaved, must needs 
 
 
 Bore, a hole in the wall 
 
 c 
 
 Botch, an angry tumour 
 
 \^ 
 
 Bousing, di inking 
 
 CA , to call, to name ; to drive 
 
 Bow-kail, cabbage 
 
 Ca't, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved 
 
 I'owt, bended, crooked 
 
 Cadger, a carrier 
 
 Brackens, fern 
 
 Cadie. or Caddie, a person • a young fellotr 
 
 Brae, a declivity ; a precipiece; the slope of a 
 
 Caff, chaff 
 
 hiil 
 
 Caird, a tinker 
 
 Braid, broad 
 
 Cairn, a loose iiea]< of stones 
 
 Btamdg't, reeled forward 
 
 Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves 
 
 Braik, a kind of harrow 
 
 Callan, a boy 
 
 I'raiiidge, to run rashly forward 
 
 Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing 
 
 lirak, broke, made insolvent 
 
 Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dextcrCHU 
 
 Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horsci 
 
 Canniiic, dexterously ; gently 
 
 B:-a.-.li, a mddcn illne-s 
 
 Cantie, or canty, chterful. merry 
 
 Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
 
 (■anirip. a charm, a spell 
 
 Brattle, a short race ; hurry; fury 
 
 Cajie-stane, c(i))e-stonc ; kcy-stnne. 
 
 Braw, (ine, liai dM)me 
 
 (^areerin, cheerfully 
 
 iJrawly, or braw.jie, very well ! finely ; heartily 
 
 Carl, an old man 
 
 IJraxie, a morliid shee]) 
 
 Carlin, a utoul old woman 
 
 lUcastic, diniiiuitivc of breast 
 
 ('arte*, cards 
 
 Breastit, did spring up or forward 
 
 Caudron, n cauldron 
 
 Brecka.'i, lern 
 
 Lauk uti' keel, chalk and red cluf 
 
 (2J 
 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Cauld, coll! 
 
 t'aup, a wooden drinking vessel. 
 
 Cesses, taxes 
 
 ("banter, a part of a bagpipe 
 
 C'liii]), a ])crson, a fellow ; a blow 
 
 C'Ii;iup, a stroke, a blow 
 
 Chcckit, cheeked 
 
 f 'licep, a cliir]' ; to chirp 
 
 ('hicl or checl, a young fellow 
 
 C'hinila. or cliinilie, a fire-grate, a fire-place 
 
 Cliimla lug, tne fireside 
 
 Chittcring, shivering, trembling 
 
 Chockin', choking 
 
 Chow, to chew ; Cheek for chow, side by side 
 
 Chuffie, fat-faced 
 
 Clachan, a small village about a church; a 
 
 hamlet 
 Claise, or claes, clothes 
 Chiith, cloth 
 Claithing, clothing 
 
 Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense 
 Clap, clapper of a mill 
 Clarkit, wrote 
 
 CI ish, an idle tale, tiie story of the day 
 Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story 
 Claught, snatched at, laid hold of 
 Claut, to clean ; to scrape 
 Clautcd, scraped 
 Clavers, idle stories. 
 Claw, to scratch 
 Cleed, to clothe 
 Clceds, clothes 
 Cleekit, having caught _ 
 Clinkin, jerking ; clinking 
 Clinkumbell, he who rings the church-bell 
 Clips, shears 
 
 Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 
 Cloik, to hatch ; a beetle 
 ( lockin, hatching 
 
 Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c 
 ('lootie, an old name for the JJevil. 
 Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow 
 Cluds, clouds 
 Coaxin, wheedling 
 Coble, a fishing boat 
 Cockornony, a lock of hair tied upon a girlV 
 
 hcad ; a cap 
 Coft, bought 
 tog, a wooden dish 
 Coggie. dmiinutive of cog 
 Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 
 
 called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, 
 
 a Pictish monarch 
 Collie, a general and sometimes a particular 
 
 name for country curs 
 Colliohangie, quarrelling, an uproar 
 Commaun, command 
 Cood, the cud 
 
 Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny 
 Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits 
 Coast, did cast 
 Coot, the arikle or foot 
 Codtie, a wooden kitcJien dish : — also, those 
 
 fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are 
 
 said to be cootie 
 Corbies, a species of the crow 
 Core, corps ; party ; clan 
 Corn't, fed with oats 
 Cotier, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot- 
 
 tagcr 
 Couthie, kind, fing 
 
 Covo, a cnv? 
 
 Cowe, toterrify; to keep under, to lop; frigh:_ 
 
 a brand* of fur/e, broom, &c. 
 Cow]), tc barter; fi tumble over; a gang 
 Cowpit, '.umbled 
 Cowrin', cowering 
 Cowt, a colt 
 Cozie, snug 
 Co/ily, snugly 
 Crabbit, crabbed, fretful 
 Crack, conversation ; to converse 
 Crackin', conversing 
 Craft, or croft, a held near a house (in old 
 
 husbandry) 
 Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a biri 
 Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dog 
 
 grel verses 
 Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel 
 Crankous, fretful, captious 
 Cranriuch, the hoar frost 
 Crap, a crop ; to crop 
 Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook 
 Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a crecw, 
 
 to be crazed ; to be fascinated 
 Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool 
 Creeshie, greasy 
 
 Crood, or croucl, to coo as a dove 
 Croon, a hollow and contmued moan ; to make 
 
 a noise like the continued roar of a bull ; to 
 
 hum a tune 
 Crooning, humming 
 Crouchie, crook-backed 
 Croose, cheerful ; courageous 
 Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously 
 Crnwdio, a comjiosiiion of oat-meal and boil- 
 ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef. 
 
 mutton, &c. 
 Crowdie-time, breakfast time 
 Crowlin', crawling 
 
 Crummock, a cow with crooked horns 
 Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread 
 Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel 
 Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny 
 Cunmiock, a sliort stall" with a crooked head 
 Curchie, a courcesy 
 Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practis. 
 
 ed in Scotland, called curlinc; 
 Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally ia 
 
 ringlets 
 Curling, a well known game on the ice 
 Curniurriiig, murnmring ; a slight rumbling 
 
 noise 
 Curiiin, the crupper 
 Cusl.at, the dove, or wood-pigeon 
 ( uity, short.-, a spoon broken in the middle 
 ( utty -stool, tlie stool of repentance 
 
 DAD DIE, a father 
 
 Dafhn, merriment ; foolishness 
 
 Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish 
 
 Daimt-n, rare, now and then ; jitaimen-icket 
 
 an ear of corn now and then. 
 Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable 
 l)f;ise, dacz, to stupify 
 Dales, plains, valleys 
 Darkliiis, darkling 
 DauJ, to thrash, to abuse 
 Daur, to dare 
 Daurt, dare*' 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Daurg, or daurk, a day'* labour 
 
 Davoc, David 
 
 Dawd, a large piece 
 
 Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed 
 
 Dearies, diminutive of dears 
 
 Dearthtu', dear 
 
 Deave, to deafen. 
 
 Deil-ma-care ! no matter 1 for all that ! 
 
 Deleerit, delirious 
 
 Descrive, to describe 
 
 Di^'ht, to wi])e ; to clean com from chafF 
 
 Diijlu, cleaned from chaff 
 
 l)inff, to worst, to push 
 
 Dink, neat, tidy, trim 
 
 Dinna, do not 
 
 Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain 
 
 Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen 
 
 Doited, stupi^ied, hebetated 
 
 Dolt, stupihed, crazed 
 
 Donsie, unlucky 
 
 Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to 
 
 mourn 
 Doos, doves 
 Dorty, saucy, nice 
 
 Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent 
 Doueeiy, soberly, prudently 
 Douglit, was or were able 
 Doup, backside 
 
 Doup-skel|ier, one that strikes the tail 
 Dour and din, sullen and shallow 
 Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn 
 Dow, am or are able, can 
 DowfF, pitliless, wanting force 
 Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half a- 
 
 sleep 
 Downa, am or are not able, cannot 
 Doylt, stupid 
 
 Dozent, stujiified, impotent 
 Drap, a drop ; to drop 
 Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among 
 
 wet, &c. 
 Drapping, dropping. 
 
 Drauiiting, drawling; of a slow enunciation 
 Dreep, to ooze, to drop 
 Dreigh, tedious, long about it 
 Dribble, drizzling; slaver 
 Drift, a drove 
 Droddum, the breech 
 Drone, part of a bag]iipe 
 Droon-runipl't, tliat droops at the crupper 
 DrouKit, wet 
 D.'iiuiiting, drawling 
 Drouth, tliirst, drought 
 Drucken, drunken 
 Drunily, muddy 
 Druniniock, meal and water nci'xed inan^ 
 
 state 
 Drum, pet, sour humour • 
 
 Dub, a small i)()nd 
 Duds, rags, clothes 
 Du'die, ragged 
 
 Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven 
 Diluted, beaten, boxed 
 l)-.i.sh, to pu>h as a ram, &c. 
 Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c 
 
 E'E, the eye 
 
 E'en the eyes 
 E'ening, evening 
 
 £ 
 
 (4) 
 
 Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits 
 
 Eild, old age 
 
 Elbuck, the elbow 
 
 Eldritch, ghastly, frightful 
 
 Eller, an elder, or church officei 
 
 En', end 
 
 Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 
 
 Eneugli, enough 
 
 Especial, especially 
 
 Ettle, to try, to attempt 
 
 Eydent, diligent 
 
 FA', fall ; lot ; to fall 
 
 Fa's does fall ; water-falls 
 
 Faddom't, fathomed 
 
 Fae, a foe 
 
 Feam, foam 
 
 Faiket, unknown 
 
 Fairin', a fairing ; a present 
 
 Fallow, fellow 
 
 Fand, did find 
 
 Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c 
 
 Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care fc( 
 
 Fasht, troubled 
 
 Fasteren-e'en, Fasten's Even 
 
 Fauld, a fold ; to Ibid 
 
 Faulding, folding 
 
 Faut, fault 
 
 Faute, want, lack 
 
 Fawsont, decent, seemly 
 
 Veal, a field ; smooth 
 
 Fearfu', frightful 
 
 Feart, frighted 
 
 Feat, neat, spruce 
 
 Fecht, to fight 
 
 Fechtin', fighting 
 
 Feck, many, plenty 
 
 Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves 
 
 Feckfu', large, brawny, stout 
 
 Feckless, puny, weak, silly 
 
 Feckly, weakly 
 
 Feg, a fig 
 
 Feide, feud, enmity 
 
 Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy 
 
 Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately un- 
 der the skin ; a field pretty level, on the sid« 
 or top of a hill 
 
 Fen, successful struggle ; fight 
 
 Fend, to live comfortably 
 
 Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term 
 of contempt 
 
 Fetch, to pull by fits 
 
 Fetch't, pulled intermittently 
 
 Fidge, to fidget 
 
 Ficl, soft, smooth 
 
 Ficnt, fiend, a petty oath 
 
 Fier, sound, healthy ; a broUier : a friend 
 
 Fisslc, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; a 
 bustle 
 
 Fit, a foot 
 
 Fittic-lan', the nearer horse of tlie hindmost 
 pair in the plough 
 
 Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like fermenta- 
 tion 
 
 Flainen, flannel 
 
 Flcech. to supplicate in a flattering manner 
 
 Flccch'd, su|)]dicatcd 
 
 Flccchin', supjiUcating 
 
 Fiecsh, a fleece 
 

 tiLOSSAUy. 
 
 Flc?, a kick, a random stroke 
 
 fiet,^ a child, a young one 
 
 Fletlicr, to decoy by fair words 
 
 iiiaist, a ghost 
 
 Fletlicriii', fl;ittering 
 
 ;}ie, to give ; gied, jjave ; gien, giren 
 
 Flev, to scare, to frighten 
 
 Giftie, diminutive of gift 
 
 riitclicr, to flutter, as young nestlings when 
 
 (Jiglets, playful girls 
 
 tlieir dam approaches 
 
 riillie, diminutive of gill 
 
 Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters 
 
 Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy 01 
 
 Flini,'in'-tree, a piece of timber hung by way 
 
 girl, a romping lad, a hoiden 
 
 of i);irtition between two horses in a stable ; 
 
 Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old 
 
 a Hail 
 
 Gin, if; against 
 
 Flisk, to fret at the yoke 
 
 Gipsey, a young girl 
 
 Fli.>ket, fretted 
 
 Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 
 
 Flitter, to vibratt like the win B of small 
 
 agony, &c. 
 
 birds 
 
 Girning, grinning 
 
 Flittering, fluttering, vibrating 
 
 OliZ, a periwig 
 
 Flunkie, a servant in livery 
 
 Glaiket, inattentive, foolish 
 
 Fod;;eI, S(]uat and plump 
 Foord, a tord 
 
 (ilaive, a sword 
 
 Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping 
 
 Forbears, forefathers 
 
 Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass 
 
 Forbye, besides 
 
 Glaum, to snatch greedily 
 
 Forfairn, distressed; worn out, jaded 
 
 Glaum'd, aimed, Sriiatchcd 
 
 Forfoughten, fatigued 
 
 Gleck, sharp, ready 
 
 Forgather, to meet, to encounter with 
 
 Gleg, sharp, ready 
 
 Forgie. to forgive 
 Forjesket, jaded with fatigue 
 
 Gleib, glebe 
 
 Glen, a dale, a deep valley 
 
 Fotlier, fodder 
 
 Gley, asquint; to squint; a-gley, off at a Side, 
 
 Fou, full ; drunk 
 
 wrong 
 
 Foughten, troubled, harassed 
 
 Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech 
 
 Fouiii, plenty, enough, or moretlian enough 
 
 Glint, to peep 
 
 Fow, a bublid. &c. ; also a pitch-fork 
 
 Glinted, peeped 
 
 Frae, from ; off 
 
 Glintin', peeping 
 
 Framinit, strange, estranged from, at enmity 
 
 Gloamin', the twilight 
 
 with 
 
 Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look 
 
 FreatJi, froth 
 
 Glowred, looked, stared 
 
 Fnen". friend 
 
 Glunsh, a frown, a sour look 
 
 Fu', full 
 
 Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquir. 
 
 Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 
 
 ing gaze ; staring stu lidly 
 Go wan, the flower of t le wild daisy, hawk- 
 
 F'ufl", to blo'.v intermittently 
 
 Fufl"t, dill blow 
 
 weed, &c. 
 
 Fuimie, full of merriment 
 
 Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies 
 
 Fur, a furrow 
 
 Gowd, gold 
 
 Furm, a form, bench 
 
 Gowft", the game of golf; to strike as the bat 
 
 Fyke, trifling cares; to piddle, to be in a fuss 
 
 does the ball at golf 
 
 about trifles 
 
 Gowft" 'd, struck 
 
 Fyle, to soil, to dirty 
 
 Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt 
 
 Fyl't, soiled, dirtied 
 
 Gowl, to howl 
 
 
 Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan 
 
 G 
 
 Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted 
 
 
 Graining, groaning 
 
 GAT?, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly 
 
 Graip, a pionged instrument used for cleaning 
 
 (iaberlun/.ie, an old man 
 
 stables 
 
 Gadsman, a nlougliboy, the boy that drives the 
 horses in tiie plough 
 
 Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear 
 
 Grannie, grandmoUier 
 
 Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone; 
 
 Grape, to grope 
 
 gaun, going 
 
 Grapit, groped 
 
 Gact, or i,'ate, way, manner; road 
 
 Grat, wept, shed tears 
 
 Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the 
 
 (ireat, intimate, familiar 
 
 bottom of a gown, &.C. 
 
 Grce, to agree ; to bear tlie gree, to be dedd. 
 
 Gang, to go, to walk 
 
 edly victor 
 
 Gar, to make, to force to 
 
 Gree't, agreed 
 
 Gar't, forced to 
 
 Greet, to shed tears, to weep 
 
 Garten, a g.itter 
 
 (ircetin', crying, weeping 
 
 Gash, wise, sagacious; talkative; to ojnverse 
 
 (irii)pet, catched, seized 
 
 Gasliin', conversing 
 
 Groat, to get the whistle of one's grojt, to j.laj 
 
 Gaucy, j:iny, large 
 
 a losing game 
 
 Gaud, a ilough 
 
 Gear, ric les ; goods of any kind 
 
 Grousome, loathsomely grim 
 
 G'rozet, a gooseberry 
 
 Geek, to toss the head in wantonness ;i scorn 
 
 (irumph, a grunt; to grunt 
 
 (Jed, a iiike 
 
 (>rum])liie, a sow 
 
 Gentles, great folks, gentry 
 
 Grun', ground 
 
 (Jenty, elegantly formed, nea ' 
 
 Grur.stane, a grindstone 
 
 Geordie, a guinea 
 
 1 Gruntlc, die pliiz ; a grunting noiaa 
 
 (5) 
 
 
 j 
 
GLOSSARY' 
 
 Grunzic, moutk 
 
 (rrushie, thick ; of rtiiiving growth 
 
 Guile, the Supreme Being good 
 
 fiuid, gcod 
 
 Guid-niornin', good morrow 
 
 Guid-e'en, good evening 
 
 Guidnian and guidwife, the master and mis- 
 tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
 newly married 
 
 Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial 
 
 Guidfather, guidniother, father-in-law, and 
 mother-in-law 
 
 Gully, or gullie, a large knife 
 
 Gundie, muddy 
 
 Gusty, tasteful 
 
 H 
 
 If A', hall 
 
 Ila'-P.ible, tlie great bible that lies in the 
 hall 
 
 Hae, to have 
 
 Haen, had, the participle 
 
 Kaet, tint haet, a petty oath of negation; no- 
 thing 
 
 Hatfet, the temple, the side of the head 
 
 Ilafflins, nearly half, partly 
 
 Hag, s scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors 
 
 Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
 mach of a cow or sheep 
 
 Hain, to spare, to save 
 
 Hain'd, spared 
 
 Hairst, harvest 
 
 Haith, a petty oath 
 
 Haivers, nonsense, speaking without tliought 
 
 Hal', or hald, an abiding place 
 
 Hale, whole, tight, healthy 
 
 Haly, holy 
 
 Haine, home 
 
 Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
 tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the 
 outside 
 
 Flallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October 
 
 Hamely, homely, affable 
 
 Han', or haun', hand 
 
 Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. to 
 wrap, to cover ; to hop 
 
 Happer, a hopper 
 
 Ha))pin', hop))ing 
 
 Ha]) step an' louj), hop skip and leap 
 
 Harkit, hearkened 
 
 Ham, very coarse linen 
 
 Hash, a fellow tliat neither knows how to dress 
 nor act w'th propriety 
 
 Hastit, hastened 
 
 Haucl. to hold 
 
 Haughs, low lying, rich lunds; ralleyg 
 
 Haurl, to drag; to peel 
 
 liauiiin, pechn-g 
 
 Haverel, a half witted person ; half witted 
 
 Havins, good manners, decorum, good Bcns* 
 
 Ilawkie, a cow, properly one with a white face 
 
 lleapit, lieajied 
 
 Hcalsome, liealthfal, wholcscme 
 
 Hearse, hoarse 
 
 Hear't, hear it 
 
 Heather, heath 
 
 Hcch ! oh ! strange ! 
 
 Hecht, jironiised ; to foretell something thmt U 
 to be got or given ; foretold ; the thing fore- 
 told ; offered 
 
 Heckle, a board, in which arc fixed a number 
 
 (6» 
 
 of sliarp pms, used in dressing hemp,flax 
 
 &.C. 
 
 Heezc, to elevate, to raise 
 
 Helm, the rudder or helm 
 
 Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks 
 
 Herrin, a herring 
 
 Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plunJei 
 birds' nests 
 
 Hcrrynicnt, plundering, devastation 
 
 Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, ot any 
 sort 
 
 Het, hot 
 
 Heutjh, a crag, a coalpit 
 
 Hilcli, a liobble; to halt 
 
 Hilchin, haliinsj 
 
 Hmisel, hintseif 
 
 Hincy, honey 
 
 Hing. to hiing 
 
 Hirjjle, to walk crazily, to creep 
 
 Hirsel, so many cattle as one person can attend 
 
 Hastie, dry; cnaiiped; barren 
 
 Hitch, a loop, a knot 
 
 Ilizzie, a hussy, a young girl 
 
 Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- 
 ing on a cart-horse ; humble 
 
 Hog-score, a kLnd of distance-line, in curling, 
 drawn across the rink 
 
 Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play, by just 
 ling with the shoulder ; to justle 
 
 Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas- 
 cod 
 
 Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 
 
 Hoolie ! take leisure, stop 
 
 Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard 
 
 Hoordit, hoarded 
 
 Horn, a spoon made of horn 
 
 Homie, one of the many names of the devil 
 
 Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough 
 
 Hostin', coughing 
 
 Hosts, coughs 
 
 Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed 
 
 Houghmagandie, fornication 
 
 Iloulet, an owl 
 
 Housie, diminutive of house 
 
 Hove, to heave, to swell 
 
 Hoved, heaved, swelled 
 
 Howdie, a iriidwifa 
 
 Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell 
 
 Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a 
 horse, &c. 
 
 Ilowfl", a tippling house ; a house of rescri 
 
 Howk, to dig 
 
 llowkit, digged 
 
 Howkin, digging 
 
 Howlet, an owl 
 
 H oy, to urge 
 
 Hoy't, urg£d 
 
 Hoyse, to pull upwards 
 
 Hoyte, to amble crazily 
 
 llughoc, diminutive ot Hugh 
 
 Hurcheon, a hedgehog 
 
 liurdies, the loins : the srupper 
 
 llushion, a cushion 
 
 r, in 
 
 kker, an car of com 
 
 ler-oe, a great-grandchild 
 
 Ilk, or ilka, each, every 
 
 lli-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly 
 
 Ixtgine, genius, ingenuity 
 

 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Ingie, (irt ; fire-place 
 Ise, I shall or will 
 
 Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 
 
 Kyte, the belly 
 
 Uher, other ; one anolhsr 
 
 Kvihc, to discover ; to show one'a sell 
 
 J 
 
 J AD. j.ule ; also a familiar ti;rtn among coun- 
 
 L 
 
 IjADDIE, diminutive of lad 
 
 try folks for a g'cUly young girl 
 Tank, to ilally, to trifle 
 
 I/iggcn, t!ie angle between ilie side and MU 
 
 torn of a wooden di»h 
 
 Jiiukin', triHini;, (iallyin;^ 
 
 Laigh, low 
 
 Juup, a JL'rk of water ; to jerk as aqitatcd wa- 
 1 ter. 
 
 Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, lo 
 
 Lairing, wading, and sir.King in snow, mud, 
 
 <!vc. 
 Laith, loath 
 
 jerk as water 
 
 Laithfu', bashful, sheejiish 
 
 Jerkinct, a jerkin, or short grown 
 
 Lallans, tlie Scottish dialect of the English 
 
 Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl 
 
 language 
 
 Jimp, to j mill) ; slender in tlie waist; hand- 
 
 Lamljje, diminutive of lamb 
 
 some 
 
 Lanipit, a kind of shcll-iish, a limpit 
 
 Jiinps, easy stays 
 
 Lan', land ; estate 
 
 Jink, to dodge, to turn a comer ; a sudden 
 
 Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c. mysell 
 
 turning ; a corner 
 
 alone, &c. 
 
 Jiiiker, that turns quickly ; a gay sprightly 
 
 Lanely, lonely 
 
 girl ; a wag 
 
 Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary 
 
 Jinkin', dodging 
 
 Laj), did leap 
 
 Jirk, a jerk 
 
 Lave, the rest, the remainder, tlie others 
 
 Joctelcg, a kind of knife 
 
 I^averock, the lark 
 
 Jouk, to stoop, to how the head 
 
 liawin, shot, reckoniiig, bill 
 
 Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the 
 
 Lawlan', lowland 
 
 swinging motion and pealing sound of a 
 
 Lea'e, to leave 
 
 large bell 
 
 Leal, loyal, true, faithful 
 
 Jundie, to justle 
 
 Lea-rig, grassy ridge 
 
 
 Lear, (i)ronounced lare), learning 
 
 K 
 
 Lee-lang, live-long 
 
 
 Lcesome, ])leasant 
 
 KAE, a daw 
 
 Leeze-me, a | hrase of congratulatory endear. 
 
 Kail, colewort ; a k.nd of broth 
 
 ment ; I am hapjiy in tliee, or proud oi 
 
 Kail-runt, the stem of colewort 
 
 tlice 
 
 Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer 
 
 I^eister, a three-prong'd dart for striking tish 
 Leugli, did laugh 
 
 Kebbuck, a cheese 
 
 Keckie, to giggle ; to titter 
 
 l>eiik, a look ; to look 
 
 Keek, a peep, to peep 
 
 iiibbet, geldetl 
 
 Keljjies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to 
 
 Lift, the sky 
 
 haunt fords and ferries at night, especially 
 
 Lightly, snceringly ; to sneer at 
 
 in storms 
 
 Lilt, a ballad ; a tune; to sing 
 
 Ken, to know ; kend or kcnn'd, knew 
 
 Limnier. a kept mistress, a strumpet 
 
 Kennin, a small matter 
 
 Lim])'t, limped, hobbled 
 
 Kenspeckle, well known, easily known 
 
 Liiik, to trip along 
 
 Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool 
 
 Linkin', tripping 
 
 Kilt, to truss up the clothes 
 
 Linn, a waterfall ; a precipiccc 
 
 Kinrmer, a young girl, a gossip 
 
 Lint, tlax 
 
 Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj. 
 
 Lint i" the bell, flax in flower 
 
 King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of 
 
 Lintwhite, a linnet 
 
 an ox, &c. 
 
 l,oan, or loanin', the place of milking 
 
 Kintra, country 
 
 Loof, the pahu of the hand 
 
 Kintra cooser, country stallion 
 
 Loot, did let 
 
 Kirn, the harvest suuper ; a ciiurn 
 
 J,ooves, plural of loof 
 
 Kirsen, to christen, or baptize 
 
 lioun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 
 
 Kist, a chest ; a shop counter 
 
 easy virtue 
 
 Kitchen, any thing that eats villi bread ; to 
 
 Loup, jump, leap 
 
 serve for soup, gravy, (Sec- 
 
 1/Owe, a .'lame 
 
 Kith, kir.dred 
 
 l><)win', Haiiiing 
 
 Kittle, to tickk ; ticklkh ; lively, apt 
 
 liowrie, abbre\iation of Lawrence 
 
 Kittlin, a young cat 
 
 lAiwse, to loose 
 
 Kiutile. to cudilie 
 
 1/OWs'd, Wsed 
 
 Kiuttlin, cuddling 
 
 Lug, the ear ; a handle 
 
 Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks 
 
 Lugget, having a handle 
 
 Knap, to stnkc smartly, a smart blow 
 
 Lu^gie, a «n;aU wooden dish wi-Ji ahandia 
 
 Knajipin-banuuer, a hammer used for break- 
 
 Lum, the cinii:ney 
 
 ing stones 
 
 Luncii, a large piece of cheese, flesh, <Sui 
 
 Knowe, a small round hillock 
 
 iiuntj a cuiun-.n of smoke; to sitioko 
 
 Knutl, a il«arf 
 
 Liiijua", smokini' 
 
 Lyart, of a uiixetl colour, giaj 
 
 liye, ccrs 
 
 (7^ 
 
 
 [ 1 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 M 
 
 MAE., more 
 
 IVlair, more 
 
 Maist, most, almost 
 
 Mciisdy, mo?t]y 
 
 Mak, to make 
 
 JNiakin', making 
 
 Mailen, a farm 
 
 ftlallie, IMoUy 
 
 Jiang, amoiis 
 
 J\Janse, the parsonage house, where the minis- 
 ter lives 
 
 Manteele, a mantle 
 
 i\lark, marks. (This and several other nouns 
 which in English require an s to form the 
 p;iiral, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, 
 deer, the same in both numbers.) 
 
 IMarled, variegated; spotted 
 
 ]\Iar's year, tlie year 1715 
 
 Washlum, meslin, mixed corn 
 
 Mask, to masli, as malt, &c. 
 
 J\Iaskin-pat, a tea-|>ot 
 
 I\]aud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c. 
 
 ]\iaukin, a hare 
 
 i^Jaun, must 
 
 IMavis, the tiurush 
 
 ]Maw, to mow 
 
 31awin', mowing 
 
 I\leerc, a mare 
 
 IVJeikle. meickle, much 
 
 IVIelancholious, mournful 
 
 Welder, corn, or grain of any Icind, sent to 
 the mill to be ground 
 
 I\Iell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding 
 barley in a stone trough 
 
 IMelvie, to soil with meal 
 
 Men', to mend 
 
 JMense, good manners, decorum 
 
 i\ienseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent 
 
 IMessin, a small dog 
 
 Midden, a dunghill 
 
 M idden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dung- 
 hill 
 
 Mim, prim, affectedly meek 
 
 fllin', mind; resemblance 
 
 IMind't, mind it; resolved, intending 
 
 Minnie, mother, dam 
 
 J\livk, miikcst, dark, darkest 
 
 Misca', to abuse, to call names 
 
 Misca'd, abused 
 
 IMisIear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 
 
 Misteuk, mi.stook 
 
 IMither, a mother 
 
 JMixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed 
 
 iMoistify, to moik.en 
 
 Mony, or monie, many 
 
 JMools, dust, earth, the earth of the grave ; to 
 rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust I 
 
 RIoo]), to nil»hle as a sheep 
 
 J\loorlan', of or belonging to moors i 
 
 fllorn, the next day, to-morrow 
 
 IMou, tiie mouth 
 
 Moudiwort, a mole 
 
 Mousic, diminutive of mouse 
 
 Miukle, or mickle, great, big, much 
 
 Miisie, dmiinutive of muse 
 
 Mu.slin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, 
 siallfd barky, and greens 
 
 Mutchkin, an English i)int 
 
 Mysel, 11)} self 
 
 8) 
 
 N 
 
 NA, no, not, n;T 
 
 Nae, no, not any 
 
 Naething, or naithing, nothing 
 
 Naig, ahorse 
 
 Nane, none 
 
 Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy 
 
 Negleckit, neglected 
 
 Neuk, a nook 
 
 Niest, next 
 
 Nicve, the fist 
 
 Nievefu', handful 
 
 Niffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to birt«' 
 
 IViger, a negro 
 
 Nine-tail'd-cat, a hangman's whip 
 
 Nit, a nut 
 
 Norland, of or belonging to the north 
 
 Notic't, noticed 
 
 Nowte, black cattle 
 
 0%of 
 
 Ociiils, name ofa range of mountains in Clack< 
 
 mannon and Kinross-shires 
 () haith, O faith ! an oain 
 Ony, or onie, any 
 Or, is often used for ere, before 
 Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can b( 
 
 spared 
 O't, ofit 
 
 Ourie, shivering ; drooping 
 Oursel', or oursels, ourselves 
 Outlers, cattle not housed 
 Owre, over ; too 
 Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the 
 
 liammer over the arm 
 
 PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone ol 
 
 wool 
 Painch, paunch 
 Paitrick, a partridge 
 Pang, to cram 
 Parie, speech 
 Parritch, an oatmeal pudding, a well-knowo 
 
 Scotch dish 
 Pat, did put ; a pot 
 Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff 
 Paughty, proud, haughty 
 Pauky, or i)awkie, cuumng, sly 
 Pay't, paid ; beat 
 Pcch, to fetch the breath short, as in an asth. 
 
 ma 
 Pechan, the crop, the stomach 
 Peelin' peeling, the rind of fruit 
 Pet, a u "mesticated sheep, &c. 
 I'ettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff 
 Philabcgs, short petticoats worn by the Iligh« 
 
 landmen 
 Ph raise, fair spcehes, flattery ; to flatter 
 I'hraisiii', fi.ittery 
 Pibroch, Highland war music adapted tc the 
 
 bagi)ipe 
 Pickle, a small quantity 
 Pine, pain, uneasiness 
 Pit, to ))ut 
 Placard, public proclamation 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 PlacK, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a 
 Scotch penny, twelve of which nuke an 
 iMiL'lish penny 
 
 Plackless, pennyless, without money 
 
 Platie, diminutive of phite 
 
 Plew. or jjlcu^li, a plough 
 
 Pliskie, a trick 
 
 Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the 
 laws of Scotland allow 
 
 Poortuh, poverty 
 
 Pou, to ])ull 
 
 Pouk, to pluck 
 
 Poiissie, a hare, or cat 
 
 Pout, a poult, a chick 
 
 Pou't. did pull 
 
 Powthery, like powder 
 
 Pow, the head, the skull 
 
 Pownie, a little horse 
 
 Powther, or pouther, powder 
 
 Preen, a pin 
 
 Prent, to print ; print 
 
 Prie, to taste 
 
 Prie'd, tasted 
 
 Prief, proof 
 
 Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute 
 
 Priggin, cheapening 
 
 Prnrisie, demure, precise 
 
 Propone, to by down, to propose 
 
 Provoses, provosts 
 
 Puddock-stool, a musheroom, fungus 
 
 Pund, pound ; pounds 
 
 Pyle,— a pyle o' cafF, a single grain of chaiF 
 
 QUAT, to quit 
 Quak, to quake 
 Quey, a cow from one to two years old 
 
 R 
 
 RAGWEED, the herb ragwort 
 
 Raible, to rattle nonsense 
 
 Pair, to roar 
 
 Raize, to madden, to inflame 
 
 Kam-feczl'd, fatigued; overspread 
 
 Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward 
 
 Raploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used as 
 
 an adnoun for coarse 
 Rarely, cxceLcntly, very well 
 Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes 
 Ratton, a rat 
 
 Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless 
 Jiaught, reached 
 Raw, a row 
 Rax, to stretch 
 Ream , cream ; to cream 
 Reaming, brimful, frothing 
 Reave, rove 
 Reck, to heed 
 Red';, counsel ; to counsel 
 Rod. wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe. 
 
 to^is 
 ReJ-wud, stark mad 
 Ree, half drunk, fuddled 
 Reck, smoke 
 Reekin', smoking 
 Reekit, smoked ; smoky 
 Reniead, rem,xly 
 Requite, requited 
 Rest, to stand restive 
 Restit. stood restive stunted ; withered 
 
 (9) 
 
 Restricked restricted 
 
 Rew, to rej ent. to compassionate 
 
 Rief, reef, plenty 
 
 Rief randies, sturdy beggars 
 
 Rig, a ridge 
 
 Higwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain tha 
 crosses the saddle of a horse to support the 
 spokes of a cart ; spare, withcted, sapless 
 Rin, to run, to melt 
 Rinnin', running 
 Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curl* 
 
 ing on ice 
 Rip, a handful of untlirashed corn 
 Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots 
 Rockiii', spinning on the rock, or distaff 
 Rood, stands likewise for tlie plural roods 
 Roon, a shred, a border or selvage 
 Roose, to praise, to commend 
 Roosty, rusty 
 
 Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood 
 Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold 
 Routhie, plentiful 
 Row, to roll, to wrap 
 Row't, rolled, wrappeil 
 Rowte, to low, to bellow 
 Routh, or routh, plenty 
 Rowtin', lowing 
 Rozet, rosin 
 Rung, a cudgel 
 Runkled, wrmkled 
 
 Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage 
 Ruth, a woman's name; the book so caileo 
 
 sorrow 
 Ryke, to reach 
 
 S 
 
 SAE, so 
 
 Saft, soft 
 
 Sair, to serve ; a sore 
 
 Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 
 
 Sair't, served 
 
 Sark, a shirt ; a shift 
 
 Sarkit, provided in shirts 
 
 Saugh, the willow 
 
 Saul, soul 
 
 Saumont, salmon 
 
 Saunt, a saint 
 
 Saut. salt, adj. salt 
 
 Saw, to so* 
 
 Sawin', sowing 
 
 Sax, six 
 
 Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury 
 
 Scar, a cUfi' 
 
 Scaud, to scald 
 
 Scauld, to scold 
 
 Scaur, ipt to be scared 
 
 Scawl, a scold ; a termagant 
 
 Scon, a cake of bread 
 
 Sconner, a loathing ; to loatlie 
 
 Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, &Ct 
 
 Screed, to tear ; a rent 
 
 Scrieve, to glide swiftly along 
 
 Scrievin, glccsomely ; swiltly 
 
 Scrimp, to scant 
 
 Scrimpet, did scant; scanty 
 
 See'd, did see 
 
 Seizin', seizing 
 
 Sel, self; a body's $el, one's self alone 
 
 Sell't, did sell 
 
 Sen', to send 
 
 Sent', I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it 
 
UJ.OSSARY. 
 
 Servan', scrvanj 
 
 Snnppcr, to stumble, a stumble 
 
 Settlin', seuling; to get a settlin', to be fright- 
 
 Snash, abuse, Billingsgate 
 
 ed into quietness 
 
 Snaw, snow ; to snow 
 
 Sets, sets off, goes airav 
 Shachled, distorted ; sliapeless 
 
 Snaw-broo, melted snow 
 
 Snawie, snowy 
 
 Shaird, a shied, a shard 
 
 Sneck, snick, the latch of a door 
 
 Shangan, a stick cleft at one and for putting 
 
 Sned, to lop, to cut off 
 
 the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way of niis- 
 cliicf, or to frighten him away 
 
 Sneeshin, snuff 
 
 Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box 
 
 Shaver, a humorous v/ag ; a barber 
 
 Snell, bitter, biting 
 
 Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hoUow 
 
 Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, ciuftv 
 
 Sheen, bright, shining 
 
 Snivtle, to laugh restrainedly 
 
 Sbeep-shank; to think one's self nae aheep- 
 
 Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair 
 
 shank, to be conceited 
 
 Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppres. 
 sive slavery ; to subinit tamely, to sneak 
 
 Sherra-moor, slieriff-moor, the famous battle 
 
 fought in the rebellion, A.D. 1715 
 
 Snoove, to go smoothly an-d constantly ; tf 
 
 Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 
 
 sneak 
 
 Shiel, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 
 
 Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
 
 Shiel, a shed 
 
 Snowkit, scented, snuffed 
 
 Shill, shrill 
 
 Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looks ; lucky 
 
 Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side 
 
 jolly 
 
 Shool, a shovel 
 
 Soom, to swim 
 
 Shoon, shoes 
 
 Sooth, truth, a petty oath 
 
 Shore, to offer, to threaten 
 
 Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on th« 
 
 SJior'd, offered 
 
 ear 
 
 Shouther, the shoulder 
 
 Sou])Ie, flexible ; swift 
 
 Shure, did shear, shore 
 
 Souter, a shoemaker 
 
 Sic, sucli 
 
 Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal; the seeds o 
 
 Sicker, sure, steady 
 
 oatmeal so^ired, &c. flummery 
 
 Sidehns, sidelong, slanting 
 
 Suwp, a spoonful, a small quantity of an 
 
 Siller, silver ; money 
 
 thing liquid 
 
 SinuDcr, summer 
 
 Sowih, to try over a tune with a low whistle 
 
 Sin. a son 
 
 •Sowiher, solder ; to solder, to cement 
 
 Sin', since 
 
 Spae, to prophesy, to divine 
 
 Skaitli, see sraith 
 
 Spaul, a limb 
 
 Sltellum, a wortlilcss fellow 
 
 Spuirge, to dash, to soil, as with mire 
 
 Skelp, to strike, to siap ; to walk witn a smart 
 
 Spaviet, having the spavin 
 
 trijiping step ; a smart stroke 
 
 Spean, spane, to wean 
 
 Skelpic-limmer, a reproachful term in female 
 
 Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after Jtifl 
 
 scolding 
 
 or thaw 
 
 Skelpiu', stepping, walking 
 
 Spcei, to cliinb 
 
 Skiegii, orskcigh, proud, nice, highmettled 
 
 S])encc, the country prrlour 
 
 Skinldin, a small ])ortion 
 
 Spier, to ask, to inquire 
 
 Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly 
 
 3])ier't, inquired 
 
 Skirling, shrieking, crying 
 
 Si)liitter, a splutter, to splutter 
 
 Skirl't, shrieked 
 
 Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch 
 
 Sklent, slant ; to nm aslant, to deviate from 
 
 Sjilore, a frolic : a noise, riot 
 
 truili 
 
 Sprackle, s])rachle, to clamber 
 
 Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction 
 
 Sjirattle, to scramble 
 
 Skoulh, freedom to converse without restraint ; 
 
 Spreckled, spotted, speckled 
 
 range, scope 
 
 Spring, a quick air in music; a Scottish reel 
 
 Skriegii, a scream ; to scream 
 
 Sjirit, a tough-rooted plant, something liki 
 
 Skyrin', shining; making a groat show 
 
 rushes 
 
 Skyte, force, very forcible motion 
 
 Sprittie, full of spirits 
 
 Shic, a sloe 
 
 Spunk, (ire, mettle; wit 
 
 Slade, did slide 
 
 Sjumkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'wisp, or ig. 
 
 Slap, a g;ite ; a breach in a fence 
 
 nis fatuus 
 
 Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva 
 
 Spurtle, a sticJc, used in making oatmeal jnid 
 
 Slaw, slow 
 
 ding or jioriidge 
 
 Sice, siy ; slecst, sliest 
 
 Squad, a crew, a ])arty 
 
 Sleekit, sleek ; sly 
 
 Squatter, to fiuttcr in water as a wild duck 
 
 Sliddry, slip lery 
 
 Siy )c, to full over, as a wet furrow from the 
 
 Sijuattle, to sprawl 
 
 Siiucel, a scream, a screech; to scream 
 
 p ougli 
 
 SLaehcr, to st.igger 
 
 Slyj.'.t, lell 
 
 Stack, a rick ot corn, hay, &c. 
 
 Sma', small 
 
 Staggie, the cihiiinulive of stag 
 
 Snieddum, dust, powder; mettle, sense 
 
 St;'.! wart, strong, ^tout 
 
 Snudily, a sniitiiy 
 
 Stan', to stand ; siaii't, did stand 
 
 Smoor, to smother 
 
 Stane, a sii.ne 
 
 SinoorM, Mnolhcred 
 
 Stan ;, an acute i>ain ; a twinge; to stmg 
 
 Snioutic, suiiitty, obscene, uply 
 
 St.-ii, u did siiiik ; % pool of standing wiier 
 
 Sniytric. a luiiuer us coUeciion of s'nall indi- 
 
 Slap, Ml']) 
 
 viil juU 
 
 Stiltk. slout 
 
vjuijojjAitr. 
 
 Etartio, to run as cattY> stiinyr hv the gad-fly 
 
 Siaiiiiirel. a blockhoati ; lialf-witted 
 
 Staw, did s'cal; to surfeit 
 
 Stecli, to cram ilie belly 
 
 Stechin, Craiiur.iiifj 
 
 Sfetk, 10 shut; asiitch 
 
 Steer, to molest; to stir 
 
 Steeve, firm, compacted 
 
 SieiUtill 
 
 Step, to rear as a horse 
 
 Stcn't, reared 
 
 Stents, tiibiite; dims rf an v kind 
 
 Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest 
 
 Stibhle, stubble; st.bble-riir, the reaper in 
 
 harvest who takes the lead 
 Stick an' stow, totally, altosrethcr 
 Siile, a crutch; to halt, to limp 
 Stnnfiart, the eighth part of a Winchester 
 
 bushel 
 Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old 
 Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, 
 
 Stockin, a stocking-; Throwing the stockin, 
 when the bride and bridecroom are put into 
 bed, and the candle out, the former throws a 
 storking at random among the company, 
 and the person whom it strikes is the next 
 that will be married 
 
 Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer 
 
 Siooked, made up in shocks as corn 
 
 Stoor, sounding hollow, stiong, and hoarse 
 
 Slot, an ox 
 
 Stoiip, or slowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 
 handle 
 
 Stour, dust, more particularly dust in motion 
 
 Siowlins, by stealth 
 
 Stown, stolen 
 
 Stoyte, to stumble 
 
 Straek, did strike 
 
 Strae, straw; to die a fair strae heath, to die 
 m bed 
 
 Strai.k, did strike 
 
 Straikit, stroked 
 
 Strappm', tall and handsome 
 
 Straught, straight, to straighten 
 
 Streek, stretched tight; to stretch 
 
 Str;ddlc, to straddle 
 
 Stroan, to spout, to piss 
 
 Studdie, an anvil 
 
 Stumpie, diniimitive of stump 
 
 Strunr, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk 
 sturdily; hufi; sullcnness 
 
 Stud; corn or pulse of any kind 
 
 Sturt, trouble; to molest 
 
 Sturtm, frighted 
 
 Sucker, susjar 
 
 Sud, should 
 
 Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or 
 water 
 
 Soutnron, southern; an old name for the Eiig- 
 li:'li nation 
 
 Swaiid, sward 
 
 Swall'd, swelled 
 
 Swank, stately, jolly 
 
 Swankio, or swankcr, a tight strapping young 
 ffllow or girl 
 
 Swap, an exchange ; to barter 
 
 Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon 
 
 Swat, did sweat 
 
 Swatch, a sample 
 
 Swats, drink; good ale 
 
 Swcitcn, sv.-cating 
 
 Sweer, l;i/.y, averse ; dead-swcer, extremely a. 
 
 verse 
 Swoor, swore, did swear 
 !>winge, to beat ; to whip 
 Jjwiri, a curve ; an eddying blast, or pool ; a 
 
 knot in wood 
 vSwirlie, knaggie, full of knots 
 Swith, get away 
 Switlier, to hesitate in choice; an irresolute 
 
 Wavering in choice 
 Syne, since, ago ; then 
 
 TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving into 
 
 the heals of shoes 
 Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having three prongs 
 
 Tiiirge, a target 
 
 Tak, totake; takin, taking 
 
 Tanitall.in, the name of a mountain 
 
 I'angle, a sea-weed 
 
 Tap, the lop 
 
 Tajjeiless, heedless, foolish 
 
 Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance 
 
 Tarrow't, murmured 
 
 Tarry-brceks, a sailor 
 
 Taukl, or laid, tolil 
 
 Taui)ie, a foolish, thoughtless young person 
 
 Tajited, or tauue, matted together ; spoken 
 of hair or wool 
 
 Tawie, that allows itself jieaceably to be hand, 
 led ; spoken of a horse, cow, &,c. 
 
 Teat, a small r,uanti y 
 
 Teen, to provoke ; y ovocation 
 
 Tedding, spreading . fter the mower 
 
 Ten. hours bite, a s.ight feed to the horses 
 while in the yoke, in the forenoon 
 
 Tent, a field-pulpit ; liced, caution ; to t;ike 
 heed ; to tend or herd cattle 
 
 Tentie, heedful, cautious 
 
 Tentlcss, lieedless 
 
 Teugh, tough 
 
 Thack, thatch ; tliack an' rape, clothing ne- 
 cessaries 
 
 Thae, these 
 
 Thairms, small guts ; fiddle-strings 
 
 'I'hankit, thanked 
 
 Theekit, Uutched 
 
 Thegiilier, together 
 
 Theniscl, themselves 
 Thick, intimate, familiar 
 
 Thieveless, told, dry, spited ; spoken of a 
 
 person's demeanour 
 Thir, these 
 Thirl, thrill 
 
 Thirl d, thrilled, vibrated 
 Thole, to suffei, to endure 
 'Jihowf, a thaw ; to thaw 
 Thowlcss, slack, lazy 
 Thrang, throng ; a crowa 
 'i'lirap|)ie, throat, windpipe 
 Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks oi 
 
 corn ; a considerable number 
 Thraw, to sjiraiii, to twist; to contradict 
 'I hrawin, twisting, &c. 
 Thrawn, si)r;jned, twisted ; contnulicted 
 Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion 
 Threshin, thrashing 
 Threteen, thirteen 
 Thristle, thistle 
 Througli, to go on with ; to make out 
 

 GLOSSARY 
 
 riiroutlier, pell-mell, confusedly 
 
 
 Tlivul, to make a loud intcnuittent noise 
 
 
 Tliiimnit, tliumped 
 Thysfl, tliyself 
 
 
 \VA\ waU ; wa'a, wall* 
 
 Tili't, to it 
 
 W'abster, a weaver 
 
 Timmer, timber 
 
 Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge 
 
 Tijie, to lose; tint, lost 
 
 Wadna, would not 
 
 U'inkler, a tinker 
 
 Wae, wo ; sorrowful 
 
 Tii.t die gate, lost the way 
 
 A\'aefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing 
 
 Tijf, a ram 
 
 W'aesucks ! or waes me ! alas ! O the pitv 
 
 Tippence, twopence 
 
 Waft, the cross thread that goes from tlie shut 
 
 'I irl, to rayke as light noise ; to uncover 
 
 tie through the web ; woof 
 
 Tirlin, uncovering 
 
 Wair, to lay out, to expend 
 
 Tither, the other 
 
 M'ale, choice ; to choose 
 
 Tittle, to wliisper 
 
 M'aled, chose, chosen 
 
 Tittlin, whispering 
 
 Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an intarjea 
 
 Tocher, marriage portion 
 
 tion of distress 
 
 Tod, a fox 
 
 Wame, llie belly 
 
 Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child 
 
 Wamefu', a belly-full 
 
 Toddlin, tottering 
 
 Wanchancie, unlucky 
 
 Tooni, empty, to empty 
 
 Wanrestfu', restless 
 
 Toop, a ram 
 
 Vi'ark, work 
 
 Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house 
 
 Wark-lume, a tool to work with 
 
 Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow 
 
 War], or warld, world 
 
 a horn, &c. 
 
 ^\'arlock, a wizard 
 
 Tow, a rope 
 
 \Varly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth 
 
 lowmond, a twelvemonth 
 
 \\ arran, a warrant; to warrant 
 
 Towzie, rough, shaggy 
 
 Wars.t, worst 
 
 Toy. a very old fashion of female head-dress 
 
 ^\^arst^d or warsl'd, wrestled 
 
 Toyte, to lottur like old age 
 
 Wastrie, prodigality 
 
 Transniugritied, transmigrated, metamorphos- 
 
 AVat, wet ; I wat, I wot, I know 
 
 ed 
 
 ^\'ater-brose, brose made of meal and watei 
 
 Trashirie, trash 
 
 simply, without the addition of milk, but- 
 
 Trews, tiowsers 
 
 ter, &.C. 
 
 'I'rickie, fuU of tricks 
 
 Wattle, a twig, a wand 
 
 Trig, spruce, neat 
 
 Wauble, to swing, to reel 
 
 Trimly, excellently 
 
 Waught, a draught 
 
 ^\'aukit, thickened as fullers do cloth 
 
 'J'row, to believe 
 
 Trowth- triitli. a petty oath 
 
 M'aukrife, not apt to sleep 
 
 Tryste, an apjxiintment ; a fair 
 
 Waur, worse ; to worst 
 
 Trysted, appointed ; To tryste, to make an 
 
 \\'aur't, worsted 
 
 appointment 
 
 W'ean, or weanie, a child 
 
 Try't, tried 
 
 Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, many 
 
 Tug, raw liiie. of which m old times plough- 
 
 a different person 
 
 traces were ireqaently made 
 
 Wei-sor , wcasand 
 
 Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, ofgW 
 
 Wiivi/f' the stocking. See Stocking 
 
 Twa, two 
 
 W.>e, titi.e; Wee things, little ones; Wee 
 
 Twa-three, a few 
 
 bit, a small mat ter 
 
 'Twad, it would 
 
 ^Vecl, well ; Werlfare, welfire 
 
 Twal, tv/elve ; twal-penn;e worth, a small 
 
 Weet, rain, wetness 
 
 quantity, a penny-worth 
 
 Weird, f;ite 
 
 N.IJ One jienny English is 12d Scotch 
 
 We'se, we shall, 
 
 Twin, to ])art 
 
 ^\'ha, who 
 
 Tyke, a dog 
 
 Whaizle, to wheeze 
 
 
 U'halpit, whelped 
 
 Whang, a leattiern string ; a piece of cneese, 
 
 U 
 
 UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very, very great, 
 
 prodigious 
 Uncos, iicv.'s 
 
 bread, &c. , to give the strappado 
 Whare, where; \Y'hare'er, wherever 
 
 Wlieep, to fly nimbly, jerk ; penny-wheep, 
 
 UtiKftm'd, unknown 
 
 small beer 
 ^^'hase, whose 
 M'liatreck, nevertheless 
 ^Vhid, the motion of a hare, running but not 
 
 friglnrd ; a lie 
 Whuidm . running as a hare or cony 
 \\'bigmeiceries, w'lmiis, fancies, crotchets 
 
 Ur.siikcr, unsure, unsteady 
 
 Unskaiili'd, undamaged, unhurt 
 Unwceiing, unwitu^t'/j unknowingly 
 llpo', ujK.'n 
 Urcliin, a iiedgehog 
 
 V 
 
 \\'hingm'. crying, complaining, fretting 
 
 Whirligigi'Tns, useless ornamtnts, triting ap. 
 
 VAP'RIN, vapouring 
 
 pcndagcs 
 
 Vera, very 
 
 \\ hissle, a whistle ! to whislift 
 
 V'irl. a ring round a column, Ace 
 
 A\'hist, si'cnre; to hold oneV whisht, to be 
 
 Vittle, corn of all kinds, food 
 
 silent 
 
 (12^ 
 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
 W^hi«ik. to sweep, to lash 
 
 Whivkit, lashed 
 
 \\'liittcr, a hearty draught of liquor 
 
 \\"lniii-stanc, a whin-stone 
 
 W'hyles, whiles, sometimes 
 
 \Vi\ with 
 
 Wicht, wight, powerful, stroEg; invinlive ; 
 of a superior genius 
 
 \Vii-k, to strike a stone in an oblique direc- 
 tion ; a term in curling 
 
 \^■il•kL•r, willow (the smaller sort) 
 
 \\"w\, a small wliirlpocl 
 
 \\ itie, a diminutive or endearing term for 
 wife 
 
 Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding so- 
 ciety or appearing awkward in it, wild, ti- 
 mid, strange 
 
 Wimple, to meander 
 
 \\"imprt, meandered 
 
 M'im))liii', waving, meandering 
 
 V\'in, to win, to winnow 
 
 iVin't, winded as a bottom of yam 
 
 iVin', wind ; ^\'in's, winds 
 
 U'inna, will not 
 
 \\'innock, a window 
 
 Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay 
 
 Wintle, & staggering motion ; to Stagger, to 
 reel 
 
 Winze, an oath 
 
 Wiss, to wish 
 
 \Vithoinen, without 
 
 M'izen'il, hide-bound, dried, shrunk 
 
 Woiiner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appella- 
 tion 
 
 Wons, dwells 
 
 V\'oo\ wool 
 
 Woo. to court, to make love to 
 
 Woodie, a rone, raore properly one nuade of 
 wulies or willows 
 
 Woor-l) ih. tlie garter knotted b«lcw the knot 
 »iili a coupk of loop« 
 
 (IS) 
 
 ^^'ordy, worthy 
 
 \\"orsct, worsted 
 
 \Vow, an exclamation of pleaiurt jj west 
 
 dor 
 \\"rack, to teaze, to vpr 
 Wraith, a s])irit, or gnost ; an apparition «x. 
 
 actly like a living j)erson, whose appeara -,« 
 
 is said to forbode the person's approactli. (» 
 
 death 
 Wrang, wrong; to wrong 
 AVreetii, a drifted heap of snow 
 AYud, mad, distracted 
 \\'umble, a wimble 
 Wyle, to beguile 
 ^^'yliecot, a HanncI vest 
 'Wyte, blame ; to blame 
 
 Y 
 
 VAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse 
 
 Ve ; this pronoun is frequently used for 
 
 Yearns, longs much 
 
 ■^'earlings, born in the same year, coevaU 
 
 Year is used both for singular and plural 
 
 Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray 
 
 Yell, barren, tliat gives no milk 
 
 \'erk, to lash, to jerk 
 
 Yerkit, jerked, lashed 
 
 ■^'estieen, yesternight 
 
 Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the 381 
 
 into a farm-yard or Held 
 Yill, ale 
 \'ird, earth 
 
 ^'okin', yoking ; a bout 
 ^'ont, beyond 
 Yoursel' yourself 
 Yowe, a ewe 
 
 Yowie, diminutiye of yoTW 
 Yuk, Clmstm&a 
 

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